I saw the most scrumptious art on instagram but while I was looking for the sound on it the feed refreshed before I could like it AND I AM LOOSING MY MIND

HOW AM I GOING TO FIND THAT POST AGAIN IG???

HOW ARE YOU GOING TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THIS CRIME?

Lots of Asks….

Catching up to my inbox. I've been super busy at work, but a lot of these have been on my mind. Thoughts on Yulia Stepnova, initially at the Mariinsky now at the Bolshoi. I have no idea what the politics were at the Mariinsky the impeded her career. Stepanova was dancing soloist roles at the Mariinksy, but a promotion was elusive. She moved to Moscow, first with MAMT (Stanislavsky), and then the Bolshoi and now she's a prima. Clearly, the move was a good one for her. I think she's a wonderful dancer, nuanced, subtle. However, I find that she's such a fish out of water in Moscow—she just doesn't have the big bravado Bolshoi vibe. She's definitely a Mariinsky ballerina and I wish her career could have flourished there, but glad she's a prima. I really like her a lot. Wondering if I think Sofya Valiullina made a mistake by going to the Bolshoi rather than the Mariinsky because she has a so-so teacher and Kuprina and Koshkaryova are getting more featured roles… I am living in an alternate universe in which Valiulina accepted a contract with the Mariinksy and fast-tracked to soloist, eventually becoming a star. She has the Mariinsky elegance with a nice splash of bravado that would make her a real stand-out. Alas, that's not happening. I also wonder if she's not as favored as the other two because she doesn't have the requisite Bolshoi body (extremely thin, very leggy.) Valiullina has some curves and Vaziev's obsession with Zakharova lookalikes makes for some really lousy casting choices and bewildering promotions. (Kovaleva, Denisova, Sergeenkova). Another alternate universe is one in which she returns to the Mariinsky after a few years at the Bolshoi….has anyone done that? Usually the migration is the other way, but one can dream. Daria Kulikova's debut in The Nutcracker. Wrote about it here. I only saw small snippets and I really liked it. I mean…she'd only graduated a month prior, but she was sweet, has lovely stage presence. Looking forward to seeing her career develop.

Do I read into the scheduling of Khoreva's (afternoon) and Shakirova's (evening) most recent Swan Lake performances? No, not really. Lots of questions about my thoughts on Khoreva's Swan Lake…

It was…middling. I just think Khoreva is a bit of a self-absorbed dancer and she really needs to develop strong, emotional connections with her partner, especially for Swan Lake. From the short clips that I saw she can do the technical things, but performances seem flat on video. Maybe there is more spark in the theater? She's not my fave, but it seems her career is ascendant not matter what. So many questions on the recent Vaganova Grads….

As for the careers of this year's crop of Vaganova graduates other than the BIG 3, we'll see them all soon on the stage and I wish them all luck! I imagine that the transition from school life to theater life is quite a shift…even shock. I try to imagine what it's like for them at 18/19, having to find apartments, make friends, figure out the politics at a company. They were big fish in a small pond, and now they're in a much bigger pond with so many talented dancers around them, all vying for roles. It can really mess with their heads. That's why I've always felt that they need a several years in the corps to just grow up as people and artists. That said, I think the Big 3 will likely be fine. they're going to need some time to adjust and settle. I'm not worried about their careers….but I think the Vaganova hype can be a double-edged sword, perhaps. Putting intense early pressure on them without giving them time and space to develop artistry…we shall see.

Chapter III: Catalina’s Welcome // Far From Home!

Warnings: angst, fluff, (there is h/c there too) crying, blood, mention of abuse, mention of death, and panic attack

A/n: I know people have their own different experiences on panic attacks. Alas, poor girlie Elena🥺. Also, this is the longest chapter, damn! A lot of shit to unpack.

A/n 2: The following content may be unsuitable for younger readers. Reader’s discretion is strongly advised.

Elena’s pov

“Have we met before?” he asks me.

It’s the same man from before. The one I found at sea. The man I saved from drowning without being caught by my Sisters and the Ocean. I nod.

“It must be true. You must be the one. What’s your name, darling?”

I look down sadly.

“Can’t speak?”

I nod reluctantly. This is a secret to all sirens. You must not speak in front of others when you’re in public. Giving your voice means you kill. You add another dead man to the sea.

He takes out a pen. “Here,” he says as he puts his arm out for me. “You can write here.”

I contemplate giving him my real name for a split moment before actually writing it down.

“Elena. What a beautiful name.” His voice seems so gentle. He introduces himself as Matty.

Ugh his smile. He’s so beautiful like this. Just like when I found him the other day. He takes my hand as he kisses it, his gentle lips brushing against it.

I am eying a bracelet on Matty’s wrist, curiosity getting the best of me. It looks so beautiful. The pearls in it wraps around it like a ribbon. I grab my phone, open notes and begin typing.

That bracelet is beautiful, I sign. Someone made it for you?

“My girlfriend made it for me,” he replies. “Unfortunately, she passed away in a car accident. I was gonna marry her. She was the light of my life until her death. It had been days since. That was when you found me. Nearly meeting my death. I thank you.”

I smile, but at the same time, I feel really sorry for him. He must have really loved that girl. He poured his heart and soul for her. Her death has affected him so much when I found him that day. I watch as he begins to burst into tears. He opened up about himself and what happened.

I’m really sorry for your loss. I sign again.

I get up from the bench and hug him as he cries. He lays his head on my shoulder as I stroke his head, my fingers slightly scratching his scalp. My other hand is rubbing his back in soothing patterns. I feel his body shaking from all of the pain he has been carrying for the past couple days after the incident. I pull away for a moment as I place his hand on my chest to help guide his breathing. I inhale and he follows, though his breath is shaky. I exhale and he does the same. We do this for five minutes before he finally calms down.

I wipe away the fresh tears from his face, placing a gentle kiss upon his cheek. He smiles weakly as he pulls me in for another hug, his head now resting on top of my head and mine resting on his chest. We stay like this for a while longer until I check the time and pull away from him.

I have to go, I sign as I give him my number with exes and o’s and ‘call me’. I will see you soon. It was nice meeting you, Matty.

“It’s nice meeting you too, Elena.”

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

I am humming to myself as I text Matty when I heard Isa call my name.

“Coming!” I call over my shoulder.

I look back on my phone to shoot a text.

I am needed rn so can I text you later?

I shall be waiting for you, darling.

Dropping my phone in the bed, I rush to the living room to see what’s happening. “My poster has multiple copies sold!” she exclaims happily. Isa has always been an artist. She finds paintings in many art museums and online for inspiration. I see multiple designs and patterns she makes.

If only I can tell her, Macy, and Catalina that I saved Matty over a month ago. But, as a siren, you can only kill. But when I sang him that song, it awoke him, not killed him. I find it very strange. Your voice is supposed to be a weapon. I’m scared that the Ocean might find out.

One week ago

Come, girls. Your new sister awaits. She’s morbidly scared. We heard the Ocean call.

We ran towards the dock. Where is she from? I asked.

Mexico. Be gentle with this one.

Saoirse joined us as we swam to the docks of Cozumel where there is a dolphin attraction. Thank the stars it was night, since no one is around. When we got there, we saw a girl tied up in a huge fish net! She was also covered in blood and bruises. Whoever did this to her…

“Come help me break the net,” Isa said as she tried to pull away the net. “They’re too rough.”

We broke the girl free as she collapsed on her knees sobbing. “Don’t come closer,” she cried. “Stay away!”

She must have been in horrible condition. I took the more gentle approach to her as I tried to soothe her. “It’s okay,” I cooed. “I won’t hurt you.”

The girl caved in and nestled herself into me, Saoirse joining in the hug.

“What do you remember?” Isa asked.

“I don’t want to remember,” the girl responded. “It was awful. Papa did this to me”-She showed all of the scars and bruises on her body-“he is a bad man.”

Poor girl. She’s so, so so hurt and scared.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“The one holding you right now is me, Elena,” I began. “In front of us is Isa, Macy, and Saoirse.”

“Catalina.” the girl introduced herself.

“We are mermaids. Sirens,” Macy explained. “You may have heard of us in many stories and Greek mythology. We belong to the Ocean. We feed Her.”

“What does the ocean eat?”

That was the same question I asked years ago when I first became a siren. After all, you can’t kill curiosity out of someone. They must know the answers.

I found small figures and a toy boat to show her. I emphasized the figures as sirens and the boat in my hand as the people in it. I felt it was a lot more easier to describe the duties. She seemed to get the gist of it.

“From this day forward,” Macy began. “You won’t get sick or injured. Your voice is a weapon. Once your years are up, your privileges will return to you.”

Catalina gave a confused look. “Neither of us never understood that the first time,” Saoirse chimed in. “It’s alright, mo stóirín. We’ve been through the same thing.”

Catalina contemplated a moment. Her father must have been a cruel man. “If that means getting away from my evil father, then be it,” she declared. “Take me away.”

Then came the next step: diving into the water. She seemed very nervous. “Watch Macy.” I told her. We watched as she gracefully dove into the water without hesitation. Catalina’s face changed to a smile as she dove in. Adorably, she held her breath.

All four of us swam around her as the Ocean placed the same cold force I’ve felt before into her mouth. When Catalina resurfaced and jumped, she exclaimed, “I’M A GODDESS! I HAVE BEEN REBORN!”

I smiled as I dove back in. She must really love her new life now.

She really does, the Ocean began. However, she must be very careful. You and your Sisters need to watch over her.

I understand.

Present day: the same bench from before

It’s great to see you again, Matty, I sign. How are things?

“It’s really great seeing you again, Elena,” he says gently. “I’m doing a little better. Still trying to get through it. It’s hard.”

I know. Do you wanna go look at records? Maybe it can cheer you up a little.

“I would love that.” There is that smile again.

The record store turns out to be the same one he goes to. Throughout the past 3 months, we’ve gotten closer as we get to know each other more. We’re both music lovers. We both enjoy each other’s company.

As we got out, he thanks me for this great day. I dive in for a hug, only this time, my arms wrap around his neck. I hear his heart beating so gently in his chest. His hand is stroking my back in calming patterns without realizing it’s making me melt more into him. He begins humming absentmindedly as his other hand plays with my hair. The background music outside is unfamiliar to me. I close my eyes as I listen. All the while he is swaying me side to side. It just feels…so right.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

It had been two weeks now since Saoirse bid farewell to us after serving her years. Two weeks since she was brought home in Ireland. To say how much I miss her would be an understatement. My only concern now is how scared I am still of the Ocean finding out I had saved Matty months ago.

The full moon has arrived tonight. It is that time again. The next sinking. I don’t want to do it after the last one, yet it is mandatory. More scared than ever.

I wish I could just swim away and see Matty again. Ever since our record shop date, I feel I am much closer to him. I think I’m starting to fall for him.

On my swim this morning, I was questioned by the Ocean. So I heard you found someone in my waters. Her voice was very clear of disappointment yet She seemed calm for some reason.

A man was drowning. I had to save him. I confessed. I knew this was coming. I argued that I didn’t say anything, knowing how you can’t speak as a siren in public. She then said that I can’t see him anymore and took my voice away as punishment. Now I am unable to speak at all to Macy, Isa, and Catalina. Now here I am at the next sinking, unable to sing and talk, only to witness it.

As they begin singing, I can’t take it anymore. It was all too much. Not being able to do anything. I go under and swim away, not giving a single fuck about anything.

When I got to the shore, I just sit on the rock, crying. It was horrible, this night. I really don’t want to deal with anything right now. I need Matty. I need him.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

Matty’s pov

“Elena?”

That is the only thing that came out of my mouth when I see her on the rocks at shore. I run to her. She is soaked and cold. She is crying. Something bad must have happened to her.

When she sees me, she just runs to my arms and continues crying. The salt water scent creeps up my nose. She’s miserable. She curls up into a ball and I fall on my knees to hold her. I begin stroking her back and rocking her back and forth as I shush her gently. “It’s okay, darling,” I say as I continue the soothing patterns on her. “It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. I got you.” She’s freezing, I think to myself. This poor girl. She’s so damn sweet to be hurt like this. So innocent. “I’m gonna hoist you up and then I take you home with me, yeah?” I ask her. She nodded.

I hoist Elena up and take off my jacket to wrap it around her to warm her as I take her to my car. She managed to get in. Throughout the drive, I continue to stroke soothing patterns on her hand.

When we arrived inside, she is hyperventilating, her eyes still red from crying, her whole body shaking. A full blown panic attack. She is crying harder than ever.

Elena makes a grabby hand signal as if to say that she wants to be held. I oblige and cradle her to my chest. If memory serves me right from our record shop date, she seemed to love hearing my own heartbeat and my humming, which kept her grounded. I place her hand on my chest and slowly take a deep breath, signaling her to follow my breathing. Her inhale comes out shaky, yet she managed. As I exhale, she also does. We keep doing this for a while until she’s calm. When Elena calmed down, she looks up to me with soft eyes as they tell me thanks. “I feel you need a nice shower, yeah?” She nods.

I run the bath for her as she gets in. She closes her eyes as the bubbles calm her more. I plant a kiss on her forehead with indication that I’m always here for her. She opens her eyes a moment to sign if I can do her hair. I grab the Head and Shoulders shampoo bottle I saved for her and apply to her head. As I massage her scalp, she is becoming more sleepy. I can lull her to sleep in bed.

After rinsing off the shampoo from her hair and applying and washing her with my eyes closed, I tell her, “You’re starting to prune, darling. I’m gonna get you out of the shower so you can sleep, yeah?” Elena smiles as if to say yes. After I got her out, dressed her up, and helped dry her hair, she is in bed with me, head on my bare chest as I hum the song again, her eyes closing. I begin singing softly.

When I was younger, I saw my daddy cry

And curse at the wind

He broke his own heart and I watched

As he tried to reassemble it

And my momma swore

That she would never let herself forget

And that was the day that I promised

I'd never sing of love if it does not exist

But darling, you are the only exception

You are the only exception

You are the only exception

You are the only exception

She is asleep in my arms as I continue the rest of the song.

quotes masterlist

- lucky people should hide. pray the days of wrath do not visit their homes ~ josephine heart

- you said i killed you—haunt me, then!

- so this was how you died; in whispers you did not hear ~ ernest hemingway

- my whole being calls for an act of violence, but i still use velvet gloves ~ anaïs nin

- the gods envy us. they envy us because we’re mortal. because any moment may be our last. everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. you will never be lovelier than you are now. we will never be ever again ~ troy

- i felt my existence was tainted, in some subtle but essential way ~ donna tartt

- there is blood everywhere and i am lost in it. i breathe blood, not air ~ kelly cherry

- until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter ~ african proverb

- and when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. what do you call it, freedom or loneliness? ~ charles bukowski

- i keep remembering—i keep remembering. my heart has no pity on me ~ henri barbusse

- i have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. or i can go mad by ricocheting in between ~ sylvia plath

- you sliced me loose and said it was creation. i could feel the knife ~ margaret atwood

- show me an orchard where i have not slept / tell me a time i have not loved ~ dorothy livesay

- trauma sends you letters, without warning, for the rest of your life, usually disguised as something else ~ brenna twohy

- the blood on my teeth begins to taste like a poem, like religion, like the way you look at me ~ sean glatch

- we begin in the dark and birth is the death of us ~ antigone?

- i sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief ~ c.s lewis

- love isn’t soft as the poets say. love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close ~ stephen king

- is this all you? mysterious and lucid present and absent at once ~ mahmoud darwish

- i cant exactly describe how i feel, but it’s not quite right. and it leaves me cold ~ f. scott fitzgerald

- artists are people driven by the tension between the desire to communicate and the desire to hide ~ donald winnicott

- death is the mother of beauty. and what is beauty? terror. well said. beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. quite the contrary. genuine beauty is always quite alarming. and if beauty is terror then what is desire? we think we have many desires, but in fact we only have one. what is it? to live. to live forever ~ excerpt from the secret history

other language ones:

- veritas nunquam perit. the truth never perishes. ~ seneca

- atrox melior dulcissima veritas mendaciis. the bitter truth is better than the sweetest lies

- post tenebras lux. after darkness (I hope for) light

- eheu. fugaces labuntur anni. alas. the fleeting years slip by

- nihil est incertius vulgo, nihil obscurius voluntate hominum, nihil fallacius ratione tota comitiorum. nothing is more unpredictable than the mob. nothing more obscure than public opinion. nothing more deceptive than the whole political system ~ cicero

- verba volant, scripta manent. words fly away, writings remain

- sic itur ad astra. thus you shall go to the stars

- aut viam inveniam aut facium. i will either find a way or make one

- pedes in terra ad sidera visus. feet on the ground, eyes on the sky

- timendi causa nescire est. ignorance is the cause of fear

- ex nihilo nihil fit. nothing comes from nothing

- natura nihil frustra facit. nature does nothing in vain. ~ leucippus

- imperare sibi maximum imperium est. to rule yourself is the ultimate power ~ seneca

- tempus fugit. time flies. ~ virgil

- fortuna caeca est. fate is blind

- vita somnium breve. life is but a dream

- tempus edax rerum. time, devourer of all things

- vita brevis et ars longa. time short and art long

- omnes una manet nox. one night is awaiting us all

- astra inclinant sed non obligant. the stars incline us, they do not blind us.

- rien n’est éternel. nothing lasts forever

- soif de vivre. lust for life

Xaje(Z-Age): The Poetic Murderer

Yours truly made a Kingdom Hearts/Organization XIII Sona recently & finally decided to post about him here due to the fact that he somehow managed to develop an everlasting fear of people stealing his hard earned brain-work over night. Anyway, just take these small scrap doodles & angst ridden quotes I created earlier. None of this really counts as attention-worthy in my eyes, believe me, I am well aware of the fact at this point, but it’s solely for the sake of me not losing my mind over the possibility of my ideas being stolen anytime soon(plus, truth be told, I’ve actually grown quite fond of this miniscule scheme we artists call “character design”). Now, where were we? Ah yes, my quotes & in-game dialogue:

“Shadows can’t appear without light nor can stars shine without the darkness. In conclusion, our worlds require both one & the other in order to exist within a state of tranquil harmony. Perhaps we should start encountering that terribly desirable goal by changing your uneducated perspective.”

-𝚇𝚊𝚓𝚎

“You blinded light dwellers would never understand, you believe that the world is filled with happiness & success, that even in the darkest of times there’ll always be that last sliver of hope worth holding onto, that all of your feeblest dreams will one day come true. Well you’re wrong. The world is nothing more than darkness in itself, and we’re living proof of that. Us Nobodies were once like you, foolish, ignorant, weak, we clung to those same beliefs that you now spout and look where it’s landed us. An endless, inescapable abyss of nothingness in which we gather & begrudgingly call a home. Welcome to The Castle That Never Was.”

-𝚇𝚊𝚓𝚎

“Do I cause you to question the English language itself? Good. Confusion is the mind’s greatest weakness after all. Along with curiosity of course, but I’ll gladly settle for either of the two.”

-𝚇𝚊𝚓𝚎

“Allow me to put a quick end to this poorly written story of yours. It’s plot is becoming terselessly bland & ever so flavorless, these pages could endanger the less prepared minds of vain readers, & besides, not even the characters seem to know what they’re doing anymore.”

-𝚇𝚊𝚓𝚎

“Thank you, but no. I prefer to eat in private. Being here amongst the presence of all your beautiful faces is causing me to feel deeply self loathsome, or for the less educated, gross.”

-𝚇𝚊𝚓𝚎

“Yeah, I study gems. Nothing crazy though, mainly just a load of Google searches & me being pretentious, heh. Anyway, what was that really cool thing you were doing with that giant key just now?”

-𝙹𝚊𝚎

“I’m a poet, just living out my life & writing my own stories I guess. Not like anyone else would bother reading them anyway.”

-𝙹𝚊𝚎

“Hey uh- Is that a pen? Cause I kinda need one right now. Crazy bunch of ideas just flooded my pea sized brain. Wouldn’t wanna forget them right? A mind-full of words now could turn into a completely full fledged story later, who knows.”

-𝙹𝚊𝚎

“Blueberries, literature, & dreams. These are the few things I’ve stayed alive for. Yup, fourteen years of being a hopeless idiot & disappointing everyone I come by.”

-𝙹𝚊𝚎

“But why do we hate darkness even though we’re literally surrounded by it every night!? I thought you Keyblade idiots knew better, I thought you were better! Heh, guess I was wrong… Note to self: Never put your trust in anybody EVER AGAIN! BECAUSE THIS UNIVERSE IS NOTHING MORE THAN A FILTHY BREEDING POT FULL OF EVEN FILTHIER BACKSTABBERS!-”

-𝙹𝚊𝚎

“Unfortunately enough, it seems that I’ve run out of stories to tell… Heh, I should’ve realized this moment was going to come for me sooner or later. A writer’s charm only lasts so long before it fades, just as a pen will eventually run out of ink, or an uncharted idea will eventually be forgotten. Yet again, that bothersome light you use to fight us is no different when compared to those few simpleminded examples. Expiable, inconsistent, just like the hearts you so proudly hold.”

-𝚇𝚊𝚓𝚎

“Why must inspiration always come to me at the worst of times?- Ugh, I suppose that new writing prompt of mine will just have to wait for later, you on the other hand, shall be dealt with now.”

-𝚇𝚊𝚓𝚎

“Your specialty should be renewed into a weapon of some sort. Coming naturally to you in times of need, refined, retrained, & unlike what it was before. Here, take my trusty Fountain Pen for example: From normal size to weaponized! It’s quite fun actually, not that I have a heart to garner the enjoyment of course, but still, one cannot deny when one has alas discovered the thing they endearingly call ‘a hobby.’”

-𝚇𝚊𝚓𝚎

“The beings I once called ‘family’ were nothing more than burdensome unaccepting hate speakers, & surely enough, they still are. It was because of them that I ended my miserable self & landed here, fractured, incomplete, but more relieved than I can ever recall being whilst I still garnered a heart from within. Yes yes, it may not be the most apparent thing to you newcomers, but being a Nobody has its perks, especially if you willingly chose to be one.”

-𝚇𝚊𝚓𝚎

Now for an unanimated cutscene of two characters conversing through the unprofessional script put together by yours truly:

Xaje: We’re nothing more than a stain on the pristinely white pages of your world, an unwanted drop of ink that was never meant to exist in the first place, a thing you unaccepting light dwellers would call ‘a mistake.’ Still we roam freely, collecting the negative reputation you’ve forcefully written us to have. Ever spreading, ever growing, never stopping till we’ve met our untimely ends. Perhaps you & I aren’t so different after all, P/N.

Protagonist: Shut it, I’m nothing like you!

Xaje: Hm, don’t be so foolish light dweller, our respective roles as heroes & well… Antiheroes, will always set us apart of course, but in the end we both want what’s best for this dreaded empire, don’t we? deny it not any further P/N, we’re one in the same, you’re simply far too blinded by the light to see truth when it’s clearly there. Well, if I can’t persuade you now, perhaps I’ll try again another time, good day.

Protagonist: Huh?! Hey, come back! QUIT RUNNING AWAY FROM ME YOU COWARD!

Xaje: You see what I mean, foolish, ignorant, weak. Are baseless insults & vile acts of bullying really your only powers? Tsk tsk tsk, how very sad indeed.

Protagonist: SHUT UP!

Xaje: Till we meet again dearest light dweller, be sure to keep that precious little heart of yours safe whilst we’re apart, won’t you? I find that it can be quite fragile at times.

Protagonist: I SAID BE QUIET!- Aaannnd he’s gone… AGAIN!

-𝙵𝚒𝚗

Progress shots:

SO ABOUT BRUCE’S LOVE-INTERESTS

First of all I think we need to address why he has so many compared to other DC characters. Well, my good people, this is very simple: his writers are bad. A lot of his love-interests simply existed for the sake of a story and most of the time the reason they don’t work out is because, and I’m not bullshitting here, it’s part of Batman’s nature to be so obssessed with solving crime that he can’t maintain a serious relationship with women. And Bruce Wayne’s relationships fail because of his constant absences and secrets.

That being said, sometimes his relationships fail for other reasons. So let’s get this started shall we?

Category One: His Major Relationships

These are his relationships that have consistently shown up in many continuities and were, in fact, attempts on giving him some kind of serious girlfriend, regardless of how the writers failed.

1: Julie Madison. Julie’s character has changed a lot in the different continuities but originally she was an actress who broke up with Bruce because he refused to stop his “playboy ways” even when she confronted him about them. In one version she goes on to marry a man in Europe. In New Earth her hair was changed from black to auburn and, instead of being an actress, she was the daughter of an entrepeneur. 

She broke up with Bruce when she learned he was Batman and that her father had been killed as a result of Batman’s action. She moved to Africa and became a missionary. In current continuity, Julie is an artist and her father is an arms dealer who sold the gun that was used to kill Bruce’s parents. They first dated as teens but met again when Bruce lost his memories (amnesia stories yaaay). Bruce was so passionately in love with her, that he was even ready to settle down and marry her. Unfortunately, in his absence, Gotham’s crime had skyrocketed and Alfred and Julie had to, regretfully, give him his memories back so he could be Batman once more. This also erased his memory of being with Julie.

In The New Batman Adventures comics, Bruce and Julie dated right up until Bruce found out she was only after his fortune. That’s just how it be in comics sometimes. She also appeared in the Batman And Robin movie but her character added little to the plot and most of her scenes ended up being edited out in the final cut.

2: Victoria/Vicki Vale. Vicki Vale was created to be Bruce’s version of Lois Lane (yeah it’s no wonder this never worked). They got involved because she made it her life’s mission to expose Batman’s identity and ended up dating Bruce in the process (it’s also worth noting she was already suspicious of him being Batman). Her character hasn’t had a lot of changed over the years and, surprisingly, has managed to keep most of her original characterization. 

She disappeared from the comics when Julius Schwartz took over the editorial office in 1964. She was re-introduced in the early 1980′s by Gerry Conway but idea was ill-advised as her character had very little development and was instead the same old concept of someone finding out Bruce’s identity. Doug Moench was mainly responsible for slowly removing her as Bruce’s love-interest, though she has since returned to that role. In Batman: The Road Home, Vicki finally got proof that Bruce was Batman but decided to keep it to herself and instead became a confidante and ally of the batfamily, rather then Bruce’s girlfriend.

She appeared in Tim Burton’s Batman as well, but was a damsel in distress throughout the film and only learned his identity through happenstance rather then because she was seeking it out.

In various other continuities, she’s been shown as an occasional date for Bruce Wayne.

3: Selina Kyle needs to introduction but her influence in his life is so long and extensive she’d need a post of her own to cover it all. You’ll be pleased to know that there have been quite a few stories where they’ve managed to sustain a relationship and be happy together.

4: Talia Al Ghul. Obviously we all know her for being Damian’s mother, whoever Ra’s himself has encouraged her relationship with Bruce, because he wants to try and recruit Batman into the League of Assassin’s.

Originally, Talia was very devoted to Bruce and loved him as much as she loved her own father, even saving his life on multiple occasion’s, though she always returned to her father’s side afterwards. They had a sexual encounter that lead to the birth of Damian, as we all know, but over time Talia became more antagonistic towards Bruce, seeking to fulfill her father’s goals and rule with Batman by her side instead. However, he rejected her proposal and she declared war on him (yikes.)

In Batman: The Animated Series, her character was practically the same as her comic iteration. She returned in Batman Beyond where Bruce was horrified to learn that she’d given up her body for her father (yeah. That’s a thing).

In Batman: Arkham City, Talia and Bruce had a romantic background and cared very deeply for eachother, even willing to risk their lived to save the other’s.

On Earth-16, Bruce broke all ties with Talia due to her conflicting morals; her love for Bruce vs her loyalty to Ra’s. 

In the Dark Knight Rises film, Talia is an executive member of Wayne Enterprises who becomes romantically involved with Bruce. She eventually takes over the company and tries to destroy Gotham per her father’s mad design.

Category Two: Minor Relationships

These are his love-interests who have only appeared sporadically as options for him over the years, rather then being a consistent thing.

1: Amina Franklin. Originally someone who worked as a nurse at Leslie Thompkins’ clinic, Amina met Bruce at a party and they started dating shortly after. Her brother, Wayne Franklin (I know), was the villain called Grotesk (original name there buddy) and Amina was killed during a confrontation between him and Bruce.

2: April Clarkson (Midnight). If the name Midnight strikes any familiarity to you, then you’ll know who April is. She was a GCPD officer who briefly dated Bruce and helped Batman track down the gruesome murderer Midnight (yeah his track record is great isn’t it? In her defense April only killed the corrupt dudes but like. Still). Bruce was pretty torn up when he learned this because he had very strong feelings for her! Alas what can ya do, right?

3: Bekka. Bekka saved Batman’s life from Darkseid’s forces on the planet Tartarus and the two shared a mutual attraction (Bekka is also Orion’s wife. Yikes.) She was later murdered (in my mother’s own words “another one bites the dust”).

4: Black Canary. Yes seriously. Despite her long-standing romance with Green Arrow, Dinah has shown attraction to Bruce on numerous occasion’s and the two have even shared kisses before (Batman: Brave and Bold #166 and Birds of Prey #90). On Earth’s 31 and 37 this attraction is way stronger.

5: Charlotte Rivers. A news reporter in Gotham, Charlotte wanted to leave the city which put a rift between her and Bruce. After her twin sister, Jill, made an attempt on her life, Charlotte dumped Bruce and took a job offer in Paris. Ouch.

6: Dawn Golden. Dawn was the daughter of cult leader Aleister Golden, who practiced Dark Magic. Dawn was a childhood friend of Bruce’s who dated him in college and apparently broke his heart (lmao). She became a socialite and then her dad murdered her as part of a dark ritual to give himself eternal life. Yeah.

7: Harley Quinn. YEP HERE’S ANOTHER ONE. Harley has had occasional romantic encounters with Batman over the years, specifically in the Animated Series when she kissed him in the episode Harley’s Holiday. In recent N52 canon, there’s been a couple of stories where Harley has ended up infatuated with Batman or Bruce Wayne. They’re all one-sided feelings as far as we know, however.

8: Jaina Hudson (White Rabbit). Another name that might be familiar to those who know Bruce’s villains. Jaina was a socialite of Indian descent who met Bruce at a charity fundraiser. Later Bruce found out she could duplicate herself into two beings: herself and the scantily clad (its comics what do we expect?) criminal White Rabbit, who had, more than once, lured him to other villains like Joker and Bane.

9: Jezebel Jet. A wealthy woman of African descent, Jezebel was a model who owned an African province and secretly worked for Black Glove. She gained Bruce’s love as a ploy to destroy him during Batman R.I.P and was later killed on Talia’s orders. 

10: Jillian Maxwell. Jillian met Bruce at a costume party in Batman: Legends of The Dark Knight Halloween Special #1 (wow thats long). It turned out, however, that she was actually a woman who used many different personas to seduce wealthy men before orchestrating events that led to their deaths so she could take their wealth. Wild. When Alfred told him this, Bruce was heartbroken. Jillian used the name Aubrey Marguerite in Brazil and Bruce, as Batman, tracked her down and left a note ordering her to confess her sins. 

11: Julia Pennyworth. Daughter of Alfred and French Resistance fighter Mademoiselle Marie, Julia was introduced to the comics in by Doug Moench in the early 1980′s. Efforts to make her a romantic partner for Bruce proved difficult with the presence of Noctura and Vicki Vale (guess why he writ her out of comics lol).

12: Kathy Kane (Batwoman). Strap in lads this one gets Weird. Kathy was made in the Silver Age to be Batman’s female counterpart and romantic partner. Many stories showing the two getting married were published though in the main canon at the time her feelings for him were one-sided. On Earth-Two, Kathy resigned herself to live without his love and on Earth One she was murdered by the League of Assassins. Grant Morrison wrote stories featuring her in New Earth canon bc he liked using Silver Age comics for inspiration. She was eventually replaced by Katherine “Kate” Kane, a lesbian who got discharged from the military for homosexual conduct (in New Earth as well). In Prime Earth canon, Kate Kane is Bruce’s cousin. So yeah. There’s that.

13: Linda Page. Adapted from Batman serial (1943), Linda came into the comics during the Golden Age and was a former socialite who worked as a nurse for the elderly, disproving the idea that rich women were lazy and spoiled. She dated Bruce for a few issues but fell through the cracks and disappeared.

14: Lorna Shore. Lorna is a Museum Curator from the Lovers and Madmen story in Batman Confidential. Her relationship with Bruce was love at first sight and he was able to find peace with her for the first time since his parents’ murder (look. I know). However, after his first encounter with Joker, Bruce broke off their relationship to keep her safe and Lorna left Gotham soon after feeling that the city was no longer safe bc of Batman and Joker.

15: Mallory Moxon. Daughter of mob boss Lew Moxon, Mallory was a childhood friend of Bruce’s who dated him for a short time when they were kids (I know) before they drifted apart. They dated again as adults even while Bruce suspected her of continuing her father’s criminal operation. He never found conclusive proof.

16: Natalia Knight (Noctura). Another character created by Doug Moench in the early 1980′s, Natalia was the most remarkable of Batman’s love-interest’s at the time. A jewel thief who briefly adopted Jason Todd and knew Bruce’s identity, Natalia had a rare light sensitivity disease that bleached her skin white. She used a special narcotic perfume that caused men to fall in love with her and Bruce was no exception (yeah...). They started dating because they were both “equally fascinated” by eachother (Y E A H). Bruce realized his love for her was because of the perfume and struggled to stop thinking about her. Nocturna was stabbed by her brother during Crisis on Infinte Earths and floated into the sky on her balloon, presumed to be dead. Other versions of her character have appeared since but none of them are the same as the original pre-Crisis version. 

17: Natalya Trusevich. A Ukranian pianist, Natalya grew frustrated with Bruce’s closed-off demeanour until Alfred had him reveal his secret to her. Abducted by Mad Hatter soon after, Natalya was tortured in an attempt to get her to spill Batman’s identity. When she refused, Mad Hatter threw her off the helicopter to her death.

18: Pamela Isley (Poison Ivy). Here we go again lads. Ivy, as we all know, uses seduction and pheromones to get men to fall for her and obey her commands. This is no different with Batman, who initially confused the lust caused by her methods for love. Ivy has a love/hate relationship with him: sometimes she claims to love him and desires his affection and other times she has no problem wanting him dead. They had a brief but genuine relationship when Bruce cured her condition but this ended when Pamela seemingly died trying to turn herself back into Poison Ivy. Yikes. 

19: Rachel Caspian. In Batman: Year Two, Bruce fell in love with Rachel. Unfortunately her dad moonlighted as a murderous vigilante who committed suicide. Bruce was prepared to end his crime-fighting career to marry her but Rachel broke off their engagement and enrolled into a nunnery to pay her father’s penance after learning of his evil deeds.

20: Sasha Bordeaux. Assigned as his bodyguard, Sasha deduced Bruce’s identity as Batman and briefly fought at his side. Framed for the murder of Bruce’s girlfriend, Vesper Fairchild, Sasha later joined Maxwell Lord’s Checkmate Organization. She was turned into a Cyborg during The OMAC Project but this was resolved later. Though she did kiss Bruce near the end of OMAC Project their relationship passed on.

21: Silver St. Cloud. Appearing in the late 1970′s in the story Strange Apparitions, Silver was a socialite who, despite deducing Bruce was Batman, couldn’t handle dating someone with such a dangerous life-style (fair enough actually). She left Gotham but returned years later in Batman: Dark Detective where she and Bruce tried to make a serious romance work. This fell apart after she was kidnapped by Joker and later on Silver was murdered by the criminal Onomatopeia.

22: Shondra Kinsolving. A psychic and half-sister of Benedict Asp, Shondra had a brief romance with Bruce when she helped heal him after Bane broke his back. Before they could fully commit to eachother, Benedict kidnapped her and turned her abilities to evil use. Batman defeated him but the damage to Shondra’s mind was too great and, after healing Bruce’s injuries, her psyche regressed back to childhood. Bruce paid for her to have the best intensive care for the rest of her life in a psychiatric institution.

23: Vesper Fairchild. A popular radio host in Gotham, Doug Moench (jeez dude chill) established her romance with Bruce during his second run of Batman in the 1990′s. During the No Man’s Land Crisis, Vesper left Gotham and was killed by David Cain on Lex’s orders. This started the Bruce Wayne: Fugitive storyline.

24: Diana Prince (Wonder Woman). Briefly dating in the comics, nothing actually came of their romance and they both decided to simply stay good friends. They did, however, still care deeply for one another and it was this love that allowed Diana to become a Star Sapphire during the Blackest Night storyline. They were also paired together in Justice League Animated. 

25: Zatanna Zatara. Bet you weren’t expecting this one huh? The first time they had romantic interest was in Batman: The Animated Series where they met in their youth. Bruce gave priority to pursuing his training to becoming Batman and they met again as adults but nothing came of their interest. This was later introduced in the comics. They had a major falling out when Bruce discovered Zatanna had windwiped him after he’d caught her mindwiping Doctor Light at the JL’s instruction. Bruce made it clear he didn’t trust her anymore but they later resolved the issue and became close friends again.

Category Three: Other Media

These are still minor relationships but as a whole they didn’t really happen during main continuities. Basically these are romances specifically from films, crossovers and the DCAU.

1: Andrea Beaumont. In Batman: Mask of The Phantasm, Andrea was engaged to Bruce before he became Batman but she broke off said engagement when she fled the country with her father to escape the mob. She then became the title villain of the film.

2: Barbara Gordon (Batgirl). Probably the most infamous for making everyone go “wtf”, Barbara had a heavily implied past relationship with Bruce in Batman Beyond and had sex with Bruce on a rooftop in the animated Killing Joke adaptation.

3: Lois Lane. In a crossover between The New Batman Adventures and Superman: The Animated Series, Bruce and Lois dated eachother to Superman’s annoyance but Lois broke up with him after learning his identity as Batman. During a 3-4 issue long amnesia storyline in the Batman/Superman teamup comic, they also shared romantic feelings for eachother and kissed right before Bruce restored his own memories (dont. Ask).

4: Rachel Dawes. She was his childhood friend and love-interest in the Dark Knight Trilogy. Like. That’s it. 

And there you have it! All of Bruce’s gf’s aired out for everyone to screw their noses over! This wasn’t worth any of my attention but fuck it! It’s done!

Hey! Can you write a sequel to the one with Caroline writer and artist klaus . The one about seashell bra or something. Pls

Two part mini-sequel to قلم قدرتمندتر است second part will be a flash forward to some smut. (I wanted to put a read more but it’s broken?) Mini-sequel to Tragoudó (Deep Sea Fishing) can be found here

---

Caroline was still in awed, shock that her bat shit insane idea actually worked. And yet here she stood in front of the gallery that changed everything, several weeks after her last visit and significantly happier with her mother in full remission. 

She could do without the feelings of awkward embarrassment though, knowing she had acted like a complete lunatic. Perhaps it was idiotic of her to come back and try to explain herself, well aware of just how insane her claims would sound. And even if he did believe her, what then?

Like yes, she tested her abilities extensively of course, she’s not an idiot! Some fucked up secret government experimentation or something wouldn’t be possible when she could just literally overwrite it. And thinking words in her head, even in complete sentences, wasn’t enough. She did have to write/type something so it wasn’t uncontrolled. (Thank god!)

But... Well it still all seemed so crazy. Even to her! The one living with the proof of everything! God, what was she doing? This was stupid, wasn’t it? Yeah, she should just go home and-

“You are aware you’re blocking the entrance?”

Caroline jumped and whirled around, frantic apologies dying on her lips as she processed just who was behind her. Yup, her luck was just fantastic. It was him. The person she both wanted to explain things to and avoid, never to be seen by him ever again ever.

Alas...

She tried to withhold her cringe, offering a smile that she had a feeling was more of a grimace.

“Um, could we talk? I know that you probably think I’m some sort of crazy person, and I’m so sorry that the last time I was here I all but had a meltdown-” She sucked in a breath, aware that she was starting to ramble and it definitely wasn’t helping her case. Exhaling, she started again, slower this time. “Right, sorry I realize that probably doesn’t lend credence to the idea that I’m not crazy. But yes, I would like the chance to explain. I totally understand if you’re not comfortable with that so just say the word and I’ll go.”

She felt a bit steadier as she met his gaze, the burning red blush and twitchy cringes gone from her face.

---

Klaus wasn’t sure why he said yes. By all rights he should throw the girl out, her behavior having been downright manic the last time he saw her. Perhaps it was because he still remembered the feeling he got when he first saw her, as if she was a true Muse out of legend. Regardless of reason, he did say yes, which was how he found himself sitting across from her in the gallery office, gaping at her rather unattractively.

With extreme effort, he managed to smooth his expression. “I certainly hope you have more proof then just this wild story.”

---

She considered it a win that Klaus was still talking to her, asking for proof rather than just kicking her out on the spot. Or worse.

“Well, I would be willing to write something out for you, something that you choose, so you can see if it happens. Then it just depends on how likely you are to chalk it up to coincidence.”

The man’s eyebrows were nearly in his hairline, but he seemed surprisingly willing to go along with it.

“...Alright then, sweetheart, write...”

--- SMUT Time Skip ---

Minor bondage and orgasm denial, some spanking

Caroline grinned as she offered Klaus her wrists, teasing him as he wrapped the black silk ties around them.

“We really save a fortune on our sex life, don’t we?”

He raised an eyebrow expression wry. “Quite. Although I don’t recall when unbreakable silk ties that double as orgasm control hit the market.”

She giggled, well aware it was true. Not only did they have a supernaturally fantastic collection of sex toys and gear, but also downright impossible pieces like the aforementioned silk ties. Unbreakable and inescapable except by safe word (said by either her or Klaus) that also prevent orgasm while in contact with a person’s skin.

Caroline was snapped out of her thoughts as Klaus tugged her to him, eliciting a slight moan from her as her bare nipples rubbed against the firm planes of his chest.

He nuzzled into her neck as he purred, “That’s more like it, love. For as delightful as I find your laughter, it’s not the sound I wish to hear from you right now.”

Klaus slowly walked her backward, brushing his hand teasingly against her thigh and ass, distracting her enough that she lost track of their location. He smirked when he tumbled her onto the bed, looping the loose fabric around the temporary hook in their headboard.

“Now that I have you at my mercy, whatever shall I do?”

Caroline rolled her eyes, well aware that he already knew exactly what he wanted to do.

She yelped when he suddenly pinched her nipple. “Tsk tsk, love. Only bad girls are so rude, and bad girls don’t get to come.”

“Klaus,” she groaned, arching up and trying to press her breast against his hand, but he just tsk-ed at her again.

“You really don’t learn do you?” He asked, releasing her nipple and swiftly flipping her over, the ties twisting easily. “Not only do bad girls not get to come, they also get punished.”

Caroline jolted when his hand came down on her ass, the sting as sharp as the sound. She subtly pressed back against his palm as he rubbed her heated skin.

Crack

Another slap came down on the other cheek. And he didn’t let up, giving her eight more as she tried to not squirm in her bonds, feeling heat in more than just her ass.

“Hm, this is a lovely color on you, sweetheart, but...” She moaned as he swiped a finger through her cleft, catching the obvious slick of her arousal. “Not much of a punishment, now is it?”

“Nooo,” she sighed out.

He flipped her again and she peered up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, licking her lips when they landed on his erect cock.

Klaus chuckled down at her. “Bad girls certainly don’t get to have my cock.”

Caroline fluttered her lashes at him, moving her lips into a slight pout. “Please, Klaus? I’m sorry I was rude earlier. I promise I can make it up to you.”

He bent over her, caressing her cheek and pulling at her bottom lip with his thumb. “Is that so, love? I’m afraid words alone mean nothing, but if you want to make it up to me...”

She nodded eagerly, her core clenching around nothing as a wicked expression crossed face. What was he planning?

“If you are truly sorry, then there are more useful things your mouth can be doing than offering empty promises.”

Her eyes widened as she internally cursed his deviousness. Rather than crawling closer to the headboard, Klaus turned around, maneuvering until she could easily take his cock in her mouth while his breath tickled her clit.

Fuck.

Her stomach twitched as Klaus’ hands ran slowly down her thighs, spreading them wider as his nose just barely brushed against her sensitive flesh. The sensation far more a tease than real stimulation.

“Well, sweetheart? Take me in your mouth”

He was really too good at distracting her, though Caroline was happy to obey this order. She parted her lips to take the head between them, giving a little flick of her tongue against his slit, tasting the salt of his pre-cum.

She whimpered around him as he mimicked her, wet heat swiping once through her folds. Tilting her head, she took him deeper, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked. Her efforts reward when Klaus did the same to her clit. 

Pleasing her partner while being pleasured by him was rapidly tightening the coil in her belly. Chasing the sensation, Caroline put more effort into it, varying her suction, pulling back to swirl her tongue around the tip, delicately scraping her teeth against raised veins.

Her moans vibrated down his length as his own skilled tongue teased her, his attention switching between her clit and her folds. Sometimes delightful warm suction and other times wet heat lapping at her dripping arousal.

She felt him tense above her, heard his warning, and took him even deeper. Swallowing around him. Once. Twice. The third time accompanied by a groan of her name as he released his seed down her throat.

He slipped from her mouth as he re-positioned them, her own core aching with her release out of reach. 

“Good girl, Caroline,” he muttered, his lips shiny from his efforts. “Good girls get rewards,” he continued before pressing a dominating kiss to her mouth. They each tasted themselves and each other as their tongues dueled, a hotter thought than it had the right to be. Especially as she still hadn’t come.

As if reading her mind, Klaus pulled back slowly, his eyes dark, pupil swallowing all but a thin ring of blue. “I had more plans for you, my love, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten impatient.”

Her legs spread in anticipation as she felt the hard press of him against her folds. He teased her a little, nudging at her clit and sending sparks up her spine, gliding through the slick of her folds, inner walls clenching in desire.

“Klaus, please,” she begged.

“Tell me what you want, Caroline,” he demanded, pressing against her entrance, refusing to penetrate her, no matter how she writhed under him.

“You!” She cried out in frustration. “I want your cock inside me! I want you to fuck me into this mattress until all I can remember is your name! KlaUS!”

Her cry of his name became a shout as he plunged into her in one smooth stroke, her arousal easily accommodating him. The stretch felt delicious and she clamped around him, wanting to feel every inch of his cock inside her.

“That’s it, love,” he cooed, before he set a brutal pace, giving her exactly what she had asked for. Each thrust shook the bed and rattled her teeth, his cock slamming with unerring accuracy against all the most sensitive places inside her. She clenched down around him, loving the friction, and she hitched her legs up to wrap them around him, trying to keep him buried within her.

“More! Harder! Klaus!”

His pubic bone impacted her clit as he obeyed her, his hand slithering up her sides to caress her breasts. She threw her head back as his mouth bit and sucked at her nipple, heat burning through her core, the slick slaps sounding obscene and still the ties kept her suspended on the precipice. 

Caroline thought she heard something but her senses deserted her as she shrieked, vision going white. Her suddenly free hands dug into his shoulders as she spasmed around him. Spine arching as she pressed up against him, trying to get even closer as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.

“Klaaauusssss!”

Heat pooled within her, his own release that she hadn’t processed in her ecstasy. Slowly she came back down, the aftershocks fading. Her tense form unclenched as she slumped boneless into the sheets, panting and dazed.

“God, I think that was the best orgasm I ever had,” she mumbled. Easily rolling as Klaus pulled her into his arms, both settling on their sides, while he slipped out of her. She pressed a kiss to his neck, eyelids feeling heavy. “Give me a few moments, I totally want a turn...”

Her words trailed off as she passed out. (Though she got her demanded turn in the morning.)

---

List of current and upcoming sequels here.

[ENG] Mukanshu Main Story 1: Island of Ice and Fire

Mukanshu （夢間集）Main Story 1: Island of Ice and Fire, Scenes 1 - 11.

Read below ↓

* Specific notes for each scene are at the bottom of that scene.

*Some general notes: I’ve left the character’s names untranslated, but have opted to translate the location names since they provide context (and are translated in the novels). For more information on the characters introduced thus far, check their profiles.

Scene 1: The Journey Begins

Player(1): (Where am I......?)

I stop before a stone wall, feeling a slight warmth with my right hand. I gently trace my finger over the wall’s engravings, as if being guided by some unseen power.

Stone Wall’s Engraving:  “Under heaven, no one could be my equal-- unbearable loneliness is my destiny.(2) The bravery of youth, the tranquility of adulthood, the complacency of old age- once these have passed, there are no further boundaries to be crossed!”

As my finger brushes over the final line of the engraving, a light is emitted for just a moment, and I involuntarily close my eyes.

[Scene change]

Ryoku: “..................hmm?”

Suddenly, a young man stands before me, blinking and smiling.

Player: Who…...are you……?

Ryoku: Huh? Don’t look at me like that. I don’t look like such a bad guy do I……  There’s no need to be scared. I’m Ryoku(3), a renowned treasure. Ah, but truth be told, I don’t exactly know why I’m here. When I woke up, I was here beside you.

Player: Well, where are we?

Ryoku: We’ll talk later. This area is full of demons and monsters(4). I absolutely won’t let anyone get hurt while I’m around.  Since I can handle these monsters, you should come with me for now!

Monsters: Grrrrrrrooooooooowl!

Ryoku: Well, speak of the devil! I guess there’s no avoiding it, here we go! 

Notes:

(1): Player character is...you! I forgot what the default name the game enters for you is, so I’ve just left it as player for now. 

(2): This quote is at least partially adopted from the inscription on one of the character’s in Jin Yong’s novels, undefeated swordsman Dugu Qiubai’s tomb. The full quote can be found here and reads: “Having roamed the jianghu (martial artists' community) for more than 30 years, I have killed all my foes and defeated all champions. Under Heaven no one can be my equal. Without any other choice, I could only retreat and live in seclusion in this deep valley, with only a Condor as my companion. Alas, all my life, I have sought a match but in vain. Unbearable loneliness is my destiny."

(3):  His name literally means “Green”. He’s a weaponized bamboo stick used by members of the  Beggar’s Sect in Jin Yong’s Legend of the Condor Heroes.

(4): They use the term  魁魅魍魎 (lit. mountain monsters and river spirits). It’s a fairly broad term with a lot of historical context, read more here.

Scene 2: Mysterious Amnesia

Ryoku: Whew, what a dangerous place! Are you alright? 

Player: Yeah, I’m fine. 

Ryoku: It’s a good thing I’m here otherwise you probably would have been eaten by now. 

Player: Thank you. This place ... Why am I here?

Player: (The only thing I can remember is that dream from before.  My name is….. ) Player: I’m sure I…… I have to go back to that place……! 

Ryoku: Hmm? You’ve got some place you wanna go? Well, let’s get out of here first!

As Ryoku finished speaking, the ground suddenly began to shake.

Ryoku: Follow me! Let’s get out of here fast! 

Notes:

If you’re playing along with the games audio (which I recommend!) you’ll know that there are small battle between these scenes, which is why the cuts between stories is so sudden and why (in the future) new characters may join during battles. Also, the separation of scenes with battles is also the reason some scenes are so short (like this one).

Scene 3: In Search of a Dream

Ryoku: They’ve got us surrounded.  This might be a little tough by myself.

Player: (I felt a familiar power in that dream …)

           (If I could return to that place….)

           (I’m pretty sure…. Ryoku will be helpful.)

[Lights flash]

Player: (I’ll search for it!..... That dream from before….)

Scene 4: Wandering Bell’s Chime

Kinrei(1): Where are we?

Ryoku: Here? This is the Island of Ice and Fire.

Kinrei: The Island of Ice and Fire? I’ve never heard of it. 

Kinrei: Hmm, how do you intend to get out of here?

Player: We were just looking for a way out of here. Why don’t we search together?

Ryoku: Sounds good!

Standing before Ryoku, Kinrei continues to eye him suspiciously.

Player: Don’t worry, we won’t hurt you.

Kinrei: ……. There are many cunning, vile people out there, I can’t trust you so easily.

Ryoku: It’s not like we’d gain anything from hurting you. Besides, don’t they say “two heads are better than one”(2)? I don’t think it’s such a bad idea. You think so too, right?

Kinrei: …………… Fine, I understand. But what I said earlier still stands-- once we get out of here, we’re complete strangers.  I won’t care anymore.

Ryoku: I figured Kinreicchi would agree after all!

Kinrei: Ki….kinreicchi? What’s with that nickname?!

Ryoku: Ahaha! Now then, I wonder who’ll show up next~

Notes:

(1): Kinrei literally means “Golden Bell”. In Return of the Condor Heroes, the heroine Xiaolongnu uses a sash strung with golden bells as a weapon.

(2):「三人寄れば文殊の知恵」a phrase that literally translates to “Three people together have Manjushri’s wisdom”. It is the equivalent of phrases like “two heads are better than one” or “the more the merrier”, indicating that having more people in a group benefits the whole.

(3): Kinreicchi: Ryoku added a cutesy-sounding ending to Kinrei’s name.

Scene 5: The Heavenly Sword Appears

Ryoku: Whoooah! Jackpot! Who woulda’ guessed that the legendary Iten (1) would show up! *whistles*

Kinrei: I’ve certainly heard the legend: "The powerful and honorable weapon: the Dragon Saber; It can slay the Dragon. Use it to command the world. Who dares to disobey orders? If the Heavenly Sword does not appear, what weapon can go against the saber effectively?"(2)…Since Iten has shown up, it stands to reason that Toryuu(3) may soon appear as well, right…?

Monsters: Grrrrrrrooooooooowl!

Ryoku: Those nasty monsters don’t know when to give up, huh!

Iten: I sense the presence of evil…!

Notes:

(1): Iten literally means “Heavenly Sword”, sometimes translated as “Heaven Reliant Sword”. He is one of titular weapons in the novel “ The Heavenly Sword and the Dragon Saber”.

(2):  The mantra that kinrei recites is straight from Jin Yong’s novel; this English version can be found here along with the context for the surrounding lore. 

 (3) Toryuu literally means “Dragon Saber”. The second legendary sword from the same novel as Iten.

Scene 6: Island of Ice and Fire

Once again, the ground began to shake and continued rumbling for a while.

Iten: Where is this place? The terrain seems so unstable…

Ryoku: We’re at the Northern Sea of the Island of Ice and Fire. The island’s name is derived from the cycle of ice and volcanic eruptions that have been ongoing for millions of years.

Iten: The island of Ice and Fire…

Kinrei: Huh? You know this place?

Iten: Yes. I’ve heard stories of it before, but this is my first time actually being here. However, this place is brimming with evil spirits. It would be best to leave as soon as possible.

Ryoku: If Bro Iten says so, then we better hurry up and find a way out of here!

Scene 7: Iten’s Old Friend

The shaking of the ground violently intensifies, seeming as if it could collapse at any moment.

Iten: That’s strange… that guy should have immediately known that I had appeared here… why hasn’t he shown up yet…?

Kinrei: “That guy”? Are you acquainted with someone else on this island?

Iten: Well, it’s more like we’re stuck with each other…(1)

Kinrei: Could it be...that you’re talking about Toryuu?

Iten: Right… well, you don’t have to worry about him.

Kinrei: You’re right. For now, let’s find a way out of this place.

Notes:

(1)“we’re stuck with each other”: Iten literally says “腐れ縁”, lit. “rotten affinity” meaning an undesirable, yet unfortunately inseparable relationship. 

Scene 8: Heart of Ice and Fire

The coastline of the island is compacted with ice; within the center of the island, a volcano rises.  There isn’t a single way to get across.

Ryoku: There’s no way out of the island even along the shoreline….

Kinrei: It’s possible that there could be a hidden pathway somewhere….

Ryoku: We’ve searched the island’s perimeter already, I guess we’ll have to head for the island’s center now.

Kinrei: Seems like the closer you are to the center of the island, the stronger the presence of monsters and demons.

Iten: I sense spiritual energy concentrated in the center of the island…. It’s possible that there’s something inside.

Kinrei: I suppose that means it would be worthwhile to go there.

Monsters: Grrrrrrrooooooooowl!

Ryoku: It wasn’t just your imagination, the number of monsters really is increasing! Everyone, be careful!

Scene 9: Cursed Mirror

An enormous monster appeared before us when we reached the center of the island. It gazes down at us from its perch atop a mirror that emanates a dark aura.

Player: This one’s the same sort of monster?!

Kinrei: This monster is made up of many evil spirits…. For one to reach such a massive size, how much evil energy must accumulated inside its body…

Ryoku: Whooooah, that thing’s freakin HUGE! Don’t tell me we can’t beat it...

Iten: The blade of this heavenly sword shall not return to its scabbard until every last drop of blood has been drained! A monster of this level is nothing to fear.

Player: Wait a moment! There are smaller monsters surrounding it too. First we should exterminate them, then focus on getting rid of the enormous spirit!

Scene 10: Shards of the Cursed Mirror

Just as the defeated monster fell, the mirror emanating the evil aura fell as well.

I pick up a fragment of the mirror and notice three characters inscribed on it: “Soul Stealing Mirror”. I feel as if I’ve seen patterns like this before…

Ryoku: Would you look at that! Now that the snowcap has collapsed, we can see a way out of here!

Iten: It’s possible that the entire island may start to collapse…

Toryuu: Hurry, this way!

In the midst of running, the fragment I was holding slips from my hand.

Panicking, I stop in my tracks and stoop down to search near my feet.

Kinrei: What are you doing!?

Ryoku: Hurry! Cracks are forming in the ground…..!

Player: But ... that mirror’s shard…. I have to find it!

Toryuu: You idiot...!!

I’m stunned as Toryuu grabs my hand and begins to pull me ahead.

Scene 11: Within the Dream World

Ryoku: (panting) We somehow escaped…?

Iten: What were you waiting for back there?.....We narrowly avoided death.

Iten turns his gaze on me condemningly.

Ryoku: What were you searching for earlier?

I tell the other how the inscription on the mirror was similar to the engravings I saw on the stone wall within my dream.

Ryoku: What was the place in your dream like? Maybe someone there would have a clue as to what’s going on.

Player: Whenever I try to remember the scene within my dream, my right hand starts to feel warm again.

[dream memory]

Player: Over there is… a cold, secluded place...where many weapons are buried….Around there is a stone wall with an old inscription that reads:

“Under heaven, no one could be my equal-- unbearable loneliness is my destiny.The bravery of youth, the tranquility of adulthood, the complacency of old age- once these have passed, there are no further boundaries to be crossed!”

After listening to me recount my dream, Toryuu and Iten speak up at the same time.

Toryuu and Iten: That’s the Tomb of Swords!!!

After briefly making eye contact, the two avert their gazes once more.

Kinrei: What do you two know about this Tomb of Swords?

Toryuu: I heard a story of such a place long ago…. It seems quite similar to the place that you described in your dream….

Player: The “Tomb” refers to all those graves.  I’m certain there are many weapons buried there. It may be just as you say.

Ryoku: I know that you want to go to that place, so why don’t we head there together? I can escort you to the Tomb of Swords

Toryuu: If the inscription on the Soul Stealing Mirror has a connection to the Tomb of Swords, it’s a good enough reason for me to go there too.

Iten: Do you think that person would still be in the Tomb of Swords?

Toryuu: I’m interested in that as well. Looks like you and I have decided to take part in this journey too!

Iten silently nods his head in agreement.

Ryoku: What about you, Kinreicchi? Aren’t you gonna come with us?

Kinrei: Huh? The place I want to go is… (sighs)... well, I’ll accompany you for a while.

February 7/2021

I’m supposed to go to the city today to visit Sydnie, but I’m not sure if I will. It’s 36 degrees right now and I’m still feeling as I was last night: tired and empty. And I’ve got a few new spots dotting my body. I’m assuming that I’ve consumed something that my body hasn’t exactly appreciated, but, alas, there’s been so many new things that I’m introducing to my body now that it’s hard to detect what my body might be reacting to. 

Because, it would seem that I have a tendency to just push and push and push until suddenly--finally-- a boundary appears and knocks me the fuck over. I think that this might be a symptom of my manic elements. And no matter how many times this relentless pushing manifests in me, I never seem to learn how to go slowly and carefully. Only when I’m crawling along through the mud on my knees do I cease my rushing forward. And this is only because I’m on my fucking knees and speed is impossible. There seems to be no in-between or halfway measures with me--it’s all or nothing. Perhaps that bipolar diagnosis isn’t as questionable as I’d lately been coming to think... It just doesn’t manifest in me as it does in the majority of people diagnosed with this disorder? And why should it?: we’ve already discussed my difference, my overwhelming emphasis on what is within me. It would seem that my symptoms don’t show up in my actions nearly as much as they show up in my thoughts. I believe that this is why I can understand so intimately the heights of exaltation in Rand and Nietzsche while simultaneously relating so wholly to anything that portrays man abandoned wretchedly in the dismal gutters of life. Because I am both of these. Which, I imagine, really adds something to my writing, but holy fuck: my sanity seems to be nothing but elusive because of it. It’s never been something that I’ve ever been able to put my full trust in. I am so intimately aware of the fragility of my grip on sanity--it could crumble at any moment. No warning signs, nothing, just a sudden free falling; nothing to grab onto for stability, nothing, nothing, nothing, just endless nothingness, like, I imagine, what happened with Nietzsche when he went insane. Am I comparing myself to Nietzsche? Not in depth or intensity of thought obviously, he’s quite incomparable in that regard, but perhaps our shaky foundations of sanity. (I, it would seem, don’t prescribe to the belief that he had syphilis. I think that that diagnosis kind of ignores what can happen when one’s thought cuts every string that ties one to the collective framework of thought. Pirsig illustrates this idea really well in his Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance I think: one plunges too deeply into one’s thought and then there’s suddenly nothing to cling to. And perhaps, most importantly, no one can follow a person into an abyss like that and call you back--it’s an entirely solitary journey. No one and nothing can call one forth and bring them up and out of oneself when one has plunged that deeply inwards. This is something that I am deeply aware of, something that I’ve always seemed to be aware of, even when I couldn’t articulate this awareness or make any sense of it. Perhaps it’s just an awareness that one develops from living so close to the abyss for so many years? Like how people who live on the coast develop a different sort of acquaintance with the happenings of the ocean than those who live inland. (I realize too here that I’m operating within a bracket that opened much before this. The rules of grammar are annoying to me in my current mood.) 

I’ve known for years and years and years that an inescapable and irreversible plunge into insanity is a very real possibility for me. An insanity that I never come back from. I’m not me without this terrifying self-awareness. And yet, I still don’t play it “safe.” Just like with everything else in my life, I push and push and push; there seems to be an almost instinctual need to lacerate myself against that boundary of sanity. Except, in this case, I don’t think that a significant impact with this boundary will drive me to my knees. This is because I don’t think that this boundary, the one separating sanity from never-come-back-from-it insanity, is a boundary that is firm. That is, it’s not a wall, it’s a ledge. Sanity is the ground that I walk on, insanity is the groundless abyss. And here I am, rushing around so recklessly that I won’t even recognize the ledge until I’m already plunging over it. Who am I kidding?: even if I could detect the ledge in enough time to save myself from it, I might still thrust myself over it consciously, with full knowledge of exactly what I’m doing. I do seem to be such a Being as to do such a thing. 

I wonder, if I had a partner or a child would I be more careful in these pursuits of mine? Would the knowledge of someone’s dependence keep me away from the edge of this abyss? At least to the extent that I wouldn’t consciously and willingly plunge myself into it... I have no answer to this question. 

Is this the same sort of reason that Kierkegaard knew that he couldn’t marry Regine? The apprehension that his path was such that the grounding of sanity might slip out from under him at any moment. I suppose that it could be said that he could have just turned his back on this path and (attempted) to content himself with a life lived beside the (human) love of this life. Something similar could be said of me too I suppose, minus the whole human love of my life thing. But I could leave all of this behind, become a nurse or some shit, find a partner who would treat me like a queen, have a couple of kids who would become my whole world and just live this: turn my back on all that threatens to rip the ground of sanity from beneath my feet. Technically speaking, I could do this; Kierkegaard could have done this. But he didn’t, and nor shall I. Because alas, I can do no other... It’s getting to the point where I might just have to get this phrase tattooed on my body somewhere. 

I wonder... does this mean that I might be destined for a life such as Kierkegaard’s? Not so much (although also desperately hoping so) in his creative masterpieces, but in his walking through life perpetually alone. Would it be cruel of me to welcome another into my life knowing what I know about myself?...Perhaps. But I am also a queen of cruelty. Thinking about it from the other side, I would be absolutely furious if my love (embodied in a person) didn’t allow me to walk beside them in life for fear of what might happen. So, alas, it would seem that I will never cease pursuing this path of mine, but I also won’t bar someone from joining me on it. 

I say all of this knowing how...well, if I am ever to find someone to walk beside me, they are going to be unbelievably special. They’d have to be, me being such as I am... A cocky little shit apparently. It is a necessary requirement of being an artist to be so self-absorbed/obsessed? For, no matter how guilty or ashamed of my self-absorption/obsession I become, this self-absorption/obsession never seems to dissipate. It seems rather to be an integral piece of my Being--I just wouldn’t be me without it. 

Hi, love! :) I was wondering if you have like a top ten fic rec list. Just curious to see what your top ten would be. Please and thank you x

So, I’ve had this ask in my inbox all week because I just cannot, for the life of me, narrow down the thousands of fics I’ve read into a top 10. This has less to do with the volume of fics than that I love different fics for different reasons. And just for clarification, I want to give you a list of great fics to read that are not the usual - because I do love many of the fandom classics, but let’s spread the love, shall we? Ok…SO…the best I can do is break up some of my faves into a couple of categories. 

1. Beautifully Poetic Fics

These Roads We Stumble Down by @onewasturning

He’s completely drenched, not one millimetre of him not covered in rain, and the old sheepskin cover over the seat is probably going to stink afterwards from the damp. But even with what seems to be a constant tremor shaking his body, brown hair plastered to his forehead, and a blue tinge to his skin, he’s still probably the most gorgeous person that Harry has ever seen.

Or, Harry picks up a hitchhiker in Oxford, and it’s a long ride to Glasgow.

A Red-Dusted Planet by @onewasturning

Harry finally makes it to the edge of the pool where Louis is almost curled up in on himself laughing in the shallow water. He wants to feel annoyed, his competitive side rankled at the unfair and unjust tactics used by his opponent, but it’s like—

The light refracts off the water and moves across Louis’ skin, darkening the ink of his tattoos, and he looks beautiful, dazzling, still that god laughing down on all the destruction he’s caused. And Harry’s heart is caught somewhere in his breathless chest, like it’s become tangled amidst the veins and arteries whilst trying to make room for wet boys on warm, summery days.

Or, a one-night stand in a small town in Australia turns into a weekend that Harry could’ve never predicted with a boy he may never forget.

reeling through the midnight streets by vashtaneradas

au; louis can’t sleep. neither can the boy on the bridge. the water’s a nice place to meet.

Coup de Foudre by angelwarm

Harry moves to the front door accompanied by insistent lightning flashes. He acknowledges it could also be a murderer on the other side and that he will likely be dead in five minutes.

It should stop him. It doesn’t.

Harry decides not to waste another second and calls through to the other side, “Just a second.” He turns the key in the latch and opens it and—everything around him drops away in one long cloud coming into another cloud.

Caught By the Sun by metal_eye / @metal-eye

“He came every summer. It wasn’t even a question. Harry and his parents—one step, one real—picked up their lives, packed it into a car, and drove long enough to land at the ends of the earth.

“The cabin had been in his family for a hundred years. There was no TV, no phone, no computer, no radio. There were decks of cards and plastic deer and marbles. There were skis and leaves and a tree house.

"And then there was Louis.”

Or, Harry and Louis meet every summer at the lake.

Strange How the Half Light by Anonymous

It’s been two weeks now. Two weeks of tossing and turning in his bed, waking up sticky with sweat, head pounding.

“Your moon is so different from mine, did you know?” the boy, Harry, murmurs, and Louis flushes red, glad the dark of the night hides the blush on his cheeks. Thinking about sweaty nights thrashing around in his bed isn’t the best idea right now. Not here, next to this boy. Some mornings, Louis could swear he wakes up with Harry’s scent on his pillow.

In the light of the moon, Harry tells stories about the places beyond the stars, and Louis wonders about the curve of his lips.

Little Technicolor Things by @tekhnicolor

Louis is a poor writer and recent university graduate, depressed, anxious, and living in London when he meets Harry, an artist with a secret who likes to paint sunrises and pretty boys from California.

six feet beneath the moon by starseas

AU. takes place over one night. harry and louis meet at a going away party.

Where is Your Boy Tonight (I Hope He’s a Gentleman) by ashavahishta

When they hang out together at other times, Nick is usually more careful. It’s not that he’s expecting Harry to cut off their friendship or something ridiculous when he finds out. It’s that he knows Harry would be lovely about it. Harry would look at him with huge sympathetic eyes and apologise that he didn’t feel the same way, and then he’d give him a huge hug and go home to Louis with Nick’s broken heart cradled in the palm of his hand.

2. Super Hot Short Fics

(the rest is under the cut)

Lights off, Lights on by waytoomanypeopleintheaddisonlee / @dinosaursmate

“Fuck,” Louis muttered, quickly palming himself through his joggers.He dropped his head to the doorframe as he heard the telltale sound of climax coming from the bathroom. He let out a quiet, strangled moan, palming himself again as he heard the water stop running.“Shit,” Louis muttered, quickly moving back to his own bed and throwing himself on top of it. A minute later, Harry emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped round his waist, smiling brightly, nonchalantly.“Morning, Lou.”-Louis can’t get enough of listening to Harry touching himself.

Good Enough to Eat by objectlesson / @horsegirlharry

“Fuck,” Harry mumbles, shuffling. “You won’t give me shit for it? It’s sorta weird.”

“No,” Louis breathes. “Promise.”

“Okay. I just…fuck, I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” Harry whimpers, and he must be blushing because Louis can feel waves of heat coming off him, his embarrassment a hot, palpable thing. “So, like…I love rimming videos. Nothing makes me come harder,” he admits, covering his face with his hands so his voice comes out muffled and strangled.

It takes Louis a few seconds to process, to mentally rifle through his Pornhub search history and remember what rimming even is; Harry has him so stupid he can’t keep stuff straight. His ears ring, and then it hits him, and, oh, fuck. His stomach turns and tightens so quickly he’s gasping, an audible and shameful scrape of air in the dark. “You…really?” he chokes out.

—

Or, Harry is convinced he’s never gonna be able to try his favorite porn fantasy on a real boy, and Louis offers to remedy this.

Go With It by embro

Prompt: “You thought I was someone else and started making out with me in a club and you’re really hot so I just kinda went with it and now we’re heading back to your place and I don’t know how to break it to you”

Day 27: My Heart Belongs to Daddy by @100percentsassy

Louis and Harry are not going to have sex today.

got my eyes on you by eleadore

Harry’s not supposed to take off his clothes, but it’s one of those unspoken rules, much like don’t have a wank with your best mate and definitely don’t make that a regular thing, fuck, what the fuck.

love to make him moan by say_thanks

they fuck like they’re sex starved, when they’re really, really not.

leave you drowning until you reach for my hand by orphan_account

If Louis told him to do something that he really didn’t want to do, it would be different, but Louis’s never done that, never asked anything of Harry that he couldn’t handle. Except—except maybe this; to obey him without praise, reward, approval, or even mere acknowledgement.

feel you on my neck by Awriterwrites / @a-writerwrites

Harry’s drunk. Harry’s drunk and there’s this guy. This guy plastered to his back and if he could just get a cab…

Based on these lyrics:Feel you on my neck while I’m calling a taxiClimbing over me while I climb in the backseatNow we’re taking offNow we’re taking it off tonight

What happens when Harry rescues Louis at a bar and ends up taking him home?

3. New(ish) Longer Fics You Should Read

Let Me Touch You Where Your Heart Aches by @rosegoldhl

Alcohol was all he could taste. Alcohol and Harry, and he didn’t mind one bit. Harry kissed him back with just as much fervent heat. He pushed Louis against the taxi door and pulled his head back, breathing hot and heavy against his lips.“Let’s go, yes?”

Or a Friends with Benefits AU, in which Louis falls in love and Harry is jealous. There is some Karaoke singing somewhere in there, because how do you write a romantic comedy without a Karaoke scene?

A Few Very Good Mistakes by @louisandthealien

He almost wishes there were a better story.

“Fucked up pop star ends five day bender by wandering into a dive bar alone and passing out in public.”

That would’ve generated press, he thinks, and if there’s one thing that’s constantly on his mind (or more accurately, on the mind of everyone else around him) it’s that all press is good press, and good press is good press but bad press is great press.

Besides, he’s 25 and trying to do the whole transition from boyband to solo pop star. He’s pretty sure a press-fueled meltdown is, like, a right of passage.

The truth, alas, is a whole lot more boring.

—

Louis falls asleep in Harry’s bar. Harry takes him home to hang out.

Save your loving arms for a rainy day by BriaMaria / @briannamarguerite

“What’s got your panties in a twist, then, pop star?” the man finally asked, his gaze returning to Louis’ face.

Something pressed against Louis’ chest and for a moment Louis let himself wonder what it would be like to let all his secret spill out. To fall into the space between them and be devoured by this stranger. Terror mingled with bliss, tangling into a sharp throb he had to swallow hard against.

“Absolutely nothing,” Louis said instead. “Happy days, yeah?”

The man clicked his tongue once, a disappointed, wet tetch that Louis felt. Actually felt.

“My mistake.”

Louis turned desperate eyes on him, blinking too fast. He could see his own lashes flutter. “I’m living the dream, mate” he said and even he could hear the way his voice cracked along the edges. “What would I have to be upset about?”

–

Or the one where Louis is a pop star who has lost his voice and Harry helps him find it.

like a boomerang by youwilll 

AU in which Harry gets trapped in a lift, Louis gets stuck in a Wednesday, and it’s always February 2nd. Until it isn’t.

Fool’s Gold by tvshows_addict / @tvshows-addict

Leaflet for Over Again Inc.

“In relationships, there are three types of people: those who are happy, those who are unhappy but accept it and deal, those who are unhappy and in denial.

Handling this last category is our job: we are professional couple breakers.

To reach our goal, we use all means necessary.”

Or the Arnacoeur AU in which Harry is scheduled to be married to Liam in 10 days and Harry’s mother hires Louis and his team to break them up.

Don’t Want Shelter by @fullonlarrie

Louis and Harry have known each other all their lives. Friends as children, they danced around each other as teenagers, and have spent the last twenty-five years either screaming at each other or not speaking at all. Except for that one time ten years ago…

When Hurricane Nicole threatens the coast, they end up stuck together in their families’ old vacation home that they begrudgingly co-own.

During the storm, and in the months after, they’re both forced to reevaluate their history and what they mean to each other.

Barefoot in Blue Jeans by @indiaalphawhiskey

AU. Louis Tomlinson is trying desperately hard not to fall for his son’s au pair, but he can’t, for the life of him, remember why.

475. The hope that this fear is unfounded.

Hopefully I’ve given you some that you haven’t read yet, as that’s always my goal (along with giving you great writing to enjoy). 

Day Twenty-Four: Under London

https://aroundtheworldinsearchofcokev.blogspot.com/2019/07/day-twenty-four-under-london.html

St. Pancras – or to use it’s full name, St. Pancras International – resides among crowded real estate. Right across the road is one of London’s other major rail terminals – Kings Cross – and it’s just down the road from yet another at Euston. The reason for this was a phenomena known as Railway Mania, in which dozens and dozens of railway companies sprung into existence in Britain – the Midland Railway (St. Pancras) wasn’t about to ask for access to Great Northern Railway (Kings Cross) track, nor that of the London and North Western Railway (Euston).

Today, St. Pancras serves as Britain’s rail gateway to Europe, by way of the Eurostar high-speed train through the Channel Tunnel. As a result, it is one of the busiest in the city of London, and is served by no less than six Underground lines – on paper. In reality, although all of these lines serve the same station in theory, they’re often quite a hike a way from each other. The walk to the so-called sub-surface lines is a long one indeed, going right under Kings Cross to the other side of the complex. This is where I began my expedition this morning.

If you can find a Tube map, you should bring it up. You may want to follow along.

The first train I boarded was on the Metropolitan Line, the oldest underground railway line in the world – it opened in 1863, using steam power. This naturally caused problems and was thus electrified at the turn of the century. It’s called a sub-surface line (or a cut-and-cover line) because it is pretty much right below the surface – the builders literally dug up the street, built a railway line, and then covered it up again. In the modern day, there is very little difference between the Metropolitan and the other sub-surface lines – they use the same ultra-modern S-stock trains introduced a few years ago. They are smooth-riding, air-conditioned and comfortable, but one misses the older trains they replaced. They smelt, they were loud, they were hot, and they had character.

I went as far as Euston Square on this train – one stop down the line – and then changed to the Hammersmith and City line to Baker Street, which still retains much of its Victorian character. I got off there to wait for a Circle line train to carry on… and wait… and wait… and wait…

Thoroughly browned off, I eventually got in another Hammersmith and City line train to Edgware Road to try finding a Circle line train there, and as luck would have it, there was one on the very next platform. We passed Paddington – this is another famous London termini – this time for the Great Western Railway – and will one day be a key stop on Crossrail (or the Elizabeth Line, as they call it) – it’s also nearly completely on the surface, giving a rare moment of (cloudy) sunlight on this voyage.

The Circle took me to High Street Kensington, where I swapped trains again to the District line. I reached Earl’s Court, changed to another District train heading towards Tower Hill (despite being a ‘line’, the District has a bewildering number of branch lines) and finally got off at Victoria (yet another terminus – this one for shared by the South Eastern and Chatham and London, Brighton and South Coast Railway). Here I left the sub-surface and went down into the Deep Tube.

Here I boarded the Victoria line, perhaps appropriately. This is one of the newer Tube lines, constructed in the late 1960s. It is also the line I most rarely use, although I can’t really fathom why. There’s nothing wrong with it, the stock (2009-stock) is fairly modern – I suppose there’s just always a better route from where I happen to be.

This was the beginning of what I shall call a series of one-stop ‘hops’ – I got off at Green Park, near Buckingham Palace, and swapped to the Jubilee line, the newest on the network – it opened in 1979. As a result, it is probably the least exciting, yet it’s rarely too busy either. At Bond Street I changed trains again to the Central line. The Central line is always, always, always packed – probably because it runs right through the middle of both the City and Westminster, past the big banks and corporations. As a result, despite its vintage (1900), it’s probably my least favourite of the Deep Tube lines.

No matter, I was off it after one stop – Oxford Circus. I proceeded to the Bakerloo line – definitely my favourite. The aesthetic is perfect – the old, somewhat hazy stations; the smell; the trains, the oldest remaining on the network (1972-stock). It feels like an old noir movie or 1930s film. Alas, my time on the Bakerloo (so named because it connected Baker Street and Waterloo) was short – I got off at Piccadilly Circus.

From there, it was the Piccadilly line – which uses the almost-as-elderly 1973-stock. It was a quick hop to Leicester Square – realistically I could have walked, but I had no intention of leaving the Underground until I was done. At Leicester Square, I swapped to the Northern line, the oldest of the Deep Tube lines (the first section was opened in 1890.) From there, it was – appropriately – northbound, past Tottenham Court Road, past Goodge Street, past Warren Street, past Euston (not to be confused with Euston Square), until I reached my final destination…

I understand most of you are probably a bit confused. Mornington Crescent is something of an old in-joke – it gave its name to a spoof game show in the 1970s, in which contestants improvised stupidly complicated rules to the ‘game’ of Mornington Crescent; it basically amounted to shouting Tube stations randomly un til somebody got to Mornington Crescent and ‘won.’ It was also well known for being closed at weird times, although in recent years that hasn’t been the case, and for being a bit hard to get to (as you need to get on a specific branch of the Northern line.) Basically, Mornington Crescent is an object of great affection for rail and underground enthusiasts.

That meant it had to be the end of the line. Here I was, at the end of a journey that had taken me on every single regularly-operating tube lune on the network (the Waterloo and City is closed on Sunday and also doesn’treallycount), without visiting any stations or lines twice. How did I feel?

There was a strange sense of anti-climax, once the novelty of Mornington Crescent wore off. I was standing in a tube station, totally alone, looking at a station sign. I was hot, thirsty and sweaty from the humidity of the Deep Tube. I had completed this task that I had wanted to do for as long as I remembered, and perhaps in doing so, some of the magic of the ideawore off. What had I actually done?

I had ridden some trains, most of which were basically modern, past what was essentially a bunch of names with no real context. A lot of the old characterof the Underground of my mind – the dirty old trains on the Circle and District lines, the endless procession of buskers in the tunnels, the eccentric opening times for the various stations – they’re mostly gone now. Perhaps much of my ‘old Tube’ never really existed. Such is the power of nostalgia.

I travelled back to Oxford Circus, in silence for the most part. The trains (I had to change to the Victoria at Euston) rattled and rumbled, screeching on the curves, and all the masses of people around either stared at the paper or the map printed above them. Nobody looked around. Nobody took interest in what, to them, was just another aspect of life. And yet I was gripped by thoughts of the glimpses of mystery in the tunnel – strange lights, mysterious doors, tracks that led nowhere, brickworks covering closed stations. I wondered what secrets might lay beyond them, waiting to be discovered.

And you know what? I hope I never find the answer. The fictional ideas I form around them are far too exciting for that.

---

And no, before you ask, I didn’t spend all day riding public transport.

After my voyage, I headed to Hamleys, because why the heck wouldn’t you go to Hamleys? It’s Hamleys. I bought a goods wagon and Bentley car for my layout, and then walked to Trafalgar Square. I recuperated from my experience there with a coke, and then went to the National Portrait Gallery.

Some people thing portraits are boring. These people are wrong and they suck, but they think that and free speech is a thing. Portraits reveal so much about people – artist, subject and the world they lived in. For example, the portraits of the Plantagenet kings in the gallery, painted long after their deaths and more based on Shakespeare than reality (which sucked for poor old Richard III.) Or you might look at the paintings of Charles II and William III, and compare the man who revelled in luxuries and riches and the man who revelled in soldiery and battle. It shows how much things have changed, too – the image of female beauty changing from plumpness to rail-thin stomachs, the rise and fall of military heraldry and dress; there’s a magnificent portrait of Clive of India in one room, and a plain bust of Nehru, one of those who tore down all he made, in another. Backgrounds go from plain, stoic black to sweeping panoramas of battle and lush landscapes. I’d recommend a visit – see it for yourself, make your own impressions.

Plus it’s free.

After that, it was off for home, where I write this now. It’s been a long day; tomorrow we do very little, before on Tuesday we set out west on the next stage of this adventure…

No, not to America. To the West Country.

A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf

Highlights from my reading, with a special fondness for the very last highlight:

Or watch in the spring sunshine the stockbroker and the great barrister going indoors to make money and more money and more money when it is a fact that five hundred pounds a year will keep one alive in the sunshine. Further, accentuating all these difficulties and making them harder to bear is the world’s notorious indifference. It does not ask people to write poems and novels and histories; it does not need them. In the first place, to have a room of her own, let alone a quiet room or a sound- proof room, was out of the question, unless her parents were exceptionally rich or very noble, even up to the beginning of the nineteenth century. that deep- seated desire, not so much that she shall be inferior as that he shall be superior, which plants him wherever one looks, not only in front of the arts, but barring the way to politics too, even when the risk to himself seems infinitesimal and the suppliant humble and devoted. Unfortunately, it is precisely the men or women of genius who mind most what is said of them. Remember Keats. Remember the words he had cut on his tombstone. Think of Tennyson; think— but I need hardly multiply instances of the undeniable, if very unfortunate, fact that it is the nature of the artist to mind excessively what is said about him.  It was a thousand pities that the woman who could write like that, whose mind was tuned to nature and reflection, should have been forced to anger and bitterness. But I doubt whether that was true of Charlotte Brontë, I said, opening Jane Eyre and laying it beside Pride and Prejudice. What one means by integrity, in the case of the novelist, is the conviction that he gives one that this is the truth. Yes, one feels, I should never have thought that this could be so; I have never known people behaving like that. But you have convinced me that so it is, so it happens. Speaking crudely, football and sport are “important”; the worship of fashion, the buying of clothes “trivial”. And these values are inevitably transferred from life to fiction. One must have been something of a firebrand to say to oneself, Oh, but they can’t buy literature too. Literature is open to everybody. I refuse to allow you, Beadle though you are, to turn me off the grass. Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind. Indeed, since freedom and fullness of expression are of the essence of the art, such a lack of tradition, such a scarcity and inadequacy of tools, must have told enormously upon the writing of women. The novel alone was young enough to be soft in her hands— another reason, perhaps, why she wrote novels. Yet who shall say that even now “the novel” (I give it inverted commas to mark my sense of the words’ inadequacy), who shall say that even this most pliable of all forms is rightly shaped for her use? If through their incapacity to play football women are not going to be allowed to practise medicine—— Happily my thoughts were now given another turn. What they got, it is obvious, was something that their own sex was unable to supply; and it would not be rash, perhaps, to define it further, without quoting the doubtless rhapsodical words of the poets, as some stimulus, some renewal of creative power which is in the gift only of the opposite sex to bestow. A true picture of man as a whole can never be painted until a woman has described that spot the size of a shilling. Mr. Woodhouse and Mr. Casuabon are spots of that size and nature. give her a room of her own and five hundred a year, let her speak her mind and leave out half that she now puts in, and she will write a better book one of these days. She will be a poet, I said, putting Life’s Adventure, by Mary Carmichael, at the end of the shelf, in another hundred years’ time. androgynous. It is when this fusion takes place that the mind is fully fertilised and uses all its faculties. Perhaps a mind that is purely masculine cannot create, any more than a mind that is purely feminine, I thought. For one can hardly fail to be impressed in Rome by the sense of unmitigated masculinity; and whatever the value of unmitigated masculinity upon the state, one may question the effect of it upon the art of poetry. One must turn back to Shakespeare then, for Shakespeare was androgynous; and so were Keats and Sterne and Cowper and Lamb and Coleridge. In our time Proust was wholly androgynous, if not perhaps a little too much of a woman. But that failing is too rare for one to complain of it, since without some mixture of the kind the intellect seems to predominate and the other faculties of the mind harden and become barren. It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple; one must be woman- manly or man- womanly. It is fatal for a woman to lay the least stress on any grievance; to plead even with justice any cause; in any way to speak consciously as a woman. And fatal is no figure of speech; for anything written with that conscious bias is doomed to death. As people mature they cease to believe in sides or in Headmasters or in highly ornamental pots. So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say. But to sacrifice a hair of the head of your vision, a shade of its colour, in deference to some Headmaster with a silver pot in his hand or to some professor with a measuring- rod up his sleeve, is the most abject treachery, and the sacrifice of wealth and chastity which used to be said to be the greatest of human disasters, a mere flea- bite in comparison. but, as a matter of hard fact, the theory that poetical genius bloweth where it listeth, and equally in poor and rich, holds little truth. As a matter of hard fact, nine out of those twelve were University men: which means that somehow or other they procured the means to get the best education England can give. we may prate of democracy, but actually, a poor child in England has little more hope than had the son of an Athenian slave to be emancipated into that intellectual freedom of which great writings are born.” That is it. Intellectual freedom depends upon material things. Poetry depends upon intellectual freedom. And women have always been poor, not for two hundred years merely, but from the beginning of time. Women have had less intellectual freedom than the sons of Athenian slaves. Women, then, have not had a dog’s chance of writing poetry. That is why I have laid so much stress on money and a room of one’s own. Therefore I would ask you to write all kinds of books, hesitating at no subject however trivial or however vast. By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream. For I am by no means confining you to fiction. If you would please me— and there are thousands like me— you would write books of travel and adventure, and research and scholarship, and history and biography, and criticism and philosophy and science. There runs through these comments and discursions the conviction— or is it the instinct?— that good books are desirable and that good writers, even if they show every variety of human depravity, are still good human beings. Thus when I ask you to write more books I am urging you to do what will be for your good and for the good of the world at large. That is what remains over when the skin of the day has been cast into the hedge; that is what is left of past time and of our loves and hates. Now the writer, as I think, has the chance to live more than other people in the presence of this reality. It is his business to find it and collect it and communicate it to the rest of us.  For the reading of these books seems to perform a curious couching operation on the senses; one sees more intensely afterwards; the world seems bared of its covering... So that when I ask you to earn money and have a room of your own, I am asking you to live in the presence of reality, an invigorating life, it would appear, whether one can impart it or not. And a peroration addressed to women should have something, you will agree, particularly exalting and ennobling about it. I should implore you to remember your responsibilities, to be higher, more spiritual; I should remind you how much depends upon you, and what an influence you can exert upon the future. When I rummage in my own mind I find no noble sentiments about being companions and equals and influencing the world to higher ends. I find myself saying briefly and prosaically that it is much more important to be oneself than anything else. Do not dream of influencing other people, I would say, if I knew how to make it sound exalted. Think of things in themselves. And again I am reminded by dipping into newspapers and novels and biographies that when a woman speaks to women she should have something very unpleasant up her sleeve. Women are hard on women. Women dislike women. Women— but are you not sick to death of the word? I can assure you that I am. there have been at least two colleges for women in existence in England since the year 1866; that after the year 1880 a married woman was allowed by law to possess her own property; and that in 1919— which is a whole nine years ago— she was given a vote? A thousand pens are ready to suggest what you should do and what effect you will have. My own suggestion is a little fantastic, I admit; I prefer, therefore, to put it in the form of fiction. I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee’s life of the poet. She died young— alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the cross- roads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here to- night, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh. This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so— I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals— and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting- room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky, too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton’s bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would be impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.

Hi! I've just gotten back into the fandom after a few years break. I've watched SPN since it aired in 2005, but I've left four times, each time for at least a year, because I keep feeling like we're being queerbaited w/Destiel and it really upsets me. In short, I feel like investing so much time, and so many emotions, into this pairing is a waste of time because it will only leave me disappointed in the end. So my question for you is, what keeps you positive enough about this pairing to stay?

Hey, sorry for getting back to you so late. I wrote and erased several answers to this, because, I don’t know, on some days I was trying to be clever and go all meta-stuff but it always sounded pretentious and stupid, and then on other days I felt dramatic and angry and got all upset and it would generally read as too much or not nearly enough, so. And today I really think I left this unanswered for way too long and that if you asked me, then you wanted my opinion on the matter and this is what I should be trying to do - just to say what i think, without too many frills.

So, first of all - I’m a weird person, and sometimes I get too worked up about stuff, and I obsess a lot, and thank God I’ve got people in my life who keep me grounded and remind me about what really matters. And the truth is, Supernatural doesn’t. It’s a good show, and we all love it, and sure, like all popular works of fiction it probably changed someone’s mind and had an impact on someone’s life, but at the end of the day, you come first. As I said, I had periods in my life where I was putting too much energy on the wrong things, and a TV show is definitely the wrong thing, especially if it leaves you frustrated and upset and angry. I say this with a lot of respect, because I know we all love Supernatural and everything, but let’s be honest - it’s a TV show. It’s not real. If it makes you cry for the wrong reasons, get away from it and good riddance. What truly matters in this life is to find a way to love yourself and to be there for other people - to be kind, and to be strong, and to maybe make our world a little better. So if a story helps you do that, embrace it; and if it doesn’t, let it go. It’s just a story.

For me, personally, I had a very emotional time with Destiel (you can read about it here), because I felt cheated and let down and pretty much what you describe - I knew I’d invested so much of myself in the show, and that they’d let me down for stupid reasons. And it was really bleak for a while, so I get where you’re coming from. Back in S9, I spent many days feeling listless and depressed, and quite a few nights ranting and raging and even crying about it, and when I snapped out of it I realized that sure, they were being cunts and cheaters but there was something wrong with me, as well - because, as I just told you, it’s just a show, and it shouldn’t have dominated my feelings in such a way. So I tried to be objective and rational and I thought about it and I realized it was a bunch of things - I was stressed in school, and my grandparents were sick - all I’d wanted was to take a big step back from reality and as a result I’d fallen too deep into the show and that’s why when it let me down, it really felt like a physical blow. And since not getting lost in fiction, my own or other people’s, is not an option for me, I’m learning to deal with real life stuff better so I can tell apart what really matters from what doesn’t. I know I’ve made some progress there because I was really invested in Sherlock and Johnlock, and yet after the series finale I was - normal. I was upset and angry, of course, because it sucked balls, but it didn’t ruin my whole week or anything. My general mood was more a sort of, It’s not real and I can’t change it, so fuck them. 

(I think this is what happens with everything, by the way - most sport fans get so invested in their teams because it’s a sort of victory by proxy and it compensates for those things that are wrong in their lives. So, really - I don’t know you, and I don’t want to tell anyone how they should live their lives, but if this kind of ‘external’ things such as TV shows and movies make you so unhappy, my advice is to get to know yourself and understand why you feel that way. If there is something in your own life you’re not dealing with, the best thing is really to try and be brave and go at it head-on, because life is unfair and bad feelings and bad situations - that’s not something that goes away on its own. And it’s your life - you deserve to live it fully.)

So now - now there are shows I watch because I think they’re objectively outstanding, like Westworld, and there are shows I watch as a guilty pleasure and I’m mostly rolling my eyes at the screen but who knows, maybe it’s healthy to cry once a week so whatever (yeah, I’m a Grey’s Anatomy aficionado), and then there’s Supernatural, which is neither. I guess the reason I keep watching is because most of it is well-written, even if I dislike the fact they clearly have no idea as to where they’re going and what the whole thing even means, and I keep watching because I love the characters, and I keep watching because I met a lot of nice people in the fandom and writing about the show is helping me to get better as a writer (I think). The truth is, I’m an unusual Destiel shipper (if there’s such thing as a regular Destiel shipper, that is), because I’m not that interested in romance and even representation - well, it’s very important and stories should be more inclusive, but a good story can work even without being PC, in my opinion (take Reservoir Dogs, for instance). So what I resent the most in this situation is that they got me to care - they clearly wrote the story one way - and then they made me feel like there was something wrong with me for seeing what I was seeing. This is textbook abusive behaviour, and the fact it was targeted directly at the gay community (because, on the whole, they’re more likely to pick up on subtextual clues about sexuality) made it even more horrifying and wrong. 

That said, I don’t think there was a malicious intent there. I’m sure they knew what they were doing, because that’s their job, after all, but they all seem to be pretty decent people, so it’s not clear if they did not realize how significant a love story between Dean and Cas would be, or how attentive their own fandom was - I simply don’t know. Maybe they were going for some old-fashioned ‘alas, that it shall never be’ nonsense - back in the day, it happened very often that you were left with the feeling of things unsaid and you never knew if you were right or not, and also you mostly forgot about it because real-time fangirling over stuff wasn’t a thing. In a way, that’s also what happened with Sherlock, which became a worldwide phenomenon because of the fandom, something Moffat and Gatiss acknowledged without never realizing, apparently, the full implications of.

I think that, to an extent, we’ve always lived in a world of lies and deceit, and that’s just human nature; but as far as I can tell, the spreading of capitalism and consumer culture, on the one hand, and that of democratic societies, on the other, elevated the importance of honesty to a whole other plane. Corporations lie to us as a matter of fact - all advertisement is a lie, after all - and politicians also mostly lie, both to us and to themselves. This was always bound to have disastrous consequences, which we are now starting to witness. For this reason, mostly, I think it’s more important than ever that artists are honest about the stories they tell - they can talk about anything, of course, and decide which kind of story they want to create, but they should stay true to it. I sometimes feel that, like other important concepts, such as freedom of expression, the idea that a story is its reader’s, and not its creator’s, is sometimes perverted beyond recognition. To say that the story belongs to its readers means that we all come to the story with our own experiences, and that we all get from it what we choose to get, to some extent; this is, perhaps, some form of cognitive bias (we see the world as we are, and not as it is: that sort of thing), and a good writer will create a story that is deep enough all of us can recognize ourselves in a part of it. But some modern creators, like current politicians, intend the concept in a very different way. Their method is to deliberately appeal to everyone in order to get money or votes, and they forget, or pretend to ignore, that in so doing they are bound to deceive a significant part of those who believed in them. Just as the centrism in politics is an illusion, a story which tries to make everyone happy is plain dishonest. When push comes to shove, Dean and Cas are either in love or they aren’t, and it’s not my job as a viewer to guess what they really feel - it’s the show’s creators job to tell me.

So, you know - you ask how I stay positive enough to keep watching the show - it sounds weird, since I write metas every week and I write Destiel fanfiction and everything, but personally, I’m trying not to think about Destiel at all. For me, it is real, in the sense that I still see it in the story, but I think that for a variety of reasons, there will be no steady love stories on Supernatural until the very last season. My hope is that, since a convincing gay story is harder to write than a straight one (because, apparently, many people are still unaware of the fact gay people are a thing at all), the Destiel subtext will get stronger quite soon(ish) if Destiel is indeed endgame. I mean, you see it very clearly from that whole Saileen business - in Sam’s case, two episodes are plenty enough to build a believable love story and make us root for Sam and Eileen and daydream about their darling little house and their fluffy future dogs, but, again, when it comes to gay couples - even if Dean and Cas do get together in the very last episode or something, you need to build that up quite openly and not too late, or it will feel forced to a casual viewer. As I said, I try not to think too much about it because there are a lot of ifs, but - if Supernatural has an end date in sight, if this is a coming of age narrative and not a tragedy, if nothing messy happens IRL - then I think that yes, we still have a chance for Destiel to happen textually. That dreadful Sherlock ending, after all, and mostly the outraged and angry response from both critics and the fandom, should serve as a warning to Dabb and his team: planning to go big and then not going big doesn’t endear you to anyone, because people’s hearts are wild, unpredictable, irrational and beautiful things, and even Hotelling’s law has its limits.  

Book Review #2: A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas

This post is a long time coming. Let me give you a little run down of what's happening in this book review. I want to start by saying why I started reading this series, and what happened to me when I did. It wasn't pretty. And then I want to talk about my general overview of the series as a whole, and I want to end by doing a review of each individual book. There's a lot going on here. 

As a senior in AP Literature, come the beginning of May, you don't want to look at a text written in Victorian English for at least thirty years. I think my teacher figured this out pretty quickly, because for our final project, she assigned us a simple task: "Pick any book that's not 'Hop on Pop' and come up with why you chose to read it, and something that stuck with you, whether it be a theme, character, symbol etc." Now, personally as someone who loves fun reading, this project was a dream. I had books on books on books that I had been wanting to read, that had just been waiting for me to tear through their covers and delve into all of their glory. But unfortunately, there are only twenty four hours a day, eight of which devoted to school, six devoted to work, three to homework, at least two for sustaining life and whatever is leftover for sleeping, there was no time for fun reading in my life. UNTIL NOW. So I sat on the edge of my bed, stared at my shelves and waited for something to call to me. 

And then I looked at it. Nestled in my second to last shelf right next to Game of Thrones just waiting, perfect and pristine. Now I had purchased this book because I had suggested that my local Young Adult Literary Guild read it during the month of February, but if you see above you'll understand why I never read it. So I decided. The rest of my class could read profound works of literary merit. I would torture myself no more. This was the beginning of my liberation as a reader. 

Let me first just say, that I loved this series. I started reading, and I thought to myself  "Alas, this is another one of those series that you fall in love with so hard that it hurts to keep reading because you know has to end." As I read, I became...obsessed...unhealthily obsessed. Sarah J. Maas did something to me. I took this book with me everywhere, and when I finished the first one I was WORSE with the second. I brought the book to my sister's college graduation for Christ's sake. I was a starved, ravenous reader who could not be satiated no matter who many chapters she read each day. I stayed up until 3 am for days in a row reading by phone flashlight because I simply could not go to sleep

 without knowing what was going to happen. Long story short, some kind of spirit took over me and left me obsessed with this series.

All in all, I think this series was spectacular. A smash hit in every right. Maas had such a unique and interesting concept, and really brought it to life. Written with such incredible detail, and intricate world building, this series took my breath away. My general rule of thumb is that any book with a map in the front, has to be good. My rule still stands. And for once in my life, I actually USED the map spread across those two pages at the beginning of each book. I looked and saw how far Feyre traveled between Courts. Not only did the first two books take classics stories and twist them slightly, but they were also in the world of Fae, with still another over-arching conflict spread throughout the series to create a truly  epic tale. 

A COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES: *Warning: this review contains spoilers. Read at your own risk*Let's set the mood with a little summary shall we...So one cold winters night, Feyre Archeron is hunting to save her starving, destitute family, and kills a wolf in the process. One problem: this wolf is actually a really good friend of Fae Lord, Tamlin who comes a-stormin' into her house saying that since she took his soldier's life, he's come to take hers, but instead of killing her, offers to let her live at his estate in Fae land, known as Prythian. Overtime, Feyre makes friends with the Fae she lives with, and falls in love with Tamlin, the handsome High Lord of the Spring Court. Though she falls in love with him, Tamlin's land is plagued by a spreading darkness due to him being cursed by an evil fae, Amarantha. But Feyre decides she is not going to sit by and let her loved ones be abused and oppressed and decides that she will challenge Amarantha herself, a mere mortal, even sacrificing her soul to save her beloved and his people. 

What originally drew me to this series was I was told that it was a twisted telling of Beauty and the Beast, and it was. But I've read a lot of twisted tellings of fairytales, and I have never loved one as much as this series. The A Court of Thorns and Roses Trilogy was so unique in its telling. The allusions to Beauty and the Beast were so subtle, but they stood out because they were different. The beauty wasn't a bookworm this time, hell she couldn't even read. Instead painting was her passion (and as someone who has zero artistic talent, Maas descriptions of Feyre's ideas for paintings were exquisite). Yes, Tamlin could physically shift into a beast, but also his personality was beastly, and instead of being hidden away in a crumbling tower, this beast was forced to live out his life behind a cursed mask. Maas's use of Beauty and the Beast as the basis for the story made it a hit with BATB fans, but her unique and original spin on the tale are what makes this book truly spectacular. 

I hated Nesta (in this book). She was an actual demon. To treat Feyre so terribly, to hate her so intensely, when Feyre is literally keeping her and the rest of their family alive is mind boggling, but then it may have been another of Maas's sneaky traps. By hating Nesta in the beginning (like Feyre intensely disliked her sister, but still fought to keep her alive) I would grow to truly appreciate her in later books. 

I said it before, but I really want to emphasize how much care Maas took in building this world. She created a new universe with a history, laws, politics, a new language, an entire culture. I really and truly felt like I stepped through the pages into an entirely different world. The holidays that they celebrated were some of my favorite parts of this book. Though, when I was told what Calanmai was, I was little thrown but I recovered. That holiday stuck with me, despite its odd origins, because it was the first time she met Rhys. But really Summer Solstice was my favorite. At that time, she and I still loved Tamlin and Feyre drunk on faerie wine and smoldering Tamlin was highly enjoyable right down to them watching the sunrise on a hill in the valley together. And don't even get me started on that lake of starlight. 

Another thing about this series, but also this book in particular, is that Maas throws all of the stereotypical Fae tropes to the wind and writes her own unique tale set in the world of Fae. For instance Tam and Lucien outright tease Feyre when she says that they can't lie to her, because that myth simply isn't true. Or the classic, the idea iron burns faeries isn't true, its really ash wood that is deadly. Maas finds way to be original in faerie fiction, and creates her own myths and legends from the start. 

And though I loved Tamlin for much of the book, there were still parts of him that I didn't like. For example, he was pretty cowardly. When he realized that he was pretty much screwed and that Amarantha was coming for him, instead of rallying forces (like another High Lord we know) he sends her away and lets his estate get ransacked and himself kidnapped. Even as Feyre is getting tortured by Amarantha, Tamlin doesn't really do anything to help her but just kind of watches as it happens. At times Tamlin really could not  control his anger, which really bud you can't whip out your claws every time something doesn't go your way. I really hated that when Tamlin and Feyre had a minute alone Under the Mountain, that Tam's only concern is having sex with Feyre not, I don't know, helping her escape? Even though Rhys was the "enemy" at this point he still had his redeeming moments Under the Mountain. 

Why is sex slavery such a big thing? Honestly, as far as YA book go, sex slavery is pretty rare. But Maas proves she doesn't write a typical YA fic, because she tries to take not one but two sex slaves in a single book. First we have good old, Rhysand who actually agrees, and then we have Tam who refuses and opts to be cursed for fifty years instead. Amarantha, get it together. 

But one thing that really killed me was Feyre's guilt at Tamlin being taken away because she didn't break the curse in time. I could understand feeling bad, but Feyre really beats herself up for not freeing him and his people because she didn't say "I love you" fast enough. First of all, that phrase should never be said just to be said. If Feyre wasn't ready to say it, then she shouldn't have said it. Secondly NO ONE told her about the curse. How was she supposed to know that they were all waiting on her to free them. Feyre darling, it's not your fault I promise. 

I fell for it. I fell hopelessly into every trap Maas set up for me. Well played Maas, well played. Throughout this book I shipped Tamlin and Feyre with a vengeance, and hated Rhys with a...fury (get it?). Which is EXACTLY what she wanted to happen. As you progress through the series, you'll understand why and you'll feel just as silly as I did. But I think that in falling for every trap she laid out for me, I went through the story with Feyre, thinking along the same vein as her. She didn't see that Tamlin may not have been such a good guy, and neither did I, but we eventually learned together. 

All in all, this book was an impressive introduction to an amazing series! This was the first Sarah J. Maas book I had ever ready and honestly I can't wait to dive into the Throne of Glass series! Overall this book was wonderfully written and a really good, mature YA read. 

Overall, I rate this book 📚📚📚📚 out of 5! What did you think of A Court of Thorns and Roses? Let me know in the comments! 

If you enjoyed this please subscribe to get email updates for new blog posts! And feel free to follow our instagram and tumblr both can be found at @royreadingco If you have any suggestions for books you think I should read or bookish products I should try please leave a comment below or shoot me an email at [email protected]! Thanks for reading along with me! Happy reading! 

-

Kayla

The Fascinating 150-Year History of the American Watercolor Society

Turning Darkness Into Light

One of our fellow members of the Artist’s Network and editor of The Artist’s Magazine, Maureen Bloomfield, had the honor of speaking at the recent 150th Anniversary celebration of the American Watercolor Society. Her speech was so moving, we wanted to share it with those of you who could not attend the event.

***

Cave of Lascaux

Lascaux | 15,000 B.C.

In a valley in Southern France, in September 1940, four boys were wandering in the woods when their dog vanished. Mystified, they ran to the spot where he’d disappeared. The oldest boy described what happened next.

“Suddenly we found a hole. We moved a few stones to make the opening wider. And because I was the strongest, I was the first to climb into the darkness. I slipped, tried to hold onto some stones, but slid [downward]. When I finally came to the bottom, I was amazed to see the strangest pictures on the walls.”

Wall Art in Lascaux Cave

  What he had discovered were the caves of Lascaux and the more than 2,000 paintings that date from 15,000 BC; those works consist of pigment rubbed onto limestone with blood and water.

A thousand years later, other anonymous artists worked pigment into wet plaster, creating for the Palace of Knossos in Greece, the first frescoes—and this labyrinthine city once the dwelling place of the mythical Minotaur was discovered in 1878, 11 years after the American Watercolor Society’s first exhibition.

Decorative Border from Hall of Knossos, Crete

Hall of Knossos | Crete, 1500 B.C.

From Crete to another island (Ireland), variations on those decorative motifs recur in 800 AD; Columban monks drew designs and ornaments on vellum to illustrate the Four Gospels and, of course, the medium was watercolor.

A writer in the 12th century describes the experience of inspecting the Book of Kells.

Book of Kells, 800 A.D.

  “You will make out intricacies, so delicate and so subtle, so full of knots and links, with colors so fresh and vivid, that you might say that all this were the work of angels, and not of men.”

I have to amend that last phrase, as women—nuns and abbesses— also illumined manuscripts. In fact, in the Claricia Psalter of the 12th century, we find the earliest self-portrait of a woman artist, who drew her own figure, clothed in a nun’s habit, as a diagonal line that differentiates the letter Q from the letter O.

Luminosity

For the past few weeks, I’ve been brooding about watercolor; I’ve come to the conclusion and, alas, it’s not an original one, that its rarest quality and the one hardest to describe is luminosity, from lumen the Latin for light. To illumine is to light up, to shed light on.

I’m not an artist but I spent my childhood and adolescence taking private classes in oil and pastel. Although my mother believed that all lessons were good lessons, I never took a class in watercolor. I think, in retrospect, I knew even then that it would be too hard.

Sheherezade by Betsy Dillard Stroud

  As Betsy Dillard Stroud told me, “You have to be spontaneous—you have to react with alacrity because watercolor is always moving.”

  Apple Blossoms by Joseph Raffael

  Joseph Raffael explains why: “The flow of water is emblematic of a vital force. Watercolor expresses flow, life as transparency, the ineffable, the transient air, motion, life moving. Watercolor itself is a force of nature.”

From the 1800s to the 2000s

Tonight we celebrate the AWS that has been so influential in promoting this medium and in educating artists and collectors of its range and worth since 1866—a year after the conclusion of the Civil War that claimed 620,000 lives.

Bayonet Charge by Winslow Homer

  Winslow Homer was embedded in the Union Army and did drawings on site; his true-to-life etchings, one showing an amputation on the battlefield, appeared in Harper’s Magazine. In that war, New England bled as copiously as the South, and artists were not alone in wanting to escape the tragic waste (the Battle of Antietam alone resulted in 22,700 casualties; so devastating were the losses at Antietam that neither side could claim victory). Given the carnage of war and the darkness of a divided country, it makes sense artists would want to pursue light.

  Hauling Anchor by Winslow Homer

  So in 1866, a call went out to “all American artist and amateurs interested in forming a group devoted to watercolor painting.” To announce the first exhibition, 400 circulars were printed.

In addition, the AWS members, fearful they wouldn’t be able to fill the walls of the National Academy of Design, canvassed local studios, commercial galleries and private collections. Of the 278 pictures in the first show, only half were watercolors.

The 46 regular members of the AWS contributed the bulk of the work, but 109 other nonmember artists were represented including about a dozen foreigners. The opening on December 21, 1867, the AWS secretary called “A brilliant occasion, full of the most exultant camaraderie.”

According to Kathleen A. Foster, the author of the catalogue for the exhibition “American Watercolor in the Age of Homer and Sargent,” now on view at the Philadelphia Museum of Art: “The history of watercolor painting in the United States divides neatly into two parts: before the foundation of the AWS and after.”

Before 1866, watercolor painting was not considered a fine art medium and the perverse reason was that it was, in fact, the most popular medium in the country—for illustrators, engravers, architects, engineers, commercial artists, travelers, scientist and naturalists like Audubon, etc., and, not incidentally, for well-bred ladies, students and children. “That changed,” according to Foster, “with breathtaking speed after 1867. By 1881, watercolor was the toast of New York. Within 50 years, many of the most lauded and adventurous American artists were watercolorists.”

From that great crop of “most lauded and adventurous artists,” the first Golden Age, before this one so radiantly on display at this show, I’d like to single out three.

First, Winslow Homer, who was famously reticent but nonetheless managed to say something completely in the spirit of watercolor: “I like painting done without your knowing it.”

Corfu, Light and Shadows | John Singer Sargent

  Second, John Singer Sargent who had two ways of working: one with broad strokes in limpid colors and the other with tinges of pigment; the effect in both is startlingly evanescent.

  Up in the Studio by Andrew Wyeth

  Finally, Andrew Wyeth, who countered Homer’s sensation of light with the most mesmerizing darkness, a darkness that is complicated but, paradoxically, transparent.

In addition to promoting watercolor, the AWS has been a progressive force throughout and before its history. Its precursor, the New York Water Color Society admitted women as members right from the beginning in 1850 (to put that in context: the U.S. didn’t ratify the 19th amendment granting women the right to vote until 1920).

Further, the AWS led the way in expanding the popularity of alternate media, such as charcoal, pastel and “painterly” etching, inclusively exhibiting all types of works on paper, generally until newer groups gained the strength to organize separate shows. “Throughout the 1870s and much of the 80s,” writes Foster, “the society mustered the country’s largest, most diverse survey of progressive work in all the graphic arts.”

Perseverance Through Art

One hundred and fifty years ago, in 1867, coinciding with the birth of this society, Walt Whitman published a new edition of Leaves of Grass and Emily Dickinson withdrew from the world, though she continued to tend her gardens. Both poets had been affected by deaths: Dickinson, having lost in succession her father, then her favorite teacher and then a nephew; and Whitman, having witnessed unbearable suffering as he tended soldiers, as a volunteer nurse, during the Civil War.

In 2017, we find ourselves in a similarly dark and divisive time. Just as the boys at Lauscaux stumbled into a cave, I feel sometimes it would be lovely to find a rabbit hole to descend into; but as artists and writers and lovers of the arts, we know that the only antidote to ignorance and darkness is art.

As Marcel Proust, who was confined to bed for most of his life, wrote: “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.”

Interior Light by Joseph Raffael

It has been a pleasure and an honor to be with you tonight. I’d like to end by reading parts of two poems. The first is from “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed,” Walt Whitman’s meditation on the loss of Abraham Lincoln, who was assassinated in April 1865, one year before the AWS was founded.

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?

And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,

To adorn the burial house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,

With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,

With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air, …

And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,

And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

Finally, a section of a canto by Ezra Pound:

What thou lov’st well remains,

The rest is dross

What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee

What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage.

***

We hope you enjoyed Maureen’s touching speech in honor of AWS’ 150-year celebration. Love watercolor? Check out the June 2017 issue of Watercolor Artist, available now!

Book Cited:

American Watercolor in the Age of Homer and Sargent by Kathleen A. Foster, Yale University Press, 2017

The post The Fascinating 150-Year History of the American Watercolor Society appeared first on Artist's Network.

from Artist’s Network http://ift.tt/2qdzHcw

http://ift.tt/2q9Bq4y

The Fascinating 150-Year History of the American Watercolor Society

Turning Darkness Into Light

One of our fellow members of the Artist’s Network and editor of The Artist’s Magazine, Maureen Bloomfield, had the honor of speaking at the recent 150th Anniversary celebration of the American Watercolor Society. Her speech was so moving, we wanted to share it with those of you who could not attend the event.

***

Cave of Lascaux

Lascaux | 15,000 B.C.

In a valley in Southern France, in September 1940, four boys were wandering in the woods when their dog vanished. Mystified, they ran to the spot where he’d disappeared. The oldest boy described what happened next.

“Suddenly we found a hole. We moved a few stones to make the opening wider. And because I was the strongest, I was the first to climb into the darkness. I slipped, tried to hold onto some stones, but slid [downward]. When I finally came to the bottom, I was amazed to see the strangest pictures on the walls.”

Wall Art in Lascaux Cave

  What he had discovered were the caves of Lascaux and the more than 2,000 paintings that date from 15,000 BC; those works consist of pigment rubbed onto limestone with blood and water.

A thousand years later, other anonymous artists worked pigment into wet plaster, creating for the Palace of Knossos in Greece, the first frescoes—and this labyrinthine city once the dwelling place of the mythical Minotaur was discovered in 1878, 11 years after the American Watercolor Society’s first exhibition.

Decorative Border from Hall of Knossos, Crete

Hall of Knossos | Crete, 1500 B.C.

From Crete to another island (Ireland), variations on those decorative motifs recur in 800 AD; Columban monks drew designs and ornaments on vellum to illustrate the Four Gospels and, of course, the medium was watercolor.

A writer in the 12th century describes the experience of inspecting the Book of Kells.

Book of Kells, 800 A.D.

  “You will make out intricacies, so delicate and so subtle, so full of knots and links, with colors so fresh and vivid, that you might say that all this were the work of angels, and not of men.”

I have to amend that last phrase, as women—nuns and abbesses— also illumined manuscripts. In fact, in the Claricia Psalter of the 12th century, we find the earliest self-portrait of a woman artist, who drew her own figure, clothed in a nun’s habit, as a diagonal line that differentiates the letter Q from the letter O.

Luminosity

For the past few weeks, I’ve been brooding about watercolor; I’ve come to the conclusion and, alas, it’s not an original one, that its rarest quality and the one hardest to describe is luminosity, from lumen the Latin for light. To illumine is to light up, to shed light on.

I’m not an artist but I spent my childhood and adolescence taking private classes in oil and pastel. Although my mother believed that all lessons were good lessons, I never took a class in watercolor. I think, in retrospect, I knew even then that it would be too hard.

Sheherezade by Betsy Dillard Stroud

  As Betsy Dillard Stroud told me, “You have to be spontaneous—you have to react with alacrity because watercolor is always moving.”

  Apple Blossoms by Joseph Raffael

  Joseph Raffael explains why: “The flow of water is emblematic of a vital force. Watercolor expresses flow, life as transparency, the ineffable, the transient air, motion, life moving. Watercolor itself is a force of nature.”

From the 1800s to the 2000s

Tonight we celebrate the AWS that has been so influential in promoting this medium and in educating artists and collectors of its range and worth since 1866—a year after the conclusion of the Civil War that claimed 620,000 lives.

Bayonet Charge by Winslow Homer

  Winslow Homer was embedded in the Union Army and did drawings on site; his true-to-life etchings, one showing an amputation on the battlefield, appeared in Harper’s Magazine. In that war, New England bled as copiously as the South, and artists were not alone in wanting to escape the tragic waste (the Battle of Antietam alone resulted in 22,700 casualties; so devastating were the losses at Antietam that neither side could claim victory). Given the carnage of war and the darkness of a divided country, it makes sense artists would want to pursue light.

  Hauling Anchor by Winslow Homer

  So in 1866, a call went out to “all American artist and amateurs interested in forming a group devoted to watercolor painting.” To announce the first exhibition, 400 circulars were printed.

In addition, the AWS members, fearful they wouldn’t be able to fill the walls of the National Academy of Design, canvassed local studios, commercial galleries and private collections. Of the 278 pictures in the first show, only half were watercolors.

The 46 regular members of the AWS contributed the bulk of the work, but 109 other nonmember artists were represented including about a dozen foreigners. The opening on December 21, 1867, the AWS secretary called “A brilliant occasion, full of the most exultant camaraderie.”

According to Kathleen A. Foster, the author of the catalogue for the exhibition “American Watercolor in the Age of Homer and Sargent,” now on view at the Philadelphia Museum of Art: “The history of watercolor painting in the United States divides neatly into two parts: before the foundation of the AWS and after.”

Before 1866, watercolor painting was not considered a fine art medium and the perverse reason was that it was, in fact, the most popular medium in the country—for illustrators, engravers, architects, engineers, commercial artists, travelers, scientist and naturalists like Audubon, etc., and, not incidentally, for well-bred ladies, students and children. “That changed,” according to Foster, “with breathtaking speed after 1867. By 1881, watercolor was the toast of New York. Within 50 years, many of the most lauded and adventurous American artists were watercolorists.”

From that great crop of “most lauded and adventurous artists,” the first Golden Age, before this one so radiantly on display at this show, I’d like to single out three.

First, Winslow Homer, who was famously reticent but nonetheless managed to say something completely in the spirit of watercolor: “I like painting done without your knowing it.”

Corfu, Light and Shadows | John Singer Sargent

  Second, John Singer Sargent who had two ways of working: one with broad strokes in limpid colors and the other with tinges of pigment; the effect in both is startlingly evanescent.

  Up in the Studio by Andrew Wyeth

  Finally, Andrew Wyeth, who countered Homer’s sensation of light with the most mesmerizing darkness, a darkness that is complicated but, paradoxically, transparent.

In addition to promoting watercolor, the AWS has been a progressive force throughout and before its history. Its precursor, the New York Water Color Society admitted women as members right from the beginning in 1850 (to put that in context: the U.S. didn’t ratify the 19th amendment granting women the right to vote until 1920).

Further, the AWS led the way in expanding the popularity of alternate media, such as charcoal, pastel and “painterly” etching, inclusively exhibiting all types of works on paper, generally until newer groups gained the strength to organize separate shows. “Throughout the 1870s and much of the 80s,” writes Foster, “the society mustered the country’s largest, most diverse survey of progressive work in all the graphic arts.”

Perseverance Through Art

One hundred and fifty years ago, in 1867, coinciding with the birth of this society, Walt Whitman published a new edition of Leaves of Grass and Emily Dickinson withdrew from the world, though she continued to tend her gardens. Both poets had been affected by deaths: Dickinson, having lost in succession her father, then her favorite teacher and then a nephew; and Whitman, having witnessed unbearable suffering as he tended soldiers, as a volunteer nurse, during the Civil War.

In 2017, we find ourselves in a similarly dark and divisive time. Just as the boys at Lauscaux stumbled into a cave, I feel sometimes it would be lovely to find a rabbit hole to descend into; but as artists and writers and lovers of the arts, we know that the only antidote to ignorance and darkness is art.

As Marcel Proust, who was confined to bed for most of his life, wrote: “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.”

Interior Light by Joseph Raffael

It has been a pleasure and an honor to be with you tonight. I’d like to end by reading parts of two poems. The first is from “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed,” Walt Whitman’s meditation on the loss of Abraham Lincoln, who was assassinated in April 1865, one year before the AWS was founded.

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?

And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,

To adorn the burial house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,

With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,

With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air, …

And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,

And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

Finally, a section of a canto by Ezra Pound:

What thou lov’st well remains,

The rest is dross

What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee

What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage.

***

We hope you enjoyed Maureen’s touching speech in honor of AWS’ 150-year celebration. Love watercolor? Check out the June 2017 issue of Watercolor Artist, available now!

Book Cited:

American Watercolor in the Age of Homer and Sargent by Kathleen A. Foster, Yale University Press, 2017

The post The Fascinating 150-Year History of the American Watercolor Society appeared first on Artist's Network.

from Artist's Network http://ift.tt/2qdzHcw