#zadie;music

[thirdity]

All Joni and I needed was a little attunement. Those wandering notes and bar crossings, the key changes that she now finds dull and I still hear as miraculous. Her music, her life, has always been about discontinuity. The inconsistency of identity, of personality. I should have had faith. We were always going to find each other...

Zadie Smith, "Some Notes on Attunement"

[the-al-chemist]

Zadie Taylor-Allen - Billy Elliot

It's like that there's a music playing in your ear

And I'm listening, and I'm listening, and then I disappear

And then I feel a change

Like a fire deep inside

Something bursting me wide open impossible to hide

And suddenly I'm flying, flying like a bird

Like electricity, electricity

Sparks inside of me

And I'm free, I'm free.

- Electricity -

“Can you tell us, Billy, what does it feel like when you’re dancing?” Zadie could have had her pick of the musicals, but this is the one for her. @magicallymalted, I promise I’m almost done!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Snake Eyes 5

Warnings: noncon, coercion, manipulation. Proceed with caution.

Note: thanks all for reading and I hope you’re excited for this one. All feedback is more than welcome and loved and appreciated. Reblogs are most helpful.

Part of The Club AU

The service industry is less than formal. There’s not much red tape in the hiring process and less administrative restraints. So, after a short video interview with Sif, you accept a job for the weekend. It’s not entirely your choice of venue, a yacht, but the pay even before gratuity is enough to convince you.

More peculiar about the job is that it’s not a single night. You’re slated to work through the weekend at breakfast, lunch and dinner. It beats handing out shots to tipsy coeds; these wealthy investors will have deeper pockets.

So much for being destitute all at the whim of that snake. It’s the nature of the business. Gigs don’t last long and when they do, you’re miserable. If it was up to you, you’d be working at one of the upscale cocktail bars in the downtown core but they rarely open up applications.

You pack a bag and take your time getting ready. There’s a dress code of course. All black, no pants. You know these sorts of events. They only hire women and their purpose is more than serving, they have to be nice to look at. Well, you can doll yourself up.

You put on a sleek halter blouses with a leather skirt. You’ll sweat your ass off but it’s what you got. You have just enough outfits to last you through two days. Oh, and some anti-nausea meds to counteract the sea sickness.

The job will reimburse you for the cost of the uber. You don’t think you’ve ever been to the dock. You weren’t a part of the college crowd with their party boats and aren’t generally a fan of being on the water. You tip the driver on your phone as you get out and look around.

There are two other girls in black hovering around. You approach them, assuming they're in the same boat as you. The pun barely worth thinking. 

“Hey, um, are you meeting Sif?” You ask.

“You must be the new girl,” they look at you with their drawn on brows, “Tara,” the tall redhead introduces herself.

“Zadie,” the shorter woman with the spiral curls flicks her lashes derisively.

You offer your name in return, sensing their coolness. They’ve worked together a while, that means you’re the rookie, you have to prove yourself. That isn’t difficult, you have faith in your own skills.

“You’re pretty,” Tara preens, “love the gloss.”

“Thanks,” you accept the compliment.

“I could never pull that shade off,” she continues, “very harsh.”

You nod and force a smile. You’re sure that is only the beginning of your act. You shoulder your bag and turn on your heel listlessly. You’re not here to make friends.

“Girls,” Sif’s heels draw your attention as they click across the dock, “thank you for waiting. The captain was a bit late with his safety review. Ugh, so we have to hurry with set up. The investors will be arriving shortly. Can’t have you standing out here like a bunch of stray cats.”

“What happened to Katie?” Zadie asks as she steps forward first.

“She’s at her sister’s wedding,” Sif returns smoothly, “don’t worry, she’s vetted and very capable,” the dark haired woman gives you an appraising look, “you might learn a few things, Zee.”

Zadie rolls her eyes and Tara grins over her shoulder, trying to hide her amusement. You shrug and follow them towards the boarding ramp. Right, just don’t think about the water.

���

The boat is a flurry. After you are shown your cramped cabin, leaving your bag on the bed, you are taken to the gala deck. There, you are acquainted with the bar and set to your prep. The familiarity of the work welcomes you in and your nerves calm even as the subtle swell of the water rocks the ship.

As you work in tandem with the other girls, the lights adjust and music begins to waft around the space. You look out at the tables, set and ready for diners. It seems a rather overdone event. You’re not sure if you had yacht money, you would waste it on these pompous displays. Maybe that’s why you don’t have any money.

The first investors begin to trickle in. You hear Sif’s voice rise above the building din as she beckons them in and shows them their seats. Some sort of auction for charity. Funny, how these things are always fundraisers…

As the crowd burgeons in, the first patrons of the night come by the bar. Tara elbows past you to take the lead. You let her. You know her type. They approach the job like a competition. No use playing that game.

“Miss, a drink,” you hear from your left. You turn to greet the man, his silty tone only registering once you face him. Loki smirks as he drapes his arm over the trim, “I believe you know my preference.”

You withhold a scowl. You don’t know how to respond. You can’t scream at him so you turn and begin to put together a dry martini. You feel him watching you. Of course, he’s one of them.

“Mr. Laufeyson,” Zadie comes up behind you, “nice to see you.”

“You too,” he says silkily.

“Hon, why don’t you let me take over for Mr. Laufeyson?” She offers as she touches your arm.

“She’s got it,” he shoos her with his fingers.

You present him the tall glass and meet his eye. He watches you with that imperious gloating grin. He reaches for it, sliding it closer with two fingers around the stem.

“Now I should be suitably bolstered to face my guests,” he declares. You squint at him, his guests? “Darling, should you require anything, you know you only need ask. I do take pride in accommodating my staff well.”

You blink, lips sealed and tight. His eyes rove up and down as he lifts his martini, “cheers.” He takes a sip and winks, before spinning on his heel and strutting off. You should’ve known it was all too easy.

[liriostigre]

Hiiii ty for such a great uquiz!! Would it be possible to see the description of all the books you could get matched to? I’m curious what the vibes are for the rest!!

hi 🌷 here you go:

White Teeth by Zadie Smith: Excessive, maximalist and very ambitious multigenerational and multicultural epic novel that starts with the unlikely friendship between Archie Jones and Samad Iqbal. It explores themes of race, identity and the intersections of culture, heritage, and modernity. Clever and hilarious dialogue, very creative when it comes to language and style, unique and bold when it comes to narrative. Perhaps a flawed novel due to its ambition, but excellent nonetheless.

Despair by Vladimir Nabokov: Excellent writing; very ambitious and stylish. It is somewhat a twisted novel but you will find a lot of humor despite. The narrator speaks directly to the reader as he writes what he regards as his perfect crime. This novel is one of Nabokov's earliest works in which one can easily identify themes and literary devices that the author explored later in his most known works.

The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño: Brilliant and stunning novel about poets and poetry! Very dense and challenging; it requires patience from the reader. This novel is so infinitely dear to me that i can't even explain its brilliance, but i have to give you at least an idea of the plot so: The story is arranged in three parts and told from multiple points of view. It starts in Mexico City, in the 70s, and continues across decades and continents. It follows the adventures and misadventures of Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima—poets, drug dealers, wanderes, criminals. Now, about the themes, the writing, the style, the narration? Just absolutely perfect even at its most tedious, difficult and anticlimactic parts.

The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington: Unconventional, absurd, imaginative and exuberantly surreal apocalyptic fairytale quest. It follows 92 year old Marian who is sent off to a peculiar old-age home. If you aren't familiar with Leanora Carrington's art you should look at some of her paintings because this wonderful novel feels just like her surrealist paintings!

Mrs. Caliban by Rachel Ingalls: This novella tells the story of a love affair between a depressed suburban housewife and an amphibian creature who escaped a scientific research center. It might sound like a quirky fiction story but it actually deals with the most mundane and banal aspects of life and human relationships. Brilliantly written; neat and precise prose, wonderful storytelling. The author knew what she was doing and not a single word she wrote was wasted.

The Borrowers by Mary Norton: Delicately written little adventure about tiny people who live in the secret places of houses. I am enamored (obsessed!!) with miniatures—dollhouses, dioramas, fairies—so imagine how dear this book is to me.

Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn: The murders of two girls bring reporter Camille Preaker back to her hometown. As she works to uncover the truth about those crimes, Camille finds herself forced to unravel the psychological puzzle of her own past. Very entertaining read. It has best seller written all over it (which might not be the biggest compliment lol but i mean for this genre so it is a compliment).

Rage by Sergio Bizzio: Claustrophobic, anxiety inducing, fast-paced psychological thriller that made me think of Bong Joon-ho's Parasite the whole 4 hours it took me to read it. I read it in it's original language, Spanish, and i particularly loved the dialogue; its idiosyncrasies and authenticity (tqm Argentina!)

High Fidelity by Nick Hornby: Rob, an obsessive music fan, reminisces his top five worst break ups to understand his most recent heartbreak. He is a very arrogant and cynical guy who defines his entire life through records, and because he is constantly interacting with music that almost exclusively deals with love—and a very idealistic version of it—he finds himself unsatisfied with the way his life has turned out.

[spine-buster]

So High School ft. Adam Cole | Chapter 3

Because he sat on the outside seat, Austin was always delegated to the right earphone, and because she sat on the window seat, Violet was always delegated to the left earphone.  It became a habit for her to just hand him an earphone the moment he sat beside her on the bus.  Likewise, it became a habit for him to begin asking more about her, or her day, or what sorts of things she was studying at St. Anne’s that were different than what he was studying at Lancaster West.  They’d talk about their other interests – hers: student council, the author Zadie Smith, Seventeen magazine, and the TV show The O.C; his: the Lancaster West wrestling team, hanging out with his friends, Rolling Stone magazine, and the TV show One Tree Hill.  Violet promised to start watching One Tree Hill, and Austin The O.C.

Austin was excited to learn new things about Violet.  He noticed himself looking forward to getting on the bus now and spending that time with her in the mornings and afternoons.  He began to notice just how confident her voice and demeanour was.  He noticed the freckles that dotted her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.  He began to stop and look back at her before entering the front doors or Lancaster West High.

Violet was excited to learn new things about Austin.  She noticed herself looking forward to seeing him get on the bus and spending time with him in the mornings and afternoons.  She began to notice just how articulate and dynamic he was.  She noticed the crinkle of his eyes whenever he’d smile or laugh at something she said.  She began to wave to him slightly when he stopped and looked back at her before entering the front doors of Lancaster West High. 

Despite how much they were opening up to one another, Violet always felt Austin was holding something back.

***

Violet was giddy as she walked with her girlfriends towards Julia Steinbreaker’s house for her birthday.  She told her parents her birthday party would be on the main floor while her parents were up in their bedroom, but Mr. and Mrs. Steinbreaker’s parents were really in Florida for the weekend.  She had a curfew of midnight.  Julia’s brother was a senior at St. Augustine College and some of his friends would be there, too.  It was going to be the best.

When she and her friends walked in the house, they were greeted with loud music and a bunch of their friends and acquaintances.  Word must have gotten around – that, or Julia’s brother told a lot more of his friends than Violet though, and those friends told their friends.  Some other girls from St. Anne’s were there, and there were others she knew attended Lancaster West and other public schools in the city.  She and her friends walked into the kitchen, already eyeing some of the boys.  She grabbed a Diet Coke and cracked it open.  Her friend Beth grabbed her hand and led her through the house to the family room where she spotted Julia’s older brother hanging out with his lacrosse team buddies.

And then she saw Austin.

Violet stopped dead in her tracks when she did.  Beth almost dragged her but stopped when she noticed her staring at someone.  “Austin?”

He didn’t see her at first.  But when he did, his face was just as shocked as hers.  “Violet?”

“Hey!” she exclaimed, letting go of Beth’s hand to approach him and hug him.  Well, this was new.  This was the first time they had acknowledged each other outside of the bus.  They couldn’t even do this in a grocery store with their mothers present just a few weeks ago.  Austin hugged her back, trying not to smile too much and lose his cool.  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“My buddy Travis is friends with Julia’s brother from their soccer team or something, so a couple of my buddies and I came,” he explained.  “Julia – St. Anne’s, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah, yeah of course,” Violet nodded her head, trying not to feel too overwhelmed.  He existed outside of the bus.  He was real.  “What a small world, eh?”

“That’s the Toronto poking through, isn’t it?” he quipped.

“Who’s this?”

Austin and Violet whipped their heads towards Beth, who was looking between them with raised eyebrows.  “Beth, this is my friend Austin,” Violet said.  She couldn’t believe she’d just said those words out loud to another person.  My friend Austin.  “He goes to Lancaster West.  We take the bus into the city together.”

“Hello, Austin who goes to Lancaster West,” Beth smiled wryly.  She looked back at Violet.  “You didn’t tell me you had friends at Lancaster West.”

Violet watched as Austin’s smile dropped a little at the way she said Lancaster West.  Like the school was riffraff.  Like it was beneath them to have friends there when it most certainly wasn’t.  “Well I do,” she said.  “We’ve been taking the bus together for forever.”

Beth’s eyebrows rose.  Before she could respond, a boy yelled her name and presented himself in front of them, to which Beth jumped into him excitedly to hug him.  Violet and Austin gave each other a quick glance.  Beth soon focused her attention back on Violet.  “Violet, this is Carson, the guy I was telling you about.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Just a Diet Coke.”

“You’ll definitely want some rum with that,” he smiled.  “Are you a Malibu or Morgan girl?”

“No no, no rum for me,” she shook her head.  She’d had alcohol before, but in the presence of her parents.  They’d ship her off to a convent if she got home and they smelled rum on her breath, especially considering she had lied to them to come to the party in the first place.

“Oh come on, I know you St. Anne’s girls love to party,” he pushed.  “Nobody’s gonna tell Jesus, I swear.”

“I’m alright with my Diet Coke, really.”

“Think of it as unholy water.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“I could even pour it right into your mouth—”

“—She said no,” Austin piped up.  Everybody involved in the interaction looked at him.  “Just leave it.”

“Whatever,” Carson rolled his eyes, putting his arm around Beth’s shoulders.  “You want some vodka?”

“Yes please.”

Beth left with Carson, leaving Violet and Austin alone with one another.  She bit her bottom lip before meeting his eyes.  “Thanks Austin.”

“No problem,” he said.  “I hope you came with other friends besides her.”

Thankfully, she did, and before long she was able to introduce Harper and Abigail to Austin, who were much more friendly than Beth had been.  Austin even introduced them all to the friends he came with, and soon they were all talking and having fun together.  Austin went to the kitchen to get Violet another Diet Coke, and when he came back, she saw he hadn’t opened it.  She smiled to herself.

The house got more crowded – people from Lancaster West, who Austin said hi and spoke to, and some more girls from St. Anne’s.  There was a boy from St. Augustine College’s student council that Violet knew and had a crush on, so tried flirting with him to no avail.  Harper and Abigail paired off with some boys they met.  Some rowdy boys started a drinking game, which encouraged so many others to be obnoxious.  Soon enough, with Harper and Abigail paired off, Violet found herself alone, so she went back into the kitchen to get another Diet Coke.  There, some boys in Lancaster West soccer t-shirts began talking to her.  She was polite and engaged in the conversation, but she really wanted to find Harper or Abigail.

“How about I get you something to mix with that Coke,” the taller one said, grabbing the mickey of vodka he’d brought to the party from the pocket in his jeans.

“Oh no, that’s okay.  I’m not drinking.”

The guy chuckled, glancing at his friend.  “Of course not.  Come on girl, you need to loosen up.”

“I’m perfectly fine, thanks.”

“You know, you’d be hotter if you weren’t so stuck up.”

Violet immediately went red.  “What?”

“You St. Anne’s girls are all the same.  Stuck up daddy’s little rich girls.  Maybe if you took off your fucking chastity belt you’d be better.”

Violet was speechless, her jaw gaping open from not knowing what to say.  With her cheeks already red and her eyes already watering at just how rude the boys were being, she tried to think of something, but couldn’t.  Her emotions were getting the best of her.  Her embarrassment was getting the best of her. 

“Quit being such fucking assholes and leave her alone,” she suddenly heard Austin’s voice from behind her.  She couldn’t even spin around to look him in the face, instead waiting until he appeared at her side.

The boys suddenly seemed more nervous than before.  “Au—Austin—”

“Fuck off,” he warned, scaring them enough that they left the kitchen.  He looked her in the eye, noticing the redness in her cheeks.  “Are you okay?”

Violet felt so embarrassed.  She gripped on to her Diet Coke before backing up to lean against the counter, averting Austin’s eyes.  “I’m fine,” she told him unconvincingly.  “I—I lost all my friends.  They’re all off drinking or with boys.”

Austin saw her body language, saw how defeated she looked, and most of all, how she looked like she was on the verge of tears.  “Hey, this party kinda blows anyway,” he said, getting slightly closer to her.  Want to go somewhere else?”

She finally looked up to meet his eyes.  She’d never been more grateful than in that moment.  “Yes please.”

He nodded once.  “Meet me at the door.  I’ll grab your jacket.”

Violet did as she was told, going to put on her shoes.  Austin appeared with her jean jacket and they left the house inconspicuously.  It was already dark out, but not late – she still had at least two hours to go until curfew.  Austin watched Violet carefully, making sure she was okay, and that she wouldn’t burst into tears at any given moment.  Clearly those guys had struck a nerve.  Once they walked down the driveway and to the sidewalk, he noticed that a few tears had escaped, the wiping of her nose a tell-tale sign, too.  He hated seeing her so emotional about stupid comments some stupid boys made.  “You want to go to Francesco’s?” he asked suddenly, before his mind even realized what he was doing.

“You…you mean the pizza place?”

He nodded.  “There’s no reason those assholes should ruin your night,” he offered.

She nodded shyly, and they began walking down the sidewalk side by side.  After only a few strides, though, she stopped dead in her tracks.  He looked back at her to see what was wrong.  “You don’t think I’m stuck up, do you?” she asked.

“No, I don’t,” Austin’s voice was gentle.  There was a moment of silence where they just stared into each other’s eyes.  Austin hoped she believed him, because he really meant it.  “I think you’re the furthest thing from stuck up.”

Violet nodded, resolved, and began walking again along with him.  They were quiet as they made their way towards Francesco’s, and it was Austin who took the reins once they walked in anyway.  He walked them over to a booth where they sat opposite each other and ordered them both a slice of pizza and a root beer float.  Violet noticed some of the other patrons in the restaurant – a few older couples, probably out on date nights; a big group of high school seniors who were lively but not loud or causing a scene; other local kids in and around their age minding their own business.  She wondered what she looked like to them.

“Can I say something?” Austin asked suddenly.  She didn’t see it because she was people watching and in her own head, but he had been staring at Violet the entire time.  She nodded.  “I think you’re way too smart and way too cool to let what those guys said make you feel this way.”

She cracked a smile for the first time in what felt like a while.  “Thanks Austin.”

“And no offence,” he continued, “Harper and Abigail seem fine, but that Beth girl is a piece of work.”

“Yeah.  I know.  You don’t know the half of it,” she said.  “We became friends in our freshman year because we were in the same math class, but we’ve been growing apart, especially this year,” Violet explained.  “She’s just been…changing.  I mean we both have.  But we’re going in the opposite direction, and I don’t know how far we can stretch before it snaps, you know?”

“It doesn’t seem like you’re anything like each other.  I try to give everybody a chance, but the second she opened her mouth I didn’t get a good vibe from her.”

Violet was silent.  She knew exactly what he was referencing – the Lancaster West comment.  “I know, I know.  I didn’t—I didn’t like that comment she made.  I thought it was really awful of her to say it the way she did.”

“If anybody should be called stuck up, it’s her.”

Violet smiled again.  Their waitress brought them their pizza and root beer floats and Austin automatically took a sip out of his.  They spoke about their friends and other people at the party, giving each other notes.  Who to avoid.  Who was alright.  Everybody knew the teenage years were a minefield for social interaction, so it was nice to get advice from someone else.  The taste of the pizza perked up Violet, and soon she and Austin were laughing together again.  Conversations about friends turned into conversations about school and teachers, and conversations about school and teachers turned into conversations about parents.

“Are your parents already talking about university like my parents are?” Violet asked.

Austin shrugged.  “We’ve talked about it, but they’re not pushing it down my throat or anything just yet.  Are yours?”

Violet nodded her head.  “When your dad’s a university professor it’s kind of inevitable.  I mean, when both your parents are as educated as my parents are, it’s kind of inevitable,” she said.

“Do they want you to go to UPenn?”

“It’s the easiest because we would get discounted tuition.  But my top choices are UPenn, Georgetown, and Boston University, though I’m probably gonna apply to so many more,” she explained.  “They have the best programs for what I want to study.”

“Which is?”

“I want to go into speech language therapy like my mom,” she said, which made Austin smile.  “What about you?  Have you thought about universities or what you want to study?”

Austin stayed silent for a bit.  “I uh—well, I kind of like history, so I was thinking of that, but I don’t—I don’t know if I like it enough to want to pursue it so seriously, you know?”

He was nervous.  What was he nervous about?  This was a normal conversation between two normal teenagers – surely it wasn’t making him so nervous he couldn’t form a coherent sentence?  She tried to ignore it.  “What about universities?”

“Well, places like what you said are kind of, like, unattainable for me.  Marks wise but also money-wise.  I mean, anywhere I end up going, I’ll, uh, have to take out student loans.  Not looking forward to those.”

It was so clear to her now.  She didn’t want to pry, but they were friends now, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.  She didn’t want Austin to lie to her.  “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

Austin looked her in the eye before taking a deep breath.  He needed to get it out of the way now, before their friendship went any further.  It wasn’t exactly an out for her, but she needed to know because it was what motivated him – everything he did was to reach this goal.  He’d rather the judgement come now.  “I want to get into pro wrestling,” he said finally, letting the words linger.

Violet was unsure what he meant at first.  “You mean, like, the Olympic wrestling team?” she asked, knowing he was on the amateur wrestling team at Lancaster West.

“No,” he shook his head.  “Pro wrestling—like WWE.  Wrestling on TV.  It’s—it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do since I was nine years old.”

Austin watched Violet’s face carefully.  He watched and waited for confusion, or a brow furrow, or a scowl at the idea of becoming a pro-wrestler instead of going to university.  It wasn’t exactly a normal career choice, and it definitely wasn’t one a high achiever such as Violet or a parent would approve of – his own mother didn’t.  But instead of confusion or a scowl, he watched as Violet’s face came to a realization with a twinkle in her eye.  A giant smile overtook her face.  “Austin…” she began, almost speechless.  “That is so cool.”

It was now him who was confused with a brow furrow.  “Really?”

“Are you kidding?  Of course,” she assured him.  “All everybody else around me can talk about is AP grades and SAT scores for their programs.  That is so different than what everybody around me wants to do, and it’s so cool that you’re so passionate about something that’s so unique that you want to pursue it like you do,” she said, and she meant it whole-heatedly.  She hadn’t quite met anybody like Austin before, and she was so glad he helped her on the bus that day.

“You think so?” Austin asked.

She nodded enthusiastically.  “I think you’d be really good at it.  You’re a very articulate speaker.  I don’t know much about wrestling but I think that’s part of it.  What’s your plan to do it?”

She listened intently as Austin spoke enthusiastically about what he had to do to achieve his dream.  He had very clearly researched every minute detail beforehand and knew the steps to get there.  The wrestling foundation, which is why he joined the wrestling team; the training at a school in a city near them like Philadelphia or Pittsburgh or even Washington D.C.; making a name for himself on what he called “the indies” before a big company like WWE signed him.  His explanation was detailed and meticulous.  The more he told her, the more she envisioned it for him, the more she wanted it for him, too. 

Austin spoke so much and for so long, long after their pizza slices and root beer floats were finished, long after most of the other patrons left Francesco’s and it was just them in their own little world.  They paid and left, and it was only then, walking out into the briskness of the night that Austin realized how late it was.  He looked at his watch and it read 11:40.  His curfew was midnight.  Neither of them wanted to leave.

“I’ll walk you home,” Austin offered without having to be asked.  There was no way he was going to let her walk home alone at this hour of the night anyway.

“Aren’t you—isn’t your curfew midnight, too?”

“I—yeah—but it’s okay—”

“—Hold on,” she said, reaching into her Coach wristlet.  She pulled out her cell phone.  He had completely forgotten she had one of those Blackberry Pearl cell phones.  Just like her iPod, he was shocked to see it.  There was such a different between them.  “What’s your home phone number?”

He told her, and she dialled it.  He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t know why.  His gut trusted her already.  “Hi, Mrs. Jenkins?  My name is Violet Schwarzkopf, I’m one of Austin’s friends,” she began to say in a very, very polite voice.  “Um, my friends all ditched me at the party and Austin offered to walk me home, but I live on Mulberry Street and I know he has a curfew and—and—I was just hoping he won’t get in trouble for being home a bit late.  I don’t want to walk home alone this late at night.”

Austin almost laughed, but settled on a shit-eating grin.  He didn’t want his mom hearing him laughing and getting any ideas.  “Thank you so much Mrs. Jenkins.  I promise this won’t happen again for Austin.  I’m sorry for calling so late.  Goodnight.”

Austin continued smiling at her and she put her phone back in her wristlet.  “You’re like the mom whisperer.  I need you to talk to her all the time.”

Violet chuckled.  “Let’s go.  My parents aren’t as nice.”

They reached her house on Mulberry Street in just about fifteen minutes, with a comfortable five minutes to spare.  Austin knew he shouldn’t have been shocked at the size or the grandeur of it, but he still was.  As one of Manheim’s few historic streets, almost all of the houses were like this.  But Violet’s was even more so, and the front garden was meticulously maintained, too.  Standing on her front porch, they looked at each other.  “Thank you for making this night so much better than it started,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

She moved to stick her key in the door, and was about to walk in, but hesitated before turning back to face him.  “I meant what I said at Francesco’s.  I think you’d be amazing at pro-wrestling.  I wasn’t just saying that.  Everything you told me just sounds so cool and I’m, like, rooting for you, you know?  Especially if that’s your dream.”

He smiled, practically blushing.  “Thanks, Vi.”

She then did something that he wasn’t expecting: she reached in and hugged him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders tightly.  He hugged her back before she pulled away.  “Goodnight Austin.”

“G’night, Vi.  I’ll see you on Monday.”

She opened the door and he got a quick, dimly lit glance at the interior of her house – its hardwood floors and big front mirror and fancy lamp that was lit on a fancy entryway console.  So different to his grandma’s house, which didn’t exactly have any fancy lamps or entryway consoles.  He turned away once he heard the door lock, walking down the driveway before looking up at the house one last time before deciding to run home.

He could use the cardio.

[windslar]

Lightflower ( prev / next )

Transcript

[Zadie's inner monologue]: The only lyrics that spill out of me are filled with sadness and anger. Teenagers and prom and how heteronormative expectations ruin everything. What a coming-of-age gay cliche. It feels dramatic to call it a betrayal but it’s the closest thing that’s captured the way I felt when I heard she chose that boy over me. I pour the pain into each line, turning the heartbreak into art. Each verse a release of emotion. Until the emotions are transferred to the words on the pages and I am no longer just a heartbroken girl, but a girl with music as her outlet. It’s turning awful memories into something that pulls me out of the deep end rather than something that drowns me. It’s cathartic. It’s emotionally draining. But it’s mine. And she can never take that away from me.

[pfirsichspritzer]

Rules: answer & tag 9 people you you want to get to know better and/or catch up with!

Thank you @cate-deriana for the tag <333

Favorite color: dark blue and dark red 

Last song I listened to: End of Beginning by Djo 

Last film I watched: The first half of The Sound of Music. Even though I am from Austria, I have actually never watched it before (Believe it or not, it is not really considered a classic here). But I liked the first half so far. Waiting for a good time to finish it, since it is a really long movie. 

Currently reading: Nothing. I recently finished People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry. Currently Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid, One Last Stop by Casey McQuiston, and NW by Zadie Smith are sitting on my nightstand, waiting to be read. (I am a pathological book-buyer and then taking forever to actually read them) If anyone has suggestions with which to start, they’ll be greatly appreciated 

Currently craving: Chocolate 

Currently watching: Abbott Elementary, Bridgerton, Queen Charlotte, and on my fifth rewatch of Lockwood & Co. 

Coffee or tea? Coffee. I need caffeine. However, since I am not particularly fond of the bitter taste, I usually take it with lots of milk or in the form of cold brew. Or I drink mate tea for that caffeine kick.

tagging: @annisthree, @rifle-yes, @gaygingersnaps, @rebelandrichgirl, @toooldforthisbutstill

@menina89, @alphacrone, @nomolosk, @youareiron-andyouarestrong

[tetw]

10 Great Essays about Music

Is Old Music Killing New Music? by Ted Gioia - Old songs now represent 70 percent of the U.S. music market. Even worse: The new-music market is actually shrinking.

The Dark Art of Mastering Music by Jordan Kisner - Shedding light on the elusive studio practice that’s all but necessary to make music sound great.

The Last Time New York Was Hardcore by Michael Stahl - In the ’90s, one high-octane underground music scene desperately held on to its rebellious roots of power chords, slam dancing and stage diving. What happened to hardcore?

Some Notes on Attunement by Zadie Smith - A voyage around Joni Mitchell

Is There Anything Left Of Hip Hop? by Jason England - Hip hop has reached its midlife crisis

The Problem With Saying Oontz Oontz by Spencer Kornhaber - The story of dance music in America is a story of boom and backlash. As Beyoncé and Drake turn to house-inspired sounds, will the cycle happen again?

Why Do We Even Listen to New Music? by Jeremy D. Larson - Our brains reward us for seeking out what we already know. So why should we reach to listen to something we don’t?

How Twitter Changed Music by Eric Harvey - Hashtag rap! Kanye rants! Terrifying stan pile-ons! For better and worse, Twitter has forever altered the music landscape.

What Will Happen When Machines Write Songs Just as Well as Your Favorite Musician? by Clive Thompson - Artificial intelligence tools will hurt some musicians and help others.

The Violin Doctor by Elly Fishman - He’s trusted to repair some of the world’s most fabled — and expensive — instruments. How does John Becker manage to unlock the sound of a Stradivarius?

[draingang-agora]

About me,

Hi I'm Ellie, I'm an Australian pseudo-intellectual who likes; Music, philosophy, Literature, and Ancient History, I'm hoping to use this blog to chat and as a diary for books I'm reading. I've listed some specifics below, feel free to chat abt or recommend anything based on them, no DNI, Interact with this blog in any form you wish. I'm interested mostly in Phenomenology, some thinkers I like: Wittgenstein, Anscombe, Heidegger, and Nietzsche, Music is mostly divided into indie(,/-) rock, and pop music, I collect records, I like: Charli XCX, Radiohead, Sufjan Stevens, Vampire weekend, The Cure, Adrienne Lenker; including Big Thief. Authors I like: DFW, Zadie Smith, Faulkner, Burroughs, Pynchon, Joyce, and Cormac McCarthy. NB: I like to use tumblr to microdose certain subjects I don't have the time nor inclination to spend real work studying, to wit: linguistics, mathematics, and economics, if I am ever wrong about any of these I highly encourage you to exercise as much pedantry as possible in correcting me.

[thirdity]

The strongest paintings pursue an entirely different relation: not the narrow point-for-point argument between artist and art history but the essential, living communication between art work and viewer, a relationship that Yiadom-Boakye reminds us is indeed vicarious, voyeuristic, ambivalent and fundamentally uncontrollable. [...] The figures themselves are the basis for your fantasy, with their teasing, ambiguous titles, women dancing to unheard music, or peering through binoculars at objects unseen. They seem to have souls — that ultimate retrogressive term! — though by “soul” we need imply nothing more metaphysical here than the sum total of one person’s affect in the mind of another. Having this experience of other people (or of fictional simulacra of people) is an annoyingly persistent habit of actual humans, no matter how many convincing theoretical arguments attempt to bracket and contain the impulse, to carefully unhook it from transcendental ideas, or simply to curse it by one of its many names: realism, humanism, naturalism, figuration. [...] Yiadom-Boakye has inherited a narrative compulsion, which has less to do with capturing the real than with provoking, in her audience, a desire to impose a story upon an image. Central to this novelistic practice is learning how to leave sufficient space, so as to give your audience room to elaborate.

Zadie Smith, "A Bird of Few Words"

[iishtar]

Articles no. 20

The Musical History Lesson Buried Beneath the Song of the Summer by Dan Charnas Slate June 2024

Zadie Smith is just the latest. Fashion and literature have a long history by Rachel Tashijan Washington Post August 2023

Hyperreal Individualism by Safy Hallan-Farah princess babygirl March 2024

Princess Babygirl Forever by Safy Hallan-Farah princess babygirl February 2024

Women of the Pleasure Quarters: The Secret History of the Geisha by Lesley Downer New York Times 2001

A Matter of Survival: On the Value of Fashion in Literature by Rachel Wagner The Millions October 2017

It Girl: A Girardian Analysis by Safy Hallan-Farah princess babygirl June 2024

The 'Espresso' Theory of Gender Relations by Spencer Kornhaber The Atlantic June 2024

Brat Summer: is the long era of clean living finally over? by Zoe Williams The Guardian July 2024

My stepfather sexually abused me as a child. My mother, Alice Munro, chose to stay with him by Andrea Robin Skinner Toronto Star July 2024

[onlyjaeyun]

zadie omg my spotify wrapped is chaos.

my most listend song is criminal love as i listened to it for 1.087 times.... then next is chaconne,given-taken, blessed-cursed and fate.

I SPENT 22.221 MINUTES LISTENING TO MUSIC,15 DAYS.

and...im in the top 0,1% listeners of enhypen with 9.123 hours....

im.insane.

-🍀

over one THOUSAND times..? bestie 😭 i cant help you anymore im afraid 💀but hey its given taken so i'll let it pass we love to see it 🤒

[longtallciara]

IF NOBODY SPEAKS OF REMARKABLE THINGS

Animism is reciprocity. ~ S Kelley Harrell ~

​At the end, all that's left of you are your possessions. Perhaps that's why I've never been able to throw anything away. Perhaps that's why I hoarded the world: with the hope that when I died, the sum total of my things would suggest a life larger than the one I lived. ~ Nicole Krauss - The History of Love ~

Maybe they are either best friends or crutches. Either way these things feel like they know me as much as I know them. I see them, touch them or listen to them most days, and I feel nourished and enlivened after spending time with them, as I would after spending an evening on the sofa with one of my IRL best friends. Time spent with IRL best friends is minimal these days, especially since I moved back to the motherland in October 2020. So I've had to funnel out and process my emotions in other ways. My partner is brilliant at protecting my feelings, and helping me regulate my emotions. But there are some things which he can't help with (I don't expect him to) because they are my work.         I won't be including things like books or music on this list. Those things are intrinsic to life.  As Nietzsche said, 'Without music, life would be a mistake.' To quote Cicero, 'A room without books is like a body without a soul.' I want to acknowledge everyday personal effects and artefacts that I have intimacy with. It reminded me of when, quite movingly, Tracy Emin married a stone at the end of her garden. The feelings she had towards that stone feel like what I feel around these things, not quite the same, but not far off either.      I propose that these these things which I have started to call 'best friends' have memories, as in there are memories of them - I have memories of them - but sometimes I think that they may as well, be it digital, physical or emotional. I try to treat whatever it is kindly and mindfully, and whatever I give they give back in turn when I am using them. Or I've gone mad.

My cat My pet cat is arguably someone I know in real life. But can you ever really know a cat? Let alone your cat? All I can say that I definitely  know about her is that her butthole stinks (I know because she makes me know by sticking her butthole that she is so proud of in my face) and she gets the zoomies post-poop. Otherwise, cats are a world-renowned mystery. Our vet Clare of the Cat Hospital said on the RTE show 'The Cat Hospital' that cats hide that they are ill, and if they do end up displaying signs of illness, then something is really wrong. Zadie has been demonstrably ill twice, and we  acted straight away. The first time was when we noticed a tiny limp when she walked, and we said we'd keep an eye on it. We went out for a few hours, and when we came home Zadie was in the doorway of our bedroom. She raised her paw to us and had this depressed, helpless look in her eyes, and we knew we had to go to a kitty ER immediately. The other time was last year, when we saw her sidle away under the bed and after 24 hours still wouldn't come out to eat at all. The poor girl had bronchitis.

​I love watching her after she heaves herself through the cat flap (she makes such a big song and dance about the cat flap, she often meows at us demanding that we open the door for her, Her Majesty) and she loiters around outside. She looks up and sniffs the air or the leaves of plants like she's doing it for the first time, but I've spied on her doing it every day, and it's just so damn cute. What is going through her mind as she does it? Again and again? Day after day? Does she have amnesia?

Maybe she takes things in and appreciates them like we humans occasionally do - when we take our first step outside, take in the view, the warmth of the sun and a big hunk of fresh air, before sipping our first coffee of the day. Sneaking in a bit of gratitude before the weight of all our burdens arrive on our shoulders and suffocate us, trapping us beneath the existential bell jar. Zadie knows exactly what she's doing - I don't. There is no rhyme or reason to her attacks of alarming affection on me, but the most miraculous of all is when she actually comes to sit on me when I am on my period. It's a dream come true - I imagine that she is trying to heal me, by keeping me warm and casting away layers of pain with the vibration and frequency of her soft purrs. Whilst I'm aware that I am likely to project my feelings of tenderness onto her, I feel satisfied that she feels tenderness towards me. I read The Inner Life of Animals by Peter Wohlleben years ago (so I might remember things wrong), but he talked about the element of choice in the animal world. Zadie could go and sleep anywhere. Even after I feed her she chooses to follow me into my room to snooze on the sofa next to me a lot of the time. Sometimes she comes in to clean herself and then just chill on the carpet, lying on her back and exposing her tummy - the ultimate pose of feeling comfortable, even around me who always wants to stroke her and disturb her.        Even when she is aloof, as is her right, she is companionable. I feel it when I am alone at home for a few days. I like being on my own, but there is something about having this other little soul in the house too. I love knowing she's there.

Reusable sanitary towels With all the politics of disposable sanitary products that was in the air years ago (the *~pink~* tax) and knowing that all my pads would eventually wind up in landfill and languish there for fifty years, I went and bought a Mooncup. It certainly was not for me. So I bought some reusable pads off Amazon and used them wrong. How can you use menstrual pads wrong??? I hear you cry, but somehow, I did. These pads weren't very nice, but I put up with them, because I thought I deserved them. Whenever I fold them up I wonder if they'll snap like a dusty old cracker. They were rough as hell and too uncomfortable to wear if I was out all day at work, so I compromised by buying more eco-friendly Natracare disposable pads.        That is until I found a box of Bloom & Nora reusable sanitary towels (not sponsored but my goodness I AM OPEN) on sale in Boots in the new year. It felt like I was destined to find this single remaining busted box. It had been opened and rejected. I had been looking online at these pads in the preceding days, where they were full price. Then I found them in Boots on sale. I paid for them and walked out the shop with a feeling like I had won. These pads feel like I am finally being nice to myself. They are so soft and comfortable, and I LOOK FORWARD to the novelty of wearing them when my period finally arrives because they remind me that I am looking after myself.

​Yoga mat My first yoga mat was from the middle aisle in the Streatham Lidl, and I had it for years, and it was a neglected, filthy, mangy, old thing that I kept for too long like my sorry old sanitary pads. When I took up yoga properly, I went especially to the Buddhist Centre in Manchester to buy my new one. And I still have it. It is a deep blue colour, the colour of my mind, and I treat it with respect. I do an equivalent of what Ravi Shankar did when he told George Harrison to not step over his sitar, but to walk around it. After I have rolled it out I might have to stand on one end of it until it stops curling up, which I do whilst my decrepit tablet tries to turn itself on and load the YouTube app.        There is something about taking out my yoga mat, rolling it out, putting on my delicately breathy, willowy-soft clothing, lighting a candle or some incense, then stepping on to my mat and sitting down gently and getting into a comfortable position. I love the ritual in the preparation, that is when the practice begins. The entire practice is like a story - it has the beginning, the middle, and the end.

At the end of a practice I crouch at the end of my mat on my tiptoes (a bit of extra yoga for my feet), and as I roll it back up I sweep my hands across it after each roll so that it is as clean as possible. I’m trying to take the best care of it after the negligent degradation of my first one.

Every few days I give my mat a clean with a spray that I made myself, thanks to the recipe provided by my other best friend in this small social group: Adriene. One of my sisters introduced me to her donkey's years ago and I have never gone with anyone else on the whole of YouTube. Her mantra to 'find what feels good' has taught me in the long run to get to know myself and my body better. It is an incredible tool. It has taught me what I can feel and achieve out of the physical sensations without expending my energies thinking about the shape of the poses or why the hell I'm so inflexible and out of shape and unhealthy and ugly.  Instead it has brought me understanding - I can tell people what I do yoga for and how it feels.

For me, my philosophy is a kind of cousin of the Japanese art technique of kintsugi. In kintsugi, broken pottery and wares are repaired using golden coloured lacquer, so that the breakages are still visible even when the piece is fixed. For me, yoga is when 'the breakages' are stretched and pulled further apart, and the sun and air can reach inside all these cracks. Or, it is the gold beneath that is finally  revealed and shining out, thanks to the stretches. I can feel it in my entire body. It's like I opened a ricketty, rotten wormy door to a cell in my soul where I didn't know free happy drugs were. They were there all along, and I was always able to get to them.

That's how it feels when you can finally make sense of marrying the movement to the breath in yoga. It took me months to understand why the hell Adriene wanted me to take a deep breath in at a particular point when my overheated brain was still trying to catch up with something else she was saying before, but with practice, it just clicked one day. Then I exhaled. Since then, I've been taking those moments with me to work, to the beach, and that image of my stretching muscles letting light in comes into my head daily, and I feel invigorated. So I thank my yoga mat, for being patient with me as I learned all this, for supporting me and taking me on.

The Blindboy Podcast Years into this podcast, its creator and host Blindboy Boatclub is definitely someone I consider my friend. He is a friend to me - a consistent, friendly voice. I treat him as my friend to the monetary equivalent of a coffee or a pint, and in return I get compassion and wisdom, and he makes me laugh. Blindboy is a pseudonym of a mystery person who I will never know, I only know the persona of a Mr Boatclub, not the real man under the plastic bag. So I think I get away with having his podcast on this list.

​The topics of the podcast are sprawling and inexhaustible, and he always makes them interesting.

Blindboy also speaks prominently about mental health - as someone who studied to be a psychotherapist, and has worked for most of his adult life in becoming emotionally literate, Blindboy has been trying to democratise psychology. In a world where access to mental health services is incredibly limited, and counselling and therapy are out of reach to the majority of people, his insights are invaluable. The mental health episodes have been so helpful to me as I continue with my own work in trying to understand the world and figure out who I am. The theories and ideas he summarises have been practicable for me in daily life - a game-changing episode for me was when Blindboy explained the concept of Transactional Analysis (modes of communication - Adult, Parent, Child. For example ideally when at work, everyone would be communicating with one another in Adult. However, on occasion, a manager may need to speak with an employee about a mistake they've made, and unfortunately the manager chastises the employee, doing this in Parent, and the employee reacts and responds in Child. This is an ineffective and dysfunctional dynamic for adults in a workplace or in general. That is my rudimentary explanation of it). Blindboy did not complete his studies, so is careful and responsible in prefacing everything with a warning that everything he shares is drawn from his own personal experience, and that everyone is different.         In the last bookshop I worked in, one of my core memories was when a guy came up to my till to buy On Becoming a Person by Carl Rogers. Blindboy has talked about Carl Rogers numerous times, and I thought maybe he listens to Blindboy. This lad was maybe 5-10 years younger than me, so I took the plunge. 'Hello fellow millennial', I did not say. I asked him if he did also listen, and he said that he did. We quoted things back to one another, and he told me that he was about to begin his own studies to become a psychotherapist. It was one of my favourite interactions I had at the bookshop.        Not only does he share his experiences and knowledge of psychology, he takes deep dives into food, folklore, history and art. Sometimes I feel  that I don't have an interest in the history of paint, or that I'm not in the mood for a lecture on the origins of disco music, but I do listen to them because I am currently going back and listening to every single episode. In the end, I am sold.        To get started, I would highly recommend the episode 'Butchers French', about Victor Frankl and his book Man's Search for Meaning. After listening to it I would implore anyone to read that book. My mum bought it for me when I was 20, and I read it whilst travelling around Europe by train and on my way to Poland. At that age I was without doubt self-absorbed, generally anxious and unhappy, but also undiagnosed autistic, and my mother recognised something at that time that I really needed. I think she knew that I needed hope.

The Poetry section Sometimes after therapy you feel like you've cracked something - your head open, or a mystery. When it's the latter, I want to dance down the street. When my head has been cracked open, I walk out onto the street feeling vulnerable, exposed, tired, and sad. Sometimes I want to go straight home and pull the curtains. Most of the time, I go to a bookshop or library and head straight to the poetry section.

So I know poetry collections are sold and bought in book form, and I said I wouldn't be including books in this list. But poetry is its own thing. You understand. ​I think that's what I'm looking for after a hard session, something to fortify, strengthen, ground me. Poetry is a genuine comfort. One of my favourite lines comes from Lemn Sissay, which became a bit of a mantra to me: How do you do it, said night How do you wake and shine? I keep it simple, said light One day at a time.

When I was researching for my book, I came across a WH Auden poem called 'First Things First'. It's meaning in parts is obscure to me, but the comforting feeling of it, especially the first stanza, just paints a warm blue picture to me. Woken, I lay in the arms of my own warmth and listened To a storm enjoying its storminess in the winter dark Till my ear, as it can when half-asleep or half-sober, Set to work to unscramble that interjectory roar, Construing its airy vowels and watery consonants Into a love-speech indicative of a Proper Name. After talking about this poem in one session, I promised myself as I walked to the bookshop that if I found a book with that poem in there I would buy it. And buying poetry has since become an allowable post-sesh expenditure, because poetry is elemental and therapeutic. Sometimes I don't know why I like poetry. At times it is opaque and obscure, sometimes it feels highfalutin and I huff and feel stupid. But like trying to understand other people and ourselves, it is something I want to have around me and is something I look to and pursue in trying to understand, or even let lie. Sometimes I think 'it is what it is' - I don't know what the heck a poem is about but it sounds beautiful. Sometimes my interpretation is different to someone else's reading, and both can be fine, because who really knows what was in the poet's head at the time? I think they were putting forward an idea as intricately and as beautifully as possible. Words so often fail me, so I seek them out. The cost of words I speak in therapy exhaust me, so I seek them out in their most concise, pure, distilled and beautiful form. Poetry is something to be reached for when you want to get back in touch with yourself; even if the verse is cryptic and you feel like you're being tricked. It is mindful and switches on hallucinogenic visuals, and it’s encasement in it's rules, techniques, and stanzas envelop me in something soulful.

We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out. ​~ Ray Bradbury ~

[rockislandadultreads]

NoveList Combos: Character Driven & Thoughtful

Did you know NoveList is a database you can access with your library card to find reading recommendations? Find your next favorite read with this fantastic readers tool! Check it out on our website here.

Swing Time by Zadie Smith

Two brown girls dream of being dancers—but only one, Tracey, has talent. The other has ideas: about rhythm and time, about black bodies and black music, about what constitutes a tribe, or makes a person truly free. It's a close but complicated childhood friendship that ends abruptly in their early twenties, never to be revisited, but never quite forgotten, either.

Dazzlingly energetic and deeply human, Swing Time is a story about friendship and music and stubborn roots, about how we are shaped by these things and how we can survive them. Moving from northwest London to West Africa, it is an exuberant dance to the music of time.

Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson

As the book opens in 2001, it is the evening of sixteen-year-old Melody's coming of age ceremony in her grandparents' Brooklyn brownstone. Watched lovingly by her relatives and friends, making her entrance to the music of Prince, she wears a special custom-made dress. But the event is not without poignancy. Sixteen years earlier, that very dress was measured and sewn for a different wearer: Melody's mother, for her own ceremony-- a celebration that ultimately never took place.

Unfurling the history of Melody's parents and grandparents to show how they all arrived at this moment, Woodson considers not just their ambitions and successes but also the costs, the tolls they've paid for striving to overcome expectations and escape the pull of history. As it explores sexual desire and identity, ambition, gentrification, education, class and status, and the life-altering facts of parenthood, Red at the Bone most strikingly looks at the ways in which young people must so often make long-lasting decisions about their lives--even before they have begun to figure out who they are and what they want to be.

Monogamy by Sue Miller

Graham and Annie have been married for nearly thirty years. A golden couple, their seemingly effortless devotion has long been the envy of their circle of friends and acquaintances. 

Graham is a bookseller, a big, gregarious man with large appetites—curious, eager to please, a lover of life, and the convivial host of frequent, lively parties at his and Annie’s comfortable house in Cambridge. Annie, more reserved and introspective, is a photographer. She is about to have her first gallery show after a six-year lull and is worried that the best years of her career may be behind her. They have two adult children; Lucas, Graham’s son with his first wife, Frieda, works in New York. Annie and Graham’s daughter, Sarah, lives in San Francisco. Though Frieda is an integral part of this far-flung, loving family, Annie feels confident in the knowledge that she is Graham’s last and greatest love.

When Graham suddenly dies—this man whose enormous presence has seemed to dominate their lives together—Annie is lost. What is the point of going on, she wonders, without him? 

Then, while she is still mourning him intensely, she discovers that Graham had been unfaithful to her; and she spirals into darkness, wondering if she ever truly knew the man who loved her.

The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai

In 1985, Yale Tishman, the development director for an art gallery in Chicago, is about to pull off an amazing coup, bringing in an extraordinary collection of 1920s paintings as a gift to the gallery. Yet as his career begins to flourish, the carnage of the AIDS epidemic grows around him. One by one, his friends are dying and after his friend Nico's funeral, the virus circles closer and closer to Yale himself. Soon the only person he has left is Fiona, Nico's little sister.

Thirty years later, Fiona is in Paris tracking down her estranged daughter who disappeared into a cult. While staying with an old friend, a famous photographer who documented the Chicago crisis, she finds herself finally grappling with the devastating ways AIDS affected her life and her relationship with her daughter. The two intertwining stories take us through the heartbreak of the eighties and the chaos of the modern world, as both Yale and Fiona struggle to find goodness in the midst of disaster.

[manwalksintobar]

Call It Music  // Philip Levine

Some days I catch a rhythm, almost a song   in my own breath. I'm alone here   in Brooklyn Heights, late morning, the sky   above the St. George Hotel clear, clear   for New York, that is. The radio playing   "Bird Flight," Parker in his California   tragic voice fifty years ago, his faltering   "Lover Man" just before he crashed into chaos.   I would guess that outside the recording studio   in Burbank the sun was high above the jacarandas,   it was late March, the worst of yesterday's rain   had come and gone, the sky washed blue. Bird   could have seen for miles if he'd looked, but what   he saw was so foreign he clenched his eyes,   shook his head, and barked like a dog—just once—   and then Howard McGhee took his arm and assured him   he'd be OK. I know this because Howard told me   years later that he thought Bird could   lie down in the hotel room they shared, sleep   for an hour or more, and waken as himself.   The perfect sunlight angles into my little room   above Willow Street. I listen to my breath   come and go and try to catch its curious taste,   part milk, part iron, part blood, as it passes   from me into the world. This is not me,   this is automatic, this entering and exiting,   my body's essential occupation without which   I am a thing. The whole process has a name,   a word I don't know, an elegant word not   in English or Yiddish or Spanish, a word   that means nothing to me. Howard truly believed   what he said that day when he steered   Parker into a cab and drove the silent miles   beside him while the bright world   unfurled around them: filling stations, stands   of fruits and vegetables, a kiosk selling trinkets   from Mexico and the Philippines. It was all   so actual and Western, it was a new creation   coming into being, like the music of Charlie Parker   someone later called "glad," though that day   I would have said silent, "the silent music   of Charlie Parker." Howard said nothing.   He paid the driver and helped Bird up two flights   to their room, got his boots off, and went out   to let him sleep as the afternoon entered   the history of darkness. I'm not judging   Howard, he did better than I could have   now or then. Then I was 19, working   on the loading docks at Railway Express,   coming day by day into the damaged body   of a man while I sang into the filthy air   the Yiddish drinking songs my Zadie taught me   before his breath failed. Now Howard is gone,   eleven long years gone, the sweet voice silenced.   "The subtle bridge between Eldridge and Navarro,"   they later wrote, all that rising passion   a footnote to others. I remember in '85   walking the halls of Cass Tech, the high school   where he taught after his performing days,   when suddenly he took my left hand in his   two hands to tell me it all worked out   for the best. Maybe he'd gotten religion,   maybe he knew how little time was left,   maybe that day he was just worn down   by my questions about Parker. To him Bird   was truly Charlie Parker, a man, a silent note   going out forever on the breath of genius   which now I hear soaring above my own breath   as this bright morning fades into afternoon.   Music, I'll call it music. It's what we need   as the sun staggers behind the low gray clouds   blowing relentlessly in from that nameless ocean,   the calm and endless one I've still to cross.

[windslar]

THE BOLD THE FACTS tag by @helenofsimblr

The Rules are simple! Tag people and name a character you want to know more about! If you want to let the person you tagged decide who to showcase, then don’t name a character and they can pick somebody. Easy! The person who is tagged will then bold the remarks below which apply to their character &, if they want to, include a picture with their reply!

I was tagged by @jonquilyst and @moonfromearth who both requested answers for Zadie. Thank you so much for the tag and I'm sorry this took literal weeks to post. Also sorry my queue's run out of Lightflower posts, but I'll be back to posting again soon once I have my poses and such in order.

Zadie Flores-Darling

[ PERSONAL]

$ Financial: wealthy/ moderate / poor / in poverty -- (she's poor now as an independent young adult in the city but she comes from a privileged background [her mum, lucia, made bank being a bestselling author!])

✚ Medical: fit / moderate / sickly / disabled / disadvantaged / non applicable

✪ Class or Caste: upper / middle / working / unsure / other

✔ Education: qualified / unqualified / studying / other -- she's a high school graduate

✖ Criminal Record: yes, for major crimes / yes, for minor crimes / no / has committed crimes, but not caught yet / yes, but charges were dismissed -- nothing major, just the typical teen rebellion stuff in a small farm town like trespassing the creature keeper's house to see if he had the good mushrooms, vandalizing a cow shed, underage drinking and drug use, disorderly conduct at a 21+ club during a school trip to San Myshuno...

[ FAMILY]

◒ Children: has children / has no children / wants children

◑ Relationship with Family: close with sibling(s) / not close with sibling(s) / has no siblings / sibling(s) is deceased

◔ Affiliation: orphaned / adopted / disowned / raised by birth parents / not applicable

[ TRAITS + TENDENCIES]

♦ extroverted/ introverted / in between -- Zadie is an ambivert who loves to be the centre of attention when she's performing, but feels most creative and expressive when she's alone writing music

♦ disorganized / organized / in between

♦ close minded /open-minded / in between -- I mean, she's so open-minded that she can be a little short-tempered with people who are close-minded

♦ calm / anxious / in between -- confident but intense, which can read as either calm or anxious

♦ disagreeable / agreeable / in between

♦ cautious / reckless / in between -- you ain't seen nothing yet

♦ patient / impatient / in between

♦ outspoken / reserved / in between

♦ leader / follower / in between -- classic Aries

♦ empathetic / vicious bastard / in between -- she's sensitive but she bites

♦ optimistic / pessimistic / in between -- doesn't let anything stand between her and her dreams

♦ traditional / modern / in between

♦ hard-working / lazy / in between

♦ cultured /uncultured / in between / unknown -- knows music inside and out

♦ loyal / disloyal/ unknown

♦ faithful / unfaithful/ unknown

[ BELIEFS]

★ Faith: monotheist / polytheist / atheist / agnostic

☆ Belief in Ghosts or Spirits: yes/ no / don’t know / don’t care

✮ Belief in an Afterlife: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care

✯ Belief in Reincarnation: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care

❃ Belief in Aliens: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care

✧ Religious: orthodox / liberal / in between / not religious

❀ Philosophical: yes / no

[ SEXUALITY & ROMANTIC INCLINATION ]

❤ Sexuality: heterosexual/ homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual

❥ Sex: sex repulsed / sex neutral / sex favorable / naive and clueless

♥ Romance: romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favorable /naive and clueless / romance suspicious

❣ Sexually: adventurous/ experienced / naive / inexperienced / curious -- while she was with Suzy, they experimented a little but Zadie respected her girlfriend's boundaries and they never went ~all the way~

⚧ Potential Sexual Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all

⚧ Potential Romantic Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all

[ ABILITIES ]

☠ Combat Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none -- she's skinny but she can throw hands

≡ Literacy Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none -- her mum's a bestselling author so it's in her blood; it explains why she's such a terrific singer-songwriter

✍ Artistic Skills: excellent (musically, she is gifted) / good / moderate (other forms of art) / poor / none

✂ Technical Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none -- she's a master with the guitar and has the voice of a fallen angel

[ HABITS ]

☕ Drinking Alcohol: never / special occasions / sometimes / frequently/ Alcoholic

☁ Smoking: tried it / trying to quit / quit / never / rarely / sometimes / frequently / Chain-smoker

✿ Recreational Drugs: never / special occasions / sometimes / frequently / addict -- she's currently looking for like-minded city friends so she can partake in said habits

✌ Medicinal Drugs: never / no longer needs medication / some medication needed / frequently / to excess

☻ Unhealthy Food: never / special occasions / sometimes / frequently / binge eater

$ Splurge Spending: never / sometimes / frequently / shopaholic

♣ Gambling: never / rarely / sometimes / frequently/ compulsive gambler

I want to tag @aurorangen for Renee, @dustbon for Basil, @thaplumbob for Malia, @duusheen for Jay, and @marmidas for Poppy. Feel free to ignore if you've already done this or don't want to.