#who is sick of hearing him waxing sad songs about his need to get into lord kyle's pants

[courtanie]

I just want robin hood Kenny

[samstree]

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (2/3)

Jaskier pays the price of his lies. With blood and tears and a few broken hearts.

(4.3k, lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, blood and injury, miscommunication, mutual pining)

Previous | Read on AO3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4]. 

Jaskier wakes with a crick in his neck and an aching heart.

He goes through the motion of packing, their morning routine too familiar to distract him from the heavy guilt in his chest. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is actively avoiding him—the way his back is turned at every chance can’t be a coincidence.

The only time he so much as spares a glance is when Jaskier puts the lemon cake in their rations bag, wrapped perfectly and untouched. Geralt stills for a split second, his jaw clenched.

Jaskier wants to brush it off.

Finding an excuse is the first instinct he has, thinking of a lie as to why he didn’t eat something he’s been drooling over for ages, and erase that crestfallen look on Geralt’s face, the one that is breaking his heart.

Because he can’t exactly tell the truth, which is that he’s more likely to be sick if he ate it. Another lie, however, would turn his stomach even more.

Jaskier remains silent.

Even Roach is judging him as they walk out of the stable. Jaskier bears her side eyes and annoyed headbutt without putting up a fight. The mare is too perceptive to miss the tension in the air, and her protectiveness is more than justified. She’s a smart girl. Of course, she knows Jaskier is one making her broody witcher brood even harder.

She tries to bite his doublet again, and it’s Geralt who stops her with a soothing hand down his mane, murmuring confused questions into her ear. Sweet, kind Geralt, who has been rejected by Jaskier so many times for no reason in the past few days, is still trying to defend him.

Jaskier needs to make it right.

“Geralt, look—”

“Master Jaskier!”

Someone in the distance rudely interrupts Jaskier’s nervous attempt. He turns by instinct and watches a boy in lilac doublet jog up to them. He’s so young, no older than twenty, still with that joviality and naïvety in his features. The way his matching doublet and trousers could catch the eyes of any crowd reminds Jaskier of himself in his early years.

“Sweet Melitele, I’m your biggest fan! Oh my…” the boy proclaims, awestruck. “I’ve been following your ballads for years, and now I get to meet you in person!”

Jaskier looks to Geralt and then back at the man.

“Ah, I’m flattered. It’s always nice to meet a fan, but you see—” Jaskier gestures to the horse and the man behind him. “—I’m in a hurry to leave town.”

Besides, he’s in no mood to converse right now. The quicker he can get Geralt alone, the better. With this weight on his chest, Jaskier feels so drained just talking to anyone but his witcher, let alone dealing with an enthusiastic fan.

“Oh but you must listen to my set first!” The boy looks at him expectantly. “I dream of writing a hit song just like Toss a Coin. I could be just as big—”

“I’d love to, but the circumstances won’t allow it.” With the biggest smile plastered on his face, Jaskier dismisses the guy. “I’m sure there’s promise in you, especially now you’ve chosen the correct role model—”

“You can go, Jaskier.”

Jaskier snaps his head to Geralt, confused as to what he just heard.

“We need to leave this morning, my dear. That’s the plan.” Jaskier frowns. “Remember?”

He excuses himself to the young man and drags Geralt away too quickly, too rudely—on another day he’d feel contrite ignoring a fan like this, but today he’s mind is occupied by something much more important.

Once out on the street and alone, Geralt’s befuddled frown deepens. “Why did you—”

“I need to tell you something,” Jaskier interrupts. “Before I say it, I know you will get mad at me, but you have to understand that the past year has been hard on me, Geralt. When you showed up in Oxenfurt out of the blue, I didn’t have enough time to process everything or what it would mean for us to travel together again. That’s why everything is so wrong now and I need to make it right.”

“I know what you want to say.”

The world stops.

All he can see is that pained look on Geralt’s face, the one that’s breaking his heart and making his blood run cold. Of course, he knows, witcher senses and all. As if Jaskier has ever gotten away with lying to Geralt’s face in the past.

“You do?” he breathes, the crack in his voice unmistakable.

Geralt lets out a sigh. He’s not mad. At least, he doesn’t look like he’s angry with Jaskier. “It’s been obvious in the past few days, and I… I do understand.”

“Oh.”

There’s still hope then. Jaskier just needs to come clean and apologize, and, definitely, throw whatever game he’s been playing out the window. They will be fine. The two of them, the bard and the witcher on the path, just like the old days—

“I can leave now,” Geralt starts. “With me gone, you’d be free to stay here for longer. You have so many things to see and so many people to meet. You can go back and talk to the boy. Finally, there’s someone who can wax lyrical with you. It’ll be for the best.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to say it, Jaskier. I can see now that it’s better if we part ways. Let’s not make things more difficult.”

Jaskier stares, gaping like a fish out of water. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, after all this time, after the mountain. Geralt wouldn’t do it.

He wouldn’t.

“You are leaving me here?”

Geralt looks as if he’s stricken. His shoulders tense like every time he wants to appear smaller.

“It’s for the best,” he repeats.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Wait, I thought you understood. I’m sorry, Geralt, for the past few days. I didn’t mean to… I wanted to apologize, so you know I didn’t mean it.”

The smile at the corners of Geralt’s lips is too sad.

“You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t fair of me to ask it of you to begin with—”

“Ask me what?”

“—Us traveling together again… It was only wishful thinking. There was never a second chance and I never should have gone to find you.”

Jaskier takes a step back, swallowing the lump in his throat. Suddenly the collar of his doublet is too tight and the lute on his back is too heavy. He has to look away from Geralt’s resolute face just to stop the stinging in his eyes.

“You promised…” he mumbles. “You promised not to leave again.”

Geralt falters for a second, his hand resting on Roach’s saddle as if to steady himself. When he answers, his tone is cold, colder than Jaskier can take.

“How can I keep you when everything catches your eye, Jask? You are not made to stay... Not with me. Not after everything that happened.”

Disbelievingly, Jaskier retreats. His hand fists around the strap of his lute case, digging into his palm. “Not made to stay? Seriously?”

“It’s for the—”

“If you tell me it’s for the best one more time, I swear, Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt calls out his name without heat like he’s placating an unreasonable child. Jaskier exhales in exasperation.

“Maybe you are right that it was only wishful thinking.” he forces the words out, his heart sinking. “For once it was actually my fault, and you can’t wait to ask for life’s one blessing again.”

“I—”

“Fine. Have at it,” Jaskier hisses. “I don’t care.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Jaskier lands the biggest lie he’s ever told in this mess. He drags his feet to cooperate, to take him away and put some distance between him and the worst disaster that’s ever descended upon his life.

Roach neighs, but the sound is far-away. Jaskier grabs at the doublet at his chest and wonders if the witcher-shaped hole within can ever be filled.

 ~~

Jaskier doesn’t stop.

He walks into the bustling crowd of the market, heedless of cheery townspeople going about their day, and he keeps walking until the noise dies down.

Jaskier stops at the riverbank with nowhere to go, so he sits down on the ground and finally lets the dam break.

Crying does very little to ease the ache, and yet when the tears bring a release for the pent-up pressure in his chest. It’s hard to feel justified in letting the pain be cried away when he’s so aware of his own faults in the once-again ending of their companionship.

After all, Geralt couldn’t wait to throw him aside on top of that mountain when he’d done nothing wrong. What makes him think Geralt will tolerate him when he intentionally fucks things up.

Jaskier gasps for air, but only a whimper chokes out. How pathetic, to regret the most precious second chance destiny has ever granted him.

Now he knows for sure that he doesn’t deserve to cry, to let himself feel even just slightly better in the wake of his destruction.

Jaskier tries to stifle the tears with a hand at his mouth, and breathes. In and out, one breath after another. It’s like trying to contain a storm threatening to wreck through his entire being.

But he manages, after an eternity.

Jaskier sniffles one last time and wipes away the tear tracks. There’s a tremor in his hands but he pays no mind. The lute case is laying carelessly in the grass where he dropped it. He slings it onto his back and realizes that in a frenzy, he’s left everything else he owns in Roach’s saddlebags.

He could laugh at the idea of going back there, tail between his legs, as if being kicked out of Geralt’s life��for good this time—isn’t humiliating enough. His only hope hangs on the possibility that Geralt may have left his packs at the inn so they don’t have to face each other. Why would Geralt want to see him anyway? The witcher should be long gone.

Jaskier doesn’t make it too far when a streak of lilac pops out of nowhere.

“Oh! Here you are, Master Jaskier. You are a hard man to track down.”

The boy still looks too chirpy for Jaskier’s liking, too bright and too carefree. His mood is soured even further.

“Look, I’m not fit for company today.” Jaskier walks right past the young man, heedless of his insistence. “Mister—what is your name? Maybe you’ll catch me at the next festival if fate allows.”

The boy ignores his deflection and stops right in front of Jaskier’s face, which successfully draws his full attention and pisses him off completely. “I said—”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” The kid doesn’t relent. “I thought the witcher is determined to abandon you for the second time. Don’t you think he’ll stick to it this time?”

Strangely, the other man doesn’t look nearly as young up close. His face is youthful for sure, smooth and unblemished, and yet there’s an inexplicable weariness in his blue eyes. Now that Jaskier notices, these blue eyes look eerily similar to his own. With just the eyes, he could be looking into a mirror.

Jaskier wants to squirm.

“Did no one teach you that eavesdropping is rude?” He pauses, startled. “Wait, a second time… You knew—”

“Oh.” The man looks sheepish. “Can’t blame a fan for keeping tabs on you, can we?”

An overly zealous fan is nothing new, but somehow, this one sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Jaskier says, trying to back away. “I need to get back to town. You know, where the inspirations are, so I’ll find it in me to… um, compose more of those pieces you love so much.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself! You are not going back to him, are you? Twenty years! All the sweat and blood and singing his praises and this is what you get after all this time!”

The guy grabs at Jaskier’s arm, which he shakes off in horror.

“You know nothing about me. Or Geralt.”

“That witcher will never see you!” he exclaims. “I was there when your first ballad swept the continent off its feet, Jaskier. From that moment on, I knew you were special. What appreciation has that mutant shown you? Only insults and scorn.”

“Geralt is not like that, he—”

Jaskier freezes to the spot.

He forces his attention back to the boy’s face. His eyes are still startlingly blue, even more so in anger. There’s not a single trace of age at his temples, and yet…

“My first song was twenty-two years ago,” Jaskier states, something akin to fear creeping into his voice. “What did you say your name was again?”

At those words, the man’s face shifts. It’s like watching someone shed a layer of skin, a façade, and another being emerges. A much more powerful one.

“Does it matter?” When he answers, there's magic in the air, sizzling with power. The blue of his eyes shimmers under the surface, ever so slightly. Jaskier’s heart clenches.

Not human.

Definitely not human.

“We never got to know each other, well,” Jaskier stalls. “I think now it’s not too late.”

He has an inkling that getting away will not be an easy feat. He can hope to distract this… this creature long enough for a chance to run. His hand tightens around the strap nervously, and the man’s eyes follow the movement without a beat.

Shit.

Jaskier turns to run, to take the lute case in his hands as a weapon, but it’s too late. The next thing he knows, the case is thrown against the ground and he’s backed against a tree. The other man’s grip around Jaskier’s wrists is like a vice, securing his hands right above him.

Jaskier wants to scream, but no sound escapes his throat. His body shakes all over, out of control.

“The fae never reveal our name easily,” the creature hisses.

Those blue eyes are too sharp and there’s a scent growing overwhelmingly strong. Fae, as it turns out, smell like newly cut grass and wildflowers, like the forest.

If only Jaskier can live long enough to share the trivia.

And then, with both their hands occupied, the fae presses his forehead to Jaskier. He struggles but to no avail.

The touch is cold and something is slipping into Jaskier’s mind like an icy stream in the spring. It trickles probs at every corner of his memories.

“Oh, even now you are loyal to the witcher. You still believe he’ll save you, little songbird.”

Jaskier’s vision turns fuzzy. His soundless whimpering breaks into breathless gasps, like a wounded animal waiting for a mercy kill. At the back of his mind, he’s achingly aware of Geralt’s absence. His witcher in shining armor won’t come this time, not after all the—

“All the pretty little lies. Every single one of them, born out of love, misguided.”

However true that statement is, Jaskier doesn’t want to hear it. His love for Geralt shouldn’t be spoken with malice. He fights against the fae’s iron hold with everything he can muster.

There’s a crack of bones before the pain hits him, exploding from his wrists all the way down his arms. Jaskier sobs, the edges of his vision darkening, the shock threatening to pull him under. He still can’t make a sound.

“What can we do?” The fae’s voice comes from a distant realm. “How can we have your loyalty as the witcher does? Oh, how fierce you are, songbird. To have your voice at our court… Perhaps, more lies will do. Yes, it was your choice, what your heart desired. A gift from us.”

Jaskier can’t process anything he’s hearing. He’s too tired from the searing pain in his wrists.

“Just a few lies. They’ll be easy to roll off the tongue, and yet, such powerful weapons.” The fae retreats. “A gift of lies. Thank you for the inspiration, Jaskier the bard. We hope you enjoy it as much as we will.”

Without the brute force holding up his body, Jaskier sagas against the tree, his legs unable to support his weight. His lungs burn and his mind turns fuzzy, bereft of the fae’s presence.

Jaskier needs to move, needs to scramble away from this place. But before the sweet relief of freedom even hits him, magic seizes him again and, finally, finally, a world-ending scream explodes from his lungs.

The world goes to black soon after.

 ~~

Jaskier wakes to someone shaking his shoulder, someone gentle.

His body pulses like a bruised nerve. The back of his head feels like it’s been trampled by a whole army and his neck creaks at the barest move. Jaskier’s nose is buried in damp grass and he chokes, which jostles his neck even more.

He groans miserably and tries to touch, only to be stopped by the burning in his wrists. He lets out a hiss.

Right, broken bones. Blue eyes that look the same as his. Fae.

“Careful… Fuck, Jaskier, what happened?”

A gravelly voice comes through the fog.

Geralt.

Oh, Jaskier can sob with relief. He arches his back, slowly propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes are so sore from lying on the ground face down, but the sight of his witcher is unmistakable.

Jaskier wants to call out for his witcher, but a sob is the only thing that gets out. He cradles his hands and finds his right wrist is swollen red and sensitive to the touch, but the left looks more or less the same. Only a throbbing pain tugging at his fingertips.

He reaches to the back of his head with his left hand, where the crick is prickling at his nerves, only to find a gash at his nape and hair caked with blood. He doesn’t remember hitting his head while falling. He doesn’t remember falling at all.

So, one wrist sprained, the other broken, plus a gaping hole in his head. Jaskier can cope.

If he doesn’t die from the embarrassment, that is. He whines pathetically, already exhausted.

“I told you not to move.” Geralt catches Jaskier’s tilting body. Amber gold flows with concern. “What happened to you, Jask?”

The question comes out soft, more of a whisper to the witcher himself than demanding answers. Jaskier’s lips wobble at the endearment. He needs to tell Geralt everything. Fuck his injured pride. Geralt came for him. This wonderful, beautiful, sweet man came to him after the disaster that is this morning and he’s still trying to help Jaskier.

All because Geralt is safety. He’s safety and home, and Jaskier needs to tell him—

“None of your business, witcher.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to register what left his lips, the venom that drips from these words so foreign. He’s never aimed at Geralt before. From the looks of it, Geralt is equally startled if the tiny crease by his lips is any indication.

“You hit your head,” Geralt says patiently, hovering close to Jaskier’s face in an attempt to check the wound on his neck. “It’s bad. Here, let me see—”

“Get your filthy hands away from me!”

The words fly out on their own volition. Jaskier flinches, the same time as Geralt takes back his hand as if burned. He closes his mouth with a pop and the feeling of something severely wrong weighs down on his stomach. That’s not what he meant, not at all. The only thing he wants to do is lean into Geralt’s touch and melt into a puddle. Whyever did his mouth betray his heart? Why did he…

Why did he…

…Lie?

His mind focuses on a sing-songy voice.

A gift from us.

A gift of lies.

It’s like a bucket of ice water thrown over Jaskier’s head. He sobers up immediately. The inspiration they took from him. The fae’s gift.

The fae’s curse.

Geralt’s brows are knitted together, amber eyes imbued with hurt. He is still crouched in front of Jaskier, hands fisted at his side and shoulders taut. He’s got the look now, that lost look that only appears when a mob drives him out of town with pitchforks and stones. Jaskier has seen that look one too many times.

And now he's the one causing it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, shocked, unsure.

Jaskier breathes hard and tastes the bile rising in his throat. Geralt doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to have that hopeless look on his face or to be shunned by the world, by anyone, and least of all, by someone he’s let stay beside him for so many years. By the Gods, Jaskier needs to let Geralt know he’s the kindest person on earth and more human than any human. He’s Jaskier’s friend and protector, his dream, his heart—

“You are a mutant, a freak,” Jaskier feels the words slip out, too late to realize the mistake of opening his mouth. “No better than the monsters you slay.” The magic compels his tongue. He bites down on it but it’s only futile. “You feel nothing and give nothing but death to those around you.”

Jaskier recoils, tasting blood. In front of him, Geralt mirrors his movement. The entire time, the wolf medallion rests against his chest plate, Jaskier’s last hope, sitting still and unresponsive.

And Geralt…

He doesn’t defend himself.

Of course not. Geralt never defends himself against the stoning even when he can easily defeat most humans with his bare hands. There’s a faded scar near his hairline, a solid proof of men’s capacity for prejudice and violence.

Now Jaskier has joined their ranks.

Geralt looks like he’s been suck-punched in the gut, his eyes wide and crestfallen. And yet, wide amber eyes gaze upon Jaskier without accusation, only quiet acceptance. Jaskier shudders with disgust and fear, which must be the reason Geralt is backing away further.

“I’ll leave… If you—” he pauses, before standing up. “I see. This is goodbye, Jaskier.”

Don’t go!

“Get away then!”

Jaskier shakes his head, putting all the force he can muster into biting into his lips, scared of what may come out. His wrists burn but he has to force his mouth shut by pressing his palms over it.

Why can’t Geralt see that something’s wrong? Why can’t he see Jaskier?

See me! Jaskier pleads silently through the tears.

Geralt’s face falters as he spares one last glance at Jaskier.

Look what you’ve done to him, the sing-songy voice returns. This is your choice. You chose to lie, little poet. Be careful what you wish for.

Jaskier crumbles like a puppet with his strings cut. He barely contains the choked-out whimpers. The burning in his lungs is nothing compared to the anguish. He could die at this moment and it would be a sweet release. Hurting Geralt like this, it’s worse than a thousand broken bones and a million cuts on his skin. In the darkest corners of his mind, he wants Geralt to walk away from him. If Jaskier has to spew any more venom towards the man he’s loved for more than half of his life, he’d surely want to walk into the ocean and never come out.

He presses his ears to the grass and remembers the cold wind on the mountain. He was a fool to hope Geralt could come to him then. He is a fool now.

The witcher drags his feet away, one step after another, trampling the soft flora under him, and then—

And then, by some miracle, he stops.

Jaskier watches as his witcher turns around and rushes back to his side, his jaw clenched and eyes determined. His heart bursts with hope, but his fists press against his mouth harder. There’s more blood coating his tongue.

“I can���t,” Geralt states as he kneels next to Jaskier’s curled body. The betrayal in his eyes ebbs away and in its place is something…tortured.

Jaskier shakes his head, or is he trembling again? His vision swims with blood loss. He won’t be able to stay awake for long.

“I can’t leave you here, Jaskier,” he muses to himself, frowning deep. “Shit. You are bleeding again.”

Jaskier scoffs into his fist, almost hysterical.

“You are in shock, and you are about to pass out. I don’t know what happened, but your wrists are a mess. Jaskier…” The name comes out like a prayer. “I heard your wishes. Loud and clear, this time. I know you loathe my presence in your life, but… I have to make sure you’ll get better. Please, forgive me.”

Geralt tries to gently pry Jaskeir’s hands away, but he struggles blindly. Through the haze of his mind, Jaskier’s last thought reminds him to keep his mouth closed.

“Forgive me,” Geralt mutters in anguish, “I can’t let you hurt yourself because of me. Forgive me, just one more time.”

His hand makes the familiar sign of Axii, and everything turns…soft.

The pain is gone, the magical hold on his tongue too. Jaskier loses himself in the mellow sensation of giving up control. The ground disappears under his body and his head lolls against Geralt’s chest.

“I was wrong.” Regret rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest. “I was the curse that befell you. After all the hurt you’ve received by my side, Gods, and I still can’t keep myself away from you. I will not make the mistake of forcing myself into your life again, Jask. Allow me a few days to see you safe, and then... Never again.”

The vow is so wrong, but Jaskeir is powerless to protest. He catches a broken whisper before darkness claims him for the second time on the same day.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. For my heart.”

Jaskier welcomes the oblivion that drags him under, as well as the nightmares that follow.

~~

I'm...sorry. 

One more chapter to go. Hopefully this time I won't have to up the chapter count. Some real communication and comfort are on the way! <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @a-kind-of-merry-war @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[thefudge]

Do you have any Romanian (language or just content-wise) media recs? Particularly novels and poetry but really any must-sees/must-reads are welcome!

uuuu! 

my brain is too fried right now to do any kind of exhaustive list so i’m gonna rec a few things that i know you could get your hands on/available in translation:

for two thousand years, by mihail sebastian - really heartbreaking yet also lucid, adventurous and darkly humorous memoir of a Jewish writer in his youth at the height of nazism in romania (there’s even a Penguin classic of it)

diary of a short-sighted adolescent by mircea eliade - a funny and bittersweet bildungsroman about a bookish teenager who wants to read everything now and be the cleverest person alive while also struggling with being super lazy and unmotivated because he’s young and restless, it’s very #relatable. but it’s also fascinating to read this in opposition with “for two thousand years” because eliade entertained legionnaire nazi sympathies at one point. (also, you should check out his novellas too, especially the fantastic ones)

anything you can find in translation by gabriela adamesteanu - just lovely, delicate prose about growing up, being an adult, inhabiting your body and your feelings in an oppressive world 

the hatchet by mihail sadoveanu (apparently, there is a translation) - a lot of people give this novel flak, mostly because we had to read it in high school, but it’s a great and deceptively simple little novel that says a lot more about people than it cares to admit. the action takes you through several villages in the East-Carpathians, where a peasant woman goes in search of her missing husband. it’s a fascinating mixture of crime and folklore and mythology. 

any novella by costache negruzzi, but especially “alexandru lapusneanu”, another classic we had to read in school and which gets a lot of flak. it’s so bonkers and #quality-trash. let’s just say there’s a scene where the power-hungry voievod/prince lapusneanu enacts a red-wedding situation and builds a pyramid of freshly severed heads to impress his lady wife *swoon* 

the forest of the hanged by liviu rebreanu - i know people argue this isn’t his best novel, but it’s got the most heart. it’s the story of a soldier/philosopher in WW1 who falls in love with people again. that’s it. he falls in love with people, and the war and everything in between doesn’t matter anymore. or it matters only as it pertains to people, and people alone. 

gallants of the old court by mateiu caragiale - a bizarre gem of early 20th century Romanian nightlife, a wonderful, orgiastic fugue, feverish and infuriating. it’s mostly about rich men and social-climbers getting into existential trouble, but also into real trouble. normally, because the action takes place right before WW1, this would signify the end of an era. but we don’t really have a beginning or end. we are part-balkan, part-french imitators, part-whatever-sticks. nothing moves us, and everything does. and that’s why it’s a sort of love/hate letter to romanians 

in terms of poetry, some personal faves:  nichita stanescu, ana blandiana, monica pillat, marin sorescu,  a.e. baconsky, lucian blaga, emil brumaru, nora iuga, marta petreu, nina cassian. and yes, mihai eminescu, our national poet, though i’m often in two minds about him.  

poetry in translation is really hit and miss because of the “untranslatable”, so here’s two lines from a poem by nina cassian, because i want to show you what i mean:

            De când m-ai părăsit mă fac tot mai frumoasă             ca hoitul luminând în întuneric. 

this roughly and poetically translates to:

          Since you left me I’ve grown more beautiful

           like the corpse lighting the dark 

and this is sort of lovely on its own, but you’d need to know and hear and taste the word “hoit” in romanian to really feel the abjectness, because “hoit” is a smelly, ugly yet also alluring, already decomposing version of “cadavru” aka cadaver/corpse. also “ mă fac tot mai frumoasă” cannot be accurately summed up in “i’ve grown more beautiful”. a literal translation would be “I make myself more beautiful”. in romanian, this is obviously idiomatic and not literal. and yet, these strange self-reflexive valences make these lines strong and eerie, as if the speaker were authoring her beauty, shaping it out of clay and darkness and “hoit”,  like a butterfly cracking the corpse’s shell to get out, but also retaining some of its mesmerizing stench. why did i pause to do a close-reading of romanian poetry??? anyway, you catch my drift

in terms of movies, a recent one i really loved was sierranevada by cristi puiu, which is a neurotic family drama that drains you but also lifts you up 

and yeah, the hype is real, 4 months, 3 weeks and 2 days by cristi mungiu really is that good (about two young women trying to get an illegal abortion in communist romania. it won the palme d’or for very legit reasons. it breaks you in small ways. the very last shot of the film you’ll carry with you forever). i also liked graduation by cristi mungiu, where a young overachieving girl is about to graduate high school and go on to study abroad, until a terrible event unmoors both her and her family. the movie turns almost hallucinatory at one point, filled with ambiguity and a kind of sleep-walking quality 

tales from the golden age by cristi mungiu (him again!) is also fantastic for anyone who wants to get a taste of communist romania and the sad-funny absurdities of everyday life. this movie is split in 2 parts and the format is that of an anthology, almost like watching several short films at once. and there is one film in the anthology that always turns me inside out, and it’s really silly, it’s this bonnie and clyde type story about this girl and boy who meet at a party and devise an ingenious get-rich scam and just run around a few neighborhoods trying to put it into practice and it’s...the sweetest, most incomplete thing. there is such a strange, lovely connection there that never gets realized, and there is a MOMENT between them where he helps her step down from this ledge and he holds her briefly to him and i remember being in the cinema and thinking THIS, this is THE MOMENT where i felt these people were real. it was such an honest, lovely moment. like the equivalent of this song. ANYWAY, why am i rambling so much??? this ask was supposed to be SHORT. 

aferim! by radu jude is also a really neat movie and provides a look into the historical romanian/rroma relationship and why it’s so messed up, yet also so organic

the death of mr. lazarescu by cristi puiu is also a great little film about a man who gets sick and goes to the hospital. and...dies, as you can tell from the title. on the surface, he dies because of institutional ineptness and a broken healthcare system. at a deeper level, he dies because we no longer know how to help people. various hospital staff in the film do try to help him and fail for various stupid or quietly heartbreaking reasons. it’s a movie about being physically unable to care. there’s indifference, sure, but also this great exhaustion of the human spirit. but the movie is also darkly funny. might not be a great pandemic watch, but then again it might be exactly what you need 

there are soooo many other classics in terms of books (morometii by marin preda, for instance, about a patriarch in a small village in the South who slowly realizes the world he used to live in doesn’t have room for him anymore, and maybe it never had) but i’m gonna end on a quote from ion creanga, one of the most cryptic classics of romanian lit:

“Şi eu eram vesel ca vremea cea mai bună şi şturlubatic şi copilăros ca vântul în tulburea sa”

my translation: “and I was cheerful like the best weather and frolicsome and childish like the wind in its cloudiness” 

and again, the words in romanian and their particular sound and bite (”şturlubatic”, “tulburea”) immediately take me elsewhere. creanga writes about childhood, but it’s never really childhood. he writes as an adult who, in my opinion, was never really a child, but a weird, small god of the land. i mean the word “tulburea” can mean both “turmoil” and “muddiness”. the wind can be anguished, but also just a little cloudy, just a little hazy, shrinking its agony, howling it in the child. it’s eerie and gorgeous. so, that’s what he does: creanga writes about children as if they were wind-like spirits. he writes stories about devils and the peasants who trick them and school books filled with spit and flies, and warm eggs stolen from nests and fairy-tales of a world that is buried somewhere inside us, but not too deep, things hidden under our clothes or nails or even in our hair. and it’s all so physical and convoluted, just like his prose. and i don’t think anyone will ever make sense of him and that’s what makes him so discombobulatingly great.

anyway, this was supposed to be...like, really short! and not gassy! i’m sorry. i love waxing about all this gay stuff. i’m so gay about it. 

realistically tho, the nearest thing you’ll find in your local bookshop is probably books by famous ‘theater of the absurd’ playwright, eugen ionesco, or novels in translation by contemporary author mircea cartarescu. both are pretty good, so go for it! (if you want to start small, i’d recommend REM by mircea cartarescu, because it’s so trippy and meta and captures that summer holiday eeriness so well. it goes well with this romanian song sung in english)

okay byeeeee 

[probably-writing-x]

Dancing Without You

Inspiration: Dancing With A Stranger by Sam Smith and Normani

Tags: @imarypayne @sunshine112 @sleepwalkingdragon @supernatural-girl97 @vibhati123 @butithasntkilledyouyet @faefictions @carisi-sonny @trap-house-homiecide @shamelessbookaddict @tommydaspidey @oneblckcoffee

Notes: Thank you so much for being a part of my blurb week! I loved writing for your requests so please please send in any requests you have for anything x

~~~

"Come on, man, the taxi's here," Harrison's voice rang through the apartment, snapping me away from my thoughts.

"Alright, alright," I say, grabbing my jacket and heading towards the front door where he was waiting.

"Are you sure you're alright to come?" He asks for what felt like the thousandth time, jogging down the steps to the ground floor.

"Stop asking me this," I groan, "I'm not thinking about (Y/N), you know that,"

"No," He points out, "I know that's what you've told me, but I know you better than that,"

"What do you want me to do?" I exclaim, dragging a hand through my slightly waxed hair, "Sit at home all night and miss my ex?"

"I want you to be happy, you know that," He replies, mirroring my previous comment as he pushes open the glass door to where our Uber was waiting.

"Yeah, well, that's not happening any time soon," I mumble, shuffling into the car, "The least I can do is try to move on,"

It was true. I'd been moping around for weeks now. Over six, in fact. Because she'd left. We'd been together for three years. And then it all ended in a matter of one argument, where she finally called me out on all the stupid shit I'd been doing. Where I realised how much I'd been taking her for granted. It was the worst night. I never cry, but that night was a big exception. And Harrison had been watching me go through it ever since.

"I can tell you're not yourself," Harrison comments, "But it will do you good to be somewhere that isn't that apartment,"

I nod in response, trying to believe his words myself. He was right. The lingering scent of her on my pillow and the pile of clothes in the corner that she still hadn't picked up. There were still signs of her. The organisation of the kitchen that was all because she got stressed out when she couldn't find anything. The stack of post-it notes of messages she would leave me on the side when I woke up too late to see her go. God, I wasn't over her. How could I be?

"Tom come on man, I'm losing you," Haz laughs, having already got out of the now still car.

I shook out of my daze and followed him all the way into the already booming club. It was typical of a London night out - crowds of people, the latest chart music that people probably didn't know the words to and overpriced drinks. But it was an escape at best and that had to be enough.

"Do you want a drink?" Harrison yells over the sound of the chattering around us at the bar.

"Whatever you're having," I brush him off, looking around the crowds. It made me feel sick to think about but I knew I needed to find someone. Someone who could take control and make me forget.

It was far too typical. Same hair colour, same height, same age. The simplistic mirror of (Y/N) but in no way similar. There wasn't the same glisten behind smiling eyes or the sharp dimple that always made her self conscious. But I couldn't think of that. This girl's eyes were on mine and I had to focus on her.

Harrison went to hand me my drink but I was walking straight over to this girl, leaving him with the rest of the group. Someone else would take it.

"Hi," I begin, a shitty start already, "I'm Tom,"

"I'm K-" She says but the club noise drowns out the rest of the identifier. I didn't even care to hear the rest of it.

"Do you want to dance?" I suggest, glancing over to the floor that was already filled with moving bodies.

K... Whatever the rest of it was... starts to walk towards the dance floor and I'm following like a lost puppy. She is quick to turn around and sling her arms around my neck, swaying in time with the music but completely out of time with me. It was awkward and messy in my sober form.

It was all because of her. She had got me to this point. To a point where I was dancing with a stranger, hoping to erase any need for her to be anywhere in my thoughts.

The song changed and K managed to continue dancing with me even in my uncomfortable posture and awkward shuffling.

My eyes glanced around to try to find some way of acting normal with this 'somebody new' and it was then that my eyes settled on someone exactly like me. A guy my height, my age, brunette hair just like mine, with his hands on the waist of a girl just like K. And that girl was you.

~~~Your POV~~~

"Really, I don't want to go," You groan, fighting lazily against the encouragement of your best friend. It was worthless, you knew it, but at least some defiance would delay the inevitable.

"Honey, you need to get out of your head. You ended things with Tom, and you need to learn to accept that," She repeats the words like a broken record but you knew she would continue to do so until you actually listened.

"I know, I know," You sigh, "But that doesn't change anything. I still miss him,"

"You need to get him off your mind, then," She confirms, grabbing out an outfit from your wardrobe.

She threw it at you and it made you wince at the sight - Tom loved you in this dress.

"I want you ready for ten," She smiles, heading out of your room to continue getting herself ready.

You knew your best friend was right. Above everything, you had ended things with Tom for a reason and you knew that. But your heart still ached at the thought of not being with him and that wouldn't change if you continued to hide yourself away in this apartment - an apartment still stained by dots of his presence. You knew what you had to do. You couldn't be alone tonight.

~~~

"Yesssss, girl you are looking fire and I'm so here for it!" Your best friend grins, clapping excitedly as the two of you made your way into the club.

It was already too full, people seemingly spilling through the floor more than their own shaking drinks in hand.

"Vodka and lemonade?" Your friend's voice encourages, having already bought you one anyway.

You thank her and take the drink in your hand making your way towards the end of the bar where you could be away from these masses of bodies.

"Anyone catch your eye?"

Your eyes glance around and settle upon someone far too typical. Brown lightly curly hair, a lean and muscular form, a jovial nature in his average height stature. Just like him. But not him. Nowhere near to the melting feeling you felt when your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. The sheer adoration that shook every nerve of your body. You hum as an absent response and soon the guy catches your eye. His smile isn't infectious like Tom's would be. But it's a smile.

You couldn't spend tonight alone.

"Do you fancy dancing?"

Not with you.

"I'd love to," You smile, accepting his gesture for you to follow him through the moving crowds.

The song feels absent and irrelevant as it is filled with intoxicated slurs of people surrounding them and an encouragement to completely an utterly forget. You could only relate to the latter in your sober state.

He'd made you do this. In your divide, Tom was the reason you were now dancing with nothing but a face you wouldn't remember. A stranger. But it was someone new and it took you away from the scent of Tom that had stained your thoughts since you'd split.

It is then that you catch the unremarkable sight of someone exactly like you. A male. Average height and of a slim, muscular build. Unmistakable brown curls. But what stood out was his actions. He had his hands hesitantly placed on the waist of a girl, oddly similar in appearance to you, and his eyes were looking anywhere but at her. And as he turned, you're sure your heart could be heard dropping against the hot tiles under everyone. You're sure he hears it.

His lips part slightly and his eyes echo an emotion you can't even manage to work out. Shock? Sadness? An undying love?

Before you can say anything to the boy dancing with you, it's impossible to not walk toward him. You push past the wall of bodies between you and it feels like time is slowing... Slowing... Slowing... Until it stops.

He's so close you can see the way his chest rises and falls with every breath and you can see the fatigue in his eyes, the chapping on his smooth lips. Had he lost weight?

"(Y/N)..." His voice trails into nothing, the word hanging between you like its something never said.

You shake your head, "Don't," Your hands find his and you set them around your waist, wrapping yours around his neck as your head rests on his chest. The two of you fit together like a puzzle, the curves of each of you being thankful that their other half had returned. His hands are softly firm around you and they spread across your back to try to encourage the past six weeks to be completely erased.

You're swaying slowly with the fast pace of the music and letting it all drain away in unspoken apologies and promises.

Look what you'd made each other do.

A lot of silent oaths were made in that dance. But the most vital of all was promising that you'd only ever dance with each other.

[necrowriter]

the seal and the swan

Another fairy tale. This one is about selkies and swan-maidens. 

Just to be on the safe side I’m going to put a trigger warning on this for abusive relationships/domestic abuse.

-------------------------------------------------

The selkie and the swan-woman met each other in the market one early spring day.

One was buying food for the household; the other was selling fine woven cloth. Their eyes met in passing and they knew, without exchanging a single word, what the other one was, and they knew that they shared the same sorrow.

The selkie was short and round-bodied, and her skin was warm brown and mottled like a seal's, and half-hidden under dark curling hair her eyes were like scrying pools, deep and dark and strange. The swan-woman was tall and broad-shouldered and pale, and had hair as fair as swan feathers and eyes that were gray-blue like the sky meeting the sea. The selkie paused, her hand outstretched over the cloth the swan-woman was selling, and they looked at each other.

“What's the matter with you?” the selkie's husband demanded in her ear. “You make me look foolish when you go dreaming like that in front of people.”

“Of course,” the selkie said, drawing her hand back. “Forgive me. I was only looking at the cloth.”

“We don't need any,” the husband said to the swan-woman. To his wife he said, “This is too expensive for us.”

He ushered her away, but she looked back, and eyes of the sea met eyes of the sky, and both understood.

The selkie's name was Ambulaia, and she was patient, very patient. She went home with her husband and said very little for the rest of that day. She was thinking.

The next day she went out with him as he fished, which was as he preferred; he thought she brought him luck. She went out the next day, too, and the next day, but the day after that she woke clutching at her stomach and moaning quietly.

“What's the matter?” her husband said when she refused to eat.

“I feel ill,” she told him.

At first he panicked, thinking that she had eaten something bad, or drunk foul water, as happened often enough in the small village by the sea, and then he worried that she had taken deadly ill. But at last, with careful hinting, she managed to convince him that it was a womanly pain. Then he went quiet, and his face colored.

“I fear I cannot go with you this morning,” she said. “I am far too sick to be on the boat.”

She was a selkie. She would never in her life have been too sick for the sea. But he did not know that. He tried to forget that she had ever lived in water, that she was anything other than his beloved wife.

“I do not want you to be ill,” he said, and it was true. In many of his ways he was not a cruel man. He treated her well enough, as a man treats a favored horse or dog, or as a little girl might care for a valuable doll.

“But you must go,” she said, and that was also true. They could not afford to lose even one day of fishing. But her husband desperately feared to leave her alone. He feared that she would be taken from him by another man, but more, he feared deep in his heart that she did not truly want to stay with him.

“Let me stay with Missus Briarly for the day,” Ambulaia suggested to him, and at last he agreed. Missus Briarly was their closest neighbor, an old and gentle woman. If Ambulaia could not be under her husband's eyes, then to stay with Missus Briarly was the next best thing; he could be sure she would get into no trouble there. Besides, he hoped that the old woman would know a cure for the womanly pain, one that he would not have to hear about.

So he escorted her down the road, and then left quickly, already late to begin the day's fishing. Missus Briarly took Ambulaia in kindly and gave her some medicinal tea with honey. The two women talked quietly for a while.

“It's my market day,” Missus Briarly said eventually.

“I think a walk down to the village might do me good,” said Ambulaia, who knew it was Missus Briarly's market day, and had planned accordingly.

The two of them walked down to the village, where Missus Briarly set about doing her shopping, with all the slowness of aching bones and rheumatism. Ambulaia sought out the cloth stand once again.

“Hello,” the swan-woman said.

“Hello,” the seal-woman said back to her.

For a moment they simply stared at each other in knowing sadness. Then the swan-woman began to cover up her stall.

“It's time for me to take a break for the morning,” she said (it was no such thing). “Would you like to join me for some tea?”

“I would like nothing better,” Ambulaia said.

This was not, strictly, true, but it was not nearly as untrue as it could have been.

The swan-woman's name was Lakishai. Her husband was a talented artist who liked to sketch the swans when they came to nest on the river. He drew beautiful, ethereal drawings of birds in flight, and Lakishai had liked to come and look at them. They spoke often; she told him of the places she had been and he would draw them from her descriptions until they looked like memories pinned in charcoal.

She had loved his art, and once upon a time, she had loved him. She had thought that he would come with her, for she was a swan, and she was bound to fly when winter came. She had dreams of traveling the world with him, of having someone who would always be there with her, to love the things she saw as she loved them.

But instead he grew bored. He drank a lot-he always had, but she had not known it-and spent most of his money on frivolous things, and then despaired of not having any coin. To him, her mystique faded when she left the water. He spent less time with her, and more with other women. Lakishai was heartbroken. She intended to leave, and never return to the river by the sea.

When she told him, he begged of her not to go, and when she insisted, he asked to draw her one more time. That was her mistake. For a mere moment, not suspecting deviousness from her once-gentle artist, she laid aside her swan-skin to pose for him. He snatched it up on the spot, and she was bound.

The artist liked having a wife, liked having someone to cook and clean for him, someone to pose for him whenever he asked, someone who could weave cloth and sell it to pay for his drinking money. Mostly, that was what she was: a convenience for him. For his dalliances he went elsewhere. He was never satisfied with any one woman for too long; he would wax poetic about them, compare them to the moon or the stars or the sea, but he always grew bored. After a while Lakishai began to realize that what he wanted was a woman who was like one of his works of art, untouchably perfect, instead of a real person who existed outside of his vision.

She told all of this to Ambulaia, who told her in turn about the fisherman who she had sung to when he went out early in his little boat, who had told her stories to make her laugh, who had shared his meager food and drink with her. She had not thought that he was in love with her. She had not thought of herself as being in love with him. She had thought that he was a good person to be with, and to talk with, to share her songs with, someone who knew the sea in a different way than she did and could tell her new stories about it. He was gentle and kind and had warm brown eyes. When he asked her to come onto land for him and take off her seal-skin so that he could see her properly, she was shy, but she did not suspect anything.

But she found that he, too, was different on land than at sea.

He told her, afterward, that it was for the best. Better that she live with him in a proper home than to live an uncertain life at the mercy of the terrible ocean. Better to wake in a warm bed with him than on cold rocks with wild beasts. Better that she was clean, and looked after, and living like a good and proper woman instead of an animal.

He was desperate that she should not leave him, should not want to leave him, and so he watched her every moment he could, kept her away from other men, dictated her life and her manner from moment to moment. His hands were still gentle, always, but his eyes were not warm any longer.

Both men had hidden away the skins of their wives. They had not done it so terribly well; in fact each wife knew well where their skins were. They could feel them, like another heartbeat, like the pulse of the sea and the turn of the wind. But they could not seek for them. As long as their skins were in the possession of another, they were bound, owned fur and feather, and they could not disobey. They could dream of escape, of wave and sky, but they could not seek it in their waking hours.

At least, not directly. But their husbands could not forbid them to be clever, or to make alliances.

Ambulaia and Lakishai spoke for a long time, and between them they made a plan. It was not a complicated plan. It didn't have to be.

Later, Missus Briarly walked Ambulaia back home. “Did you have a nice visit at the market, dear?” she asked Ambulaia, who had been quiet all the way home.

“Oh yes,” said Ambulaia, and patted the old woman's hand. “Very nice.”

Ambulaia's husband thought she brought him luck when she went out on the boat with him. She did not, or at least, she had not. Her mere presence on the boat did nothing to bring in the fish. But the morning after she went to the market, Ambulaia rose early, so early it was still dark and her husband still slumbered, and went out and sang to the sea.

The fish came in well that day, and the next day, and the day after that. The fisherman marveled at his success. He brought home more money than ever from the market, so much that there was still some to spare after all the food and necessities had been bought.

Slowly, carefully, Ambulaia began to convince him that he should spend some of that money on some finer clothes. “Yours are all in tatters, and I cannot mend them much more,” she said coaxingly. “It would make me so proud to see you dressed in a fine coat.”

The fisherman preened. Ambulaia had never before said that she might be proud of him. Perhaps, he thought, she was finally coming to appreciate being his wife. So he agreed.

After that it was very simple to convince him that there was a woman in the marketplace who made the finest clothes anywhere around, who could make him a coat like no other.

Lakishai, for her part, moved in subtler ways. She began to send away every woman her husband brought around to model for him. It was easy enough; she simply paid them a little more to leave than he had paid them to stay. Sometimes she talked to them, and told them about her husband, and what it was like being his wife. The artist did not keep track of the household money well enough to notice the loss, but he noticed that suddenly he had no one to pose for him, that more and more women around the village were turning up their noses at him.

“I need more models,” he grumbled to Lakishai. “I need any model. You fidget too much.”

Lakishai had indeed been making a concerted effort to fidget too much whenever she posed for him. “I may know someone who would be willing,” she told him.

It was Lakishai's turn first. She came to the little house by the sea and told Ambulaia's husband that she was there to fit him for his new coat. He let her in, cautiously.

She went through the motions of measuring him, speaking of cloth and of style and of good fits, until he was thoroughly bored and paying no attention, whereupon she felled him with a single blow to the jaw. As he lay groaning on the floor, she stepped over him and sought out the seal-skin where Ambulaia told her it was hidden, underneath the floor. Ambulaia was so overcome that she wept and wept, fingers stroking the fine fur, until Lakishai had to gently shepherd her away before the fisherman could come to his senses.

Ambulaia did not say good-bye to her husband. She did not say anything to him at all.

When they stepped outside, she looked with terrible longing at the sea, always so close but only now within her reach once more; but she did not go to it just yet. She had made a promise, and she intended to keep it.

The two of them went to Lakishai's house, where, overcoming a great fear, Ambulaia gave her sealskin to Lakishai for safe-keeping. Lakishai folded it in her arms and held it as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and then she went out of sight of the house.

Ambulaia knocked on the door.

“I hear tell you are looking for models,” she said when the artist answered, rubbing at his eyes, for he had only just awoken.

Ambulaia was not the sort of woman the artist usually drew, but he had grown desperate, so he nodded and beckoned her in. She posed for him shyly, and after a while, when he was deep in his work, she said, “Do you mind if I sing a little?”

The artist knew he could not afford to drive off another model, so he said, “As long as you don't move.”

So Ambulaia began to sing. This was a different song than the one she sang in the dark early hours to bring in the fish. This was a deep, calm, peaceful song, a lullaby of crashing waves. The artist rubbed at his eyes, and then he yawned, and yawned again. His eyes slid closed once, then twice, and the third time they stayed closed and his head slumped forward onto his sketchpad.

Ambulaia found the swan-skin where Lakishai had told her it was, and crept outside. Lakishai ran her fingers over the white, white feathers, but she did not cry, not yet.

The artist, like the fisherman, would wake some hours later to find his house empty and cold.

Standing in the surf on a gray beach, the two women exchanged skins, and both of them wept to finally be free after so long. They did not thank each other; they did not say anything. Each of them knew perfectly what the other was feeling, and knew it was beyond words.

After a time they waded into the water, hand in hand, and the waves took them, and they were gone. They were never seen in the village again, but sometimes, somewhere far away, a traveler might marvel to see a swan and a seal keeping each other's company.

[atimidwarrior]

There is nothing like getting a brand-new car. Your dream car. Right off the line. You are the first owner, it was made just for you. The color is exactly what you want. It’s sleek, smooth, drives like a dream, and that new.car.smell… omg! You swear you will never let anything happen to it. You drive UNDER the speed limit. You park far away from all other cars in a parking lot (no dents or dings on your baby.) You wash and wax your car with your own hands because you’re the only one you trust to touch the car you’ve so lovingly named “Roxy”. Not to mention that you drive over to your friends’ and family’s just to show her off… maybe take them for a spin! Yes, you’re in love with your new car and it’s all very exciting. You have every intent to handle it with extreme care, and you do… for a while. Several months later, you still park farther out, and you do drive the speed limit…ish. Maybe you take Roxy to the car wash you trust instead of doing it yourself because, you know, ain’t nobody got time for that! Your family and friends are getting kinda sick of hearing about “Roxy”. Eventually, you start to park it outside instead the garage, you treat it like you would any other car you’ve had. The new-ness has worn off and you move on to other things. Getting a new car, or any new thing you are excited about—home, instrument, gadget, decoration, etc, can mirror how we are in relationships. In the beginning, you are super excited! You’re willing to do whatever you can to ensure the other person that you are happy they are in your life. You do little things you to show them you care- learning their favorite songs, foods, flower, etc. and making their day. The ‘honeymoon’ phase we call it. After a while, we stop trying so hard. We start focusing on outside responsibilities and let other distractions steal our attention. If we’re not careful, we can end up losing sight of the precious gift that person is in our lives. I wonder how many of us experienced this same thing in our relationship with God. It’s all so exciting in the beginning, you are in it 100% and everyone knows it. You have these amazing quiet times, prayer & worship is a daily act, bible study is a must, and tithing and serving are automatic. Slowly, we replace our closeness, our intimacy with him, for acts of service in the church. We know we need to do both, and we flog ourselves over our shortcomings, our human-ness. We swear we’ll do better, we’ll try harder. Some even become disillusioned with the institution of church, claiming it never met their needs, or they were hurt by fellow believers. (Note: as sad and wrong as that is, we should remember that the Body of Christ is just a group of people who all have issues, their own pains, but must choose daily to love God. We are all fallible, ALL of us.) I want to suggest the following... if the Word of God is true (and we know it is), and God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow, and He is constantly faithful to us, then God lives in a contact state of “new-ness”. His love for us, His excitement over being in a relationship with us and just in who we are, is un-ending. His excitement, the “new-ness” of our relationship, His ‘honeymoon phase’ is ALWAYS and FOREVER! The way He feels about us today, is just as special to Him as the moment He decided to create us. Just because we are human does not mean our Heavenly Father wanes in His affection. We were created in HIS image, we were meant to be in a constant state of “new-ness”. God IS Love. He IS Grace. He IS Mercy. He IS Faithful. He IS Joy. These are not stagnant phrases, they are ACTIVE VERBS. Anytime we turn back to Him, He is EXCITED to hold us in His arms, to reassure us that we belong to Him and Him alone! Because our Abba is unchanging and He is passionate in His Love for us, we too can have that same experience ANYTIME we lay ourselves down at the feet of Jesus, the Way to our Daddy. We can have our strength renewed (Isaiah 40:31), our joy restored (Psalm 51:12), hope and vision made new (Jeremiah 29:11). These are just a few benefits of intimacy with our Creator. He is ALWAYS waiting to bring us into a NEW place, a restored place, a NEW BEGINNING. Jeremiah 31: 3-6 shows us our Father’s heart…“I have loved you, my people, with an everlasting love. With unfailing love I have drawn you to myself. 4 I will rebuild you, my virgin Israel. You will again be happy and dance merrily with your tambourines. 5 Again you will plant your vineyards on the mountains of Samaria and eat from your own gardens there. 6 The day will come when watchmen will shout from the hill country of Ephraim, ‘Come, let us go up to Jerusalem to worship the Lord our God.’” When we remember our First Love (Rev 2:4), His kindness leads us to repentance, and He will RESTORE the years the locust ate. He is Faithful!

[atypical60]

I know. I’m late to the party.  But the sad truth is, I’ve been sick since Sunday evening with the worst stomach bug of all time. Ugh.  I only got to watch some of the Grammy’s because I was in the bathroom most of the night.

The only thing getting cuddled in Chateau Bonaparte was my stomach and the ceramic throne in the bathroom!

Honestly, it felt so good to kneel on the tiled floor and hug the cold ceramic of my toilet bowl when I wasn’t sitting on it. That outta give you an idea of how I spent the past couple of days!

Anyway, I just got back from the doctor. Bonaparte literally forced me to go. I think it was because he was tired of hearing me moan “Ohhhhhh. My stomach. I hope this isn’t serious!”

I mean that literally and figuratively!

Honest to God. The thought of eating is making me more ill thank I am, but the good doctor gave me a prescription to ward off the nausea so that I could keep something in my gut.  And the only food item I want right now is Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.  It’s been my “sick” comfort food since I was a child.

I’m eating this as I write..

I’m getting off track here.

This is about Grammy. And not my Grammy.

My real-life Grammy. In her wedding dress. Beyonce could have worn my grandmother’s wedding headpiece and would have looked much better!

It’s about the Grammy Awards, which, in my opinion, could very well be the reason I was so sick!

Ugh. I believe that watching E!’s “On the Red Carpet” made me ill from the get go.  Kriss Jenner and that dumb butch hairdo of hers!  And that dress–it is absolutely awful! Why does Ryan Seacrest insist on having this doyenne of bad taste hosting a red carpet event?  Brad Goreski–I’m appalled that you would wear such a hideous jacket.  And Kristin Cavallari–one false move and your girls are going to escape big time!  

OK—so the music industry has a bit more creativity than, say the film or TV industries.  And I guess that’s why people who attend feel as though they have to dress a bit more eccentric or differently.

I get that. I really do.  But there is a fine line between dressing differently or more creatively and coming off as looking downright silly.  It’s about fit. It’s about what looks good or even great on you.

So, let’s just take a look at some of the fashions I happened to see when I wasn’t in the bathroom!

I had just exited the bathroom and Bonaparte was cleaning my glasses when Beyonce was doing her number.  I swear from far away I thought I was watching a Novena to the Blessed Mother.  I knelt down before the TV and started chanting “Oh Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee”.  Then Bonaparte gave me my glasses and I realized Queen Bee just wanted to look like the old-school Christmas tree toppers we had when we were kids! Who wore it best?  Why the cute little pug on the right! And speaking of JLo…

…she needs to come up with a new signature pose. I’m sick and tired of that dopey “come hither” look her face makes in every single pose. And you may want to change it up from the Angelina Jolie pose.   I swear JLo will be a wrinkly 80 year old with lips that sag down to her chest and she’ll still pose with that dopey face!

Shoes notwithstanding, Heidi Klum gets my vote for best dressed. Had two inches been added to the hem, and had she worn silver pointy-toed stilettos with toe cleavage, this would be my favorite red carpet look of all time!  I love the simple cut of the dress and I LOVE the length of the sleeves.Her earrings and makeup!  She rocked it!

Laverne Cox almost got it right!  The dress is a weird length. It should have been shorter. Just at the knees. She has great legs! And the cut-out sides give the dress a very rocker type vibe while still maintaining fashionable taste!  Her eye makeup is great too!  I love Laverne!

I was born in 1955.  In the early to mid-1960’s we practically lived on these Funny Face drinks. That’s probably one of the reasons I lost most of my hair. Anyway, all I could think of when I saw Taraji P. Henson in that getup was Goofy Grape!  Henson is cute as a button and she could have gone with something a little edgy without looking ridiculous. The dress doesn’t even fit! The fabric looks sloppy. When will these celebrities ever learn?

Rihanna. RiRi.  You are one of the most beautiful women in the world. You can wear just about anything. So then, can you explain just why you put on something that wore YOU?  I’ll admit, the black and orange put me in a very sentimental mood for those wax whistles that we used to get at Halloweeen time!  That skirt looks like the umbrella you sang about!

I actually loved the simple and streamlined cut of the suit that Chance the Rapper wore. But–did your mother ever tell you it was not proper to wear a hat indoors? Well, I’m telling you now. Get rid of the hat when you are inside a building!!!

I have no idea who this young woman is. But she has my vote as one of the Grammy Best Dressed!  Her gown is fresh and youthful and the color is gorgeous on her. In fact, if she was cross-eyed, she would remind me of a young ME! I can’t get enough of this dress! The dropped waist is so flattering! And she’s a bit modest on top without looking fundie!  Most of the celebrities at the Grammy’s could take a lesson from her!  Absolutely perfect!

Why did Beyonce and Jay Z take their daughter to the Grammy Awards!  I KNOW! I KNOW!  They didn’t want Solange to be their plus-one at the after parties so by bringing Blue Ivy, they had a great excuse for Solange to babysit! Poor Blue Ivy!   Mommy and Daddy should have dressed you in a blue suit..that pink looks like Pepto Bismol! Props to Mr. Carter for the way he looks so lovingly at his daughter!  It’s so sweet!

…speaking of Solange…she looked like….

The Golden Ticket from Willie Wonka!

Carrie Underwood needs a new stylist.  NOW!  It was bad enough she looked like chewed up bubble gum at the Golden Globes, but now she has a dress that not only looks like a newly used tampon, it is an old lady bar mitzvah dress. I don’t even think Joan Rivers would have worn it…

This is red done right! Faith Hill nailed another “Best Dressed”. It is a beautiful shade of red. The lines are simple and even with the little cut out, it was discreet. And the shoes! Oh God–I can’t even!  I WANT those shoes!  Well done Ms. Hill!

She may be “zuh gret-ess singuhr” but Ms. Dion is far from the greatest dresser. She’s only 48. She’s young. She looks older than me–and I’m old! She needs to wear her hair down and layered to soften her angular structure. The dress. It’s too low-cut for a flat-chested woman. What is WITH these low cut dresses anyway? And while I’m at it–what’s with the ankle strap shoes. Faith Hill is the only one to rock those ankle straps..Celine Dion looks more like a…

…glittery St. Patrick’s Day hat!  Save that shade o’ green for March 17th!

I love Adele.  And this pea-soup green frock did nothing to enhance her beautiful curves.  That waistband makes her titties look supersized and saggy. She needs a princess cut.  Slightly fitted.  She needs boning in the chest area to hold those ta-ta’s up.  The dress is too long–it looks sloppy.  Adele was meant for black dresses.  She needs a simple dress because that voice of her’s is what draws attention!  I”m glad she swept the Grammys!

 Chrissy Teigen.  No. This isn’t working. SHE is someone who needs to show a bit more skin! But not the way this dress shows it.  She looks like an extra from a vampire movie! I’m kind of surprised because she usually gets it right. Her makeup looks horrible too. What happened Chrissy?  You better look more like your fashionable self at the Oscars!

I’m guessing Cee Lo was channeling his inner Pussy Galore from Goldfinger. And this one in the middle. Wearing 45’s slogan? WTF?  THAT was what really made me sick.  Who is this Girl Crush on the far right?  That dress!  How the hell did she sit down or go to the bathroom?  Well, I can honestly say she has more balls than Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan!

What’s with the unbottoned shirt? What’s with the ill-fitting pj bottoms?  What’s with the awful sleeves?  I think this one was trying to channel her inner…

…..Sick Pense look!  Same color of blue. Same lousy fit!

I need to say something about this Tom Ford dress that Katy Perry wore. I KNOW this dress did not get a lot of love.  However, if you want to be edgy and different without looking clownish, THIS is the way to do it.  Naturally, I have a bit of commentary on this dress. *Sigh* sometimes I wish gay designers would be more in touch with their feminine sides. Why?  I’ll show you…

Katy Perry has the best set of Ta-ta’s on earth. In fact, if I ever hit it big in the lottery, I’m taking a photo of her in a low-cut dress to a plastic surgeon. I’m going to tell him that I want HER ta-tas!  They are spectacular and they are real!  Anyway, back to the dress. I would give her a ballet scooped neckline so that her cleavage would be a focal point.  Then I would cut the sleeves to a long short sleeve. Tom–are you listening?  Thank you! Might I also add, Katy Perry ALWAYS has THE best made-up face!  Her makeup is never less than perfect!

This is NOT good cleavage.  At all.  Lady Gaga looks like she wore the wrong sized bra and reached up to a top shelf to grab something. Girls–hasn’t that happened to you?  You know. You reach for something and your bra rides up in the front? Even for Lady Gaga who can basically get away with anything outrageous, the bottom tit look is just ugly!

Katy Perry sure knows how to show bosom!  They are the envy of us all!  Even though this suit DID remind me of piano keys!

That’s about it.  I ended up falling asleep because I was so violently ill.  I couldn’t even make it out of bed yesterday to write this so I know I’m getting much better!

Did you watch the Grammy Awards? Did you have a favorite look? Did you have a look that you thought was just awful.  Tell me!!

And…. HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!!!

One of my favorite songs about love. John Mayer with Katy Perry “Who You Love”.  (I hope they get back together!!!)

Atypical60 Takes a Look at Grammy Fashions! I know. I’m late to the party.  But the sad truth is, I’ve been sick since Sunday evening with…