#yet my loneliness was comforted by the full moon in the clear skies of the autumn night breeze

[thespiritualsolarsystem]

.

[birdsongsofpersia]

skin flees,

I want to unfold / let no place in me hold itself closed / for where I am closed I am false / I want to stay clear in your sight/ - Rilke

My skin is winter leaves untouched by sun in northern skies for so long and deeper down there are homes where people know my name and smile even when I am intoxicated with forgetting / and say this is what you have lost, here, buried in the gardens of abandoned dances. Am I of the age now where we somewhat... live? I tell you, I am not yet alive the way that I know is true, somewhere inside. But I dance, and I dance into the earth, and I breathe out the weight of the dying and the dead, attempt to let them go, to move on to the next world and they speak of the regrets of those who have too little time, mine would be not reaching down into the depths to drag poetry into a world that has none. For it has so many faces, so many lives, so many deaths. The jungle beckons, but in the concrete seas, why have I turned my back on the words and sights that have given me so much?

Every night I am fleeing something, someone. It has no face. I have decided to name it winter. A winter that comes to my dreams. A winter that I have abandoned in search of warmth. But capi-tan, what about/ fingertips tracing your skin, giving calm to those inner organs on fire and the restless heart ready to leave all comforts and wander the eastern most mass of the Sahara? and when all desert cold disappears into the wagon untouched since he left this world and his cat is old and sick and has teeth hanging out of his mouth. And where do the old and uncared for go? They crawl into shadows and wait to be taken. And wait more, more, the passing of seasons. I swear, as I write this (no poetic coincidence) he comes slowly up to me as if he can hear me writing of him, purring, rubbing against my legs. I still exist, hermano, he says. I still exist. And I have lived a life worth knowing. Memories of moving through the deserts of Morocco, that ancient feeling of the winds howling at night, and the days of sun upon the skin. And how the old congregrate outside beside the road and watch traffic move in and out of the villages, content to see the river of life gurgling, and there was no discontent, just acceptance, and pride, at having lived.

I have moved no closer to accepting my body to how it is, but when I dance, I have learnt to let my mind go, and without the mind, I am all spirit, and it comes and goes like migratory geese. This friday night there are few that I really am drawn to. I am lost in that for a long while. The loneliness of a lifetime accumilated fills me for a while as the songs get real slow. I see Lizzie with her eyes upon the wall most of the night. Pablo with his tattooes stretching around his back the night long sitting amongst it all, and his horses outside the city, and his Patagonia further away still. There is one, from the first moment, that has a line attached to me, and I watch her, and I curse, for there is still a part of me that rejects it. Do not come too close, this part says. And I watch her all night long, and she will dance with me only for a second before moving on, and she has an eyebrow piercing to her right and tape covering tattoos, and I too once had this same piercing till it fell in carribean jungle plants and life said let it go but I will bring it back again soon. T and I got them done together, four years before he disappeared from this jungle garden earth and perhaps if I get it done again he will return and speak to me in dreams of where he is, what he has learnt, and there are two girls that are so joyful that I dance constantly amongst them trying to show them, I am just motion, don't be nervous and for the first time I am smiling broadly almost all night while dancing, and perhaps they can feel it, and one comes up to me and says in Spanish that she adored my energy, and I did hers, her laughter filling the night, and how the moon shines full and and fuller than my belly could ever be. I am experimenting with fasting, what it is not to want, but I cannot put away this feeling of wanting touch and at night, hours later, I do not know what to do with myself while staring up at the attic ceiling to not have another's breath beside me, filling me, to not share these visions, the images beyond eyes and those streets, suddenly alive that were once dormant, how worlds open, how can one be away from that...even for one moment? And so many moments, now, but one must find ways to grow upon different paths, where poetry finds roots and my skin will hold in the sun all dark winter long without fleeing, and touch will return again, a moment or the next, and this dance will be full of footsteps pounding the earth with shimmering eyes, the dead and the living breathing the night air, remembering.

/ Photo - Francesca Woodman, from Space2, Providence, Rhode Island, 1976.

[selenelavellan]

Devil Woman

Hello yes I fell in love with @scurvgirls House Witch AU so I did a bit of backstory for Selene in it <3.

House Witch AU

Serahlin(Mentioned) is @scurvgirls

Dirthamen is @feynites

(TW for Shitty Parenting, Abuse, and Haleir)

Selene is sixteen years of age when her book is traded away.

“How dare you!” She screams at her father, fury and anger and rage pouring out of her. Fists turning white as her hair where they clench at her hips, every muscle tensed in the aftermath of her 'Wonderful Birthday News'. The curtains catch fire and his potions quake in their bottles on the table beneath the wrath of her remaining magic. Des lets out a long, ear shattering hiss from inside of the warded crate in the corner, still trapped where Elrogathe had drugged and shoved him for the 'negotiations'.

Negotiations that had promised away her hand and her firstborn.

His palm connects with her cheek and it is not unlike the deflating prick of a balloon.

She crumples to the ground, knees banging against the hardwood floors as rage gives way to grief beneath the stinging heat of the assault.

“It is an honor,” He tsks, correcting his potions where they have shifted on the table. “A show of loyalty to the coven, to our people. It is your own fault for causing them to doubt your loyalties, child. Be grateful this is all they asked of you; there are far worse fates than marriage and family.”

“You seem to feel cursed enough by your own,” She mutters.

Elrogathe stiffens as a bolt of electricity strikes at the mirror that had been hanging on the wall behind her head.

“Your mother was worth suffering any curse,” He manages through grit teeth before finally turning to look at her for the first time today. “Even a child so devilish and selfish as you.”

–

She is married on her eighteenth birthday.

To the great grandson of their covens founder. A towering, sun blessed witch with long, bright red hair he keeps in a braid laid over his shoulder. He has been well sought after by many a witch; his bloodline after all, guarantees a very powerful child, and his family has no shortage of wealth or prestige in the circles.

She spends most of the reception searching for her book. Trying to find it, to flee, to run before their bond can be consummated. Des darts from room to room in the extravagantly large mansion, searching and scenting for any hint of their magic.

Neither manages to turn up even a scrap of what they are looking for.

The honeymoon has been arranged in one of his families summer homes, hidden away in the thick of an ancient forest.

There is no moon in the sky that night, and Haleir had driven them off before Des could manage to jump into the car. Her book is still gone, and though this was supposed to be a symbol of her loyalty to her coven, to prove her as finally one of them, she feels farther from her magic and her self than she ever has before.

She spends the night outside of herself, like some captive audience to the horrors being committed.

Des finds her in the morning, and curls into her arms. Some small semblance of comfort for what may now be their new reality. She feels better with him near, even through his exhaustion of making the journey back to her.

More like herself.

At the end of the week, she's made to pee on a stick. It's not the way her father tests for children, but Haleir assures her that this is one type of precognition the mortals have figured out.

The symbols on the display screen don't change, and her new husband makes a disappointed sound and says “Well, we'll just try again then. As many times as it takes, I suppose. I have expectations to live up to you know. “

Selene just nods numbly and runs her fingers through Des's fur as she slides into the passenger seat of the car.

Haleir scoffs down at her familiar and makes a comment about fleas and litter boxes, while his toad makes a loud croak from the backseat in what she assumes must be agreement.

As many times as it takes, her mind echoes.

...surely, that can't be too many more times. Right?

–

Selene is twenty one when she finally has enough.

Enough of feeling like only a piece of herself, enough of vacating her body each night, enough of lying there while her husband dreams of other women and she dreams of a day when she no longer has this obligation to fulfill. Far away and isolated from their coven, from any she might once have considered a friend, and with her only source of communication besides her unfaithful husband, vague postcards from her father unsubtly asking if she has managed to produce an heir yet.

Enough.

Haleir is out on one of his ‘business trips’ when she makes up her mind. It is going to be a full moon, and her own moon-blessings will mean the powers she still has may actually be strong enough to pull it off.

Des is uncharacteristically wary of her plans. He almost attempts to talk her out of it before finally agreeing that this may be her only way out.

It is a cruel plan. Cruel, and tragic, and monstrous.

An act of desperation, and her only chance.

The one benefit of her time spent dissociating over the past few years is that her dream walking abilities have vastly improved; a skill that will make what she is about to do far, far safer.

She lights the appropriate candles and pays in her blood and herbs before finally stripping and settling into the center of the circle of the rug she had managed to bring with her from her own home. One of very few items in this house that could be considered hers. Precious to her, but nothing Haleir will notice is missing if anything should happen to it.

Des is slowly circling the ritual, checking for errors, and she gives him a smile before focusing herself, and managing the incantation in a long forgotten language.

Old, and ancient, and very very dangerous.

Several creatures drift past and through her as she sits in the plane of dreams, most frustratingly uninterested in her offer.

But she waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Until something seems intrigued enough to stop.

She shivers beneath the gaze of its eyes. And it has many with which to do so. Selene is having trouble making out the silhouette of the spirit as the shape of it is unfamiliar and ever shifting, edges blending into the darkness around them.

You long for freedom.

She doesn't hear its voice, exactly. There is no mouth to speak of, but she can hear them all the same, reverberating somewhere deep in her mind.

“Yes,” She says aloud. The movement of her mouth is awkward, and her voice echoes in the thick silence of the air around them and she wonders for the first time just how long she has been waiting.

What will you do with the child?

Selene hesitates.

She had been planning to leave. To fulfill her obligation to produce an heir and to find her book and to take back the freedoms that had been stolen from her.

...an easier concept when she considers the creature she will be bearing an obligation, rather than a child.

“My first born has been promised to another,” She admits. “But I will need to produce it before I can fulfill that oath. My current...partner, and I, are having difficulties.”

Do they know you are here?

Selene swallows. “...No.”

The spirit stirs a bit, at that.

You would betray them?

Selene snorts. “There is nothing to betray,” She assures them. “There is no love between us. He would rather be elsewhere, as would I. But he holds my book in some hidden place, and I cannot leave without it.”

The spirit seems confused by the concept.

That does not seem like a very beneficial partnership.

“He's more like my captor at this point,” She says. “But I need the key to my cage; and he will only hand it over if I produce a child he can claim as heir.”

This, at least, the spirit seems to grasp.

Their form shifts again, and a single blue eye as large as her head with lashes as long as the curls in her hair settles in front of her face.

Your first born is already promised, the spirit says as one long tendril reaches out to touch her stomach, So I will take the second.

Her vision blurs, and magic swirls around her. Hers, theirs, others that she doesn't even recognize. Swirling galaxies and the roots of great trees flood her mind, her fire turns to smoke and she is sucked into the creature and feels a terrifying and overwhelming sense of loneliness and age and worlds growing and dying and being torn apart and then forced back together. She sees great depths and clear skies and the world feels at once huge and infinitesimal, like she could hold it in the palm of her hand and drown in it all at the same time.

Her breath is stolen from her lungs and returned to her in great heaves as her soul is ripped out and then carefully placed back into her body.

She is shaking and crying and sweating on the rug her mother had once taught her to read on, on her hands and knees and with a migraine that makes the room around her spin. The candles she had lit are long burnt out, wax melted into large pools and already cooled, and Des is looking at her in fear and concern while pawing at the back of her hand.

“I'm alright,” She rasps, throat dry from dehydration-how long has she been here, doing this?-straightening back up and pushing her hair back, curls damp and clinging to the edges of her face.

Des lets out a soft meow, and she knows exactly what he's asking.

Did it work?

She settles one hand over the slight curve of her stomach and lets out a breath.

“...I think so.”

–

Selene gives birth exactly nine months later.

To twins, one with dark hair, and one with white; both with bright blue eyes.

Selene knows that neither she nor Haleir possess blue eyes; but that the creature she conjured for the fertility ritual did.

Thankfully, Elrogathes eyes are a deep blue and his hair a dark enough blue it is often mistaken for black, and with her own green eyes and white hair she's able to convince Haleir that the children are his. A sure sign of his virility, and that their sons will grow into very powerful, very capable witches in their own rights.

She almost convinces herself of it, too.

Almost convinces herself that in her haste and selfishness, she hasn't damned at least one of her sons to a creature that is almost certainly a demon, in retrospect.

The twins are three days old, and still without names when Haleir comes home drunk from a celebratory night with his friends.

“You can't see them like that,” She gripes, blocking the doorway with her still recovering body.

“They're'my'f'ggin sons,” He slurs, half halfheartedly trying to push her aside.

She holds her ground.

He glares down at her-or tries to, anyways. He's never been very good at holding his liquor, and he seems to be having difficulty figuring out which one of her is real.

“B'tch,” He grumbles, turning and waving like it was his decision not to go in. “F'ggin witch bitch...” He snickers. “S'till powerless witch bitch....”

Selene feels her skin heat, thinks of how satisfying it would be to light him up...and remembers the children, sleeping in their cribs behind her. Of her father, sleeping in the spare room down the hall after making the long trip to deliver his grandchildren, and how poorly it might go for her and the children to upset them both at once.

She sighs.

...She cannot leave the children alone with Haleir. He is unfit, and the oath her father signed for her is not their burden to bear.

Damn.

Damn.

She doubles down on her search efforts for her book in the following months, in hopes that if she found it she could leave with her sons. Selene tears apart the home of every one of Haleirs relatives they visit with the children, tracks down old trade ledgers and tries to see where it might have been sent, or ended up. She thinks perhaps there may be a trail to follow over the sea, but ship ledgers are notoriously unkempt and untrustworthy, and it is a very long journey to take with two toddlers.

Toddlers who are not without omens of their own.

Selene explains the first few ravens that show up at the house with lies to Haleir; after all, who could predict why birds behave the way they do? Perhaps Des tormented a friend of theirs and they are out for revenge. Be sure to throw salt over the back porch, and she'll plant fresh lavender in the front when the weather warms.

But she doesn't miss the way the birds watch her children when they play outside, or the way the shadows shift around them. Haleir is disappointed when neither of his children are sun blessed the way he is, and upset that the twins would rather sleep through high noon than watch him perform simple spells and tricks that have only frightened them in the past.

She only says that they should enroll the twins in swim classes when she finds Darevas sitting in the bottom of the pond in their backyard; curious and unafraid of the cavernous sinkhole growing in the center, and breathing as easily as though it were air in the dark and deepening water.

They are far too young for their magic to be manifesting, she thinks in a panic as she dries the elder twin off, Felasel finishing his muffin behind her.

Not for the first time, she regrets the haste in which she acted. If she knew what their biological father were, she might be better equipped to care for them.

And better prepared to protect them, too.

The twins are still six months away from their sixth birthday when Serahlin knocks on their door.

Selene has known Serahlin for as long as the children have been in school, as their children share a class together.

But when she calls her sister, Selene feels a sense of relief she hasn't known since she was fifteen years old. A sense of kinship, and the sort of gratefulness she thought she was long past.

'Thank the gods,' she praises as she opens her door wide and invites the other woman in 'for Sisterhood.'

[jeezperseus]

A PLOTTING CALL IN TWO PARTS.

like for a msg !

CHARACTERS & INFO.

perseus hayden alexander xavier lehnsherr.

APPLICATION / INTRO / MUSING TAG

— adopted son of charles xavier & erik lehnsherr. nineteen. pansexual. accidentally married. regenerative healing & healing touch. fc: nick robinson. generation why by canon gray.

split knuckles, impulse tattoos, red solo cups, the copper taste of blood, post-ripped jeans, a story told in two parts, peals of laughter strong as vodka, shaking hands shoved in pockets, greasy fast food, low flying planes, cuffed shoes, the soft notes of a piano, a baseball bat in the back seat.

barbara “bobbi” morse.

APPLICATION / MUSING TAG

— former agent 19. thirties. bisexual. divorced. enhanced. fc: jessica alba. emotionless by drake.

gentle hands, biting remarks, unknown skill, non-disclosure agreements, hidden stashes of cash, studyblr accounts, handmade bullets, a tongue taught to deceive, coffee-mug rims, set shoulders, precise results, minimalism, lilting accent, a broken mirror, clean test tubes, red-painted nails around the hand of a gun.

andromeda rosalie isley-quinzel.

APPLICATION / INTRO / MUSING TAG

 — adopted daughter of pamela isley & harleen quinzel. twenty-one. pansexual. single ( see below ). precognition. fc: lana condor. finest hour by cash cash.

whispers from a voice both soft and powerful, sloppily cut hair, pointe shoes, paint stains on every article of clothing, cassandra foretelling the trojan war, dirt under your fingernails, a love a week, the gold tinsel of a crown, unexplainable dreams, bundles of flowers, the soft rustling of worn cards.

roman darkhölme.

APPLICATION / INTRO / MUSING TAG

— son of raven darkhölme. twenty-four. pansexual. enchanted. persuasion & power absorption. fc: miles heizer. lost boy by ruth b.

the unexpected answer, washing your hands, casual disinterest, stacks of cash, little clear baggies, practiced ease, a silver tongue, whispers of the past, old cobblestone streets, bad decisions in the best way, sweaters and flannel, the burning of flowers, white lab coat, fear of the unknown.

loki.

APPLICATION / MUSING TAG

— the god of mischief. 1000s. fluid. open marriage. fc: daniel gillies & katie mcgrath. wild things by alessia cara.

dark skies, a long steel dagger, fog coming in, green & gold banners held high, the twisted around truth, stories told from a thousand tongues, crooked grin, a crown just out of reach, salt in wounds, ourborous, contrary to a point, blood superiority, loneliness as something else, eyes in the back of your head.

winona falcone.

APPLICATION / INTRO / MUSING TAG

— daughter of sofia falcone. twenty-six. bisexual. single. darkness manipulation. fc: shay mitchell. take me to church by hozier.

expensive fur, champagne glasses, hands covered in blood, instagram perfect, beautiful but deadly, the rich kids of gotham, sharp edges for a reason, dark hair in waves, a product of a situation, cherry stems tied with your tongue, heels on a hardwood floor, the many shades of red.

skylar helix mccoy.

APPLICATION / INTRO / MUSING TAG

— daughter of hank mccoy. twenty-two. lesbian. single ( see below ). genetic atavism & genius intelligence. fc: jennie kim. 400 lux by lorde.

a field of vibrant yellow flowers, the yipping of a small dog, fangs bared, constellations of words, no apologies, thousands of discarded ‘what ifs,’ the call of the wild, a small crescent moon necklace, pride without arrogance, false confidence, spitting blood, intelligence without direction.

CHARACTERS & WCS.

perseus hayden alexander.

a former foster care sibling.

it’s been a while, but he’s a pretty memorable kid / hasn’t changed much at all. until age 5 / 2004, percy was in foster care + went through a bunch of homes. this is someone who was in one of them! probs knows stuff abt him that even he doesn’t/doesn’t rem. the possibilities! 

first relationship / current enemy. TAG

basically, it was percy’s first relationship back in his teens !! cute lil puppy love except he’s awful so not puppies more like … squirrels. like his first everything !! and then they broke up n it didn't go great !!! since then it has evolved and gotten much much worse - they’re now totally and completely against each other, hate each other, and will fuck w each other when given half a chance. 

first relationship / current enemy.

basically, it was percy’s first relationship back in his teens !! cute lil puppy love except he’s awful so not puppies more like … squirrels. like his first everything !! and then they broke up n it didn't go great !!! since then it has evolved and gotten much much worse - they’re now totally and completely against each other, hate each other, and will fuck w each other when given half a chance.

barbara “bobbi” morse.

old mission target.

bobbi worked with shield for a very long time! she went on various missions, undercover and classified and the like. on this particular mission, this is someone she was targetting. what for is up to you, but the options are rather open to interpretation. just generally something that would have set them against shield’s desires.

rival.

bobbi being widely competitive when it comes to just about anything (science, training, lecturing) is bound to attract some friendly competition. they’re constantly versing each other, even in the simplest things, like giving out test results or getting ready.

ex that ended on bad terms.

it’s a common story. girl meets person, girl dates person, girl and person breaks up, girl literally hopes person dies in a fire. for whatever the reason, they didn't part ways peacefully. and you bet your sweet ass she plays the part of scorned ex great.

andromeda rosalie isley-quinzel.

poly ship. ( 0 / 2 ) TAG

andy has baggage, certainly. she’s a past weapon x detainee, unbeknownst to her, adopted from a broken family, and had her heart broken by the first person she dated. she’s serial dated for years. but these people, they made her stop & start to appreciate love for what it is again. this connect can be filled by someone of any gender.

ex. TAG

andy was younger and very awfully naive. she’s never really gotten over it. for whatever reason, they broke up— it could have to do with her slightly overbearing personality, or general attitude, or whatever, totally up to you, but it was the other muse’s decision to break up, leaving andromeda heartbroken and now seeking out love in places it’s not.

former prediction.

andy PREDICTED something about this muse, in the past. how long ago and what is up to you. it was something SERIOUS, though, and most likely bad. it could be as wild as death, or marriage, or a death in the family, or a regret, etc. it’s rly up to u !!

roman darkhölme.

childhood love.

this is honestly rly cute. they were lil lil kids when they were friends and were super cute n close. they got fake “married” once or something. they were just best friends who grew apart. now roman is hella dif. he’s manipulative and a total fiend and it’s like “where’s that cute lil kid who promised to fight off all the bad guys in my life??” like … cute n sad.

enemy.

they see him for what he is: a manipulator. they either have past experience with him or are just adept ( VERY adept; he’s good at hiding ) at noticing him. they don’t enjoy him. not his view of the world, his actions, or his drug dealing. roman doesn’t like them for a point. he doesn’t like being exposed.

clientelle.

the darkhölme-mccoy drug dealing business is going great, actually. paragon is full of just the type. and with roman’s skill of persuasion, they haven’t gotten caught yet. this is someone that roman knows from that particular side of his work. he sells them drugs.

loki.

someone he had a kid with.

the other side of the story. not someone he fathered/mothered, but rather someone he had a child w. can be any gender for obvs reasons. how old the child is is up to u!!!

someone he pretended to be someone else with, extendedly.

for them, he pretended to be a different person… for a very extended period of time. it’s a trick he played often, but for them it was honestly excessive. the nature of their relationship is up to you, but upon coming to paragon this person finds out that loki is LOKI ! god of mischief, stories, lies, what have u. they’re probs pissed lmao 

asgardians.

while most midgardians known them as the god of mischief / alien asshole, this character knows a side of loki outside of the lore. they’ve met their kids & can even remember little loki, just around causing mischief, not trying to overthrow odin & what else. they have a better understanding.

winona falcone.

older sibling.

the oldest falcone ! mwahaha. so it’s this whole big thing that WINONA IS THE HEIR, but she wasn’t always. she has an older sibling who was disinherited from the family & cast out. a big ole family disgrace that none of them like to talk about. the reason behind this is up to you ! but it can range from being a MUTANT to a DEGENERATE to being SOFT to whatever. sofia is a pretty uptight gal.

best friend.

she’s not trying to replace raph. she didn’t think she would actually ever be given the chance, and for good reason. i mean, look at what happened to the last guy who took the spot. but they’re friends, for whatever reason ( and, damn, do the people commenting on her instagram posts speculate ).

ex.

she’s always been the exception that proves the rule. her sexuality is no different in that she’s not hte most comfortable with it. it’s just another thing she never told sofia about, lest her position as heir was to be threatened. that makes her exes an interesting story, especially considering she won’t acknowledge some of them.

skylar helix mccoy.

hateship to ship.

open to fem aligning nb & girls / both have reputations that proceed themselves ! sky obvs bc she had one inherently n bc of what happened & the other for w/e reason. pref an xkid. they knew each other when sky was younger but they didnt get along & when they reconnect , they dont get along right either. theyre a PLAYER really. like new girl on their arm every month. sky becomes one of the girls, rly. and sparks fly. and shes mad abt it. they have this antagonistic hatefuck relationship. and she finds herself starting to rly like them, falling in lov w them, unbeknownst to their own feelings (that shes the ONE). and like that

tutoree.

girl is, in fact, a genius, though people of many have expressed their disbelief at such a fact. she literally didn’t have education for eleven whole years of her development and is still ahead of her peers. she tutors in her free time. while totally organized, studyblr style, her teaching style leaves something to be desired in her paraphrasing of many a thing. ( vicki vc king george iii did what? sky vc fucked half of england )

someone who knew her before.

she was a prodigy child. famous beyond her years. even now, she’s on vogue lists, has millions of instagram followers, the whole thing — but for different reasons. this person knew her before she got taken, and are likely a child of the xmen or someone who was at xaviers. they remember the fearless child, ready to dive into anything, the kid who was always the top of her class. brash and happy, but kind, in a way she no longer is.

[sonata-of-sorrow]

Warm tears trailed over freckled cheeks as the young girl huddled in the outside alcove. She’d been there for some time, after having been excused from her chores. Adapting to the kitchen work at such a tender age of five had been difficult but Vivica knew that cook would not tolerate crying. It’d been hard to keep it all bottled in and maybe it was the watery eyes or the way her face had turned bright red near the end that the old woman took pity upon her and sent her on her way with a roll and a pat on the back.

Privacy was scarce when you were a servant, so she was not surprised when she heard heavy footsteps approach. The little half-elezen didn’t raise her head from her entwined arms, hoping no one would pay her any mind. She willed herself to be invisible, to hide from the world.

“Vivi?” The familiar sound of her older brother’s voice made her pointed ears twitch. He sounded concerned and all she wanted to do was shrink inside herself. “What’re you doing out here? Are you alright? Did something happen?” Firm hands rested on her shoulders and the weight of them made her sob.

Franz was 10 years her senior, nearly old enough to enlist for the war. She could smell the chocobo and hay lingering on his close as he hovered over her. The familiarity of him was a small comfort and the little girl unfurled into his body. He was quick to wrap her up into a hug, holding her tight and rocking her back and forth as the tears came again.

Only when she had finally quieted did Franz pull back and push wet strands of hair away from her face. “Silly bean. Somethings got you worked up into a right tizzy.” His smile was always the warmest. No wonder all the maids seemed to fawn over him. He wasn’t nearly as dour was Edwin.

“I miss mama…” She whimpered miserably, wanting to bury her face in his wool tunic once more but denied the ability to hide.

Her elder brother just sighed softly and brushed a hand over unruly hair that had escaped her head covering. “You know she’s really busy with her Ladyship. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you any less…” While she knew his words were meant to reassure her, Vivica knew that it was a practiced lie. While other mother’s duty was to her family, her own as and would ever be to the nobility they were indentured to.

Obviously, the lack of response and the tense silence was a clear indication of her disbelief. It felt awkward, eyes averted and the feelings of shame she felt knowing the truth. To his credit, Franz pulled her back in once more and squeezed her so tightly that he forced a small laugh from her when it became too much.

“Cook treating you well? She told Papa the other day that you’re a hard worker but that you’re stubborn at times.” He asked, hoping to distract her further. Vivica only nodded and threaded her arms about his neck so he could not pull away again. “Just keep working hard and they’ll reward you.”

“Like letting me have a pet?” She mumbled into the side of his neck. Franz’s grunt was answer enough to that line of thought.

Guinevere, the youngest daughter of the House, had just recently gotten another kitten. The thing was supposedly a menace to the maid’s and ate better cuts of meat than most of the servants. It was her third. Vivica remembered when she was still young enough to be one of Guinevere’s playmates, how they’d cuddle and dress up the others for their amusement. Sure, they'd gotten their fair share of scratches but when it purred, Vivica felt content.

“You know that’s not possible, bean.” Franz responded sympathetically. He pursed his lips, thinking for a moment before he careful detangled himself from his little sister and rose. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

Eyes puffy and looking more than bedraggled, Vivica ran the back of her hand across her nose and snuffled loudly. If her mother had seen such things, she would’ve been chastised but Franz seemed to care little as he led her around the house and towards the stables.

The familiar sound of the chocobos kwehing as they were worked in the yard or trained in the barns made the girl smile warily. All of her brothers worked there and her papa was in charge. She caught sight of Edwin cleaning barding but it was a busy time of year, with all the harvesting taking place. The rest of them were probably out in the fields.

Franz led her to the fence and dug his hand into a sack full of seed that was hanging on the post. “I remember when I asked papa for a dog when I was about your age. He scoffed at the notion, told me that it would likely scare the chocobos but I think deep down, he would’ve liked for me to have had a friend. Working is hard but we’re lucky to have food in our bellies and for a roof over our heads. Serving this house is an honor, little one.” He reminded in his own kind way.

Gently, he grabbed her wrist, fingers calloused and rough from his years of hard work. He turned her palm up and coaxed her to open her hand to him with a thumb. Then he proceeded to fill it with the seed. Vivica’s eyes went wide and she cupped her hands together to make sure none spilled on the ground. Her lips pressed together and she looked up at him curiously.

“I was upset at the time but then I realized that I could make my own friends. Yeah, I couldn’t keep them in a cage or have them bed down with me when it was cold but ….” He bit his lip to stop himself. He didn’t want to admit that he had been as lonely as she was but she knew. “Look up…” He said, pointing to the top of the stable roof.

There, in a single line were sparrows. They were so tiny and fragile, pressed together as little heads turned from side to side and watched them intently. She could hear their nattering, soft chirps as they conversed and considered the pair of half-breeds. Such silly creatures but they made Vivica smile.

“Throw the seed on the ground, bean.”

She did as she was told and there was a flurry of activity as all the birds gave wing and flitted down to start pecking furiously at the ground. The suddenness of it made Vivica laugh and bounce back a step, causing the birds to flutter away.

“Just be still and quiet…” Franz instructed and Vivica crouched down. Elbows on her knees, she cradled her chin in her hands and just watched. They were adorable, bouncing here and there. On occasion, they’d stop their feeding to look at them before going about their business. A pair began to squabble and Vivica had to try extra hard not to try and intervene. She didn’t want any of them to get hurt.

When there was not one speck left of seed, they began to fly away. Regret clutched at her heart as she watched them play on the breeze. “Did you like that?” She nodded at her brother. “The sparrows are free creatures, unlike us. They can come and go as they please but if you are kind and offer them a full belly, they will be grateful and come back to this place.”

“Do you promise?” Vivica asked tentatively. After all, they could go anywhere.

“Anytime you get lonely in that big kitchen, you come out here and feed them. I’ve been doing it for a long time and they’ve never disappointed me yet.”

Vivica pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders in an attempt to keep the cold winds at bay. The stables were empty and it had taken quite a bit of effort just to get through the copious amounts of snow that had fallen in the aftermath of the Calamity. The crops had all withered and perished. The chocobos had not done well with the sudden temperature shift and many of them had frozen out in the fields. What remained of the herd had been quickly sold off to the Holy See for much needed aid. She was thankful that Papa and Franz and all her other brothers were long gone from this world and were not able to see what had become of their life’s work before being forced to go off to war.

All that was left of her family was her and her mother. At least, before the moon fell and the skies turned red, she had the sparrows to rely on.

But now, as the blizzard whipped about crimson hair and stung at her eyes, Vivica looked up at the roof line and saw none of her little friends. They’d left her to this miserable, lonely existence. Franz had lied. She was disappointed and no longer felt the cold.

The morning Vylbrand sun seeped through gossamer curtains and cast everything in soft light. She was alone in her bed for once, as Kincaid was off on ‘business’. It was best not to ask but she was not dumb. His absence made the creep of loneliness sink into her heart as her hand searched beneath covers for the body that wasn’t there. When had see allowed herself to become comfortable with the idea of wanting...needing him, knowing what he was?

Birds chirping outside her windowsill brought to mind the last man she had been able to depend upon. Franz’s lazy smile, rough hands ruffling her hair, gentle teasing. A simple stable hand gone off to war. Her Brother. Vivica pulled back the covers and went to the window. As to not disturb the birds, she opened it slowly and watched in quite awe as her friend’s returned to her when she needed them the most.

[rightsidethru]

I don't know if you accept Tumblr prompt requests for ficlets for the your Steter Harry Potter Alternate Universe series. If you do can you write something fluffy and sweet with Stiles, Albus, and Scorpius? Ty!

Autumn was still in full force in Scotland: leaves yellowing everywhere and the air crisp and cool, the bite of frost a promise not yet made good on. With the sun warm upon his face, Stiles could happily spend hours beneath the oak tree that grew at the farthest edge of the school grounds.

Stiles’ shadows, his ‘ducklings,’ too, had taken to joining him—

The press of Scorpius’ head was heavy on Stiles’ shoulder, dead weight as the first year’s steady breaths slowly gave way to soft, barely heard snores. The press of another body against the elder’s side was one that the transfer had grown unused to—familiar, comfortable touching left behind with Scott in America—and while this wasn’t quite the same… it was still good. Different. But good.

Stiles used the flat plane of the boy’s back as a bookstand, propping the current text he had liberated from the Restricted Section on the meat of a shoulder to turn each page with a leisure not often felt: but the weather was still warm, the skies still clear, and Scorpius was a steadying presence in the empty loneliness that had begun to creep up on the sixth year since he had started Hogwarts.

A little bit off to the side, Albus made a low, borderline-snarling sound of frustration—most certainly adopted from his godbrother—and shoved his Charms textbook off of his lap in a dramatic gesture of his bad mood, temper winning in this particular case. Curious at what had prompted such an angry reaction, Stiles quirked an eyebrow at the fuming pre-teen, closing his own book and using a finger as a bookmark.

“I take it that you’re in need of some help?” the older student asked, gesturing towards the haphazardly discarded book. “Unless you’re attempting to set fire to your book through dirty looks alone as an extra credit experiment for one of your classes—in which case: as you were, Al.”

The first year silently stewed in his frustration for a moment or two longer before finally sighing, tension and frustration both slipping from his frame as the air expelled from his lungs. “…I can’t get the stupid spell to work,” the green-eyed boy admitted, tone dejected. “I’ve tried over and over again—and I’ve followed the instructions in the book word for word—but… nothing. It’s not working. What am I doing wrong, Stiles??”

Amber eyes went vague in contemplation and the calloused pad of Stiles’ thumb rubbed absently over the spine of his tome as he thought. Eventually, the older Slytherin spoke: “Show me.”

Albus stiffened at the order, cheeks dusting a light pink at the thought of having to perform a spell he already knew he’d fail at for the transfer student who had already done so much for him. For Scorpius, too. “But…”

“But I can’t see what’s going wonky for you if you don’t show me, Albus,” Stiles gently explained as the youngest Potter son averted his gaze from the elder’s whiskey-hued one. “I need you to do the spell for me.”

It was humiliating: knowing that Stiles regularly read more adult, more complex material on a regular basis, sometimes switching between the texts when the fancy arose for the elder… and here Albus was, struggling to perform the third spell that first years learned, right after Point Me.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Albus enunciated clearly, words followed through with a perfectly executed swish-and-flick: the Potter son had grown up on stories of his dad and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione’s adventures at Hogwarts, handed out as a necessary staple of childhood—a different sort of bread and butter to live off of. The Troll Incident was an oft-told story in both households, playful jibes of It’s LeviOsa, not LevioSA! repeated enough times over the years to remind Albus of the importance of correct pronunciation.

The first year held his breath, staring down with hidden, restrained hope at the leaf he had pointed his wand at: wanting, so very much, for the spell to work this time.

It shouldn’t have come as a disappointment—should have been expected at this point—when the leaf remained still and lifeless upon the ground.

The sound that Albus made in answer was hurt, broken and frustrated and filled with an ocean’s amount of disappointment—in himself, in the importance of the stories tol, in the spell. In his magic. And, as Albus stared despondently down at the dead, dried out life, twist of his mouth unhappy and dissatisfied, Scorpius finally stirred, as if summoned by his best friend’s distress.

“What’d I miss?” the blond boy asked and rubbed at a silvery-grey eye, hiding a yawn behind a proprierty hand. The other first year’s embarrassed flush deepened at the increase of his audience and didn’t answer.

Figuring that a multiple use lesson could always be put to well-use, Stiles gently shushed Scorpius—to which the boy comfortably curled back up against his lankier frame—and turned his attention back to Albus, amber gaze thoughtful as he considered the boy’s potential problem. “How much of your magic did you put into the spell?” the sixth year Slytherin eventually asked aloud as he chewed on a corner of his lower lip.

“…what do you mean?” Albus asked in turn, confusion blatant upon his face. “You just say the word, do the gesture—and voila, magic!”

Voila, magic! —are all of the schools teaching students this, not just Hogwarts and Ilvermorny? Stiles asked himself for a long moment or two, eventually blinking and shaking his head at both himself and Albus commentary. Something to dwell upon later; for now: the sixth year gestured towards Albus’ wand. “Put that down, Al, you won’t need it for right now. I’ll help you with the spell.”

Albus stiffened at the request to put his wand away—how was he supposed to do magic with no wand?—and Scorpius inhaled sharply, softly, also tensing against Stiles’ side to look up at the older student with luminously wide eyes, anger simmering in their clear depths—a warning, useless as it would have been, to not trick Albus or betray his best friend’s trust.

“But—“ Albus protested.

“Wand. Away,” Stiles ordered once more, tone unrelenting.

The order was a confusing one for the first year, but Stiles hadn’t yet led Albus wrong—not from the moment he had stepped into the abandoned classroom and gotten the other students to leave him alone. Still, though, the Potter son’s movements held a trace of wariness as he set aside his wand, Scorpius watching avidly—silently—all the while. Once the elevdn year-old’s wand was out of reach, Stiles’ expression turned contemplative for a moment before asking: “What’s the one spell that you can always do, one hundred percent of the time; something you don’t even have to think about as the words leave your mouth?”

Albus grimaced at that, shooting Scorpius a sidelong look. “…Lumos.”

Stiles just nodded at that, as if he wasn’t surprised by Albus’ answer. “Okay, we can work with that. Now, I need you to close your eyes for me, Al. Then follow my instructions.”

Trepedation heavy in the pit of his stomach, Albus still held on to his new, shaky faith in the older student and allowed his eyes to fall closed; ignoring, too, the way that Scorpius’ gaze had sharpened as it had focused upon him.

“Now breathe deep. Hold it. Hold it. Now let it go, Al, slow and steady. Again: inhale. Hold it… then let it go,” Stiles murmured into the bubble of silence that had surrounded them for hours, providing a sort of intimacy that had coaxed the two younger boys into relaxing around their elder Housemate; as Stiles spoke, his words dipped lower, slowing as Albus unconsciously followed after. It wasn’t long at all before the boy’s chest rose and fell steadily, as regular as the tide. “Now, I want you to focus a little bit inwards. Can you do that for me, Al?”

“…yes…” the boy whispered, and Scorpius’ fingers curled tightly in Stiles’ robe that he had been using as both blanket and pillow.

Ignoring the shrewd, frost-kissed stare that had shifted to settle upon him now, the Slytherin transfer continued: “As you look, you’ll notice a soft of heavy weight in your chest. It’s deep—but it’s there, warm and pulsing softly and familiar: like family; like coming home. Did you find it?”

Albus didn’t verbally answer Stiles’ question, but he didn’t need to; a beautific, ecstatic smile tugged his mouth upwards and a glow began to seep through the layers of the first year’s clothing, situated right over the center of Albus’ chest. Gold and shimmering, the glow seemed to throb in time with every beat of Albus’ heart.

“…good, Al. You’re doing amazing; so good. Now, I want you to pull away a small strand of that shining weight—just a small one, a thread, nothing more, all right?—and think about light as you do it. Sun light, fire light, lamp light, moon light: any and all types of light, a type of beacon to see in the darkest of night. Now, here’s the most important—the difficult—part, Al. Want it. Want it to burn away the shadows, to offer security when you’re alone and in the dark. Want that steady beacon to guide you home.”

Scorpius gasped suddenly, shock stiffening his body as he abruptly jerked away from Stiles. His grey eyes were wide with denial, with disbelief. “No,” the pureblood child hissed, shaking his head jerkily—like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut. “No. That’s supposed—it’s supposed to be impossible.”

Stiles ignored him for the moment, instead choosing to remain focused on Albus. “Open your eyes now, Al.”

Lashes slowly lifted over forest-green eyes—eyes that widened and widened further until white showed completely around that vivid color. “Wh-what?” Albus stuttered, gaping at the perfectly conjured—wandless—ball of light, of Lumos, that hovered in the air before him. It was strongly cast, offering up a steady light that chased away the shadows that had slowly begun stretching across their hidey-hole.

“Magic isn’t just waving a wand and muttering nonsense words in a dead language,” Stiles began and both boys’ gazes shot to him. “Visualization’s a part of it, and it’s necessary sometimes. But the heart of doing magic? It’s knowing your core—and intent.”

—the memory of the first time he used his magic, knowingly and with intent, was still one that had always remained vivid for Stiles: the situation had been traumatic, terrifying, and he could still remember the burning within his mother’s eyes—but, oh, the magic. That wonder had never left him.

The older student inclined his head towards Albus’ wand. “Now. Try Wingardium Leviosa again.”

Shakily, the boy reached for it once again, tongue wetting his lips nervously as he kept one eye on the little ball of light that hadn’t yet faded away.

With Albus distracted by trying again at the spell that had previously given him so much difficulty, Stiles finally turned his full attention to Scorpius, eyebrow lifted in inquiry.

(Knowing the hang-ups that the Malfoy heir had about what he had managed to do—and why, as well—but enough of a bastard to make the blond boy spell it out aloud.)

“…that shouldn’t have been possible,” Scorpius whispered, soft enough for Albus to not hear the words—gaze, even now, going shrewd and sharp once more, ever the pureblood heir no matter the leniency Draco Malfoy gave to his son and heir. “No one—the teachings—I don’t understand…”

The smile that Stiles offered in turn was crooked and sharp, shadows pulsing briefly around them—despite the Lumos still hovering in the air—before fading away to the pinpricks from before.

“Magic,” the older Slytherin answered in turn, fingers wiggling mockingly.

Scorpius’ mouth twisted unhappily at the lack of a genuine reply, silver gaze still too knowing for Stiles’ liking—but, after a long moment of silence between the both of them, the blond eleven year-old shifted closer once more and settled against his Housemate’s side.

Stiles’ hand came up, cupping over the nape of Scorpius’ neck as Albus’ surprised, delighted laughter filled the bolthole as his leaf finally took flight.

Different from how things used to be in America.

But yes—still good.

[poorna-chandra]

Obscured by Clouds

// At the behest of a few close friends: This entire writing is nothing but a piece of fiction

Ever wondered how your life would be if you were not answerable to anyone? Literally no one. Not your parents, not your your family, not your close circle of friends, not your job, not your boss - no one. Also, not answerable to the long list of cliched ambitions you have built for yourself since the time society subconsciously started imposing the elements of ‘you have made it’ upon you. Not your 1200 sqft house, not your shiny red car, not your extensive closet of designer wear, not your pockets filled with notes of cash. Sahi mein, zindagi aapko chutiya bana rahi hai aur aap bante jaa rahe ho.

You can only imagine how life would be and yet your wildest of imaginations do not come anywhere close to the actual feeling. You will never know what true liberation is, until you have taken a brave-heart gutsy call to live life without any answerability or have accidentally stumbled upon this situation. You have never truly lived, never understood yourself and the world around you - unless you have destroyed all the boundaries of answerability. 

The lack of answerability is a tricky weapon. It can only be handled with care if you have a sense of conscience. Thoda bore karta hoon aapko. There are four sets of situations that can shape the basic character of a person. A sense of answerability with a conscience - that is where you become a part of the ‘majority’. This is where the society has trapped most of you. A sense of answerability without a conscience - you will end up leading a ‘dual life’. Bahar se lagta hai aadmi seedha hai, par andar se yeh tedha hi hoga. Zero answerability without a conscience - you are a ‘terror to the world’. In logo ko duniya se ghanta farak padta hai aur yeh humesha kaand karte rahenge. Zero answerability with a conscience - you become a ‘free spirit’. That is where I am (or so I aspire to be). 

Last year, I lost my family in a plane crash. I am in no mood to explain the details of the events prior to and following this incident. Yeh kahaani unke baare mein nahi hai. But the moment I realised I am not answerable anymore to my closest set of people and I do not have to live life in a certain way that would make them happy - I was reborn. Shayad aap soch rahe honge, yeh kaisa insaan hai. Parivaar ke marne pe isko azaadi mil gayi! But yes, I was reborn. I quit my job, sold my property, bid a temporary good-bye to the few friends I had. (Fortunately, I am not married and did not have to deal with that side of things.) 

Here I am in my early 30s - far away from the rushes of a crowded city, breathing the form of air the way God intended us to - amidst the hills far far away. This is a small village on a hill top. People call it ‘HaraTopi’. The conifers here are alive and lush green for most of the year - you get the green (Hara) from there. And it seems that the shape of the hill resembles that of a hat (Topi). Life here is as simple as the way the village gets its name. 

The only reason that got me here, to this particular village, is that my childhood was heavily inspired by Bhagwan’s novel ‘In Through the Back Door’. Bada hoke sochne laga, yeh kaisa naam hai? In Through the Back Door. Kabhi yeh nahi socha tha ki ek din wakai mein gaand maregi. This novel to me was what ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ was to the kids of the 1950s and there upon. No other product of art described teenage angst to me better than this novel. I was a rebel right from my school days, and the protagonist of this novel ‘Tipu’ resembled me (or so I felt). Tipu was a teenager based out of HaraTopi, who questioned the way the society was organised - study well, get a job, immigrate, keep your family happy, get married, provide for your kids, and then one day - die amidst your kids and grandkids. Tipu wanted to break free and be a ‘free spirit’. I idolised him and he was my hero. And now, when I had the opportunity to break free, HaraTopi was on top my list to visit, and l wanted to live here for sometime and feel like Tipu.

When I reached HaraTopi, I was a mere tourist. The monsoons had just ended, and it seemed like an ocean of greenery wherever I looked. The skies were clear without a single patch of clouds, and their blue was just bright enough to lighten up my soul. I spent time doing things that most of you would do on a scenic hill top. I enjoyed the local food, trekked a couple of places nearby, mingled with the locals and got high when the situation called for it. HaraTopi is best explored on foot, or on a cycle. Riding a cycle by the hills and the conifers, sipping on a hip-flask with an RD Burman or a Simon & Garfunkel on the earphones, as the chilly winds of the hills hit my face - I felt alive. 

Ever wondered how it feels like to be completely alone? Let me tell you. There is no better companion than loneliness. An entire world resides within you, with no limit for self-exploration. Loneliness is your guide to this world. Sink to the bottom of boredom all by yourself, face and overcome the fear of dying alone by yourself someday, and you shall bear witness to the blossoming of the companionship with your loneliness. Blossoming into not just one flower, but into acres and acres of new species of magical possibilities. Loneliness is the seed. Through the journey of loneliness, there will be a few people and moments one may yearn for - and trust me, those are the only entities that really matter in life.

There is a trekking spot about 2000 ft. above HaraTopi called ‘Satila’. Here, the snow has stuck together to form sheets of ice and has become smooth enough to turn into a slide. It was a severe adrenaline rush to cycle all the way to Satila (have one of the locals get my cycle down), and slide downhill on my buttocks till a point I could. With almost a cliff to my left overlooking HaraTopi and other villages, tall and green conifers to my right and a bright horizon in front me - I slid my heart out. This was my form of skiing, my form of meditation - wherein I forgot all the noise in my head, all the relationships I had failed and all those that had failed me, all the mediocrities of life we are meant to chase till we die. It felt like how ‘Thelma and Louise’ would have probably felt in their eponymous movie when they jump off the Grand Canyon in their car - except, I was alive. And the nights - they were surreal. There were a countless number of stars in the sky and I had never thought a village could be lit just by the moon and the stars. Meri baat maano, aapke dilli wali shaadi mei bhi itni roshni nahi hogi. These were not mere stars, but this was a masterful artwork by some power beyond my cognition. 

One fine morning, I was having my usual cup of chai at this view point they call ‘Lal Tibba’. My routine was to sit on a chair, sip chai until the fog dispersed and the Himalayan ranges hundreds of kilometres away became visible. There was this lean guy, in his early 20s perhaps and in fairly rugged clothes, next to me. He did not look like a local though, and identified himself by the name Guru. As the Himalayan ranges became visible, he turned towards me and said “Saab, ek din main bhi Everest ko chadhne waala hoon.” I just reluctantly smiled at him. I said to myself “Everest chadhega yeh! Kisiko jhaant farak padne waala hai”. 

For some strange reason people have this extreme selfish desire to accomplish something in order to be immortal - to be remembered forever by the future generations, under the pretext of ‘making a difference’. Trust me, no matter what you do, you will be forgotten within a few years - even by your own ‘so called’ loved ones. Being remembered forever is nothing but a myth. Everyone will be forgotten except the ones in power, and power is the bastard child of ruthlessness, revenge and deception. Are you really willing to stoop so low? In fact, I am someone who has given up on this whole philosophy of ‘human endeavour’ and is running away breaking its walls forever. I simply do not understand ‘human endeavour’. Turn back the pages of history and this is the very reason for the hundreds of wars and the bloodshed that followed them. While advancements in technology and healthcare may have had a few benefits, aaj to har koi mobile ke gaand mei ghusa hua hai aur shahar ke pollution se mar raha hai. Apna desh ko hi dekh lo. Tarakki ke naam pe kisi ko desh chalaane diya aur abhi desh ki maa behan ho rakhi hai. 

With time I realised, I cannot be a tourist at HaraTopi for long. It feels like you are looking at something through a tinted glass. I had to break the glass, and feel the place like I belonged there. After a few weeks passed by, in order to provide for my livelihood, I decided to run some local enterprise. It was not that I was running thin on money. But the plan was to not settle down in one place. I wanted to be a nomad for the rest of my life. I wanted to meet strangers but not get too familiar to be friends. I wanted to see places but not get too comfortable to call it a home. But the options for an enterprise were limited though. There were always a bunch of tourists at HaraTopi and I thought I could build on that. One thing that struck me was to run a bar. I had always wished to run a bar some day. 

You may say “You are a fucking hypocrite. How is this any different from that guy who wanted to climb The Everest? Is this also not a form of ‘human endeavour’?”. Well, there is a fine line between vocation and vacation, and I am treading on that. This is only a means to blend with the locals, fulfil my little dream of running a bar and earn some money before I turn into my nomadic self and move to a different location. And do not term me a hypocrite. I dare you. There is only one set of people in this world that do not have my respect and those are the hypocrites. Politicians, celebrities, religious leaders and life partners - the world is full of them. I do not judge people with loose morals, dishonesty, dual lives. But hypocrites - I would eliminate them if I could. Maa kasam, inse bade gaandu log duniya mein koi nahi hai.

I met with a retired Army Colonel who spent his winters in Delhi and summers at his villa in HaraTopi. I learnt that he owned a couple of shops which had been closed for a few years now. It seems he never trusted the locals to have the acumen of running a fancy enterprise for the tourists and had decided to rather have the shops shut. Locals warned me “Bach ke rahiye saab. Colonel khadoos hai. Maa chod dega kuch galat kiya to”. 

But my meeting with the Colonel went well. He was a Haryanvi, a widower in his late 60s, clean shaved and had the height and build of someone in the army who would have retired a decade ago. Colonel was also a whiskey connoisseur. The moment he got to know that I was well-read, educated and had quit a job that was paying me enough to put me amidst the ‘elite’ of the society - he ‘ordered’ me to have a drink with him and I obliged. Colonel had a loose tongue though, or maybe he was just bored of having not met someone recently to have a meaningful conversation with. 

Colonel: I can judge a person just by looking at the way he drinks his whiskey.

Me: What do you mean, Sir?

Colonel: The way one holds the glass - the firmness says a lot of the character. The quantity of ice in the drink - differentiates a man from a boy. The amount of sip you take in - usse pata chalta hai woh sharaabi hai ki bevda. 

Me: Well, Sir, your pointers seem a bit dubious. But I guess your experience is something that I cannot question. By the way, what do you make of me?

<Laughing> Colonel: I am not stupid to give away that answer. You are going to be my tenant soon. And all I can say is that I am happy to lease out my shop to you. What are your plans for the shop?

Me: Sir, I plan on running a bar here. Mostly tea, snacks and alcoholic drinks. I want to create a vibe and ambience that will attract the tourists. I am a huge fan of neo-noir Hollywood movies - so I want to create an ambience around this. I also love music of the 70s and 80s - so I will play their music as much as I can.

Colonel: Yeh neo-noir kya cheez hai?

Me: Sir, these are stylised crime movies with a dark humour. Aap shayad Pulp Fiction, Taxi Driver, Reservoir Dogs jaise movies ke baare mei suna hoga?

Colonel: Never heard of them. But anyway, people like new things. They may get attracted to this because they have no idea about it.

Me: No Sir, I plan on attracting the tourists. I guess they would appreciate this.

Colonel: Oh, tourists! Yes. They will come. Quite a few Israelis, Turks, Uzbeks and Asian people here. The ladies are hot, aren’t they?

Me: Yes, I have seen a few hot ones for sure. The locals are also beautiful in their own way.

Colonel: Tum shahar se itna door rehte ho aur akela rehte ho. Yeh batao, sex ke liye kya karte ho?

I was surprised for a moment, but perhaps the whiskey was kicking in. 

Me: Wahi Sir, jo mai shahar mei karta tha

Colonel: Shahar mei kya karte the?

Me: Thodi der khud khel lo aur saali hawas mit jaati hai

Colonel: Kaafi seedhe lagte ho. We used to visit nearby villages during our army days. Affairs were a common thing. Men without the balls for an affair would depend on flings. Kabhi aadmi ko dekhte hi ladki maan jaati thi, aur kabhi bandook ko dekh ke.

With the permission to run my bar at his shop, I took leave from Colonel. The winters were soon approaching and Colonel left for Delhi a couple of days later. With the help of a local named Dhiru, I started setting up my bar. Dhiru had spent all his life at HaraTopi. He was about 35 years old, a little over five foot in height, brown skinned and had a thin moustache that looked out of place on his otherwise plump body. Dhiru’s wife had eloped with a tourist a couple of years back. Since then, he had turned into a alcoholic. He was famous in the village to drink late into the night and talk to his cows about his wife. My bar meant that Dhiru could get cheap booze if he worked for me. 

The bar was ready in a month. The lighting and the ambience resembled those of the bar from the famous ‘Goodfellas’ scene with the dialog “I’m funny how? I’m funny like I’m a clown?”. The bar had wooden walls, a wooden roof with wooden pillars supporting them, dull orange lights, round tables, LED lights dispersed across the room, local hand-made lamps that felt like kaleidoscopes hanging from the roof. The walls had frames of neo-noir movies that I had loved and treasured all my life - The Usual Suspects, Chinatown, Pulp Fiction, Fargo, Goodfellas, Taxi Driver, Reservoir Dogs, Blue Velvet, True Romance, Mulholland Drive. The tunes, well, ranged from - Beatles, Floyd, Zeppelin, Sabbath, Eagles, Dire Straits, Rolling Stones, Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, Bowie, Doors, The Who, to Johnny Cash. Bar kaafi dhaasu lag raha tha. This felt like a place I could have a drink any day and anytime of the day! 

Winter had arrived and sipping a hot beverage evoked an altogether new life from within. Chai was the winter drug for the soul. The clouds hovered around once in a while, but it used to be clear for most of the day. The days grew shorter and the village would shut by 6pm, except for a few tourists and locals at restaurants and at my bar. But I used to get done with work by 8pm, and taking a stroll in the darkness below the umpteen number of stars, galaxies, and the cosmos became an everyday habit. Walking aimlessly in the open is perhaps one of the simplest joys of life, and I had rediscovered it. And sometimes, I would sit by my cottage and gaze at the stars for hours together, trying to make formations and learn a few concepts of astronomy through my newly couriered telescope. In life, after everything is done, connecting the dots to make formations is a no brainer. But a dot in itself at its inception has little meaning. That dot could be a star, or could just be an artificial satellite - only time can tell. Also, we often wonder about a few dots that do not connect anywhere - I think either we have not lived long enough or have not lived brave enough to understand them. 

Slowly and steadily, the tourists started pouring in to my bar. Some for the chai made from the tea leaves of nearby tea towns, but most for the alcohol served under an ambience that was not available anywhere nearby. Dhiru and I also made interesting cocktails - Rum served right out of a melon, Apricot Martini made from locally hand-picked apricots, BBB (Beer, Bourbon & Barbeque) Cocktail amongst others. The money was decent and soon we started issuing ‘monthly cards’ for the locals which allowed them to have drinks at much lower prices. 

Running an enterprise also meant that I needed some sort of security to guard my territory. Given that the bar actually belonged to the Colonel, it was unlikely that I would face any issues. But then, I was not the one to take any chances. Soon, Dhiru introduced me to another local named Biju. Biju was astoundingly thin and always roamed around in his vest and a pair of worn out shorts. Biju had a dog named Rosie that had given birth a year back. Dhiru got Biju to my bar and told me that each dog would cost a thousand rupees. 

Me: Kyu bechna chahte ho? Koi problem hai kya un mei?

Biju: Saab, kya bolun? Yeh Rosie hai na, saali raand hai!

Me: Kya matlab?

Biju: Itna kuch karke usko paala posa aur badha kiya. Par woh har koi kutte se chudti hai saab. Saali kutiya ko farak nahi gali ka kutta kaun hai aur apna shareef type wala kutta kaun hai!

Me: Woh sab theek hai. Par bechna kyu chahte ho?

Biju: Saab, main tang aa gaya hoon usse. Mujhe lagta hai usko maar hi dunga ek din. Aur uske haraam pillon ko bhi. 3-4 pillon ko bech chuka hoon. Yeh 2 bache hai bas.

Biju showed me the two dogs, and Dhiru confirmed that they belonged to Rosie and were about a year old. Surprisingly one dog was about 90% black and 10% white, and the other the complete opposite.

Me: Yeh kya hai? Ek kaala hai aur doosra gora

Biju: Aur kya hoga saab? Har koi kutte se chudegi to aise rang birange pille hi paida honge na. Tabhi to aapko sirf hazaar mein bech raha hoon

I felt it was a good deal, and I trusted Dhiru on this one. I bought the dogs, and named them Rinnie and Vinnie - one was a girl and the other a boy. I asked Dhiru to watch on them, since I did not want them to accidentally start humping each other in a few weeks time. For god’s sake, they were siblings! But that is how the village was. Discussing sex lives of your pet dogs at length in the open was considered normal and usual.

Over time, I grew fond of the general silence around me. The magnitude of silence increased as the day went by. In that silence, I started to observe and listen to nature as much as I could. Silence that is usually this uncomfortable space of air between people or entities, turned refreshing and soothing. In that silence, there was an introspection that had the power to take me on a ride ranging anywhere between the past, the future and within - deep within. That silence was so intimate that I don’t think I would ever be able to share it with anybody else. It belongs to me - just me. The forms of chirpings, burbles, fizzles, pitter-patters, ripples, murmurs, rustles - all of them started to feel like music to the ears. I guess I learnt to realise the simplicity of things around me and the power of observation to find beauty within that simplicity.

A few months passed by and the monsoons were soon approaching. The weather was fine and clear for now. The conifers were soon springing up to their usual self. The onset of monsoons also meant that it was the month of the festival ‘Singi’ for the tribal people who stayed at a nearby village ‘Singrawa’, about 1000 ft. higher when compared with HaraTopi. Dhiru narrated me the legend of this festival Singi. I have known Dhiru to narrate a few unbelievable incidents in the past - the three legged eagle of the size of a piglet that created havoc many years back; that after the Mahabharata, Ashwathama was roaming around the jungles a few hundreds of kilometres away from HaraTopi and as a result those jungles are now cursed with poor vegetation; few parts of a song from the hit movie ‘Jab We Met’ were shot at the foothills of HaraTopi. I assumed he was either hungover from the previous night or was plain lying.

But the legend of Singi was a notch above all of these stories. According to Dhiru, the festival of Singi is celebrated only in the night time post sun-set. The ceremony is blessed by the leader of the tribe. Soon after, they offer their prayers to their ‘Goddess of Procreation’ named ‘Miriya’ who is suppose to save the future generations of the tribe. This is followed by a feast of umpteen meat consumption, booze and as Dhiru calls it ‘kaala sutta’. 

Me: Kaala sutta? Yeh kya hai?

Dhiru: Wahi saab aap marte ho na! Nashe ke liye.

The interesting part is after this. It seems the unmarried women are dressed in their best attire and jewellery during the feast. The men start picking a woman of their choice, and if the woman agrees - they have sex for the night. 

Dhiru: Ladkiya mast tayyar rehti hai. Woh aag ke saamne line mei khade ho jaati hai. Aur aapko jo marzi hai, chun lo. Agar ladki maan gayi to raat bhar chudaai chalti hai saab.

Me: Dhiru, kuch bhi bakwaas karta hai tu!

Dhiru: Nahi saab. Chahe to bolo, leke chalta hoon. Par ek hi problem hai. Waha raat mein jaana padega. Raat ke 7-8 baje se pehle entry nahi milti hai. Aur ek phal aata hai ‘Arkoodi’ bolke. Usko kha lo to raat bhar daudoge.

Me: Yeh koi cinema theatre hai kya ki entry nahi milegi. Aur nahi, mujhe koi arkoodi nahi khaani hai. Aur mujhe jaana bhi nahi hai!

Dhiru: Waise, shadi karna zaroori nahi hai. Bachcha ho gaya to ho gaya bas, unka sarpanch hi sab kuch dekh lega. Waise, kuch din mei unke ladkiyan yahaan saamaan khareedne aayenge. Aap hi dekh lo.

I was neither in a mood to leave my progeny at the mercy of their ‘sarpanch’ (tribal leader) nor in a position to get married to a sex-deprived female from the tribes of Singrawa. But listening to such amusing stories of Dhiru made my day, and talking to people like Biju kept my day interesting at its best. 

Life was definitely better than I had imagined. I had never thought that I would meet a variety of people. But having a fancy bar at a fairly travelled tourist place helped me. And being the conversationalist that I am, sometimes I did get to speak to my customers at length. My customers so far have included - a transgender couple who were open enough to discuss about their issues with the current judicial and societal system; a Nizam of Hyderabad who lost most of his ancestral wealth due to the forceful annexures by the Government of India and had eloped to Burma unable to pay off his debts; a famous rock musician (who prefers to be unnamed) in his 60s now, who has traveled the world and went on boasting at length about his sexual escapades with women from about 80 odd countries; an adventurer who had cycled all the way from Rajasthan to Sweden; a man in his 30s who was handsomely paid to accept a rape he had not committed as a minor and now, post-release, was spending his money travelling the world; a retired businessman who narrated the experiences of his grandfather who gamed the system to be a juror on multiple criminal cases and made it a way of life. And trust me, these are just the tip of the iceberg. I should probably narrate these conversations (censoring the private parts of the conversations, of course) to you. But let me keep that for another day.

A few days passed by and as Dhiru had mentioned, the women from Singrawa came to HaraTopi to buy clothes and jewellery. There were a couple of local guys with the ‘monthly card’ who were drinking at my bar. It was about 4pm and was a time a bit too early for the tourists to pour in. As the women from Singrawa waited for someone to come pick them up on a cycle for a ride back to Singrawa, the two guys started uttering something that disturbed me. They would point at a woman and say either ‘Choot’ or ‘Bhosada’. I was curious about what they were talking and approached them. On questioning them with a tone that indicated I do not mind using my fists on them, they revealed that if they think a Singrawa woman is a virgin, they would shout ‘choot’, and if they think she is already impregnated, they would shout ‘bhosada’. I lost of mind for some inexplicable reason, and gritting my teeth said “Kato yaha se. Warna yahi beer bottle tumhare pichwade mei ghusaake bhosada bana dunga”. I think I would have hit them that evening.

Retrospectively, even though this incident seems to be a minor one, it left me in a philosophical turmoil. My nature of reaction was perhaps uncalled for. What those two men were talking was in a pseudo-private setting - so why did I almost ambush them? Was there really something derogatory in their tone? Why is a sexual joke a taboo and why cant it be as integral as any other topic? Why can’t being a virgin or not, be discussed with the same comfort as being educated or not? In fact, who was I to judge them? Had I not agreed that I will not judge anyone but hypocrites? Am I the moral police now? Why did I behave in such a volatile, aggressive manner out of the blue, which is so uncharacteristic of me? Am I getting too comfortable with this place that I care about how people behave and act? Am I intending to turn HaraTopi into my home? Is it time for me to leave? When do I ever know what is the right time to leave? Am I waiting for some sign? Is there a sign? Is this a sign?

I pondered over this thought for a few days. Dhiru could make out that something was worrying me. Maybe, so did Rinnie and Vinnie. The monsoons were soon arriving and the gloomy clouds were reflecting my thoughts to some extent. I felt I had seen enough of this place. The very fact that my behaviour could affect Dhiru and the dogs told me that this was turning into my home. I did not want them to miss me when I was gone. And I did not want to miss them and this place when I was gone. But no matter how hard you try every living being - humans, animals and the rest of nature - gets mentally attached to one another over a period of interaction. Familiarity is the mother of all longingness. I had not signed up for this, and I realised I should be leaving soon. It was, perhaps, time.

The monsoons arrived the next day. The clouds were as dark as they could get at HaraTopi. It was quite a heavy shower that evening. The bar was open as usual, perhaps for one of the last few times. A bearded gentleman with grey hair, in a red jacket and khaki coloured shorts entered the bar. He closed his umbrella by the door. He clearly looked like someone from the cities. He came by the bar and took a seat. He started glancing at the alcohol cabinet and seemed to be making a choice of his drink. He seemed like someone with a keen sense of observation.

Me: Sir, kya lenge aap? Daaru peeyoge? Main yeh recommend..

<Cutting me short> Him: Meri bas chali to daaru se naha lunga

Me: Haha.. bahar baarish ka mausam hai sir. Aur bhi options hai nahaane ke liye

Him: Kaafi suna hai aapka yeh bar ke baare mein. Kaha se ho?

Me: Sir, kal ka parwah nahi lekhin abhi to main yaha se hi hoon

Him: Lagta hai kaafi cinema dekhte ho (looking around) aur kitaabein bhi padhte honge

Me: Yes, Sir. I do. How about you?

Him: I write. Watching or reading something makes me jealous. So I avoid others’ works of art

Me: Interesting. What do you write?

Him: Get me the best whiskey you have in the house. On the rocks.

I got him his drink and waited for his answer. He took a couple of sips and turned towards me.

Him: Do you keep cigarettes? 

Me: Yes, Sir. Would you like..

<Cutting me short> Him: Do you have Camels?

It was extremely odd that he would ask me for Camels. Why would anyone keep Camels in a place like HaraTopi? And even if they did, why would someone expect this to be a default choice to ask? But I smoked Camels. Ever since I read that Tipu (from the book ‘In Through the Back Door’) flees to Delhi out of his angst and tries Camels during one of his night-outs in the city, I had romanticised trying them out someday. I always got the Camels couriered from Delhi for my personal consumption, along with the alcohol for the bar.

Me: Sir, I do not sell Camels. But I smoke them. You can borrow from my pack.

As I handed the pack to him, in that moment I realised that this was a familiar face. The media-shy author of ‘In Through the Back Door’, Bhagwan, was sitting in front of me. He had a beard now and seemed to have lost weight. Behenchod, yeh to wahi aadmi hai. Pooch hi leta hoon.

Me: Sir, are you the author Bhagwan?

Bhagwan: That is how the world knows of me. I am otherwise known as Surinder Koli.

Me: Sir, I am a huge fan of yours. ‘In Through the Back Door’ is my favourite book. I have..

<Cutting me short> Bhagwan: Good lord. What are the odds! I come here once in a while to reminiscence my writing days of the book. I read on Trip Advisor that a young man from the cities has opened a fancy bar here. Wait, let me take a punt. You were inspired by my book, a situation arose in your life and you decided to come to HaraTopi?

This literally made me shake where I stood. I had not told anyone about this - not the Colonel, not Dhiru, not my friends back in the city. In fact, most of my friends did not know my exact location right now. How on earth could he guess this? Or is it so straight-forward and is he making me seem stupid?

Me: Sir, you are right. I quit my job, sold my properties and came here. Tipu and your book have always been an inspiration. I thought..

<Cutting me short and laughing> Bhagwan: Mujhe pata tha duniya mein chutiyon ki kami nahi hai. 

Me: What do you mean?

Bhagwan: Yeh bar aur aapko dekh ke lagta hai kaafi shaukeen aadmi ho. Shayad ameer bhi honge. You seem educated. The world out there would probably do better with a person like you. And look at you. Here you are! What difference are you making? You think running a bar in some secluded village will make you immortal like some childhood hero from the books?

Me: I do not want to be immortal. I just want to be free from all the traditional expectations of the society and the..

<Cutting me short, again> Bhagwan: Make me another drink.

I tried to gather myself through the rush of emotions - from a fanboy moment to the shock that he had deciphered me to the confusion that he was suggesting me to live life in a different way. I poured him another drink.

Bhagwan: Kitaabein padhne ke liye hai bas. Inspire hoke chutiyaape karne ke liye nahi hai. In the real world, people like you have to work on challenges such as publishing, cutting costs of book production and making books more accessible to people through technology. If everyone gets inspired and runs away being a ‘free spirit’ like that Tipu, people like me would die. We would all go back in time where we led a primitive agrarian life.

Me: But is that not what you professed through your book? Tipu represented all the rebellion that a teenager expresses in this country. Tipu was a hero..

Bhagwan: Tipu bawla tha. Waise, woh sirf kitaabon ke pannon mein hai. Gutter mein fek do, ya jala do - do second mein mar jaega. Kis duniya mein jee rahe ho? If everyone gets inspired by art - then the world would have come to an end after watching apocalyptic movies. Art is to be read, watched, heard and forgotten. Art is not meant to be followed as a way of life. Maan lo koi Mahabharat padhke Arjun se inspire ho gaya. Pata hai Arjun ne kitne kaand kiye the? Do you know how many wives he had and what he did to his son Iravan?

Me: I don’t know. But I assumed you actually believed in the message of your book. I thought you were..

<Cutting me short> Bhagwan: Bol raha tha na duniya mein chutiyon ki kami nahi hai. Jab tak tum jaise log ho, mere jaise kalakaar aapko banaate rahenge. I have a family to take care of. I have desires to lead a comfortable life. I need to sell books in order to achieve all that. This is what any artist does - create an art that reciprocates with the needs of the contemporary consumer. That need can be sexuality, madness, revenge, patriotism, rightist or a leftist ideology, laughter, or sometimes teenage angst. Make the consumer go crazy - that is it.

Me: Unbelievable! Kaisa insaan ho aap? Dekhiye, sirf apka naam Bhagwan hai, aur aap khud ko asli bhagwan samajhke baithe ho. What you are saying is..

<Cutting me short> Bhagwan: Make me another drink.

I wondered if I should ask him to leave, or just play my usual self of being a host who is having a conversation with one of his customers. I wondered. I poured him a drink, reluctantly. 

Bhagwan: I guess the tempers are flaring. Look, it is your life. I was just trying to save you from a future disappointment. It feels rebellious now to give up on the society and be liberated from the traditional goals of life. But you will regret this in the future. 

<Trying to compose myself> Me: Well, thank you for your concern. But I think I am capable of taking my own decisions. 

In that moment I realised that this guy was perhaps the biggest hypocrite I had ever seen in my life. I did not have anymore respect for him. It would have been a mammoth gulp in the throat, but this first hand experience made me realise the true Bhagwan in one instant of a finger snap. 

<Lighting a Camel cigarette> Bhagwan: Look at you! You smoke the same cigarettes as Tipu. Even after all these years. You cannot deny that that book is your inspiration. And it surprises me that you are in no mood to listen to me now.

Me: You are a fucking hypocrite. I’d rather not listen to anything from a man like you. 

Bhagwan then took a last sip from his glass, looked for his wallet and left a two thousand rupee note on the table. He took a long hard puff of the Camel, and blew it up in the air.

Bhagwan: Well, you have already listened enough (referring to the book) of this hypocrite. And that has changed your life. And that has made all the difference.

Bhagwan took his umbrella and left.  It had stopped raining by now, and the dark clouds had started to pass away for the day.

After a few seconds Rinnie and Vinnie came running towards me, expecting my undivided attention since there was no customer at the bar. They started licking me, as they always fondly did. It felt good to be back in a world where living beings were simple and so were the relationships.

[sudsybear]

Replies

Ross came home for winter break and I saw him at Anna’s house, catching up with friends. He was in a mood to shock people, craving the attention. In our preppy world of Izods and coordinated t-shirts and vests, he too was caught up in the trendy fashion of the 1980s. Away from Wyoming he chose the “alternative” look. He bleached his brush-cut a platinum blonde and wore eyeliner and eyeshadow over his changeable blue/hazel eyes. His jeans were new – maybe a Christmas present - baggy in just the right places, and he wore a comfortable natural cotton sweater over a black concert t-shirt. Navy blue clogs with wood heels added an inch to his six-foot frame and a collection of silver and black bracelets dangled on his narrow, almost feminine, wrists. I was smitten with all of it and felt giddy when he walked into the room. For a sixteen-year-old girl he was an easy fantasy; exotic, yet familiar; experienced, exciting and worldly, but vulnerable. As giddy as I felt, and despite my letters to him, he was untouchable. Older, wiser, away at college, Ross was out of my league. Besides, David was my attachment - he and I were having our own fun together.

 After his break, Ross went back up to Wooster for his second semester away from home. He dreaded going back…but trooper that he was, he went. What choices did he think he had?

 Ross finally picked up pen and paper, and replied to one of my letters.

 Postmarked 17 Jan 1984, from Canton, Ohio.

 “Dear Susan,

 I hope you can’t read this. Maybe you can with some effort. Well, your last letter was very interesting to say the least. Not many people write to me in crayon.

 I’ll be nice and not make you read that anymore. Maybe it’ll save your eyes. School is cool. I’m out of work, partys parties are farty. Life is tough. You’ve got to lose 3 before you win 1. Apples are cooler than IBM’s. Moogs are more conscious than Yamahas. Technology sucks – especially pocket laser-disk players. The Who still rocks. This letter is more abstract than my usual style of writing. Maybe you’ll find an interesting part in all of this mess. My roommates’ new clock-radio doesn’t click like the old one. I wear my glasses a lot. Culture Club is excellent. M-U-S-I-C Is really neat-o, spiffy, swell, keen, etc. I really am having a difficult time writing this. AHG! FRUSTRATED

Well, that was fun. Nice envelope, Huh? I ran out of nice stationary (or –ery) but I still had envelopes left over. I just looked it up and writing paper is stationery and standing still is stationary. O.K.? Well. If I come up with anything interesting to write about, I’ll let you know. Until then I will have to be trite and boring and just write in circles and hope that you are smart enough to turn the paper around and not put the paper on the table and turn around the table so you can read this. Well, I must sign off. See you soon. (Like the 27th at Corral)

 Ross

 Not only did he write back, he actually addressed, stamped, and put the envelope in a mailbox. Was that really so hard to do?

 “See you on the 27th”, I don’t know why Ross would have come home for such an event. Maybe he knew the band that was playing and wanted to show his support. Whatever the reason, it’s likely I did see Ross then. Maybe I showed up with David and met Ross at the Civic Center. Or, maybe it was girls’ night – Valli, Julie, Erin perhaps, Anna maybe. Standing in the lobby, laughing with friends, I easily imagine seeing Ross stand in line to pay his $2 to get in the door. Arriving alone, brave and confident to attend by himself. If not actually brave and confident, at least filled with enough desire to see the band that he was willing to risk loneliness and ridicule. We likely danced, and stole a few private moments outside cooling off in the winter air.

 Ross and I were both survivors of Mrs. Potts’ Dance class. Fifth and sixth graders forced to dress up in our Sunday best on Wednesday evenings and taught the fine but fading art of proper etiquette. Mrs. Potts must have been in her late sixties when we attended her class at the Civic Center in the late 70s. Her assistant worked the record player and “led” when Mrs. Potts demonstrated a dance step. We speculated whether Mrs. Potts was really a Mrs. or not, and whether she and her assistant “got it on” on the weekends. To stay with the times, Disco Donna taught us the latest groovin’ dance moves.

 Girls wore long dresses or skirts (no higher than mid-calf), stockings, and dress flats (no heels higher than one inch.) I wore penny loafers. We learned how to sit with our knees together and our ankles crossed (ours was the first year white gloves were not required). Boys wore suits, ties (NOT clip-on) and dress shoes  (sneakers were not allowed) and learned to sit with knees together and back straight.

 While the assistant ran the record player, we stood in two circles – boys in the center facing out, girls in the outer circle facing in. After every mini-lesson, the boys took one step to their right, and introduced themselves to their new partner. We learned the four hand hold, the box step, the waltz, and later, the proper way to lead and be led. Left hand on his right shoulder, right thumb on the palm of your partner’s hand. After a brief snack, where we learned how to eat properly – small bites, how to use a napkin, how to dispose of an uneaten hors d’oeuvre, how to hold a cup and napkin at the same time, etc., then Disco Donna took her turn for instruction.

 Disco Donna wore her waist-length bottle-blonde straight hair with thigh high dresses and form-fitting shirts that flattered her not-so-ample cleavage. We sniggered through her lessons, following her clear Lucite platform shoes with battery-operated colored flashing lights in the soles. All this to learn the dance crazes in the discos at the time, the 7-up and the Hustle. We dubbed her partner, who visited class only once or twice, Ken, after Barbie’s sexless boyfriend.

 So, when Ross and I danced together in the same Civic Center five, six, seven years later, did we do the Hustle? Only in jest, mostly we jumped around on the dance floor, bouncing to the beat of the base. By then, The Clash and the Ramones had put their mark on popular music. Not quite a mosh pit yet, but it was close. If we had to do it in gym class, we’d have balked, but put speakers up, add a band or a DJ, and we jumped around for a couple of hours or more! We got hot and sweaty, and then cooled off outside and cleared our heads from the noise. Chatting about the music and how long Ross would be in town - gossiping about mutual friends. Then we might have returned inside to catch the last set, and after the event was over, he joined us on the ride to Skyline. Who can remember?

 *          *          *

 Later that winter, Cincinnati enjoyed a rare snow. A steady storm dumped several inches of perfectly packable and delightfully sleddable snow on the ground. (The Inuit probably have a word for the type of snow it was.) And glorious for us, the temperatures stayed cold enough to keep the blanket of white on the ground for a few days. The town’s only golf course was the place to sled, and one night a group of us rounded up all the sleds we could (including my parent’s toboggan) and headed over to the slope. Dark already when we got there, the skies were clear, the stars were bright, and the moon must have been near full, because there was plenty of light to see.

 Young and healthy, we truly enjoyed each other’s company; David, Christopher, Victor, Moj, Julie, Erin, Igor, Beth and Boyd, there were at least ten of us. I know I’ve forgotten someone. We only got one or two runs with all of us on the toboggan – we didn’t get the hang of steering it, and slid smack into the one tree on the hill. We cracked the toboggan, and rendered it unrideable. (I discovered later that it was unrepairable. It became expensive firewood.)  Instead we took turns on the few sleds we had with us. Two to a sled, guys on the bottom, girls on top. Julie and Christopher careened into the ravine at the side of the fairway. Those of us at the top watched them go over the side and disappear. We had a small panic – were they all right? Soon they reappeared dragging the sled back up the hill. Christopher had the wind knocked out of him and they were scratched from all the bare shrubbery, embarrassed, but basically sound.

 David wore his hair cropped short – not quite a crew cut, but pretty close. He made a run with me, then again with someone else. Between the sweat from exertion and water from the melting snow, the cold outside air turned his hair into icicles. His hair was crunchy! We were fascinated with the phenomenon and took turns “un-crunching” his hair – some of us more gentle than others.

While Christopher and Julie crashed in the gully, Moj and I had a great run. He knew how to steer, and we flew further and further down the hill. I’ll never forget the shared warmth of our bodies on the sled, the thrill of sliding at great speed so close to the ground, the cold air on our faces, blowing in our eyes making them tear. I didn’t want it to end. At the bottom of the hill, we finally slowed and rolled off the sled. I lay on the snow for a few minutes, still drunk with the feeling of flying. We got up and retrieved the sled a few yards away, and quietly trudged back up the hill together to catch up with the rest of the gang. That was the most intimate experience I ever shared with Moj, and he never said a word about it.

 Finally time to head home, we ended up in somebody’s kitchen with hot cocoa, and drifted off to our own homes as curfews drew close. It was a fun evening, a magical night that we remember and talk about years later.

*          *          *

 And yet for all the fun and camaraderie, I still longed for something more, something different, something more intimate and private than what I felt with my friends. In desperation for a reply from Ross (I was making an effort, why couldn’t he?) I made up a Mad-Lib, and sent him a SASE. All he had to do was fill it out, and drop it in the mailbox. This is what he did to my rather benign Mad-Lib.

To name of a student at Wyoming High School ;

 _Eat Me_!_Eat Me ! Eat Me! How’ve ya been? I’ve been Wankful. It’s so gerund up here, that I hardly ever know (phrase). I (verb) your letters. They’re (adjective)!

 My roommates name is (name) he has (adjective) hair. I (verb) him very much. He and I (verb)  a lot together.

 I’m taking (subject) this semester. The teacher is a/an (noun). I (verb) her/him very much. I am (verb) a lot about (subject).

 Last night I went to (name of a local hangout). I spent (a number) hours there. I went with (a friends name). We had (adverb or adverbial phrase)

 I have to (verb) a lot up here. It is necessary to, because if I didn’t I might (verb), and then my (noun) would be wasting their (noun). And then I’d have to (verb).

 I did (adverbial phrase) over winter vacation. I had a lot of (adjective). I’m sorry that I didn’t get to (verb) you.

 I’ll (verb) you soon.

    You don’t have to be so condescending,

(adverb)

 (name)

 Well, things are going O.K., I guess. See ya the 27th or so.

 --Ross

  While I laugh at his efforts, I was disappointed in his response. What could be so terrible that he couldn’t share his roommate’s name? When still in middle school, I visited my brothers at Wake Forest and Willamette and so had some vague idea of what went on – drinking, stale beer and old cigarettes, studying avoidance, loud music and dirty laundry. Did he not trust me?

 There’s that “see you on the 27th” again. Obviously a significant event in his life – unhappy at school, it was an opportunity for feeling safe and familiar, something he wasn’t getting at college. After that not-remembered night of dancing, Ross returned to Wooster and my life returned to its own rhythm - David, Corral, Choir, homework, and writing letters to Ross when the spirit moved me.

 *          *          *

 David’s birthday and Valentine’s Day approached. He and his buddies got it into their heads that they wanted a romantic evening with their girlfriends. Taking us to a fancy restaurant was beyond their budget, so the boys arranged to get David’s mother out of the house for the evening.

 Not a fancy house, the ranch floor plan was simple and practical. The front door opened into the main hallway, kitchen on the left. Beyond that was the dining room with a sliding glass door that opened onto the back patio. David’s bedroom was off the hallway to the right, and the master bedroom was down the hall, also opening to the patio. Beyond the dining room, they cleaned the family room, and set out candles to complete the romantic mood. Soft music echoed from the stereo. Three sixteen-year-old boys transformed the house – they cleaned and scrubbed, and using fine linens and good china they set the table with the romance of flowers and candles.

 They planned a basic menu – the appetizer was most exotic – fresh artichoke with béarnaise sauce. This would be followed by steak, baked potato, tossed salad, and chocolate mousse for dessert. They made all the preparations and even managed to clean the kitchen before we arrived (I suspect Mom helped a bit). David told me later that the first batch of mousse didn’t go right, something Christopher did ruined it, and they had to prepare a second batch. They paused their preparations to clean themselves up, and left to retrieve the girls for dinner. Christopher with Erin, Boyd with Beth, and David picked me up at home. Each brought us back to the house, parked their cars in the driveway, and escorted us to the door. Anticipation and expectations were high. This was going to be a romantic evening of seduction!

 The girls sat and visited at the table, admiring and appreciating all the work they had done. The boys did the last minute preparations (salt and pepper on the table?  Salad dressings?  Drinks served?) and served the artichoke appetizer. We started eating, while on the patio David monitored the steaks on the grill. We passed the potatoes and sour cream, when the steaks were cooked, David served them, and joined the rest of us. The evening was going as planned.

 But somewhere between the artichoke and the mousse, I got the giggles. With Erin, we ruined the boys’ romance. Laughter and good-natured camaraderie had not been part of the boys’ plans. They wanted to stare into our eyes and feel connected. They wanted us to be seduced while they waxed poetic and anticipated getting to second base or further if they could. Maybe sour cream dribbled down my front, maybe I got a chunk of gristle in my steak, maybe I snorted and had a nose full of gunk – I don’t remember the particulars. I do recall laughing hysterically, nervous at the boys’ outpouring of generosity, and scared of the expectations. I wasn’t interested in their style of romance.

 Boyd and Beth left quickly after dinner. A year younger than the rest of us, Beth had to get home for her earlier curfew, and they wanted their privacy before Beth had to be home. When they left, Erin and Christopher played peacemaker between David and me. David was incensed. All his planning, all his forethought, and I didn’t behave as he anticipated. Sigh. David still hasn’t forgiven me for that, and I still don’t respond well to planned romantic events. Feed me well, spend time with me and make me laugh. But don’t plan and scheme to impress me. I much prefer the spontaneous, the whimsical, and the genuine inspirations of the moment. All these years later, I’m sorry David, I really am. Will you ever forgive me?

 *          *          *

 A few weeks later, on a late March Saturday morning, once again I found myself in the school lecture hall. That particular morning just crawled…the hands on the clock moved painfully slow. Noon finally arrived and we were freed from our windowless lecture hall prison. Spring is really HERE; temps in the 70s, the trees in full still-bright-green leaf, the blue sky cloudless, and the sun warm on your face. Bees were out in force pollinating the fruit trees in full bloom, and the red, yellow and white tulips brightened all the professionally designed suburban landscapes. After a cool morning, it was shorts weather. I walked the half-mile home stopping briefly at the mailbox to drop in a letter to Ross.

I left my backpack on the kitchen counter, ran upstairs and changed clothes, galloped back down to grab the keys to the car I was allowed to drive and left a note for my parents. “Took the car – off to Julie’s. Back later – Susan.” I put the top down in the driveway and drove to my friends’ houses and picked them up. We ate lunch at Burger King and then drove to the park to play Frisbee Golf. Oh to be sweet sixteen again!

 *          *          *

 Later in the spring, David’s dad dragged him on a “bonding” trip to West Virginia. For whatever reason David took his computer with him. He and Christopher arranged a time for David to dial in and they “talked” via modem. A technological achievement prior to local dial-up ISPs and the now crowded world-wide-web with IM-ing. I happened to be at Christopher’s when the call came through. Christopher hooked up his computer (He called it Flounder, an IBM with 32 meg RAM – incredible power at the time, 1984) and started typing. I watched, only mildly interested. But then decided to pull one over on David. I asked Christopher if I could have a go at the keyboard. “Sure.” He typed something in, letting David know there was another person in the room, and I started typing. We messed with David’s head for a few minutes – keeping him guessing as to who was in the room. I finally let the cat out of the bag with a private phrase David and I shared, and the joke was over.

 The whole exchange was an interesting introduction to the potential of the computer - where the technology was going, and who was going to be a part of it. By the time AOL was marketing itself, I was an old hand at e-mail and telnet. There was usenet and UUnet and signing up for e-mail discussion groups. Then WAIS servers, Gopher services, Mosaic and finally, World Wide Web with HTML pulled ahead in the Internet war. Oh, I didn’t understand the mechanics or programming involved, but I embraced the technology as a user. I don’t have to talk to anybody, I can slow my thoughts down, have time to find the right words, and let my fingers do the talking!

 When I asked David about it later – how they managed to do this without going broke with long distance charges, I was reminded they acquired long distance calling card numbers from newly formed, post-AT&T break-up, MCI. Computer security was lax or non-existent, and even though David and his friends were not hardened criminals, the information was there to be taken, so take it they did. These were kids playing with a new technology. And David wasn’t hardcore – he was a dabbler. Later, I’d hook up with the hard-core programmers; the ones with pasty complexions, a penchant for cycling and a tendency to notice obscure details of daily life.

 *          *          *

 Ross was still away at school – but had been home for his Spring Break and we saw each other one night at a gathering of friends. Despite the lack of correspondence on his part, I continued to write to him. Writing was my therapy, and he was my project. A friendly voice from home might cheer him up. It certainly couldn’t hurt, right?

Postmarked 9 Apr 1984, Canton, OH

 4-8-84

Dear Susan,

 Sorry I haven’t written in so long. I’ve been mega-busy! (Isn’t this great stationery?) Well, right now I’m listening to U2 and writing you a letter and avoiding a philosophy paper which is due Thursday.

 By the way, thanx for the St. Pat’s Day card. Pretty Spiffy! Actually, I’m not even sure when St. Patrick’s Day was. You get to be really “out of it” in college. Ya know? Of course you don’t! But you’ll find out soon enough.

 So how’s the social scene in Old Wyoming? I think I have someone back home extremely pissed at me because I wrote her a nasty letter. That’s right, it’s your friend and mine, Heather! Oh well, who cares?

 Do you ever talk to my little brother (who is a lot taller than I am)? Well, if you don’t, you should because he’s a cool dude and he’s not socially accepted and he doesn’t talk to girls much and he’d probably be really happy if you did and this is a really long sentence and I don’t really care!

 I am so frigging lonely up here. No one to talk to! Poor me. Oh well, I won’t bore you with sob stories! And I’ll also stop feeling sorry for myself.

 The U2 tape just ended, so I put on Squeeze. Next: Psychedelic Furs, XTC, and RUSH.

 I found a T.V. set on Tuesday. Thrilling huh?

 Oh well, I’m getting stale. See ya in May (I get out the 3rd.) Till then, stay sweet and innocent and stuff. OK?

 Ross

 “Sweet’n’innocent” that’s what I called myself. Whew! Who was I kidding? I was a bundle of teenage hormones raging to be set loose. I was dangerous. But indeed I was naïve in many ways. Our close-knit community sheltered us from so much of life. That innocence was an unfortunate side effect of growing up in our suburb. We both suffered for it, learning life’s painful lessons on our own, without loving support from our families.

 Ross tried to drown his loneliness with baselines and drum rhythms. His solace was music. I know his loneliness now. It’s terrible. When I left home and Ross, I was also terribly lonely. I had very little music with me, so I sought out those with music and made friends. And yet, I reached out to my familiars through letters. Later still, when I was in San Francisco and Berkeley, I was yet again lonely. I listened to more music, and wrote even more letters. I wrote to any and all friends or family I could think of. Like Ross, I had a hard time finding much to say, but I wrote anyway. I still write letters, though not the same way I used to. E-mail provides a lifesaving opportunity. Sitting in front of my monitor and keyboard, I pour my heart out. Then, because temporary glowing images on a monitor don’t share the sanctity of words on the printed or written page, it’s easy to cut and paste and move words around. I work though my thoughts and find the obvious, sharing then with family and friends. Time and technology helped tremendously toward tempering loneliness.

 The next year I graduated from high school without ever writing the required and dreaded ten-page term paper. Our AP English teacher was pregnant, and left to have her baby midway through the year. We coasted through several weeks of short-term substitutes before a suitable long-term sub was hired. When our original teacher returned at the end of the year, the exchange resulted in lost papers, and crossed gradebooks. Since I didn’t want to put forth the required effort, I played the confusion to my advantage, and avoided writing the paper. Even later, I too got very good at avoiding philosophy papers and bombed other writing courses in college – I couldn’t keep the logic going. I’d skip a key piece of the argument figuring it was obvious, when it wasn’t. Rule number one – state the obvious. It’s harder than you think.

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