theotherhumbert-blog

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Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love? Can I just make some more romance with you, my love?

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To be Irish is to know that in the end the world will break your heart.

Daniel Patrick Moynihan

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Fanmix Challenge: i. Language

Contemporary pop songs covered in Irish Gaelic [listen]

1.Anois an t-am le Imagine Dragons—TG Lurgan 2.Cuir Glaoch Orm B’féidir—TG Lurgan 3.Some Nights—TG Lurgan 4.Wake Me Up—TG Lurgan 5.Kids—TG Lurgan 6.Fir Bhig na Leon—Mo Hat Mo Gheansaí 7.Fairytale of New York—TG Lurgen 8.Lig é Dul—Ownleme 9.Amhrán na gCupán—TG Lurgan

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She said, ‘I’m so afraid.’ And I said, ‘why?,’ and she said, ‘Because I’m so profoundly happy. Happiness like this is frightening.’ I asked her why and she said, ‘They only let you be this happy if they’re preparing to take something from you.’

Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner

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(submitted by effenbergs)

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With the right music, you either forget everything or you remember everything.

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― Clementine von Radics | Transparent

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"Pleasure, ma'am." Lewis lost none of the polite formality that made up the cross to which he'd bound himself, smile widening just enough to be visible before disappearing again into that same listless expression, trapped between a forced attempt at maturity he was really striving to display and apathy so thick she might well have been able to take a knife to it--or an axe. His gaze shifted briefly to the spinning pencil, fixing on its rotation as its wielder spoke and breaking off, back to the paintings, when she tossed the wink in his direction. Her tease went unreceived, bouncing off the tension in his shoulders and the stiffness in his spine as though it was a stone cast against a shield.

A quick shake of his head, shaggy hair nearly obscuring his eyes when he replied, "He's ne'er had an interest in art, I'm 'fraid. In- in makin' it." Visual or audible or anything of the sort; the older man had always been the one to leave that up to others--so long as those others weren't his son. "Fer a paintin', though--" Half-turning, Lewis slid his hands into his pockets up to the knuckles, a posture that should have come across as relaxed, especially with the way it opened him up from arms folded across his chest, but it hunched his shoulders just enough to close him back off. "I'd pay commission price, but I'm lookin' fer sometin' more a country than a forest. Remind him of home, mebbe." No question where that was, given their parallel accents.

Irish. Right down to the bones and possibly further. A smile that she couldn’t quite contain (something rather rare for the blonde, might one add) lifted the corners of her mouth briefly, an eyebrow raising and head turning just so slightly as she kept her gaze on the customer—looker. Whichever. “Humbert,” she echoed. “Pleasure t’meet you, Mr. Humbert.” A hand raised to tuck a stray curl of almost black hair away from where it brushed against her jaw. “M’name’s O’Callan. Welcome to my Studio.”

“Mmm, birthday, eh?” Her hand plucked up one of the many pencils sitting behind the counter and, with an ease that only came with habituality, began to twirl it beneath her fingers as she thought. “Yes, I do believe that surprise is the general idea of that.” A pause as she thought. Birthday. Birthday. “Has your father had any experience in art before? Or is he more of the ‘let’s just admire the final project’ kind?” A wink, teasing in all forms, was left to punctuate her question as she pointed the end of the pencil towards the finished works hanging on the wall as example. A few were simple black and white sketches of people from around Storybrooke. Others were full oil works done of anything ranging from things she’d dreamt (forests without names, cities and towns that she’d never been to, etc.) to areas around the small town. “If it’s the latter, I might be able to make something like one of those for you. If the former, then I’d suggest getting him some supplies. Brushes wear out quickly, as does a supply of canvases, as one might imagine.”

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Apparently he'd interrupted unexpectedly, though he wasn't quite sure how. Shops required business, even if they were only the front for an art studio, and part of owning a place like this meant having paying customers. Always approached as a business, these days, even if the blonde head appearing around the corner humanized things beyond the sharp corners of marked canvases. Her accent, when she spoke, made something lurch in Lewis' chest, and his mouth curled ever so slightly into a simulacrum of a smile. It would have been more obvious--and probably less painful--if it had reached his eyes and if it looked to be an expression he was in the habit of forming.

"Humbert, ma'am. An' yer fine." His gaze slid away around the shop once more, but it didn't seem as though he was admiring the work there. Inspecting it, perhaps, with an eye that knew neither what, exactly, it was seeing nor whether it suited his purposes. "I'm lookin' fer a present fer my da. Would've brought 'im wid me, but gifts are s'posed t'be a s'rprise, I been told." And there was the whole idea of appeasing the older man without his own assistance, but Lewis wasn't about to spill unnecessary family dynamics and history onto someone he'd just met.

She hadn’t booked an appointment with anyone and, though walk-ins weren’t unusual, this kind was. She could already tell by the stiff business-like tone that rang out crisply throughout the air that this wasn’t some sort of casual, window-shopping stroll throughout storybook. With that notion in mind, Julia found herself rushing to wipe away the biggest streaks of paint that crossed her cheeks (the red only served to make her look like a hand-painted doll, even when it had mostly been washed away) in an attempt to salvage at least some respect. Right. Business-like. That was an image she strived to obtain when around customers. However, when she was working privately, it was a notion that went straight out the window. The man had walked straight-in on a moment as such. 

Time wasn’t a gift she had, though, and soon she was rounding the corner and walking through the gap in the waist-high counter that served as a barrier between her actual work-space and the Shop with a strictly polite smile at the curly-haired man and an apologetic shake of her head. “Sorry about tha’. I wasn’t expecting anyone until around four-thirty or so.” Reaching to one of the shelves nearby the wash-station, she wiped her hands and untied the messy apron that shielded her clothes from the nightmares of staining paint. “What can I do for you, Mister…?”

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