#yes this is my julien baker song of the week again

[emergingghost]

what did julien baker put in even??????????

[julienbakersideblog]

Treble’s Album of the Week: Julien Baker - Little Oblivions

Julien Baker is through with torturing herself, but it’s not because she’s finally found the answer she’s been looking for. If anything, she’s accepted the uncertainty along the way. Speaking to KEXP recently, Baker explained that she’s been thinking about “how desperate at every point in my life I have been for somebody to rub oil on my forehead and tell me this is what I need to be doing…and how that doesn’t really exist and how it’s sad to mourn that kind of mythos but at the same time it’s really liberating.” There is no one way to live, maybe not even any particularly feasible ways. Belief is rarely a yes-or-no kind of question; as she sings, “it’s not so cut and dry / oh it isn’t black and white.” Her third studio album, Little Oblivions, is about vice and conviction and the space in between.

Despite the four-year gap since her last studio album and her sudden departure from touring, the Nashville singer-songwriter never took a real sabbatical from music. She was in and out of the studio through 2019, recording with her friends and bandmates in boygenius, Phoebe Bridgers and Lucy Dacus, for Bridgers’ Punisher. Even while she went back to school to finish her degree, the trio recorded supporting vocals for Hayley Williams’ solo debut. Little Oblivions was written and recorded piecemeal over the course of a year and some change while she was finishing her degree.

There is an affirming buoyancy throughout Baker’s new album, which may be the greatest departure from her previous work. The level up in her production and arrangements is not simply an experimentation or newly acquired option, these new heights are aligned in parallel with the next stage of her songwriting journey. Lead track “Hardline” is a statement, opening with bold and distorted synth strings, reaffirming not only Baker’s sure-footed self-produced independence, but declaring the thesis of the album. “Say my own name in the mirror / and when nobody appears / say it’s not so cut and dry / oh it isn’t black and white / what if it’s all black, baby, all the time.” That rumination runs through the length of the album. She dwells on unanswerable questions, singing on “Favor” (with her friends no less), “how long do I have until I’ve spent up everyone’s good will?” Intense vocal distortion on “Repeat” emphasizes the Sisyphean. Baker brings us into her head to watch, struggling to accept the inevitability of loss and failure: “While every night I reenact the same recurring dream / now I’m stuck inside a vision that repeats.”

Her previous album, 2017’s Turn Out the Lights, found Baker cranking up her emotive songwriting to new levels of catharsis. There were sharper hooks and her lyrics were all the more incisive, but in many ways Turn Out the Lights simply enhanced the work that was already underway in the nearly ambient Sprained Ankle, like the faithful big screen biopic adaptation of an intimate memoir. Little Oblivions is an entirely different saga, on an altogether more expansive scale. The dramatic percussion and keyboard-pounding rhythms cascade. Layers of production become innumerable, as the lush arrangements ebb and flow. Baker’s enormous vocal presence is undiminished, yet confidently reined in, shining through as one key component of intricate full-band songs rather than the sole focus.

A full band, yes, but not by any means a straightforward rock approach. Baker’s self-production shines through above all else in an album of contrasts, between huge arrangements and simple melodies, between driving beats and rueful lyricism. Songwriting that demands artistic stage lighting one way or another, whether epic or intimate. Hard-strummed acoustic guitar warmly complements skittering percussion on “Highlight Reel,” which makes an even more charming impact when everything falls away to intimately picked guitar, like the microphone is just a hair away from Baker’s hands. Echoing drums on “Bloodshot” recall Arcade Fire, and uncharacteristically exact rhyming and straightforward phrasing round out the late ’00s indie pop vibe. But then it all falls away to sparse piano before picking back up again. Even the softest moments, like “Crying Wolf,” still feel elevated to a whole new playing field. Soft synth keys that blossom into crystal clear piano sound more like the prima-donna somber-pop of Lorde or Adele than any indie rock contemporary. But instead of taking her vocals over the top, Baker comes in with her classic reverb-drenched guitar, maintaining a sound all her own.

The stunning final track “Ziptie” sends us off with a lonely and dreamy guitar—each note hangs in the air above a sparse arrangement. The sparse beat sounds like a ticking clock, somewhere between menacing and reassuring in its inevitability, as she both mourns and accepts our collective dysfunction: “I was disappointed to find out how much everybody looks like me.” Listening to this album requires as rigorous a self-examination, and hopefully self-acceptance, on our part as Baker does in writing it. We do look just like her, beautiful in all our imperfection.

Article by Forrest James

[illyrianwingspans]

Do Not Go Gentle: Appointments

Link to song: Appointments by Julien Baker

Synopsis: Feyre makes good on her promise to Rhys, and Rhys makes good on his promise to Feyre.

TW: Brief and non-graphic mention of self-harm, suicide and domestic abuse.

Ao3 link

Chapter 16: Appointments

“How are you feeling today, Feyre?”

How was I feeling? I didn’t know. My body felt like TV static with the volume on low. Crackling, bustling, full of nervous energy, but dim. Quiet. How was I supposed to explain that to him without sounding like a true basket case?

He sat in the chaise across from me. It was grey, muted, soft. Everything in his office was. There were great, wide panoramic windows, and outside rain pattered softly against the windows. Another week of rain in Prythian, as though it was just for me.

The couch beneath me was soft, comfortable. I sank into it when I’d sat down minutes ago and settled in after sitting in the waiting room. When I’d first walked into the clinic, there were others in the chairs. A older man, probably in his forties, was thumbing a magazine, but not looking at it. Just staring at the walls around him, flicking through the magazine, as though his fingers were soaking in the articles through his skin. A woman about my age listening to music on her phone, eyes closed, head leaned back on the wall. I’d only stared at my feet as the sound of the secretary typing away on her computer filled the empty space, paperwork clutched in my fingers. I’d filled them out on Saturday, and Rhys had them scanned and emailed that day, but they needed more paper copies handed from me in person.

“Miss Archeron?” The secretary had called out. I’d pushed up from my seat and shuffled over to the counter, presenting her with the five sheets I’d meticulously filled out. They were thorough, extremely thorough—so much so that when I’d filled them out at Rhys’s kitchen counter, I was clenching my teeth, ticking off the boxes that applied.

Suicidality:

Ideation: No-Active-Passive

Plan: No-Yes (describe): Jump

Attempts: No-Yes-More than one

Date of last attempt: March 27th

Lethality of attempt(s): Low-Moderate-High

Thankfully, Rhys had left me alone that night leaning over the kitchen island, pen tapping against the cold marble. Every question was like another stab in the gut.

Self-Harm Behaviour:

Current: No-Yes (describe): Cutting

Past: No-Yes (describe): Cutting, two years ago

When it got to family history and prior or current relationships, I nearly tore up the papers right then and there and walked out of the townhouse. Instead, I scribbled down my answers as concisely and quickly as possible to not feel the sting of the words.

In my hands, handing over the papers, it felt like I was yet again giving pieces of myself over, letting them cut open my brain and take a peak of the scrambled, decayed remains inside.

The secretary, a kind-smiled woman in her early thirties, pointed to a blue door where the gold plaque read Dr. Angèl Suriel, PhD. I’d knocked softly on the door, heard a muffled, “Come in!” From the other side. The first thing that hit me when I opened the door was the faint smell of fried chicken.

“Sorry,” he’d said, hunched over his desk further in the back of the room, next to the windows on the back wall. There’d been a rustling of a food takeout bag before he’d shoved the top drawer of his desk closed. “Just got some lunch quickly.”

He opened a window, and lit a candle on his desk next to his jar of identical pencils, then turned to face me. Angèl Suriel was an older man, tall and thin with darker skin. His accent was slightly lilted, definitely Spanish judging by his first name. He’d smiled warmly when he faced me and extended his hand, which he’d brushed on his tan trousers moments before.

“Angèl Suriel,” he'd presented himself, and I’d shaken his hand weakly. “But call me Suriel. No doctor formalities, please.” He’d smiled. “You must be Feyre.”

I nodded, eyes diverting from his. They were brilliant blue, so pale, contrasting against his tanner skin.

Staring at him now, sitting five feet across from me on his chaise with a file in his lap, I wondered how the hell Rhys had found this guy. Why he’d needed to find him, in the first place.

How was I feeling? How was I feeling?

My tongue felt swollen, limp and utterly useless in my mouth. I resorted to staring past him, over his shoulder, to the buildings in the background. They were like standing giants across the city, watching over, holding thousands of people with energy and moment and life, but so solemn and serious in appearance.

“Feyre?” He repeated.

I blinked. “How about you look in that file of yours and tell me how I’m feeling, Suriel.”

“Oh no, that’s not how this works,” he grinned. “It seems as though you’ve watched too much TV, miss Archeron. I’m not going to sit here and waste my time if you’re going to be resistant or unwilling to share. I’m only going to say this once, so listen to me.”

My heart pounded wildly in my chest as those crystal eyes met mine, and he leaned forward slightly in his seat.

“There are thousands of people in this city who suffer with the very same feelings and behaviours that you demonstrate. There are hundreds of people on my waiting list, right now, waiting for a call that they can finally see me and get the help they need. I work twelve hours a day seeing people, filling in charts, coordinating with hospitals and answering ER calls at three in the morning. I’m doing this as a favour for Rhys, and I’m doing this because I want to help you. It’s only going to work if you do your part as well. So if you’re here to waste my time, feel free to leave so I can get back to my fried chicken.”

I sat there shocked. My mouth was open in surprise, and all I could do was blurt, “I don’t know how I feel.”

Satisfied that I’d given him an answer, he resumed his position, one leg crossed across the other to balance the papers in his lap. “Okay,” he said, “how about we try this. On a scale of one to ten, one being your complete worst, and ten being your complete best, where do you think you fall?”

It took a few seconds to mull over before I murmured, “Three, I think.”

He nodded and wrote something done. “And Friday night? What number did you feel then?”

That one didn’t take as long. “Zero.”

“Zero,” he repeated. “You just broke my scale.”

Despite myself, I snorted.

“Tell me about what happened.”

Another question that settled within me like a stone sinking into water. I felt like I was holding it in the palm of my hands, turning it over slowly, examining its features, dips and curves, not knowing where to begin, or what to say.

“I don’t know what happened.” That was true. The details were so hazy. The timeline was broken in my head, only giving me fragments and pieces of those moments on the ledge.

In his lap, Suriel flipped over a paper and murmured, “It says here you were going to jump. Where were you?”

At the word jump, I flinched. Clutching my kneecaps, I blew out a shaky breath, still staring just past Suriel’s shoulder, never quite in his eyes. “At my friend Cassian’s apartment. Fifty storeys up.” I picked at the skin on my thumb, not knowing what to do with my hands.

“You went to a friend’s house? To carry out your plan?”

“I was staying at his place.”

“For how long?”

“I was there for about a week and a half.”

“Where did you live now?”

“With Rhys in his townhouse.”

“And before that?”

I wasn’t ready to go there yet. “My apartment.”

But Suriel watched me carefully, like he knew my answer was missing something.

I murmured, “With my ex-fiancee.”

His pen scribbled against the paper once more, and this time when he looked back up at me, he said, “You were at this friend’s apartment. Alone?”

I nodded. “He was still at work.”

“So,” he said, then paused for a bit, wondering how to phrase his next question, “do you remember the events, or maybe the emotions or thoughts that lead up to the execution of your plan?”

It was like I was back up on that building with Rhys’s voice echoing in my ears. I could practically feel the rain falling on my shoulders, my hair, my hands.

When Suriel pushed a Kleenex box on the small table between us, I realized it was because I was crying. The tear drops collected in my open palms like some sick offering to the gods of pain.

“Why am I doing this?” I whispered sinisterly, bitterness in my voice, my eyes as I narrowed them at Suriel, wanting to storm out of this fucking office and never look back. Rhys was wrong. He was a destructive, conniving asshole. “What the fuck is the point of this?

Suriel, not missing a beat, leaned forward as I did, and spoke in that low commanding voice of his he’d wielded only minutes ago. “The point of therapy, Feyre, is for you to get as close as possible to the ideal life you imagine and want for yourself. To solve the problems you face, to help hone your skills and speak your mind. Many of my clients walk into this office just like you, sometimes in worse shape, clinging to the notion that this is the enemy. That I am the enemy. But the only enemy right now in this room is you, you and your mind.”

I couldn’t stop myself from crying harder.

“I am not here to judge you. I am not here to pick apart your brains, but I need to know what the problem is, where to start, and where we can go from there. People walk into this office miserable and they leave with hope.”

Even the rain paused outside when I said, “I was kneeling in the entrance of the apartment. Crying.”

My mind went back to me curled into myself on the hardwood floor, when I’d shut out the world completely in my own little bubble of agony.

“I got up, ran to the bathroom, and tried to find pills, blades, anything, but the shelves were empty. Cassian must’ve been worried because he’d basically childproofed the entire damned place. But one thing he couldn’t take away from me was the fact he’d bought an apartment on the fiftieth floor.”

“And before that? Before you went out on the balcony? Why were you crying?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Words I hadn’t spoken to anyone, not a soul. Words I didn’t think I could even speak.

“Feyre, take a deep breath.”

I clenched my eyes closed, only able to see his twisted snarl of fury when his hands had closed around my throat. When my chest had slammed into his desk. When his fists slammed into my ribs.

“Feyre, take a deep breath.”

Slowly, trembling, I forced a breath into my lungs. I choked it out in a sob.

“Good. Another one.”

This time it came a little easier. On the exhale of my third breath, I said, “My ex-fiancee was there.”

“Did you speak to him?”

I shook my head. “I heard him through the door. He’d found me with a tracker on my phone.”

“Why aren’t you together anymore?”

I thought of the elevator, of me crawling on my hands and knees, nails cracking as I tried to resist him dragging me across the carpet of the executive floor.

“Because he locked me up,” I wheezed. “He wasn’t my partner. He was my captor.”

There was an eerie silence, only broken by the soft sounds of my quiet sobs. Suriel’s eyes found mine, and when I looked up to him, I said, “He was my fiancee. And I loved him. I love him.”

“But,” Suriel sighed, “he abused you.”

“No,” I contradicted weakly, “not necessarily.”

“Was he ever physically violent with you? Did he ever intentionally hurt you, has he ever tried to manipulate you or repress you?”

Silence. And Suriel had his answer. As I reached for a tissue, Suriel wrote some more notes in his papers. He looked over his shoulder to the city scape, then turned those eyes to mine and wondered, “Have you talked to your friends since everything happened?”

I shook my head. “Only Rhys. He may have said something to them, but I’m not sure.”

“Okay. It says here you don’t have a job right now. Are you looking?”

I shrugged with one shoulder. “A little. Rhys offered me something short-term.”

Suriel said, “That’s good. I want you working on something right now, Feyre. Even if it’s from home, if it’s a skill or a hobby or a job, you need something right now to keep you distracted. I don’t know enough about your situation right now to give you more specific goals or coping mechanisms, but I’ve found the best thing for clients in your position is just to keep their mind focused on something else. Being alone with only your thoughts when they’re so toxic can lead you down the wrong roads.”

I nodded, hands pursed in my lap.

“Try to see what Rhys can do with that job, try to talk with some friends. Something light. You don’t need to tell them about what you’re going through if you’re not comfortable because you don’t owe anyone an explanation. So you know your homework?”

“Get a job. Talk to friends.”

He snorted. “Distract yourself, Feyre. With good things. Light things. Even if it’s a movie with Rhys or cooking dinner. And try to stay away from alcohol and substances.”

“Distraction.” I repeated.

“Distraction.” He confirmed, a light grin on his face. “And I’m afraid that’s all the time we have.”

I wiped my nose once more than stood, tissue clenched in my fingers. “Same time next week?” I wondered, heading towards the door.

Suriel smiled then said, “Sounds good to me. Thank you very much for today, Feyre. You’re doing extremely well so far.”

“Well, hopefully therapy is the one thing I won’t fuck up.”

He smiled, more of a smug, cheeky smile. I opened the door and it closed softly behind me, but not before hearing his drawer being pulled open, and the sound of that takeout bag rustling around.

***

The car door shut beside me, and Rhys turned on the ignition.

“How was it?”

The streets passed by, full of people, full of energy. “Were you there in the parking lot the whole time?”

He shrugged as he made a left turn, going the opposite way of home. I raised my eyebrows. “Don’t you have better things to do? A company to manage?”

“My office is very flexible. Phone calls can be made from anywhere, including the comforts of my car.”

“You shouldn’t be sacrificing your work to take care of me.”

Rhys eyed me sideways. “Taking care of you is not a sacrifice. It’s as essential as any hour of tediousness in that stupid building.”

I sighed, my arms crossing across my chest. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere. How was the session? Do you like him? If not, we’ll find somebody else.”

The rain beat furiously against the windshield. Rhys increased the speed of his wipers. I said, “It was fine.”

“Fine.” It was more of an assertion than a question.

“He’s strange, but he’s good.” I glanced at him sidelong, and that calm concentration lining his features. “How did you find him?”

He shrugged. “Suriel was a very difficult man to track down. There’re many psychologists in Prythian, but not many that take on…these kinds of cases.”

“Which kinds?”

He looked at me then, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Suicidal ones.”

My next question was already on my lips, but a call came through, and Rhys touched the bluetooth piece in his left ear. “Yes Morrigan?”

I could hear her shrill voice distantly yelling at him to never call her that again. Rhys and her spoke of something for a few minutes, names and things I didn’t understand and didn’t care enough to try and decode. Finally, he said, “I’ll be there in a minute.” The call ended, and he pulled the piece out of his ear, discarding it in the cupholder. I looked out the window, curious as to where we were.

“Where are we going?”

Rhys said, “To the office. I have to pick up some things.”

My heart beat nervously. I knew that the circle would be in the office, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see them yet. But I remembered Suriel’s homework for me and sighed, knowing that it was best if I did have some sort of human contact. “Can I come?”

His smile was wicked and salacious. “But of course, darling. Let me take you into devil’s lair.”

***

Night Industries was nothing like Spring Corporations.

Everything, from the lobby to the reception to the workers was much more heavy duty. Sleek. Dripping with grace and elegance in a dark, ominous way. Black marble greeted us upon our entry where six security guards stood at their posts. Each nodded to Rhysand, who in turn greeted them all by name with a stern nod of his head. Rhys didn’t need to say anything as he marched past the reception desk towards the elevators. I went to reach for the button, but he shook his head.

“Executive floor is a little more protected than that.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“We do things a little different here than Spring.”

At that, he lead me down another corridor to the left and down to flights of stairs. I was about to ask where the hell he was taking me when we entered another lounge, with a different secretary, who instantly greeted us with a smile on her face. This place was darker, a dingy unsuspecting hallway that I wouldn’t have considered if ever I were to break in. I guess Rhys expected such a thing and acted accordingly.

“Good morning Nuala,” Rhys smiled as he laid his finger on the scanner presented to him by the dark haired woman. She didn’t say a word to him, only smiled at both of us as the tablet turned green and the door to what looked like a janitorial elevator opened. It reeked of metal and rust as we entered the wide space. On the interior, it was padded with black velvet and golden lining. Rhys pressed the button for the ninetieth floor, and we were going up.

“Your clients don’t find this a little sketchy when they visit?”

Rhys snorted. “My clients never cross the threshold of my real office.”

Another raise of my brows. He only said, “You can never be too careful, Feyre darling.”

We were silent the rest of the way up. Once the elevator doors opened once more, the space that greeted us was nothing like the beat-up receptionist’s office downstairs.

Everything was dark, but in a different way. Grey walls. Dark stained floors with a silver carpet leading down the main artery of the hallway. On each side were doors, definitely offices or file rooms hiding behind them. It was like an impenetrable fortress on all four sides. At the end of the corridor lay a set of black double doors with silver glinting handles. Lights shone at the bottom of each wall, lighting up the floors, leading your way to them. I only stood in shock at the stark differences between Spring and Night, the luxury and elegance that seemed oozing power and control here rather than tacky expensiveness in that ivory tower.

Before the doors, to the right hand side stood an empty office chair behind a black desk. An apple computer was there, unused, unoccupied, waiting for somebody to sit down.

“Who works there?”

“No one,” Rhys replied, as he laid his palm on his door handle. He waited a moment before a whir and a click sounded, then winked at me. “Only opens with my fingerprints on the door handle.”

How that worked, I had no clue. But once the doors opened, I swallowed hard at the scene that greeted me.

If… if his office was supposed to look grand, it was nothing compared to Rhys’s.

The walls were twenty feet high, and along the entire back wall stood windows reaching all the way from floor to ceiling. The light, despite the raining day, was bright and inviting, speckled with drops of precipitation outside. On the left side of the room lay an area for comfort, white leather couches and seats, enough for all the damn employees in this place to sit. A low grey marble table sat between the seats in the middle of the circle, currently obscured with documents and files piled up haphazardly. Stretched out across it though, was a map—a map of Prythian, marked up by different colour pens, from the Sidra to the major companies of Prythian and their headquarters. The colours made no distinct pattern I could decipher, but the entire thing seemed meticulously examined.

On the ceiling, light lined the space in strips, the source unseen beneath the black beams forming squares, each equally spaced apart. On the side wall were different alcoves, within one I could see acting as a coffee bar with a mini fridge beneath it. The others were wider, also lined with light—but barren.

“I’m waiting for the right art piece to put there.” He explained. “Nothing has quite tickled my fancy yet.”

I could paint for you, I thought, but then was disgusted by the notion of picking up a paint brush.

And to the left of the space was finally his desk. Nearly the length of the wall—the back of which was filled with books—and also dark to match his limited palette. Three screen monitors sat atop of it, and other files were strewn around, as though he’d left his office in a hurry. He strode over to it once he saw my shock had subsided it, and sat in his black leather chair with a sigh.

“Take a seat, Feyre. Won’t be too long.”

I sat in the grey leather chair across from him, still soaking in the room. It was gorgeous. Bigger than any apartment my sisters, father and I used to live in.

He fiddled around on his cellphone for a bit while I was still gazing across the city skyline, and minutes later came a knock at the door. Rhys checked the monitor, then pressed a button on his keyboard. The door opened, and in sauntered Mor.

“Seriously, I could’ve just emailed them to you. I don’t know why you’ve got to waste so much gas to drag your ass across the city for a stupid paper—” only she stopped when she saw me. Mor, beautiful as ever, wore a white pantsuit and her hair up in a high sleek ponytail to show off her gold hoop earrings. Her face broke into a smile, her red lipstick beaming, when she saw me.

“Feyre! He finally showed you around. What do you think? Don’t give him any credit for this place, I designed this thing from the ground up.”

“You’re a dirty liar, Morrigan. This place was built before you were born.”

“Don’t call me that again, Rhys, lest you want me to remove your favourite part. And you know full well that I was in charge of all the renovations, so look in the mirror next time you call someone a liar.”

Rhys rolled his eyes as Mor sauntered over and handed him the paper. His eyes scanned it for a few moments before they filled with dread. “Seriously?” He asked his cousin mournfully.

She only swallowed, eyes skirting over the words as well. “I’m sorry, Rhys.”

He sighed. “It���s fine. We’ll just add it to the rest of the chaos we have to deal with.”

As he opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a file, Mor came to sit beside me. Her hand found mine and gave it a squeeze, her brown eyes warm and bright. “You’re looking great, Feyre.”

I could tell by the kindness in her voice that she was being genuine, and not Ianthe’s sappy fake shrill that I was used to. “Thanks, Mor.” My voice was scratchy and low.

She turned her head to Rhys, who was collecting other papers from his desk to cram into the manila folder. “Have you talked to her about the position yet? It’d be nice to have someone new around the—”

One look from him and she stopped mid-conversation, then turned to me. “I picked up another set of clothes for you, by the way. After your comments from last time I went for more…comfort. Still very stylish, though, so not to worry.”

“Thanks. I didn’t really think the leather jacket look suited me.”

Mor laughed at my dryness, and Rhys only rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mor.” A clear dismissal, but I only thought of what Suriel had given me for homework as Mor lifted from her seat and made her way to the door.

“Wait,” I said, looking into Mor’s soft eyes, who were filled with hope and excitement just at the sound of my voice. My heart swelled with the non-verbal support she held for me. “Why don’t you all come over tonight? For dinner?”

“Feyre, darling, please, that’s just asking for it.”

“Wait, no! That’s perfect! I’ll make cookies, and we can bring popcorn and snacks and oh, oh!” Mor jumped up and down excitedly, looking to Rhys with her eyes full of hope. “We can have a game night!”

“Dear Gods, Mor,” Rhys folded his hand into a steeple and closed his eyes, his features lined with misery. “Are you trying to scare her away?”

“Oh, you’re just old and cranky. Make yourself another coffee, for fuck’s sake. Have a little fun, Rhys. We’ll be there at seven!”

The door closed, and I could only work on trying to bite back my smile as I turned to face Rhys.

“You seriously don’t know what you’ve started, Feyre.”

“I’m just doing what Suriel suggested, Rhys,” I said sweetly. “Social interaction is good for the disturbed mind.”

He only chuckled and shook his head, amused. Then he stood, hands in the dark trousers he’d donned today. No suit—he’d worked from home most of the morning before my appointment. The black long-sleeve sweater he wore stretched over his muscles that rippled beneath as he faced the skyline below us.

“I did come here for that paper, but I guess while I’m at it I should make good on my promise to you.”

Pushing up from my chair, I followed behind him quietly, arms crossed over my chest. “Promise?”

“Yes. I said I’d have a job for you. And I do.” He was quiet for a few moments, the stars in his eyes glowing as he gazed at the cars below. “I need all the people I can get right now.”

“Why?” I breathed. The response, whatever it was, made my heart beat furiously in my chest.

“Because war is coming, Feyre.”

[snowdropheart]

Identity ask: 4,6,7,8

hello! sorry it took me literal weeks to answer this i’d say i’ve been busy with uni but really i’ve just been reading little weirds by jenny slate and watching the end of the fucking world (two absolutely incredible works of art) so it’s just a big ol oops from me! but thank you for sending these i love answering identity asks!

4. do you like your name? is there another name you think would fit you better?

i used to not like my name that much,  but recently i’ve really come to like it. i think it suits me–it’s pretty and dainty and springtime-y but, not so fancy it feels like i should be a 19th century aristocrat. that being said, i have adored the name ruth since i was like nine and read “a handful of time” by kit pearson. the ruth in the book was so sad and stubborn and defiant, i just connected to her on a deep-sea level and i’ve wanted to be called ruth ever since. sometimes when i order starbucks i say my name is ruth.

6. are you religious / spiritual?

that’s honestly a really hard question. i’m such a spiritual person–i think there’s a soul in everything (and you can’t smell the after-rain sand along lake huron and not believe that there is something magical and loving out there),  but i’m not particularly religious. however, a few months ago when i first heard “go home” by julien baker when she plays in christ alone at the end, i was just transported to this memory deep within me. i’m not even sure it was my own memory, it was like my DNA knew what it was hearing, and all the parts of me that are built of my church-going ancestors knew the melody and sang along. in that moment, i really questioned my non-belief in god and christianity because it felt so real, so tangible, in a way it never had before. so who knows!

7. do you care about your ethnicity? 

yeah, i would say i do. my ancestors are scottish / irish and i’ve always felt a connection to the mythology of that area (i wrote a whole poem about the pagan celebration of samhain for fuck’s sake). i think my blood knows it’s not From Here, and longs to go home sometimes. also though, like, i come from the worst kind of white people so that’s also there

8. what musical artists have you most felt connected to over your lifetime?

i’m going to have to limit myself or this answer would be longer than the essay i’m procrastinating writing right now. the top ones would be: regina spektor, joanna newsom, kate bush, dodie, lorde, phoebe bridgers, julien baker, the good lovelies, dar williams, kimya dawson, the wailin jennys, the indigo girls, sarah slean, tori amos, and also a lot of songs from cracy ex girlfriend (rachel bloom) (esp “a diagnosis” and “the end of a movie”)

and just for fun bc i wanna–some stand-out songs i’ve connected to off the top of my head: “seven years” nora jones, “didn’t know what i was in for” better oblivion community centre, “folding chair” regina spektor, “mary” sarah slean, “stick” ingrid michaelson, “green light” lorde, “when” dodie, “yes anastasia” tori amos, “i see gold” the good lovelies, “hold that thought” ben folds five, “cast away” coeur de pirate, “all we do” oh wonder, “cicadas and gulls” feist, “swing low sail high” the wailin jennys, “i’m with you” avril lavigne, “calendar girl” stars, “all i could do” kimya dawson, “you’re ageing well” dar williams, “i believe” carrie newcomer, “time as a symptom” joanna newsom, “reaching out” kate bush 

(and that was me limiting myself one song per artist i thought of i just really really love music okay?)

anyway thank you again! i had a lot of fun answering these!

[toldnews-blog]

New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/lifestyle/cemetery-was-the-right-vibe-for-a-glamour-goth-wedding/

Cemetery was the right vibe for a glamour goth wedding

Grossan, a music aficionado, and the rock musician Ayers, who has jazz in his blood, aren’t the “wedding factory” types. (Elizabeth Lippman/The New York Times)

Molly Creeden

Just months after they started dating more than two years ago, Ally Jane Grossan and Nabil Ayers felt certain they were headed for marriage, and it was with as much surety that they didn’t want their wedding to feel formulaic and familiar.

“We wanted to get married somewhere that’s isn’t a wedding factory,” said Grossan, a founder of Brooklyn FI, a financial planning firm geared to creatives and tech entrepreneurs in New York. “It’s always the same: a beautiful space, flowers and salmon or chicken, and we just wanted to do something that wasn’t that.”

By many markers, the couple’s evening wedding on Thursday, Dec. 20, in the Masonic Lodge at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery could not be typecast. There was DJ Gregg Foreman — lithe former music director for the musician Cat Power with Joan Jett hair — who played songs by the Cure on the piano. There was the bride’s walk down the aisle with her parents, to the cascading drumbeats of the eerie first bars of “Atmosphere” by post-punk band Joy Division. There was the irrevocable fact that several yards away, entertainment industry legacies — from Mickey Rooney to Johnny Ramone — lay deceased.

“I don’t know why, I’ve always loved cemeteries,” said Grossan, 30. “Père Lachaise in Paris is one of my favorite places; Green-Wood in Brooklyn. I don’t think they’re morbid. I think they’re beautiful.” Ayers, 46, agreed: “It’s like a beautiful park.”

It was at another wedding reception in June 2016 at House of Yes, an events space in Bushwick, Brooklyn, where Ayers first spotted Grossan. “I remember thinking, who is that beautiful woman standing there?” he said. The two were in attendance to celebrate the marriage of respective co-workers: Anna Bond, with whom Ayers worked at 4AD, an independent record label where he is the US label manager, and the groom, J Edward Keyes, who was Grossan’s then-boss at Bandcamp, a self-publishing music platform where she was a senior editor.

Ayers waited to make his move until he saw Grossan chatting with Joan LeMay, a friend from Seattle, where from 1997 to 2008, he ran Sonic Boom Records and was a drummer in indie rock bands like the Long Winters. Ayers greeted his friend, who introduced him to Grossan. “My first impression was that he was wearing this fabulous suit with cool glasses,” she said of Ayers’ signature oversize frames.

The pair spoke for a few minutes before rejoining the party, and then found each other again, talking for an hour against the backdrop of karaoke. They spoke about music. At 24, Grossan had been appointed the series editor of the publisher Bloomsbury’s 33-1/3 Series, a collection of biographies about individual music albums and artists. “I, and anyone else who had ever heard about it, was impressed by that,” Ayers said.

Ayers is the son of noted jazz composer and vibraphonist Roy Ayers, with whom he has had a distant relationship. He was given a drum set at age 2 by his uncle, jazz musician Alan Braufman, and has made music his lifeblood since.

Nabil Ayers, center, and Ally Jane Grossan are lifted during “Hava Nagila” at their wedding reception at the Masonic Lodge at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery in Los Angeles. (Elizabeth Lippman/The New York Times)

“I remember someone telling me that night: ‘Oh that’s Nabil Ayers from 4AD, that guy’s a big shot,’” Grossan said. After the two parted ways, Grossan followed Ayers on Twitter in the Uber ride back to her home in Crown Heights, Brooklyn.

The next day, Ayers reached out to LeMay with a request: Could she ask Grossan to pass along her email address? Once in hand, Ayers sent Grossan a casual message mentioning Skee-Ball, which Grossan had revealed was a talent. Two days later, Ayers was surprised he hadn’t heard back. “I thought it was weird. We’d gotten along well, and my friend had asked her if it was OK to get in touch.”

After giving the go-ahead, Grossan thought it was odd that she hadn’t heard from Ayers. “I checked the spam folder and was like, ‘No way, this doesn’t happen.’” There was Ayers’s email from his 4AD address.

Grossan responded immediately and the two made plans to meet the following Sunday for a drink. On the Thursday evening beforehand, however, Grossan was seated at a table in the Hammerstein Ballroom at the Libera Awards — a ceremony honoring the indie music community — and heard Ayers’ name announced. She looked up to see him walking on stage to accept an award on behalf of singer/songwriter Grimes for the video “Kill V. Maim.” Grossan emailed him: “Short and sweet — great speech.”

They found each other after the program and Grossan invited Ayers to join a group heading to a karaoke bar (note: for how much karaoke appears in this story, the groom does not particularly enjoy it). There, jammed into a bench with industry peers, Ayers was enchanted as Grossan sang the grim, rapid fire lyrics to System of a Down’s “Chop Suey” with perfect elocution. “She took her shoes off for the song, and I was like, ‘Whoa, she’s really going to do it,’” Ayers said. “I was really impressed.”

The group dispersed and Grossan and Ayers wound up at New Wonjo in Koreatown, talking over cold noodles late into the night. That night the couple kissed for the first time.

It would be the first of many dates.

“Most of the men in the music journalism space are obnoxious: They’re proud of knowing the names of every single album,” Grossan said. “But Nabil knows more that everyone and is so understated. He never tries to display his knowledge to anyone. He’s just excited to talk about it.”

Like the tongue-twisting lyrics to Chop Suey, the relationship moved at a heady clip. On an early date, Grossan mentioned that her favorite album was Hole’s Celebrity Skin; several weeks later, on her birthday in July, Ayers gave her a copy in vinyl. That month, the pair decided on impulse that Grossan would be Ayers’ date to a September wedding in Paris. And in October, Ayers met Grossan’s father, television producer Mark Grossan, in a hot tub during Orange County’s Beach Goth music festival. By Christmas, they had plans for Ally Jane Grossan to move into Ayers’ Brooklyn Heights apartment when her lease was up in May.

In early 2018, Ayers began looking for rings to propose to Grossan. Once he found one — a vintage emerald-cut diamond with two baguettes that reminded him of the art deco angles of the Chrysler Building — he put his plan in motion. He had arranged to have Julien Baker, Grossan’s favorite musician, perform a private serenade during the Sasquatch Music Festival in George, Washington, on May 25, 2018.

But the couple was running late that day. Grossan got her first speeding ticket while they were en route to the Gorge Ampitheater from Seattle. She was frazzled as Ayers hurried her through security, texting with Baker’s manager about the mere minutes they had before the musician was due on stage. Telling Grossan they were hurrying to meet a friend at a backstage video shoot, Ayers wove them through the 20,000-person crowd, past the tour buses, and around a bend behind the stage. There, they found Baker and her violinist on a cliff overlooking the gorge. She started playing Love Me Tender by Elvis. When the violin solo began, Ayers dropped to one knee and asked Grossan to marry him.

The couple chose to marry in Los Angeles, where Grossan grew up and where her grandparents, Murray and Rosalyn Grossan, 95 and 94, live. (They were unable, however, to attend the wedding). Ayers had recently organised a show at the Hollywood Cemetery and thought it might dually be suitable for matrimony. On the summer day when Grossan and her mother toured the cemetery for a visit, the staff was cleaning up the site of the memorial for Chris Cornell, Soundgarden’s frontman.

Nabil Ayers, right, and Ally Jane Grossan at their wedding reception at the Masonic Lodge at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery in Los Angeles, (Elizabeth Lippman/The New York Times)

On the evening of December 20, however, morbidity was the last thing on the minds of the 125 friends and family who gathered in the temple of Masonic Lodge in festive interpretations of “glamour goth,” the couple’s suggested attire for guests. This meant oversize earrings, peacock feathers, sparkly slides, tattooed fingers, faux fur and evening gowns, with an over-index of black rimmed glasses paired with long rocker hair.

“Each of you are glowing tonight, and the love of life that you are share with each other helps to light this world around us,” said the officiant, Rabbi Michele Ellise Lenke, under a white huppah in the temple room, which was a vision in crimson, from carpet to walls, with a Masonic Eastern Star hanging in the center. “Julien Baker may sing about turning the lights out,” the rabbi said, “but my wish for you is to keep shining bright.”

In his vows, Ayers spoke of his respect for Grossan’s drive and ambition, and called her his motivation in life. “I’ve always been a happy person,” he said. “It’s become clear to me that you’ve always been a happy person. So it’s hard to believe that I would meet someone who has made me infinitely happier, but you’ve done that.”

Grossan, who is taking her husband’s last name, praised his accomplishments and his “infectious warmth.” “Waiters, bartenders, shopkeepers and strangers we meet are immediately drawn to you,” she said. “It’s like the whole world is completely in love with you, but not as much as me. I vow to protect and cherish that feeling.”

In toasts over dinner in the building’s Eastern Star Room, where guests drank sparkling Topo Chico water, natural libations from Silverlake’s Psychic Wines, and ate a Mediterranean buffet feast, Ayers was referred to by a co-worker, Gabe Spierer, as “the nicest guy in rock.”

(“Not only rock, but one of the nicest guys in earth, wind and water,” Matt Berninger, the frontman for the rock band the National amended later in the evening).

Ayers’ mother Louise Vesper, a former ballet dancer, recalled seeing the body language between the couple for the first time, and praised the fact that “in their busy lives, they still make time for their parents.” The party moved back across the hall to the Masonic Temple for dancing, and then onto an after party at Brass Monkey — for karaoke, of course.

[rustedbars-blog]

Day 2

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p>I don’t know if I actually should do these. At this point I don’t think it matters. Everything’s basically been called off. No more of the not talking. And. My least favorite. Obviously. No more of us talking like us. Just. Friends now. It’s gonna be hard to accept. I wish I just stayed as cold as I was when I got to school. I wouldn’t feel a thing right now. Not in this sense at least. I wouldn’t feel like we have a chance. I wouldn’t be worried about whether we talk or not. I wouldn’t be thinking of. That one guy. I wouldn’t be like this. I’d just be upset with you still. I didn’t like you being upset though. I hated it. I still do. I don’t want you to be upset. And you lost my bracelet today. The bracelet that’s got a lot of sentimental value to it. But that’s okay. It doesn’t bother me at all really. Maybe this was its chapter with us. And now it’s starting a new one. I hope you find it Thursday. But. I really doubt you will. So it’s okay. Don’t feel bad about it. It’s just a piece of leather. I’m not upset. So please don’t be either. I gave you the pin. That’s the new bracelet. And if that disappears. I’ve got something else you can have. A different bracelet. I’ll tell you the story about that one someday. Right now I’m tired. I took my sleeping pill. I’m fading. Really fast. I’m waiting for you to call. I wanna be on the phone with you. I really do. So I’m trying to stay awake. But I don’t want to stay awake. I feel this pain in my heart right now. I did it again. I looked at who likes your tweets. All of them him. 11:11 make a wish. All of them him. I bet he’s got your notifications on. I’m trying not to feel so. What’s the right way to describe this feeling? I feel like he’s seeing his window of opportunity and slowly dropping his name into your mind. I’m being replaced. That’s the word for it. He’s trying to do that. You don’t see it. But. I wouldn’t care so much if I didn’t see it. Seen it since day one. Now that we are officially nothing. It’s just a matter of time until he starts to flirt with you. And then asks you out. Whether you’ll notice the flirting god only knows. I want to feel better about all of this because of today. But. I’ve seen how someone can enter a persons mind and replace another. Bridgette did it to me. Almost twice. I did it to Cassidy. I did it to Madison. I know how easy it is. That’s why I’m so scared. I know it’s easy. I can’t keep myself calm. Cause. Anytime you don’t reply for an hour. The little voice in the back of my head goes “she’s with him. Feel like shit now. You weren’t good enough. He’s setting up shop now. Watch. Watch her Twitter. Watch her snapchat. You’ll see. Just watch.” And. I can’t shut that voice off without shutting everything else off. And I can’t shut everything else off. That’s just a bad idea. Also. I don’t like that you read my texts and don’t respond. It’s. It honestly hurts like hell and makes me feel like I need to ignore you for a long time. But. I’m not petty like that. You read my texts and don’t respond but then you tweet and it’s like you’re stabbing me right in the chest. I’m sorry to feel that way. But. It just is how I feel. I’m trying not to feel like that. I’m trying to let you go. Not entirely obviously. But. Enough to where it doesn’t hurt anymore. But. I don’t see how I can stop loving my first TRUE love. It just. I don’t know. It’s like walking in the desert with no water and you’re slowly dying from dehydration. And you can see an oasis. But you’ll never reach it. I’ll never reach it. Unless I just cut you off. And. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want you to do that either. So please don’t. Just. Just be gentle I guess. Be gentle. I’ll get over it sometime. Maybe. I don’t really think I will. I’m hurting from last night still. But that’s normal. It takes time. Maybe I will get better with this. But. I want to give you everything. And. This. This is just. Breaking me down. I don’t know if you noticed. But one of my knuckles is black and blue. And it’s not out of anger. It’s out of sadness. I was walking downstairs. Tearing up after hanging up with you this morning. And I said enough. And I punched the cabinet. Now it’s like this. Hurts with pressure. Oh well. I haven’t hit anything else. Before that. I hurt my knuckles a few weeks ago. Once when I found out. And once when something happened. I was upset that night and Duncan said to punch something if I needed to. So I did. My ring finger knuckle still hurts from that. Now my middle finger knuckle is messed up. I’m done punching things. It’s my how I wanna take my anger out. I hold it all inside better than you might think. I deal with my anger a lot. It comes up a lot. I handle it by breathing. Taking a moment to relax and calm down. I don’t let it out in any physical way. It’s not really me. I’ve only ever punched things out of anger three times. The first time was two years ago. The last two were last month. I don’t want to let anger out that way. So I’m not gonna. So no worries there. But the rest of what I’m feeling. There’s no release for that. I have no control over it. And it kills me. That’s what cutting was. It was something I had control over. I only realized that because Amanda brought it to my attention. It was something I had control over. And now I don’t do that. Haven’t for a year and a few months. And I’m going to continue not doing it. I don’t need it. It’s in my past. My future is dealing with my problems as they arise. So these feelings. I have to deal with them as they arise. And so far. I haven’t found a way to deal with me. I can’t always be out until midnight with people. I can’t. I’ve got school. People are busy. I’m trying to find a way to handle it. It’s just hard. I’m sure you know the feeling very well too. I just hope you’ll find better friends. And this one feeling I have. The one feeling I have. Will go away. I have to hope you’ll actually make friends. But. I don’t know what you’ll actually do. I’m going to try to make some new friends. Like really really try. I hope you’ll do the same. I’m sorry I’m still so hung on this whole guy thing. It’s just. When you see someone you love around a slimey grease ball, you fear for them, but then when you see them with that slimey grease ball all the time, you start to worry, and you start to think less of yourself because you see the smiles on both of their faces, and you see the lack of a smile on your loves face when you’re with them, and then you don’t get to see your love, but grease ball gets to. It gets to you. It destroys you. I’ve never been stabbed before. But I have a feeling that this is what it’s like. I just wish it to stop. I wish you to see. Someday. Someday. Now. Time. I’ve got time. Plenty of it. But I don’t want to spend it on this. This waiting. I don’t. I wish I didn’t have to. I know I don’t. But. For love. For your love. I’ll do just about anything. Really I will. When you cross the line. I’ll let you know. But anyways. Be gentle with me. Please. My heart can’t take much more of this. I’ve been pulling it apart to try and fix yours. I’ve been pulling it apart to keep myself from going insane from all of this. All of last month and. Now this. I had you listen to that song with me today for a reason. I’m Julien baker in it. And you’re her friend drinking gasoline. Just don’t die like her friend actually does. And. I wanted you to listen to whenever I’m alone. But. I didn’t want you to cry even more. Because those lyrics. I never wanted to relate to it. But. Now I relate to every last lyric. “Say im yours, and I won’t argue with you baby. Say You don’t want me, and I won’t wish I were dead.” There’s more. But. You get the jist of it. You can tell me something. And I’ll have a reaction to it. You can say you’re done with me. And I won’t argue with you. You can say you want me. And suddenly I won’t wish I were empty inside. At this point. As Julien is. I am used to sleeping on your floor. I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to figure it out. But. I don’t know. “I don’t mind waiting around. Cause darlin who else am I waiting for.” If you just ask me to. I will. I don’t mind. Just ask me to. It’s selfish yes. But. If it’s so selfish. Maybe I want you to be selfish and ask me. So think about it. I’ll think about all this. Not like my brain gives me any other choice anyways. Like right now. We are on the phone. And I hear your phone keep vibrating. I assume it’s him. And then I’m left going “why don’t I get fast responses like that anymore?” You see? The little voice is talking to me. I hate it. I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to listen to it for however long until you decide that you’re ready for me. It’s only gonna get worse at this point. I love you. And that’s no mistake. But. Hurting like this. That’s a mistake. I can’t figure out how to correct it.