got some good progress done during stream :)

Mace Windu Appreciation Day One. 

Prompt: Serenity/Acting

Here on ao3

 Mace Windu sat on his seat in the council, hands steepled in front of him. He let out a long breath. The problem of Ryloth was complex and with multiple faces. The Senate was pushing for one side, and while he in part agreed, he could see and understand the other side. He shook his head. He had already spent long on this issue even though the Senate’s push had solidified what the Order would do. They disagreed, but if they made it known, the Senate would be quick to order them. As he walked from the seat into the centre and then to the door, he shed the mantle of authority that came with his seat. He was still the Master of the Order, but away from the seat of decision making there, he felt more free, closer to his family. As he exited the room, Mace took a deep breath of relief. The room was somewhat stifling after so long. “Padawan Aleya, you’re free to go if you wish.” The twi'lek smiled widely. “Apologies for keeping you so late. I should have signalled.” 

“No worries, Master Mace. You aren’t that late.” Aleya assured, bustling at the desk and picking up a stack of datapads. Mace lifted a bemused eyebrow. “I had some work to do.” He mutters, blushing a bright green in embarrassment. Suddenly, he perked up, clearly remembering something. “Oh… Knight Depa had a message, Master. There’s an opening in the play they’re doing soon if you want to join. Not sure about the play, though. She just said you should meet her at the theatre.” Aleya stumbled slightly to the side, the datapads tilting precariously. Mace moved forwards, drawing the Force around the Twi’Lek to keep him from falling. 

“Well, I look forwards to the play. Perhaps you’ll even see me on stage, hmm?” Mace grinned, bemused at the bright green flush again. Aleya had only recently been assigned to the Council desk as Shaak Ti’s padawan. He still had, despite his older age, that youthful hero-worship of some members of the Council. Shaak herself, though, was an exception. “And yourself? It’s nearing exams, isn’t it?”

Aleya cringed, his face twisting into a displeased frown. “Yeah. I’m busy, but still managing. The exams come up soon.” He frowned, fiddling with his stack of datapads. “I still don’t get the Ryloth War in 406. Elya seems to be the cause of the revolt, but then the Rila commune also could be part of it, and the-” He stopped suddenly. “Sorry, Master. I was babbling.”

“No worries, Padawan. I’m afraid I’m not too well-versed in Ryloth’s history. I had not studied it. Cyslin, my Master, she studied Ryloth, though it was a while back before I became her Padawan.” Mace explained, a contrite look on his face. 

“Oh! That would be helpful. I’ll talk to her.” They reached the end of the hall. Aleya tried to manage a wave around the datapads. He was… somewhat successful. “Well, see you tomorrow, Master!” And with that, he walked down the left corridor. 

Mace raised a hand in an aborted way. “Good luck with your studies!” He called back, receiving a smile his way. Alright, now for the theatre. It would be fun to act again. Even for just a moment.

Depa was outside the arts centre, waiting for him. She smiled widely as he neared, looking up from a holo and placing the datapad in her robe pocket. “Master! You got my message.” She had changed her hairstyle from a braided crown into four looped braids. 

“Of course. Padawan Aleya is nothing if not diligent.” Mace commented, close enough to feel the gentle warmth of his former student. She shuffled a bit closer, her youthful features lighting up in happiness. 

“Indeed.” She paused for a while, simply soaking in the familiar presence of Mace before speaking once more. “Well, the younglings were putting together a show, and they need a Master and a Knight.” She pointed to Mace and then to herself. “I already volunteered you.” 

Mace sighed, of course. “Depa, you know I am quite busy now-” He started only to be interrupted by Depa. 

“I already checked your schedule, Master.” She grinned unashamedly. Mace had idly wondered if knighting Depa would lessen the amount she pestered him. It appeared not. “I’ve cleared it for practice and rehearsal. As Master of the Order, shouldn’t you be spending some time with the younglings?” She raised an eyebrow slyly.

Mace snorted, “That’s Master Yoda’s job.” Still, he followed Depa into the theatre centre, hands folded into his sleeves. If she had, in fact, cleared his schedule, it would be silly for him to miss this. Depa shot him a smug smile, unfazed by the dry look she received in response.

“Master Windu, Knight Depa!” The crechemaster, a tall mirialan surrounded by a small gaggle of younglings. “Thank you for coming.” Mace bowed, Depa copying him, her hair bobbing playfully. She shot a smile at one of the younglings, a young nautolan who smiles hesitantly in return. Mace takes a glance over the group. There are nine children of various ages, spanning until probably 12. He can’t truly tell. “We’re acting out the tale of the caves for the day of discovery.”

“Ah, a lovely choice,” Mace assured, trying not to feel too sad when some of the children seemed to startle. It appeared he had been missing creche supervision because of all the paperwork from the council seat he had gotten right after knighting Depa. “I’m quite familiar with it. I’m sure you are too, Depa?”

Depa nodded, a hand reaching out to move her braid out of the way. “Yes, we acted it a few times when I was younger. You played the knight if I recall?”

“Indeed.” It had been where he first met Depa. A fond memory he kept close to his heart. “So, when will we begin?” He asked the crechemaster, Tirna if he recalled correctly. 

Tirna was about to speak before a flimsi was pushed into her hands. She looked down to peer at it for a moment. “It’s lovely.” She murmured with a soft smile to the small twi’lek, returning the drawing and receiving a bright smile in return. “We were waiting for you two, so I suppose we can go in. 

The younglings were corralled in, excitedly whispering to each other. The theatre was a familiar place. When he was younger, he had spent most of his time here being taught the art of acting on stage. He’d even dabbled in music on stage, though he preferred to simply speak and not sing on stage. Both Cyslin and himself were surprised when he had gotten an offer from the theatre to become an instructor here. Sadly, his path to knighthood had gotten in the way and Instructor Rhuy had been disappointed, but not exactly surprised by Mace turning down the offer. Sadly, the chiss had passed to the Force a few years ago in his few missions offworld. He had not become familiar with the new instructor, too busy with Depa’s final years of apprenticeship. Mace looked at the brown and gray walls, breathing in the familiar scent and soaking in the warmth of the place. It was a place for entertainment. While, yes, people were driven to tears with some performances, the imprint left in the place was one of happiness and joy. 

Depa, at his side, watched him with a sideways glance. She had not seen him act much in recent years. In the middle of their years, when they were on rotation at the Temple for Depa’s studies, Mace would find himself often in the theatre, but a lot of those memories were hazy, just long enough ago that Depa could only recall them with a blurriness on the edges. A striking image of Mace in full attire of older Jedi, the ornamental robes and rather fancy modified training hilts came to mind. He turned in an elaborate fighting dance with another Jedi, a crechemate in the story. Another image, this time of Mace in more modern Jedi robes, a Nautolan next to him as he acted out a confession scene. She recalled the way she had cringed away from the stage. By the Force, it was her Master up there with that knight. Cyslin’s soft chuckle and a warm hand on her head finished the memory, the faint murmur of Mace’s voice in the background. 

He belonged in the theatre, she concluded, watching his eyes light up as they saw the familiar sight around him. Just as he belonged in the Council chambers, or in some blaster fight on some war-torn planet, or at some negotiation table, impassively looking between the two sides. Mace was many things, and that included being an actor. He looked at home here amongst the rows of seats, the stage as a backdrop, but he also belonged elsewhere. His eyes caught hers. Depa lifted her brow in question. Mace shook his head and followed Tirna up the stairs to the backstage and rehearsing room. Depa took one more look at the theatre, lit up with a warm yellow light, before following the group. 

The rehearsing room was, essentially, a large room, somewhat soundproof and almost large enough to duel. There were mirrors in one corner. The kids stood with Tirna in the corner where she handed out papers. The play was short, most of it being a question and response play. It was a kid's play after all. Depa and he stood in the corner, Mace trying to relax his back. Sitting in the Council chair for so long is a painful experience. He would rather not be there sometimes. Depa eyes him sympathetically, her hand reaching out to rest on his shoulders. They both turn to Tirna, in a strange synchronisation that is a result of their partnership. The mirialan blinks before offering the script. Mace accepts it, though he thinks he can recall all the words. “Thank you.” He says softly, flicking through it. The flimsi flutters under his fingers. He looks up to catch the woman smiling at Depa as she hands the flimsi. It occurs to Mace that he never asked why Tirna had asked Depa for her help first. It appears Mace muses with a bemused smile, that Depa is hiding something from me. And that she is doing a rather poor job. He turns back to the script

Tirna floats through the class as they read through it dramatically. The exaggerated expressions and voices of a few directly contrast the other side who read with a bored monotonous voice. It is endearing and familiar. Depa shuffles where she’s seated, rearranging her clothes, a nervous tell Mace has noted for a while. Mace shuffles a bit closer to her, hand going out to rest on her free one. Depa settles, easily leaning into the familiar warmth. They continue reading this way. The nautolan boy near them shoots him a look before returning to his rather exaggerated fearful voice. “But, Master, it’s too cold. I’ll freeze here.”

“Worry not, I feel a heat coming forth.” He tries to be comforting. “Knight Lea, you feel it too?” He asks Depa.

“Indeed, Master.” She responds, easily falling into a lightheartedness as a part of her character. “Younglings… see the light, it comes through the chamber and… through the ice.” The children act as though they are surprised, and relieved. 

“It will save us from the caves. The ice, it’s going down.” A young mirialan says, veil pushed quickly to the side from where it falls on his face. “Melting.” He’s rather good at it, Mace muses. The mirialan boy looks awed. And so, the play ends. Mace finds himself clapping happily much to the embarrassment of the younglings who end up blushing and sharing glances. Depa hands out compliments easily, the children used to her mannerisms indicating she’s been here often. 

The mirialan, Lameo, comes up to him. “Knight Depa says that you were once part of the theatre, but you chose to become a council member instead.” Mace blinks from where he sits, looking slightly upwards at the boy. 

“Indeed, I did.” He confirms, his head tilting slightly to the left. 

Lameo seems to perk up, sitting down in front of Mace. “What was it like, the theatre I mean, not being a Master? I want to join the theatre club, Master Windu, and I was wondering if I should or if I shouldn’t.” 

Mace hums thoughtfully, hands unconsciously steepling in front of him, “If you desire it, and you feel that it is your path, join it. I must say, you have a knack for it as well.” He grins a bit, happy when the young mirialan smiles back. “The theatre would benefit greatly if you joined.” 

“You think so?” 

“I would not lie, young one,” Mace says.

Lameo breathes in deep, furrowing his brow for a moment before he stands and bows thankfully, “I’ll think about it.”  

The performance happens two weeks later. Mace wears slightly more traditional robes, extra ornaments and embellishments on the cream robes. The children, all decked out in their own gear, like all children do, love the elaborately designed hilts, not made for comfort in dueling, but made to look flashy and beautiful. He turns to welcome Depa and is taken aback for a moment. Her robes are designed differently from what she usually wears. The sleeves are more poofed, less easy to fight in, the pants billow before coming to a close at the boots, and there is a pattern on the fabric itself, intricate little swirls that seem to fit. He recalls a younger Depa in cream coloured tunics before she became a Padawan. It appears, he muses, that she has grown up. Her hair has been intricately plaited on top of her head, in a style that Mace would say tops even the most intricate Naboo hairstyles. When he looks at her, he feels happy, yet also sad, yearning for the time when she would only reach his elbow.

“Master?” Depa asks as she sides up beside him after praising enough of the initiates for their costumes. “Are you alright? You seem… off. Are you nervous?” She seems genuinely concerned. 

“No worries, Depa. Just… thinking.” She shoots him a confused look, obviously not exactly understanding at all. Like he’s done before, he starts explaining. “You’ve grown up. It is… novel sometimes.”

Depa snorts, reaching out to smooth non-existent wrinkles on his robes. “You knighted me a year ago.” She murmurs. “I was far from my Padawan years then.”

“I suppose it is only hitting now,” Mace admits, shifting the tunic a bit from where it sits skewed to the left. It was a tradition to make sure they were both dressed properly before leaving the apartments. It has carried on to this day. “In many ways, I can still see the little you.” Depa laughs lightly, a small chuckle really. Her eyes sparkle like they always do when she finds something humorous. 

“Oh dear, I must have a long way to go then, before I am fully grown in your eyes, my Master.” Her affectionate tone accompanies her hands squeezing his. “Well, are you ready?”

“Of course,” Mace says. Depa smiles and joins Tirna in corralling the kids onto the stage. Mace takes a moment to breathe before following her on the stage.

About that update schedule

Veronica: HEY EVERYBODY!!! The chapter is finally over next week!! And what a crazy one it was, huh??? Ending right in the midst of Halloween season, I so totally intended that…..

Anyway, next chapter will be a bit more chill but with lots of moments to look forward to! And after that, there are big momentous chapters we’ve been building towards for a while. And we’ll be able to enjoy them alllllllllll on a three-day-a-week schedule, right??

:’D

RIGHT?

Well.. allow me to be incredibly disappointing and admit that I don’t want to change the one-day-a-week schedule.. not yet.

I definitely want to get back to the original update schedule as soon as possible, but I thought I’d have the BIG SECRET PROJECT done or mostly done by the time “Witch Hunt” ended. That turned out to not be the case! I still have a lot more of it to do, and while I wanted to keep our promise, I just don’t think it’s feasible.

While there’s enough buffer to return to the regular schedule for the rest of 2019, I know how this kind of problem turns out. I’ll eventually start to panic as the buffer dwindles, and Souppy will be forced to dig up something old or schedule a comic that was meant to be BCI after the chapter that’s currently updating ends to maintain it. It happened with Grave Concern, it happened with Everyday Life. I hate it!! It feels like updating for the sake of updating, and I want to avoid that.

I’ve grown so much as an artist over the years, pages just don’t take me 15 minutes like they used to in 2008. Depending on the backgrounds, the amount of characters involved, the complexity of dialogue, some nightmare pages can take up to two days to complete! Part of the reason I got the estimation wrong was that from the slower-schedule announcement in December 2018, it took me until MAY to rebuild a 50-page buffer, because all these pages you’ve been reading have streetscapes and five costumed characters a panel and all sorts of things that are just so much more laborious than talking heads with gradient backdrops.

Many months ago Souppy organised a monthlong end of year trip to take a break and see family, so I’m also fully aware I won’t be able to work for a good chunk of time over the holidays… yet somehow I’m expecting myself to finish this demanding secret project while also updating three days a week again?

It just cannot work. I know my limitations.

Instead of giving myself goals that will make me miserable to miss, I’m deciding to say that the three-update-a-week schedule will return when I am finished with the secret project. Only then will I take a look at how much I have left in my buffer, how much work it’ll take to refill it, and then make plans to return to a three-day-a-week schedule again.

I’m sorry about that. This means there’s no current date on when the original update schedule will return. Souppy has estimations, but I don’t know how much longer this project will take and I don’t want to give myself a date to build anxiety around.

Not to be salty, but I’m sort of deciding this in a stubborn mutinous way. Mutinous to the world. I hate that I’ve been made to be so stressed out by this. I hate that the only hobby I have at this point is Pokémon Go, because I have no time for ANYTHING ELSE. I’ll wake up, play Pokémon Go, then work until 5 AM. Every day, unless I’m going out to figure drawing class or it’s someone’s birthday or something. The thought of quitting Pokémon Go or playing less of it to make more time to finish this project feels incredibly insulting to me. It’s something nobody has asked of me, but I feel an internal judgement. Like if I my project isn’t coming in on time shouldn’t I just devote more and more hours to it?

But I’ve done nothing else. I considered streaming Grandia and Grandia II for fun this year. That hasn’t happened and I can’t imagine it will anytime soon. Souppy wanted to stream Shenmue for some friends and that Dreamcast has sat unused on the desk since January I think?? (He’s been working nonstop on the huge non-art demands of this project.) I’ve felt too guilty to organise Puyo nights with friends to practice playing Puyo Puyo. I haven’t even given myself the time to DRAW Puyo Puyo fanart more than once or twice. I do nothing else but work on this project and play Pokémon Go to keep myself sane!! I haven’t visited my father since the beginning of the year!

Souppy has organised trips for us this year to break up some of the work, and I even feel guilty over those! Why don’t I just cancel our weekend trip to Florida and work on my project?? Why am I entitled at all??? The guilt eats me up.

But BCB has been alive and updating on time without fail for over ten years now. All I’ve done is reduce it from three to one day a week for a while. And once the project is done, I have no reason not to go back to three.

And while I don’t want BCB to become an unreliable comic, some habits other less-reliable comics indulge in are… okay! It’s self-care! It’s knowing limitations! It’s trying to avoid working yourself to death. Perhaps I should take a hint from all those dead webcomics and webcomics on hiatus out there and practice some self-care of my own.

And my self-care is to update one-day-a-week until the project I’m working on is done!!!! The end!!!!! in I hope it’s worth it. Don’t know what more to say other than I’ll keep suffering, but in a way I can manage.

I hope that is okay. Thanks for all your patience!

Dooley Noted - A musical journey through the mojo of a Toledo bluesman

(original version can be seen at https://toledocitypaper.com/feature/dooley-noted/)

Dooley Wilson is frustrated.

It’s 9:57 am on a cold Saturday in December and he is supposed to start playing at 10 o’clock. He has only just now stumbled out of the Toledo tundra into the cozy confines of the Glass City Cafe, which has booked him for its popular Bluegrass Breakfast music series.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he cries out in the direction of restaurant owner Steve Crouse, who assures him everything is fine. Wilson looks pained as a brief flash of flame passes over his smoldering dark brown eyes. No, it’s not fine. He was scheduled to start playing the blues at 10 sharp, and now he’s going to start late. And a professional should always be punctual.

Undaunted, he swallows his disappointment and, within 10 minutes, he has everything set up at the front of the restaurant which serves as the stage. Upending his battered Cunard Queen of Elizabeth canvas bag, he sorts through the contents— Halls menthol cough drops, a bottle of slippery elm supplements (“Just in case my voice goes out”), a bottle of Deja Blue water, a glass vase that serves as a tip jar and a power strip.

He plugs the power strip into his amp, a well-loved 1965 Fender Bandmaster. And then out comes the artisan’s tool— his Jay Turser electric guitar. It doesn’t have a name or anything; it’s a utensil to serve the stew of blues (“It’s a cheapo guitar, but it’s MY cheapo guitar,” he muses). He’s almost ready. He asks, and a cup of hot black coffee is delivered. After the obligatory microphone check, he sits on the edge of a worn tan suitcase and readies his guitar. It’s time to go to work.

Soon the Glass City Cafe fills with the sound of the blues— and Wilson is lost in ecstasy. He’s sitting atop the worn tan suitcase, choking the guitar neck, his angular carved-in-stone features a mask of concentration, fingers and knuckles gnarled from a lifetime of plucking strings. There’s no setlist, no backdrop, no real plan. Just a working man with an instrument sharing the gospel of what he believes is the greatest music that exists. Wilson plays the blues as if his life depends on it.

And maybe it does.

From C.J. to Dooley

Dooley Wilson does not take toast with his mozzarella cheese omelet, favoring potatoes instead. Sitting in the Glass City Cafe months later— this time as a patron— he is a bit more relaxed than he was when he played here. He still doesn’t smile much. Wilson isn’t grumpy, he just carries himself with an intensity that’s disarming. You get the feeling that he doesn’t want to be here. That’s because he lives to do one thing: Play the blues. And when he’s not playing the blues, by gum, he wants to be playing the blues.

But for now, he’ll tell his story. Now 45 years old, he was born C.J. Forgy, in West Lafayette, Indiana to James and Sandy Forgy. His parents split when he was two years old and he went to live with his maternal grandmother in Maumee. An only child, Wilson describes himself as an “artsy kid” who spent hours in his room drawing and writing.

“Everyone thought I was going to be a visual artist,” says Wilson, taking a sip of his coffee. “But along with writing, over the years I’ve let those skills atrophy,” he says, with a regretful sigh. “But I don’t know; I’m thinking about taking up drawing again for its therapeutic value.”

So what sparked his obsessive devotion to the blues? It started as musical hangups often did in the ‘80s— with a cassette. At 15, Wilson, who was teaching himself guitar and whose musical tastes at the time ran towards Led Zeppelin, walked into Camelot Music in the now-long-gone Southwyck Mall and spied a tape from Columbia Records called Legends of the Blues Vol. 1. There was something about that tape that spoke to him.

He picked it up and looked at the back. As-yet unfamiliar names like Bo Carter, Blind Willie Johnson, Charley Patton, and Leroy Carr stared out at him from the tracklisting. Robert Johnson— he knew that name from an interview he’d read with Jimmy Page and he was fascinated by the infamous story about Johnson reputedly getting his blues talent while making a deal with the devil at a crossroads. Maybe it was the ghost of Johnson himself speaking to Wilson that day in Camelot Music. All he knew is that he had to buy it.

When he got home, he popped the tape into his boom box, and something in the universe shifted. At that moment, C.J. Forgy ceased to exist and the bluesman named Dooley Wilson was born.

“That anthology started this mystique and passion I had for this music,” says Wilson, in between forkfuls of omelet. “It just spoke to my angst-ridden soul at the time and I had never heard anything so authentic, so human, so real. Take Son House’s song ‘Death Letter,’ which is on that anthology. It’s taken from his 1965 Columbia session and it’s just this amazing song about how a man gets a letter saying that the woman he loves is dead. It’s just…” Wilson often trails off when he talks about the blues; yet another reason why he’d much rather play you a song than talk about it.

From that fateful moment, the blues wasn’t just a preferred style of music to listen to or to learn to play… it became, at that time, a life choice.

“I decided I’m going to devote my life to being some kind of bluesman like Fred MacDowell or Son House,” says Wilson. “It became much more important to me than making a living. If you weren’t dead and black, I couldn’t be bothered to listen to you.”

Henry & June

By the way, where did that name Dooley Wilson come from? Wilson smiles broadly with a touch of sheepishness. He was setting up one of his earliest gigs, at the famous East-side haunt Frankie’s, and his buddy Lance Hulsey (currently the leader of Toledo rockabilly outfit Kentucky Chrome)— who Wilson played with his first band, a heavy metal project called Harlequin— said that the promoter needed to know what to call him… and C.J. Forgy didn’t exactly sound bluesy. So the young musician, right there, decided on the name Dooley Wilson in homage to the actor and musician of the same name, famous for playing the character Sam in Casablanca. Dooley Wilson is now his legal name. He cashes checks with that moniker.

With a new name under his bluesman’s belt, the then-recent Maumee High School (Class of 1992) graduate needed a band that would let him explore the blues the way he wanted to. The result was Henry & June, a heavy blues ensemble that Wilson formed with his good friend Jimmy Danger. They got the band name from a recently released biopic of Henry Miller, one of Wilson’s favorite authors.

“I was obsessed with the blues at that time, but I’m still incapable of playing it correctly,” says Wilson, draining his coffee cup. “I was really struggling to learn how to play blues the way it was meant to be played.”

But even as he worked to unravel the mysteries of Deep South blues, Wilson was experiencing something unexpected: Success. Henry & June had released a single called “Going Back to Memphis” on Detroit label Human Fly Records, and the song was attracting a lot of heat. The popular band The Laughing Hyenas— which featured former Necros member Todd Swalla, who would go on to play with Wilson in his later outfit Boogaloosa Prayer— were big fans of the song and were trying to get Henry and June signed to Touch and Go Records. Some cat named Jack White, who had a little band called The White Stripes, also was a big Henry and June fan and began covering “Going Back to Memphis” in concert.

“We were kind of a hot, cult thing on the scene in Detroit,” says Wilson, thanking the Glass City Cafe waitress as she refills his coffee. “Jack White wasn’t the only cool person in Detroit who knew who we were though, of course, he became the most famous one. Judah Bower of the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion put out a cover of the single on his side project called 20 Miles. I heard The Von Bondies used to cover ‘Going Back to Memphis.’ It’s a really fun, simple, dumb song.”

And then right when things started to go well for Henry & June, it all went wrong. The blues were supposed to feel like freedom and suddenly Wilson and the rest of the band began to feel decidedly trapped.

“Jimmy in particular felt like things were getting stagnant,” says Wilson. “Things were going good for us but it started to feel like we were just going through the motions. It was creative claustrophobia.” And so the band, at its peak, unceremoniously broke up.

“We were just dumb kids. We had no idea what we were doing with our little garage band. Looking back, that may have been the worst decision of my career. But when you’re young and dumb, you don’t realize that; you just think ‘Well, I’ll just do the next thing that comes along.’”

Today, Henry & June is fondly recalled as an early part of the Detroit music resurgence of the latter 20th Century. While The White Stripes, Kid Rock, The Detroit Cobras, and various Detroit rappers, from Eminem to Insane Clown Posse, put the Motor City musically back on the map, Henry and June remains a small part of that legacy. Copies of “Going Back to Memphis” routinely go for more than $100 on eBay, and the song was recorded live by The White Stripes for their DVD concert film, Under Blackpool Lights.

And no, Wilson hasn’t received any royalties. It all worked out for the members of Henry & June, though. Drummer Ben Swank is now the top A&R guy at Third Man Records, Jack White’s label. The band did a well received reunion back in 2010 in Toledo and everyone is still cool with one another. But in rock-n-roll and the blues, time waits for no one, so Wilson was off to new projects and new adventures.

And those adventures would lead to him nearly lose his mind.

On a wing and a Boogloosa Prayer

Brushing off the ashes of Henry & June, Wilson decided to further buckle down and get more “authentically bluesy.” He quickly formed a new band with Ben Swank and guitarist Todd Albright, that went through various names such as Dime Store Glam and Gin Mill Moaners. They sat in for many nights at the long-gone-but-never forgotten Rusty’s Jazz Cafe.

“I was spending all of my disposable income on that watered down whiskey at Rusty’s,” said Wilson. “Rusty’s was an amazing little place.” After a while though, he got restless and decided he would get as real as the blues could get and move to New Orleans.

“I wanted to see if I could live as a street performer,” said Wilson. “I had this rather naïve idea that I could possibly make a living at it in that town. I suspected it was the place on Earth where you might encounter people doing this kind of music.”

So Wilson moved to New Orleans, virtually homeless, busking on the streets of NOLA. Meanwhile, The White Stripes were starting to get their first big taste of international notoriety and began introducing “Going Back to Memphis” to a whole new audience due to their frequent covering of the song in live gigs.

“There I am trying to get lunch money down in New Orleans, and suddenly The White Stripes and the whole Detroit thing started to blow up and I’m trying to be Mr Authenticity down in effing New Orleans,” says Wilson, shaking his head incredulously. “My career is awful. I always zig when I should have zagged.”

But New Orleans proved to be an artistically fruitful time for Wilson. He met true, dyed-in-the-wool blues players who were playing incredible music from their souls. Nobody had record deals or anything that could get in the way of making direct, honest music. Many of these men and women were homeless or living off the grid; something Wilson describes as “an anti-American dream.” He talks enthusiastically and excitedly about that time in his life.

“These were some of the greatest living blues artists. There was a guy named Augie Junior who was simply incredible. I had never heard anything like him. There was this woman named Lisa Driscoll who played the washboard. People called her Ragtime Annie. And…”

Suddenly Wilson stops in mid-sentence and a hollow expression crosses his face. He stands up, sets his coffee cup down, excuses himself with a hurried “I’m gonna step out for a minute” and before uttering another word, he’s left the Glass City Cafe. A few minutes pass and he returns, wiping his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, sitting back down. “It’s just…it’s hard talking about this. I just got a little overwhelmed talking about some of my departed friends.”

He steadies himself with a sip of coffee that’s starting to go cold, as he’s eager to move on to talk about his other great band, Boogaloosa Prayer. Formed after moving back to Maumee fresh off a year in New Orleans, Boogaloosa Prayer, which Wilson says “was one of the best things I ever did artistically” came after stints in short lived bands like The Young Lords, and The Staving Chain.

Boogaloosa Prayer, an aggressive blues rock outfit featuring in part his old friend Jimmy Danger and Maumee drumming legend Todd Swalla, garnered quite a devoted following, playing in both Toledo and Detroit. The band had momentum behind them that recalled the Henry & June days. Then one hot summer night in 2006 at the now-shuttered Mickey Finn’s Pub, Wilson’s demons got the better of him.

Sporting a shaved head and a sickly frame that was skinny even by his normally lithe, sinewy standards, Wilson cracked onstage during the show. He ranted incoherently, couldn’t perform any songs, and couldn’t remember any lyrics. To everyone who was there, it was a harrowing experience.

Today, Wilson is reluctant to talk about the incident but he acknowledges it happened.

“I can say that I had a horrible psychotic breakdown and it had an impact on my life,” says Wilson, a bit guardedly. “At the time I had several severe emotional stressors in my life. A toxic woman in my life was stalking me. I had a business deal that was crushing me under the pressure. Plus, Boogaloosa Prayer was breaking up at the time because Swalla was moving to California. It all led to that time in my life.”

Following his breakdown, Wilson spent some time in a psychiatric ward, and lived in his aunt’s attic as he attempted to rebuild his fragile psyche. He eschewed traditional psychotherapy and refused meds because he’d seen too many of his friends “get hooked on those damned things.” Through a lot of hard work, meditation, and support from his friends, Wilson says he “totally got well again” and he hasn’t had any mental health issues since— thank goodness.

“Losing your sanity really puts a damper on your life.”

Still walkin’ down that road…

Wilson now lives in what he calls “a shack,” though it’s actually a carriage house out on a property in Maumee. The place smells of incense, a bit cramped but cozy abode, filled with guitars, amps, books on Buddhism, and novels by Charles Bukowski. Exactly how you would expect Wilson to live. This is not the living quarters .of a typical 45 year old, but it is definitely the home of a bluesman— and that’s all Wilson ever wanted to be. He plays gigs around the region and works as a “factotum” (his term) helping out family members and friends with projects. He’s completed an album and is currently trying to figure out how to release it. Love? Not interested.

“I have the kind of personality where I just do better alone,” he says simply. He may be alone but he’s not lonely. He has the best friends in the world in his life, even if most of them are dead. Son House. Sonny Boy Williamson. Bo Carter. All those great blues artists of yesteryear he counts as his personal friends, and by playing their music and his own songs inspired by their influence, Wilson is a happy man.

On that cold December day at the Glass City Cafe, Wilson utters a line that captures his essence: “Oh, I’m Dooley Wilson. Don’t mind me.” But, about that, he’s wrong. Mind him. Pay attention to Dooley Wilson. Pay close attention.

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EPISODE SIX REWRITES: DONAR THE GREAT.

NOTE: The N*zis will hereby be a local mob. It’s the fucking 20s. I don’t know why they did that. I don’t want to know why they did that. I’m not keeping that in and I’m not acknowledging that as anything more than a shitty, awful fucking choice that really had no business being in there. There’s a lot to unpack in that, and none of it is good. The odd subplot of Technical B.oy recruiting Columbia, Actual Propaganda Creature, was pretty clearly written with Media in mind. Columbia, personification of the USA, was historically a pretty strong propaganda tool and now currently survives via Columbia pictures. Media really did get Columbia, huh. Technical B.oy should have been recruiting Vulcan, Hadúr, Luchtaine et cetera for technology and weaponry purposes during the war. It literally felt like the writers wrote this with Media in mind, and then realised they’d overwritten them. 🤷 Obviously y'all don’t have to go along with this specifically but I say DEATH OF THE SHOW, DEATH OF THE AUTHOR BAY-BEE! 

  IT’S A SEEDY, SMOKEY THEATRE: a hallowed hall where patrons dress up, dress down in ERMINE AND PEARLS to forget their troubles for the night, to believe in something bigger and better than they are. Art deco gilt reads AMERICA: 1929; a world on edge, a tipping point. A bullshit, razzle dazzle show that’s rehearsed and played to death to an audience that adores CHEAP THRILLS. No soul; just some sort of temple to the GLORY DAYS that were long since dead and gone. Applause, please! They’ve been watching. Of course they’ve been watching. Centre stage in a plush booth that reeks of cigarette smoke; the static always comes with them. Radio white noise and the snippets of talk shows filtering through the big jazz band and it crackles within the ears of patrons. Reminds them, tells them: GO HOME. SIT DOWN. LISTEN. LISTEN TO ME. That little brown box with the glowing little dials; the voice America woke up to. They’ve been watching for a while now; a regular devotee from the big leagues come to bless them with their appearance, their presence; people are drawn to them like flies to honey and when they applaud, when they smile, the theatre does too; rows and rows of teeth on display and Wednesday has the nerve to appear with a drink in his hand. IT’S ON THE HOUSE.   “And if I said I don’t want it, honey?” ALL THE DRAMA OF A TALK SHOW HOST! Accented syllables and vowels drawling into the beginnings of a Transatlantic accent. The Mass Media is RADIANT; glowing; spotlights upon that bleached head of perfect curls and it lights up their face; the beginnings of wires and mainframes only just starting to grow through flesh and ink. I GIVE IT AS A GIFT TO YOU. “And I said I don’t want it. See now, I don’t much approve of you and your ilk taking up space in my domain like this.” Another drag from their cigarette. Smoke spiralling into Wednesday’s face and when they laugh, the room fills with the grainy sounds of a radio jingle. “Using my voice like that! Naughty, naughty. IT IS NOT MEANT FOR YOU.” The smile fades, melts from their expression and it leaves them frigid, leaves them cold and sure. Wednesday’s one good eye burns. “I AM THE MESSAGE. The message is the future. I am not for you.” NOW, NOW, MY DEAR. YOU FORGET, WE DID NOT NEED YOU BEFORE. WE DO NOT NEED YOU NOW. THE PEOPLE WILL FORGET. THE PEOPLE WILL MOVE ON, AND YOU WILL BE OBSOLETE. Forgotten. THERE’S NO NEED TO GET ANGRY. “I was there when they wrote your stories into the Edda, when they carved your image into stone. I was there for a great many things, Al. And now, you are on my stage, using my voice. Maybe I’ll stretch my legs, and go see The Law. Tip him off, since this place just ain’t up to snuff. Or, I let you talk: I’ll take my payment later. Do we have a contract?” The white noise presses in; their eyes meet, a steady beat of silence before he nods. WE HAVE A COMPACT.

  CUT BACK TO PRESENT DAY BLACK BRIAR: The World and GENERAL ORGANA at the War Table, the right hand pushing pieces across the map. THE WAR HAS STARTED. World’s voice echoes; General Organa pausing in their ministrations to cast plasma gaze to them. “And no one has realised it. A train crash in Chicago.” A piece moves across the board. “An armed robbery in Rhode Island.” Another. “Poisoned lobster in Nashville.” Eyes meet. They mirror each other; glance for glance, smile for smile; Leia leans in close. “They have been quiet, despite all of this. Are they building THE DEATH STAR?” NO. THEY HAVE SCATTERED, AS I SAID THEY WOULD. ONE BY ONE, THEY WILL FALL. “Of course, Commander. I only wish to do my part to SERVE THE ALLIANCE.” Silence. AND YOU WILL. OF COURSE YOU WILL. YOU BOTH WILL.” Cut to General Organa, brows furrowed: The World beckons; like a shadow, they follow; a quick, purposeful stride, hands pressed to the small of their back to the sidelines. Social Media sifting through images: SWIPE RIGHT? SUPER LIKE? HEART REACT? COMMENT, TWEET, HASHTAG OVER IT! A soft ‘ahem’ from World and the noise dies; turning around to face Commander and General with wide eyes. YEAH? Nervousness, how unlike her. Leia’s gaze burns. BOTH OF YOU MUST MAKE READY FOR THE BROADCAST. “Affirmative. All preparations have been made: I am ready when you are.” I NEED MORE POWER. Two sets of eyes facing the other piece in the puzzle to find it lacking. OUR NEW FRIEND IS COMING. THEY HAVE ASSURED ME: YOU WILL BE READY. Their shadow covers her; drags away as World exits stage right. Two voices left alone; Leia stares, stares, stares. It’s empty, it’s cold; flat. Social Media holds it, twitches: it’s the same numinous dread The Boy had etched into their features whenever the General came calling. “IT’S A WONDER YOU’RE STILL ALIVE. More power. This is child’s play, but then again, YOU’RE A LITTLE SHORT FOR A STORMTROOPER.”

  AMERICA: 1933. THE THEATRE IS CRACKING, YELLOWED: prohibition may have ended but Great Depression left everyone hungry. THEY ENTER IN SILK AND RUBIES: rosy cheeks and the smile of a Hollywood Starlet. Flushed, ALIVE! Hollow eyes stare at them with RAVENOUS hunger and when they laugh, the world tints with static; PRE-CODE MASTERPIECES and biting social commentary. Standing against the backdrop of an abandoned stage and despite themselves, their feet move; tap, slide, swivel; IS IT THE CHARLESTON? Some new crazy song and dance number? TUNE IN! WATCH THE LATE NIGHT PICTURE SHOW! Snapped out of it; a slow, slow clap echoing; spotlight dies and they stand stock still. I DID NOT THINK I’D SEE YOU BACK HERE, MY DEAR. “Mister Wednesday.” A curl of their lip, hopping down from the stage and it’s a quick one-two step. “I’ve come for my payment. We have a need. We’ve had our eye on Miss Columbia. You remember our terms: I LET YOU SPEAK. Now, I want my slice of the pie.   “Hasn’t it been ages since I saw you last, honey?” YOU. YOU AGAIN. Eyes flitting between Wednesday and The Mass Media; tightening the sash on their robe and drawing it to a close under prying eyes. “I thought you’d have been happier to see lil’ ol’ me again after all this time. I’m real sorry about how the Great War ended up, but you know how it is. Mister Money decided LIBERTY SELLS, and THAT’S A WRAP! Centuries of mythos overwritten by another Goddess. She’s doing fine, by the way. All of us are.” Silence. It falls thick and heavy and the world around them buzzes with white noise. “Cat got your tongue?” WE’RE DOING FINE. A pout. “Oh, now, see here, I just hate liars. Can’t stand ‘em! It’s why I got all these new ethics and standards in place. And you, honey, are violating those. Look at you, you look like someone who just crawled out of the DUST BOWL.” And she looks down. Looks at her faded, out of date clothes. The mouldering room around her. Media takes another drag from their cigarette; lounges in the settee that’s falling apart and grins. “You’re just surviving, sweetheart. The people will forget. Then you will die, and I’ll look back on the beautiful legacy we had together, all that teamwork through the centuries and say to myself: ‘If only Miss Columbia had listened to me!’ There’s something coming. We can all feel it. I want to give you your place back, I want to move forward with you. I’ll even put you in the pictures, then you’ll never die.” It’s served on a silver platter, tied with velvet ribbon: how can any God resist? WELL -- I -- Wednesday holds up a hand. SHE’LL THINK ABOUT IT, GIVE YOU AN ANSWER SOON. “Well, don’t keep me waiting, honey.” A languid sigh; standing in a smooth motion as they moved towards the door. “--I’ll be seeing you on the studio lot.” 

  EVEN DYING MALLS HAVE EYES: grainy CCTV footage near a repair chaos picks up a tremor, something not quite right: Wednesday’s spear, carved with runes; near repaired. A black and white eye presses forward, stares. The screen goes blank with a bzzt.  RED ALERT. The noise echoes; lights flashing; World and their right hand ROD SERLING come back by popular remand; finger hovering over red button and the World pushes down to bring an awful silence. WHAT WAS THAT? Social Media scampering in; out of breath. IT’S SO ANALOGUE. As was everything within the space. WE ARE AHEAD OF SCHEDULE. “--I was not aware that we were on one.” A sideways glance; World and Serling’s eyes meet; electricity flavours the air. THEY HAVE CARVED THE RUNES INTO THE SPEAR? “Yes. IT IS MAN’S PREROGATIVE TO CREATE THEIR OWN HELL: and we, I believe, HAVE JUST CROSSED INTO THE TWILIGHT ZONE.” 

So Good They Can’t Ignore You by Cal Newport

This book succinctly explains a working life philosophy that I identify most with since starting my career. Upon ending my post-graduation internship, the final words of wisdom from my mentor then was to aim to be the best in whatever I do.

On How to Love Your Work:

“...the distinction between a job, a career, and a calling. A job, in Wrzeniewski’s formulation, is a way to pay the bills, a career is a path toward increasingly better work, and a calling is work that’s an important part of your life and a vital part of your identity.”

“In other words, the more experience an assistant had, the more likely she was to love her work. This result deals another blow to the passion hypothesis. In Wrzesniewski’s research, the happiest, most passionate employees are not those who followed their passion into a position, but instead those who have been around long enough to become good at what they do.”

“If you have many year’s experience, then you've had time to get better at what you do an develop a feeling of efficacy. It also gives you time to develop strong relationships with your coworkers and to see many examples of your work benefitting others.”

“Autonomy: the feeling that you have control over your day, and that your actions are important”

“Competence: the feeling that you are good at what you do”

“Relatedness: the feeling of connection to other people”

“...what attracted them was control - living a meaningful life on their own terms.”

“If you feel close to people at work, you’re going to enjoy work more.”

“In most jobs, as you become better at what you do, not only do you get the sense of accomplishment that comes from being good, but you’re typically also rewarded with more control over your responsibilities.”

“...the three traits that make people love their work: impact, creativity, and control.”

“Giving people more control over what they do and how they do it increases their happiness, engagement, and sense of fulfilment.”

“...when you focus only on what your work offers you, it makes you hyperaware of what you don’t like about it, leading to chronic unhappiness.”

“Don’t obsess over discovering your true calling. Instead, master rare and valuable skills. Once you build up the career capital that these skills generate, invest it wisely. Use it to acquire control over what you do and how you do it, and to identify and act on a life-changing mission.”

On Career Capital and Capital Market:

“Supple and demand says that if you want these traits you need rare and valuable skills to offer in return.”

“The craftsmen mindset, with its relentless focus on becoming “so good they can’t ignore you”, is a strategy well suited for acquiring career capital.”

“When you are acquiring career capital in a field, you can imagine that you are acquiring this capital in a specific type of career capital market. There are two types of these markets: winner-take-all and auction. In a winner-take-all market, there is only one type of career capital available, and lots of different people competing for it. An auction market, by contrast, is less structured: There are many different types of career capital, and each person might generate a unique collection.”

“Acquiring capital can take time.”

On Passion Mindset and Courage:

“The biggest obstacle between you and work you love is a lack of courage - the courage required to step away from “other people’s definition of success” and to follow your dream. It’s an idea that makes perfect sense when presented against the backdrop of the passion mindset: If there’s some perfect job waiting for us out there, every day we’re not following this passion is a wasted day.”

“The key, it seems, is to know when the time is right to become courageous in your career decisions. Get this timing right, and a fantastic working life awaits you, but get it wrong by tripping the first control trap in a premature bid for autonomy, and disaster lurks. The fault of the courage culture, therefore, is not its underlying message that courage is good, but its severe underestimation of the complexity involved in deploying this boldness in a useful way.”

“Passion comes after you put in the hard work to become excellent at something valuable, not before. In other words, what you do for a living is much less important than how you do it.”

On Control Traps:

“The First Control Trap - Control that’s acquired without career capital is not sustainable.”

“The Second Control Trap - The point at which you have acquired enough career capital to get meaningful control over your working life is exactly the point when you’ve become valuable enough to your current employer that they will try to prevent you from making the change.”

“If you go after more control in your working life without a rare and valuable skill to offer in return, you’re likely pursuing a mirage.”

On Craftsmen Mindset:

“...this learning is not done in isolation: “You need to be constantly soliciting feedback from colleagues and professionals”

“...an obsessive focus on the quality of what you produce is the rule...”

“It’s at this point, once you’ve identified exactly what skill to build, that you can, for guidance, begin to draw from the research on deliberate practice. The first thing this literature tells us is that you need clear goals. If you don’t know where you’re trying to get to, then it’s hard to take effective action.”

“Diligence is less about paying attention to your main pursuit, and more about your willingness to ignore other pursuits that pop up along the way to distract you. The final step for applying deliberate practice to your working life is to adopt this style of diligence.”

“If you just show up and work hard, you’ll soon hit a performance plateau beyond which you fail to get any better.”

“If you’re not uncomfortable, then you’re probably stuck at an “acceptable level.”

“Pushing past what’s comfortable, however, is only one part of the deliberate-practice story; the other part is embracing honest feedback—even if it destroys what you thought was good.”

“The good news about deliberate practice is that it will push you past this plateau and into a realm where you have little competition.”

“Doing things we know how to do well is enjoyable, and that’s exactly the opposite of what deliberate practice demands…. Deliberate practice is above all an effort of focus and concentration.”

“Hardness scared off the daydreamers and the timing, leaving more opportunity fo those like us who are willing to take the time to carefully work out the best path forward and then confidently take action.”

On the Adjacent Possible and Mission:

“A good career mission is similar to a scientific breakthrough—it’s an innovation waiting to be discovered in the adjacent possible of your field. If you want to identify a mission for your working life, therefore, you must first get to the cutting edge—the only place where these missions become visible.” “

““The more you try to force it, I learned, the less likely you are to succeed. True missions, it turns out, require two things. First you need career capital, which requires patience. Second, you need to be ceaselessly scanning your always-changing view of the adjacent possible in your field, looking for the next big idea. This requires a dedication to brainstorming and exposure to new ideas. Combined, these two commitments describe a lifestyle, not a series of steps that automatically spit out a mission when completed.” “

“...first mastering a promising niche - a task that may takes years - and only then turning her attention to seeking a mission.”

On Taking Incremental Steps/ Little Bets:

“To maximise your chances of success, you should deploy small, concrete experiments that return concrete feedback.”

“These bets allow you to tentatively explore the specific avenues surrounding your general mission, looking for those with the highest likelihood of leading to outstanding results.”

“If career capital makes it possible to identify a compelling mission, then it’s a strategy of little bets that gives you a good shot of succeeding in this mission.”

On the Law of Financial Viability:

“When deciding whether to follow an appealing pursuit that will introduce more control into your work life, seek evidence of whether people are willing to pay for it. If you find this evidence, continue. If not, move on.”

On The Law of Remarkability:

“For a mission-driven project to succeed, it should be remarkable in two different ways. First, it must compel people who encounter it to remark about it to others. Second, it must be launched in a venue that supports such remarking.”

“You're either remarkable of invisible” - Seth Godin, Purple Cow

“Remarkable marketing is the art of building things worth noticing.”

“For his mission to build a sustainable career, it had to produce purple cows, the type of remarkable projects that compel people to spread the work.”

_____________________________________

One of my biggest worry in my career right now is that I’m not learning enough and getting too comfortable with my mundane schedule and unchallenging work. I’m not sure if I have fallen into my second control trap, or am I just stuck in limbo. It’s too easy to let time pass day in and out, with little work to be done, and so much autonomy over my free time.

It’s not all bad... I now have time for other forms of enrichment, such as reading and driving lessons and pottery practice. But I suppose these are also forms of distractions from what I should be focusing on - my design skills.

Moving forward, I’ll have to set up strict outlines for deliberate practice.

This could happen (Trixya) - Toki

AN: First submission! A little one shot real-world Trixya for your nerves ft. a touch of smut. TW: Drink, drugs, swearing.

It was the longest leg of the journey, a boiling hot summer’s morning, and Trixie was already bored. On a day like this she should be out on the beach, eyes half closed in the dazzling light, sun pouring over her skin and drawing shadows across her slowly hardening abs. She loved going to the gym. She loved showing off her muscles, as if she had no idea anyone was watching her smooth skin ripple when she flexed. She loved being athletic, feeling adult. Getting a smoothie.  Now she was folded over the central table of the tour bus, listlessly checking the latest Instagram posts she’d been tagged in from the show the night before.  Nothing stood out as she scrolled. The usual thirty meet and greet selfies, the three photos of her grimacing and presenting a gifted copy of Contact, a photo of her with her arm draped over the shoulder of a slight twink sporting a hastily-bought merch T.  Everyone wants to stand out. Form a lasting connection, make an impression, linger in the sleepy next-day mind of the famous drag queen. No one did. She turned off her phone.

The bus was an ageing one, more fitting for a medium-low budget tour. The outlets didn’t work. Battery must be conserved, and that meant socialising.  Trixie pushed herself up from the couch and took a moment to stretch, flexing her biceps as the sun flashed through the windows.  “Ooh girl,” Violet piped up from the front. “Get it mama. Bring those arms up here.” Trixie yawned as she paced forward to where a few of her tourmates were curled up.  It was the tenth morning of the Summer of Drag tour, a long bill spanning fifteen states over twenty-four days. Trixie, Violet, Bianca, Alaska, Aja, Max, Pandora Boxx and Michelle Visage were all on the roster.. for most of the time, anyway. The Summer of Drag lineup varied several times between states to accommodate the busy schedules of the stars, although Trixie, Michelle and Pandora were permanent fixtures. From tomorrow Pearl would be around for a few days, Adore after that, and Sasha V at some point in future.  Trixie dropped down next to Violet and put an arm around her. The mood was definitely low energy, a droning song on the radio as endless fields rolled by outside. The sky was an impossible blue. Thousands of tiny scratchmarks on the windows caught the sun and frosted the windows gold. Most of the queens dozed. A gradual click, click waded into Trixie’s consciousness. She couldn’t place it. “Look at this bullshit.” Violet pushed her phone into Trixie’s hand and slid her sunglasses down over her eyes, shifting a little sideways to get more comfortable. Trixie glanced at the screen, an open text conversation dancing before her eyes as she tried to steady it against the pitch of the bus.

From: PURL bitch I know

From: PURL but like

From: PURL they said they’d find someone else

From: PURL so

Sent: ok but people are gonna talk shit about it cause you did this before (seen)

From: PURL yeah

Sent: I hope they send someone fun (seen)

Sent: this tour is dull af without you (seen)

Sent:  did they say who  (seen)

Sent: i am sooooo oooo oooo boredd (seen)

From: PURL no

From: PURL sorry purp

“Oh, that sucks.“  Trixie tried to pass the phone back to Violet, but her friend had fallen asleep.  She missed Pearl. It was weird how such a chill person could make everything so much more interesting. They hadn’t seen each other since a show in Boston that spring, and she’d been looking forward to catching up. Getting drunk together maybe. Goofing off.  Trixie glanced down at Violet, now snoring slightly. Tiny dark hairs had begun to pepper the skinny queen’s upper lip. A spot of drool was threatening to fall onto Trixie’s shirt. She shifted away slowly, willing it not to move until she was out of its path. Violet was always so confident. It dripped off her just like that drool drop. She seemed so permanently at ease, sometimes making Trixie feel awkward and misplaced against her backdrop of casual droll glamour. No big though. Not really. She was learning to let go of a little of that tightly woven country-boy background that kept her careful in life and love.

I guess we’ll see what the future holds. Maybe I’ll meet someone soon.

Her relationship with David had gone the invitable way of all the rest. Intense half-year honeymoon made stronger by the absences, but eventual scraps over missed dates and finally long silences, a few attempts to resurrect their romance, and a pretty inevitable break up. She didn’t blame him. It’s hard being in love with someone constantly on the go, and David had never been particularly interested in her drag. They’d shared a love of video games and a few music interests, but it hadn’t proven enough to last.

Trixie glanced up at the other queens spread around the bus. Aja was next to Violet, sound asleep. Beyond her Pandora, asleep too. Michelle was on the other side of the aisleway, tapping at her phone carefully with inch-long fake nails. Click, click. Oh, that was the noise. Beyond her was Max, deep in a book. Trixie shifted position and studied her for a minute. The morning sun played across the outline of the boy’s aquiline nose, casting a liquid silhouette across the pages as she turned them slowly. Crazy bone-structured baby bitch. Damn. She resumed count subconsciously.  Alaska was somewhere in the back, probably napping in her bunk. Bianca nonexistent. She’d opted to take flights between stops instead. Hated tour buses. The tour manager was probably up front with the driver. And that made nine. "Okay. Okay okay.” Trixie had finally freed herself from Violet. She rose to her feet and swung herself back towards the table where her phone lay, pushing the power button as she continued towards the bunks at the back. She scanned the rows for her nametag, mostly out of habit by now. Her bed was on the middle shelf, towards the back on the right-hand side. It wasn’t too bad, considering. Older buses seemed to have roomier bunks, and the external wall of hers was just one huge window with a rolling shade to block out the light. She slid it up halfway to let the sun pour in, mostly so she could watch the fields slide by as she rested her head on her warm pink pillow. The landscape really made her think of home. Occasional farmhouses baking in the hot sun, one or two with their aluminium windmill blades turning slowly. Somewhere a fan whirred softly. No birdsong, just the whisper of grass shifting. The quiet purr of the engine. Time slowing. Her eyelids drooped as the details began to blur. This was a nice moment. Tour wasn’t so bad.

“Rest stop ladies!”

Sweaty neck. Dry mouth. Possibly sunburn. Trixie shifted and reached for her phone as she felt the bus slowing down.

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“TRIXIEE” came the roar of Violet’s voice, startling the sleepy queen. “GET UP ASSHOLE.” “Oh my god.” “Come on! I need vodka!” “Violet,” Trixie slid out of the bunk and stretched, pacing slowly towards the front. “You don’t need me to fund your alcohol problem girl. Work it out.” Violet had already disappeared through the door. Honestly, Trixie was glad for a break from the drive. She was the last one off the bus, stepping out into the scorching heat as the sunlight landed almost physically onto her skin. She could smell the hot tarmac of the rest-stop parking lot baking in the heat. A bird was croaking somewhere. Time to head for the gas station. She wanted something to drink, some snacks, and definitely something to read. Her phone battery was nearly dead, so she knew she’d be bored as hell for the next five hours.  The cool of the airconditioned store was immediately soothing as Aja’s dry laugh hit her ears. She was a cool kid. Her fanbase after her season aired had grown pretty fast, everyone fascinated by her naomi meets kim aesthetic. She was so honest, too. Easy to like. “Trixie.” Violet broke into her thoughts suddenly, rounding the aisle with a bottle of alcohol in each hand. She bore down on Trixie, offering one as she started to chatter.  “Vodka’s two for one. I have no cash though and my wallet’s on the bus. If you get me this I’ll let you have the other one.” Trixie didn’t even bother to protest the deal. “Sure girl. Get me a mixer, Coke’s fine.” She glanced down at the magazine rack in front of her. It was the usual assembly of shitty gossip editions, packed with fake headlines and the kind of exaggerated celebrity nonsense news that bordered on slander. She’d read all of them. A small side section of arts and crafts books caught her eye though, and she reached for a book of guitar tabs peeking out from the rack. It proved to be an out-of-print collection of 2000-2005 country song arrangements by local state musicians, the poorly printed cover a photo of an older man sitting on his porch with a scrappy looking dog. Looked dumb. Maybe she’d pick up some inspiration for her next tune. A couple of songs from her recently-released album had proven pretty popular, not just with the Drag Race fanbase but also the general public, even charting on the country music billboard. Since then she’d started working on new material, but her creativity had kind of dried up. Nothing stuck. Trixie headed for the counter, grabbing a bag of chips along the way. Violet was waiting for her and passing time making idle conversation with the clerk. He’d clearly recognised the queen, and was not-so-subtly attempting to swing a selfie.  “I’ll take a photo with you if you give me cigarettes,” Violet purred. That’s weird.  “You started smoking, girl?” Violet shrugged. The cashier’s face had fallen a little, and he started to explain that giving out store goods could get him fired. “I got ‘em. I’m not supporting your habit though. You owe me. This is blood money.” “Yeah yeah, I’ll pay you in show money tonight.” Violet laughed. “I always get more than you, so.” “You don’t even need it, cunt. You’re the rich one.” Trixie swiped her card as Violet gathered up their shopping. Her gaze fell on the songbook and she started to mention it, but Trixie’s less than playful shrug stopped her from cracking a joke.  “I’m bored,” she offered by way of explanation. “I figured I’d learn some uh… Backyard Bill and the Moonshines.” “Sounds cool, girl.” Violet shoved the cigarette pack into her back pocket. “I wanna do shots when we get on the bus though. If Pearl’s not coming I’m gonna just get drunk without her.”

Two hours later, Violet set about making good on her promise. Trixie stared at the row of shot glasses Aja was setting up on the table as Violet made sure they were quickly filled.  Alaska was next to her on the couch, slowly peeling nail glue off her fingernails with her characteristic bored langour. She was droning on about the new fashion label venture Sasha Velour was collaborating on. It was interesting, but Trixie wasn’t interested. Max was tucked up on the rear sofa at the table, deep in conversation with the side of Michelle’s face as she continued texting whoever it was she was always talking to.  “Yeah honey,” Trixie heard her murmur, “yeah yeah. Yep.” Aja pushed a shot into her eyeline. “Time to drink, Trixita.” Shots right after lunch. Three hours to go until the venue. Why not? “Cheers.” She downed the vodka easily, Violet a second behind her. Max glanced up from her seat but shook her head at Aja’s offer of a shot. “Guess it’s just the three of us. Move up.” As she started to squeeze onto the couch next to Aja, Violet’s phone lit up for a brief moment.  “How are you getting charge, girl?” “I have a battery pack, a girl gave it to me last night after I tweeted about this dump truck not having power.” “Work.” Trixie dug into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She checked the screen to see her battery level. 2%.

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Agent (29) BTDQ (10) Kim (9) Katya (4) Mom (2) More…

Oh yeah, what did Katya want?  Trixie swiped her phone, but let out an exasperated sigh as the screen froze and then faded to black. “Violet, can I use your charger?” “Sorry girl.” The skinny brunette shrugged as she tied her long hair into a ponytail. “It’s out. Only lasted for like an hour. Hey, round two.”

By the time the tour bus pulled into the venue parking lot it was already starting to get dark. Red stripes scored the early evening sky as the last of the golden sun painted the city skyscrapers. Lights were flicking on all around, late workers hunched over desks as everyone poured into the streets to begin their various evening plans. So many lonely people. I’m super romantic. And super drunk. Fuuck. Trisie slid her bag otno her shoulder andd stagered down theh bus gangway.  STTUUPID. shouldnt get tshi drunk before a show  buit theres no meet and greet tonigth  it'sl be fine she’d alreday put on her makuep evne though it wasn'r completetly as good as usuual. last shot was anhour ago and she was actually startig to sober up. she jstu needed some fresh air. pulling her hood up, she stpped into the cooling evenign air and took a deep breath.  that’s goood. not so bad.  ACtually, startig to feel a lottt better. Pandora put an arm around her shoulders as her head stopped spinning. “You ok?” “Yeah girl. Just shouldn’t drink on the bus. I’m good.” They shared a moment’s laughter as they heard the sudden roar from the line snaking around the side of the building, ripples of excitement spreading as the fans caught sight of the famous queens. “Let’s get inside.” Trixie followed the other queens as the group of prearranged roadies and assistants flooded out from the building. She greeted her assigned aid Toby and pointed out her suitcases amongst the pile being quickly unloaded from the bus, before stepping into the venue and narrowing her eyes to accommodate the dim lighting in the hallway. She was definitely still feeling drunk. Probably needed to touch up her makeup before getting on stage. She checked her watch, peering in the low light. The opening number was in an hour.  Trixie turned the corner of the hallway to see the dressing room doorway and soon spotted the familiar line of mirrors and lights. She plopped herself next to Aja, the newer queen of the pack looking a little more drunk than she was. “Which order are you on?” Aja glanced at the sheet on the countertop as she quickly unloaded her makeup. “Uhh.. Second, right after.. does that say Pandora?” Trixie leaned closer and nodded. “Yeah. Before Max. Then me. There’s no meet and greet tonight though, right?” Aja screwed up her eyes to make out the difference between her foundation powder shades. She held up a brush in a wobbly hand and took a stab at reaching for her base shade. She knocked it off the table.  “Yeah. I think Bianca’s first and last and she usually stays on, right?” “Up to her, girl.” Trixie found to her surprise that her makeup was actually pretty on point. She reached for her set of preprepared lashes and twisted the cap off her Duo tube, running a line of the glue down the middle of each dark clump.  “I can’t wait to get out tonight after this. I want a nap. I’m so fucking tired of the heat. I can’t ever sleep properly, it’s like I just get cramps and have these weird dreams about being late for this summer camp I went to when I was a kid. Except I never went to this one, so it’s like my head just came up with this weird.. place..” Trixie trailed off as she noticed how skillfully and deliberately Aja was painting her face. The younger queen had quickly transformed her cheeks into a distinctive contour, lining her nose with cream shades as she scrunched her eyes up to focus her vision. “Girl how are you so good at this when you’re drunk?” Aja laughed. “I’ve done this so many times. Like too many.” “Worrrk, what do you use to highlight?” “Twin Cake with Ice Angel and Kitten Parade, I’m doing shimmery fairy fantasy tonight.” Trixie glanced over in surprise as she held one set of lashes to her eyelids to let the glue dry. “Seriously? I haven’t met anyone else who uses those two together.” Aja laughed. “I learned it from you! You did a Periscope once ages ago and I asked you what you used. I still use it for my pink look.” “No way.” Trixie blinked a few times to check her lashes were fully attached. All good. “Well girl, I’m gonna go find something to keep my buzz going.” She reached into her bag and yanked out her phone charger, hammering it into the wall and hooking up her phone as she stopped to glance around. Where’s Violet?  A sudden rise in volume hit her as Bianca swept into the room. Immediately her head began to ache and she slipped out the door behind the tiny comedian queen, pausing to give her a quick air kiss. She knew roughly where the stage was, so she started down the hallway to the left hoping to run into an assistant who could grab her a whiskey from the bar. The pounding of the bass from the club filled the air. Trixie paused for a moment to identify the song.  It’s.. yeah, it’s Sissy That Walk.  Would she ever get away from the Ru Girl fame? She knew she should be grateful. Oh, she really was. But it was wearing to travel for weeks on end with people she couldn’t completely bond with, medicating with alcohol to pass the hours. She definitely needed to slow down on that. Except for now. She just wanted to get to the end of this corridor and find the club staff.

Instead, she turned the corner and ran straight into Katya. It took her a few seconds to adjust. The shorter queen was fully made up, double Courtney wig pinned on top in an effortless sweeping blonde style that looked a far stretch from her usual careless ‘ugly drag’. She was wearing her red cheerleader outfit, KATYA spelled out across her chest in black letters. Her bright blue eyes shone out from their smokey black makeup, teeth flashing a perfect white in the low light as she roared with laughter at Violet, the brunette hanging off her arm with a happy devotion.  Trixie sucked in her breath in total surprise. 

“Katya!” she shrieked, a little too excitedly for her own taste. Her comedy partner’s head whipped around and she was met with an enormous grin. Immediately she reached for her friend’s tiny frame. Hugging Katya was always like taking a little bag of bones into her arms, all frenzy and energy and joy.  “What are you doing here?” “They booked me, mama! I’m the surprise guest!” Trixie was flooded with a wave of half-drunk affection. Right when she needed someone to feel close to, here’s this idiot. The pair shared an unbelievable connection, always had. She suddenly found she could bear the thought of the tour. Felt excited, even. “Are you doing any other nights? How long are you staying for?” she asked into Katya’s wig, before pulling out of the hug.  “Just tomorrow!” Their eyes were locked, a moment Trixie didn’t want to break out of. Characteristically, Katya turned away first. “Christ, I need a cigarette.” “I gotcha girl.” Trixie narrowed her eyes as Violet reached into her back pocket and prized out the pack of Camels. She waved it in front of Katya’s face, grinning slyly. “Trade you. Sexual favours.” Oh right. Now it makes sense. She knew. Violet always flirted with Katya. Ever since they’d slept together on tour ages ago, Trixie had definitely felt the sexual tension whenever the queens got in the same room. It was pretty one-sided though, right? Katya laughed and reached for the cigarettes. “You beast! Using my addiction against me Barbara? Are you coming out?"  Violet tightened her grip on Katya’s arm and began tugging her toward the fire exit further down the hallway. As Trixie turned to head in the opposite direction she heard the brunette cackle, "Of course! I’m gonna suck your dick in the alley. Let’s go, bitch.” Eye roll. “I’m so fucking glad you’re here Katya. I’m boooored. You know Pearl dropped the tour?” An insistant flower of anger tugged at Trixie’s throat as she finally reached the backstage area. “Hey someone, can I get a Fireball?” So Violet had known since that morning. Katya was supposed to be Trixie’s comedy partner. They could’ve arranged something. Thrown together an impromptu UNHhhh. Knocked something up to completely eclipse everyone else. To be honest with herself, she’d had been feeling a little overshadowed on the tour. So many gigs and dates had left her little time to work on anything new, so she’d fallen back on Candy Man and a guitar piece from one of her more popular recent songs. Everyone laughed a little flat at her jokes, they’d heard them a thousand times before on social media. And Katya was this.. this catalyst of unpredictable humour, like some explosion of random parts of a thousand cultural references and bit-parts mashed through her perfect set of teeth. She was always, always a surprise. Her stupid goofball humour reached into Trixie and yanked out the best parts of her. Framed them in the spotlight. Made her so cuttingly funny, every joke landing like an old classic, met with shrieks of laughter.  Trixie and Katya the Comedy Duo were a force, and they could outshine absolutely anyone. “Here you go,” Toby showed up out of nowhere, slipping a glass of whiskey into her hand. “Straight up, on us.” “Thanks.”

Two hours later, her buzz was still going strong as she sat down to take off her makeup.  Her performances had gone well, met with a level of appreciation and such a genuine response from the fans that she was left a little humbled. This was what it was about, right? Being an entertainer.  Trixie lifted the heavy wig off her head and let out an enormous groan.  “Suck it up, queen.” Bianca slid down into the chair next to her, quickly touching up her lipliner with an expert eye. “At least you can go to bed. I’m on meet and greet for an hour.” “I’m not going to bed yet girl. Have you seen Katya?” Bianca glanced round and lifted a finger to point at the sky. “What do you think?” Oh yeah. The familiar trap beat opening of Same Parts filtered through the doorway, met with the deafening roar of the already-energised crowd. As Alaska piped up across the room about how much in royalties Katya must have earned for Tatianna, Trixie suddenly remembered her phone. She swiped it on and opened her messages.

From: Katya i’m booked with you!

From: Katya see you tonight

From: Katya lets do a double? I’ve got some new material

From: Katya call me call me

From: Katya deb?

From: Katya see you soon mama

The five mixed drinks Trixie had consumed since reaching the venue quickly welled up in her throat as she suddenly felt regretful about those nasty little thoughts she’d haboured about her friend. Poor Katya, she’d tried to get in touch. She was actually such a good person. And this momentary feeling of elation definitely has nothing to do with feeling jealous before. Jealous of what? I mean it’s normal to want to spend time with Katya. But Violet draping herself on her is so fucking gross. Give me a chance to talk to her.  Trixie suddenly felt a pang of nostalgia for their Australia tour. They’d shared the limelight 50-50 and had spent a couple wonderful days and nights goofing off so far from the usual routine of the big US tours. It’d been so great. Katya’s great. Where’s Katya? Katya’s on stage. Katya’ll be out soon. Katya’s sleeping on the bus tonight. Trixie paused her thought train to sweep her towering pile of black-smudged facewipes into the trash. She quickly slid out her contacts, dumped everything into her bags and shouldered the lightest. Toby, who’d been texting in the corner, immediately jumped to his feet and started ferrying her cases out to the back.  “See you on the bus boo,” Violet piped up, quickly taking down her hair. Alaska was sprawling next to her, texting frantically. No reason to stay here.  Trixie nodded and zipped up her jacket, heading out into the cold air. A pair of fans beyond the fence about forty feet off spotted her and started howling her name, so she gave them a little halfhearted wave before climbing up into the bus. She felt pretty drunk, still. It’d be a shame to waste it.  “SHOT.” “Oh my god.” As her heart returned to normal, Frank the tour manager slid a shot glass across the table. It was still smudged with Aja’s lipstick.  “This is my last night. Pete’s taking over tomorrow.” “Where are we going next again?” “Houston, then Austin.” “And after?” “Tulsa.” “Mhmm.” Trixie skulled the shot and winced. “That’s me for the night.” “No way, everyone’s doing a round when they get on board.” “Well Katya won’t.” “Oh right, I forgot. Was she like an alcoholic before?” “No. She just has an addictive personality and she doesn’t want it. She’s not really into doing things unless it’s a super serious blackout, yknow?” Frank whistled quietly. “Must be tough. You know a lot about her.” Trixie shrugged. “Well, we spend a lot of time talking.” “Do you ever run out of things to talk about?” “No.” Trixie ran her fingertip around the rim of her shot glass. She felt herself click into an automatic Talk-About-Katya mode. It was pretty familiar - she’d probably mentioned her comedy partner in 8/10 interviews. “She’s so funny. I’d marry her if it’d ever actually work between us. But you have to be attracted to someone before you’d want to spend that amount of time with them.” She paused for a second to think. “Either that, or not attracted to them at all. That’s why we get on so well.” Frank reached out and took the glass from between her fingers. “So you’re saying you’re completely 100% platonic?” “I mean..” Trixie started to hear the vague chatter of a few of her tourmates as they approached the bus. “Katya says attraction’s a spectrum. Like it’s such a fluid thing that changes from day to day. There’s definitely times when she’s into me sexually.” The alcohol loosened her lips for a moment. “I liked her too, at first. But I had a boyfriend and the shooting schedule was so intense, we weren’t really allowed to talk in private cause they wanted to film everything. So nothing ever happened.” “Right, yeah.” Frank leaned back to glance out of the window at the approaching queens. “But nothing after it wrapped?” Trixie shrugged. “I mean I definitely liked her. You can’t not like her. But we work so well as business partners that I never let anything happen between us, so I guess..” She shrugged. “That whole physical thing just died out. For me, anyway. I’m all or nothing, emotionally.” Pandora’s face appeared through the doorway, followed by Michelle. “She isn’t much for romance, though. As you could guess.” “Who?” barked Michelle, sliding in next to Trixie. She reached out and took one of the shot glasses Frank had finished refilling. “Who are we talking about?” “Katya.” “Ohh.” Downing the vodka with an expert flick of the wrist, Michelle pulled out her phone and immediately started to text. “The whole Ross-Rachel thing. Don’t you ever get tired of talking about it?"  Trixie shrugged. "It’s pretty good for business. It can get weird though.” She leaned forward. “You know fans write stories about us getting together?” “Mm-hmm.” “They’re elaborate, too. There’s this whole demographic of underaged girls that want us to get together. I don’t get it at all.” Michelle glanced up. “Honey, it’s obvious. Everyone needs a lovestory to believe in. Writing it makes them feel like a part of it.” “You’re right.” “WOW-WOW-WOW-WOW.” Katya’s familiar sex-noise echoed out from her parted grinning lips as the blonde queen burst onto the bus with Violet quickly in tow. “Drinks, ladies? God, I’m so hot. Is there a shower here?” Michelle gestured towards the rear of the coach.  “Help yourself. Use one of the guest towels on the shelf.” “Thanks mama. Nice doing business."  As she swept past the table, Katya glanced down at the line of shot glasses and grabbed one. She slid it over to Trixie before anyone could react and winked. "Trixie’s having mine.” “No, girl. I’m about to be passing out.” “Wouldn’t be the first tiiiime,” Katya half-sang as she disappeared into the bus bathroom. Trixie slid hers over to Michelle who accepted it without comment. They locked eyes for a brief moment, and the motherly brunette gave a smirk.  “You like it when she pays attention to you though, right?” “Oh yeah, she’s great. She makes you feel like the only person in the world.” Violet dropped her phone on the table and slid in next to Michelle. “Oh yeah,” she laughed. “And I’m gonna make HER feel like the only person in the world tonight.” Trixie suddenly snapped into focus. “Wait, yeah. Where’s she sleeping? All the beds are full.” “With me!” Violet rolled her eyes. “Duh. Literally. Literally!” “Yeah, we get it.” Frank broke into the conversation. “You want to fuck him. But not on this bus. Everyone needs sleep and you can hear everything, you know that.” “Shut up, Frank.” “No, he’s right.” Trixie spun around to face Violet, head swimming slightly. “I need to sleep this off, girl. You and Katya can fuck as much as you want, but not in your bunk. It’s above mine, and you know I hate noise like that.” Violet shrugged. “Fine. I’ll get a hotel in.. Where are we next?” “Austin.” “No, Houston. And you can’t, we have to get across to Austin by lunch. We’re driving all night.” “Fuck, I’m never getting laid.” The chat subsided into casual remarks about the evening, but it was always crazy how much everyone loved to talk about Katya. Trixie absentmindedly chewed a fingernail as she tried to understand her friend’s intense charm. It’s like people just wanted to experience her through conversation. Like even if she wasn’t around, she was on people’s minds. She’d even won over- “Alasssssssssssska!” Violet hooted, as the sleepy-eyed queen stepped onto the bus. “Bitch c'mere, we’re toasting Fred. Frank.” “Coming purple monster,” Alaska replied in her gutteral vocal fry. “Were you waiting for me?” “You wish girl. Here.” “Thanks girl. Where’s Kattie sleeping tonight?” “In with me,” Trixie blurted suddenly. She wasn’t taking the chance of Katya and Alaska hooking up. Everyone had half been expecting it since their Aspen snapchats and resulting intense fast friendship. Since those stupid Pure commercials they’d been talking on the phone a lot too.  Katya had a theory about separation of sex and soul. She’d gone into great exploratory detail a few times: wild-eyed, arms waving happily as she burned through cigarettes and spilled thoughts from that great endless mind of hers at a million miles an hour. She loved the idea of anchorless love. She couldn’t see it as a minefield, or anything but a way to tie everything together. She wanted to have sex with the entire world. But sort of with her heart. And brain. And dick. Anyway, she insisted that a successful business partnership could happen even when you were sleeping together. But not with feelings involved - she’d put her foot down about that immediately.  Trixie couldn’t separate emotions and physicality like that. She meant it when she said all or nothing. But maybe Alaska would give Katya what she wanted, and they’d be the next hot new comedy pairing. Maybe that’s what Katya was after. And now she was heading back down the aisle of the bus, makeup gone, towelling off her short blonde hair in a pair of black shorts and a Tshirt that said сука.  “Hiiieee,” she grinned. “What’d I miss. Oh, we’re driving.” Several of the queens around the table turned to check that yes, the bus had smoothly pulled out and was now making its way down an orange-lit road.  “Move over,” Katya squeezed onto the very full seat next to Alaska. Their legs tangled up and she fluidly threw an arm around her shoulders. “Tell me about the tour so far mama. How’s this pit of dusty rusty snakes treating you?” “Oh we’re fiiine.” Alaska dropped her phone onto the table and turned her full attention to her friend.  No one gets her away from that phone but Katya. Trixie leaned forward to join the conversation, but became suddenly aware her head had seriously begun to spin. “Violet’s up to her her usual antics. Max has read every single book, or maybe just one long book, and Michelle’s been doing my nails. We’re nail friends. I hate this god damn bus though."  "Shit.” Alaska and Katya turned to glance at Trixie, who’d turned pale and started to sweat. “Guys, I need to get out.” They quickly made space for her to clamber towards the bathroom, where she slid the door shut and dropped to her knees by the toilet. Everything was super swimmy. Ugh.  She rested her forehead on the seat and closed her eyes. It’d pass. It was mostly the movement of the bus anyhow. She just needed a minute.

“TRIXIE!!” The barbie queen’s eyes snapped open. How long had she been asleep? She reached up and unlatched the door, and immediately Violet spilled in.  “Oh my god. Oh my god I’ve been needing to pee so bad. You fuckin asshole. Get out of here.” “Sorry girl. I passed out for a sec.” Trixie pulled herself unsteadily to her feet and navigated past her friend. She glanced at a few of the empty bunks before swinging herself carefully into her own, head beginning to pound.  “Why do I do this? Fuck.” Time to get some rest. Trixie brought the glowing dial of her watch up to her face and screwed up her eyes in hope of making some sense of the time. 1:12 AM. She’d been out for half an hour.  Down the hallway the queens were still going strong. She could hear Michelle, Aja and Alaska ribbing back and forth, Katya’s shriek of laughter rippling out from time to time. Pandora and Max were deep in conversation, but she couldn’t hear what about. It didn’t matter. Time for sleep.

Neon.

Neon green. Soft. A smoky heavy texture in the air, summer night lonely. Darkness and neon and green. Still.  Two blurry little figures.

Trixie opened her eyes properly and peered out of the window.  The bus was parked up at a gas station. The lights of the pumps were shining out into the dark, and by the edge of the clearing Katya and Alaska were sharing what looked like a joint and talking to each other quietly.  As Trixie watched, Alaska reached up to touch Katya’s arm for just a second. They had their backs turned, and Katya exhaled in a long slow stream of smoke that faded softly into the darkness beyond.  Everything was mostly silent on the bus. A few snores filtered through intro Trixie’s consciousness. She checked the time again - 3:54 AM.  And she suddenly felt lonely. That was the thing with her and Katya. The lines were so blurry they had to be made completely clear and concrete. But Katya was right - attraction was fluid. And right now, Trixie’s heart hurt with jealousy and a touch of confusion.  The way Alaska and Katya were talking in a calm, quiet way made her a little nervous, too. Alaska could cut so easily through to Katya’s more serious side, the vulnerable bit she kept hidden away for the most part. She showed it on Periscope sometimes. Trixie had watched them all.  So what if those two start doing more together? And UNHhhh gets even less of Katya’s time? Whatever they do’ll never be as successful.  She had to admit it felt great working with Katya. She loved how everything seemed to be a predictable hit; platinum star fanbase gold. Their joint videos immediately climbed to most viewed, any minute interaction on social media prized and screencapped and retweeted and obsessed over. Financially, it was a winning combo. And..  And it made her feel special being half of Trixie and Katya when the other half was somewhere nearby being loved by the whole world. Cause there was that connection. It was implied. Katya was in some very unspoken, very platonic way - mostly platonic way - a little bit Trixie’s.  Now the silent late-night duo were turning and walking slowly back towards the bus. Alaska linked arms with Katya, their movements slow and easy. Trixie stared out into the darkness, letting them walk beyond her gaze. She heard the hiss of the door, their muted footsteps as they climbed onboard. She heard their motions as they passed by her in the dark. She heard a stifled giggle as they awkwardly climbed into Alaska’s bunk. She closed her eyes.

It was a boiling hot summer’s morning, Trixie’s mouth was stuck shut, and her eyes felt like little fireballs. Ugh fuck, Fireball.  For the past twenty minutes she’d been willing herself to get back to sleep, but it wasn’t coming. She was still her in sweats from the night before with the bus heating up pretty fast in the baking morning sun. She needed a shower. Swinging one leg out of the bunk, she suddenly realised she’d slept in her shoes. Great. Mess. She kicked them off and padded quietly into the bathroom, careful not to disturb the other sleeping queens. A glance at her watch showed it to be 7 something AM.  She quickly pulled the door shut and shed her clothes, stepping into the stream of lukewarm water with relief.  What a rough night.  Was it?  She cycled through the events from the evening before as she soaped up. That gas station scene had felt like a dream, but Katya’s absence in her bed was all too real this morning. Maybe this was it. The start of a new comedy partnership. One that didn’t involve her. What kind of stuff would they make? Probably something arty. They’d make fun of high concept fashion ads from the 90s and thrill the New York crowd to death. She could see why it’d be funny, too.  Trixie turned off the water and started towelling off as she began to think about her own performance for the coming evening. Maybe a Dolly Parton song to change things up a little. She still needed to check out that stupid country song book. She stepped into a fresh pair of boxers and pulled a shirt over her head. Clean clothes felt amazing. Stretching felt super good, too - even though the little bathroom was too small to really get a good reach. She stepped out into the aisle and tossed her dirty clothes on top of the full laundry basket, reaching out to steady herself as she swung her body into her bunk and dropped down straight on top of Katya.

“WHAT the fuck?” Trixie rapidly hushed her voice as the little queen giggled, squirming underneath her weight. Above her Violet gave a grumpy moan and kicked a foot out into the alley. “You scared me motherfucker,” Trixie hissed. Katya extracted herself and rolled towards the window, squishing herself up against the cool glass. She rested her head on one hand and struck a jaunty paint-me-like-your-french-girls pose. “Hi mama. Miss me?” “No. Where were you? I thought you were supposed to sleep in here last night.” Katya shrugged. “Was I? I slept in with Alaska. I mean I didn’t really sleep. She takes up all the room. Can we cuddle?” Trixie extended an arm without comment and Katya immediately swung her head up into her neck. It always felt so easy. An arm snaked over her stomach and Katya’s little bony hand tucked itself lightly under her hip. “MMmm.” “Shhh.” Trixie felt her friend sneak a knee over hers, pushing in between her legs.  “Let me in mama. Let me in, I’m not gonna try anything. Promise. I just want to sleep.” “No!” “Please? Are you sure?” “Katya.” “Mmmm. Mmm-mm.” “Katya.” “Mmmmm.” “Fine. But you’re gonna sleep and I’m too awake now. I need music. Do you have any?” Without a word, Katya reached into the pocket of her shorts and yanked out her phone, white earbuds tightly wrapped around it. She plopped it on her friend’s chest and rested her hand just below, fingertips in the dip between Trixie’s ribs. Trixie’s neck tickled as she inhaled happily. “You smell good, mama.” Trixie didn’t reply. With one arm around Katya she was finding it tricky to unwind the headphones, lifting the wires as the phone tumbled over onto her chest. It thwapped Katya’s fingers, the little queen mumbled in protest and moved her hand lower down. Halfway onto Trixie’s stomach. And then a touch lower.  “Katya.” “Mmmmmm.” She shifted her weight and slid her knee fully between Trixie’s legs. Their bare thighs settled tightly together, skin to skin. It might have been her imagination, but for a very brief second Trixie felt a completely unexpected twinge.  Fuck, not now.  “I’m not trying anything.” “You better not.” “Mmm. Night.” A moment passed before she felt the subtle shift of Katya’s body relaxing. She always fell asleep immediately. It had been a relief last summer when they’d stayed together, Katya aggressively hitting on Trixie in an effort to culminate their friendshp. Nothing had happened beyond a similar snuggle close to how they lay now, tangled up in a warm embrace. Attraction is such a spectrum. Trixie was pretty sure Katya wasn’t into her at the moment. But you never knew, she never clung at all. No signals. Her thigh, between my thighs.  Trixie needed a distraction. It was biological, right? A response to stimulation. It’d been a long, long time. She tucked an earbud into her left ear and swiped the phone on. It was locked. Katya was already snoring, and her hand was too awkward to tease a finger onto the home button.  Stuck with your crazy Russian musical soundtrack, or whatever. Or t.A.T.u. Or the background white noise track of a meat packing plant or something, you little weirdo. She pressed play from the lock menu. A surprisingly pretty muted synth track flooded her ears. Far off echoed drums. A slightly tuneless Swedish-sounding voice, breaking from odd melodics to soft whispers, phasing between uncomfortable and really beautiful as the chords shifted. This was so Katya. Nothing was ever straightforward. She looked for the odd in everything.  Everything came together. Trixie turned her head to rest her chin on Katya’s warm forehead, eyes half focused on the gold fields rolling past the window. She felt their bodies together, locked tight. Watched the light play over their skin. Their breathing had subconsciously synced, and she spent a few minutes zoning out into the way their chests rose and fell together. She could see Katya’s heartbeat pulsing along the golden skin on the back of her hand. She thought about their skin contact. Katya and Alaska would never snuggle like us. But if they start working together all the time, it’s pretty much the end of us.  At least.. in a business sense.  She knew she was being ridiculous. But she always leapt to conclusions. It was just her mind. Katya mumbled softly in her sleep, pushing her face a little closer into Trixie’s neck.  At least now, even if only for now, Trixie had her friend’s body wrapped up in her arms. She wondered if there’d ever be an event horizon - a moment where Katya’s phenomenal fame kept growing and she drifted away, just out of reach. Didn’t have time for filming. Couldn’t return calls. Didn’t text back. She’d expected that thought to trigger some kind of business plan in her head. A way to make it work. A plot to keep filming and collaborating on everything that kept their duo going. But instead, Trixie was surprised by how strongly her chest opened up and a wave of intense attachment rushed out, threatening to overwhelm her. Her fingers tightened imperceptibly on Katya’s skin.  Don’t go. She bit her tongue to clamp down on that thought, but feelings were hitting her. Hard. No, something else was hitting her.  She glanced down. The crotch of Katya’s shorts had begun to bulge, pressed lightly against Trixie’s thigh. She glanced at Katya’s eyelids and found them still firmly shut, the queen apparently deep in sleep.  Ugh, shit. What do I do now?  The strength of her recent unspoken realisations were enough to deal with at the moment. She definitely didn’t need any physical complications. She should push Katya off her and demand some space. Wake her up. Reestablish those boundaries.  Except.. The blonde queen had started to grind down slowly against her thigh, and for some reason Trixie couldn’t stop staring at the hardening bulge between her legs. Her heart began to pound. Her body began to respond. She could feel the blood starting an inevitable rush downwards, a familiar tingle growing faster than she’d like.  They’d sort of done this before, one time. An intense snuggle, some slow grinding. Katya called it frottage. Trixie thought that sounded like a kind of cheese. She’d cracked a joke and they’d broken it off, Katya rolling quickly off the couch to go find a cigarette. That was before David, before Palm Springs, when they’d had to shut anything like that down due to the budding new relationship. Trixie would be lying if she hadn’t briefly wondered about what would’ve happened in its place. What might have happened one of those vacation nights, maybe after their naked photoshoot.  But that was then, and this was now, and honestly she was starting to lose focus on anything but the now-visible outline of Katya’s erection through her pants.  “Katya,” she whispered. This wasn’t going to happen while anyone was asleep. She felt the queen’s eyelids open sleepily.  “Mm?” This is it. Do or die.  ..Fuck it.

“Come here.” Heart pounding, she took Katya’s hand from her chest and moved it slowly downwards, inch by inch, until Katya’s fingers were just about to brush the rise of her swollen boxers. She lifted her hand away and held her breath as the blonde queen paused for a moment.  And then, without comment, Katya dropped her fingertips lightly onto the shaft of her hard dick. As jolts of electricity pounded through Trixie’s body, Katya began to trace the outline of her erection, moving slowly with two probing fingers before sliding her whole hand over and around her girth, glancing up to meet Trixie’s eyes. “You were right, mama.” “What?” Trixie whispered, caught off-guard. “About the size. I didn’t believe you. You’re big.” “I tol-” Trixie’s breath caught suddenly in her throat as Katya tightened her grip. She began to squeeze with a little more pressure, grinding herself harder against Trixie’s leg.  “You’re too big for me. But maybe I’m right for you.” Trixie felt Katya’s free hand slide down to her hip, pulling her insistently onto her side to face her. She felt her fingers begin to tug her boxers down, the other hand still slowly moving up and down her dick with the kind of pressure that felt unbelievable through the material. It was too much. And then she was free, and Katya’s fingers were sliding around her shaft, and Katya was pushing her own pants down with a quick movement from her spare hand.  “Touch me,” she whispered, bring her lips up to Trixie’s. The skin was barely grazing, and Katya kept it that way. Trixie could smell her. Could almost taste her. Her lips started to ache, anticipating their kiss. Katya read her mind, and reached out for her hand. “Touch me first.” Trixie complied, letting Katya guide her down to her dick. She felt the warm skin touch her fingertips, and before she had a moment to think she’d already wrapped her hand around the girth of it, eliciting a tiny moan from Katya. They began to pump each other slowly, the hot breath between their lips mingling as they tried to stay silent. Trixie could feel herself melting into the sensation, her eyes closing in the warm sun, disappearing completely into the way her heart wrapped about Katya’s touch. She leaned forward to break the desperate tension but Katya leaned back, just out of reach. “Not yet.” “Katya? Where’s Katya?” Shit. Frank. Fuck.  Trixie opened her eyes to meet Katya’s blue-eyed surprise.  “Oh shit.” Trixie quickly scooted over to the bunk curtain, tugging her boxers up with one hand and pulling her shirt down with the other. She had no idea why she felt so guilty, but the way Katya was grinning made her jump all over. Now she could see Frank, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, some papers in his hands. “She’s here. What’s up?” “She has to sign these insurance forms. I should’ve had her do it last night but I need her to do it now before we cross state lines.” “I’m coming.” Katya finished buttoning up her shorts and propped herself up on one elbow. “I’ll be there in a sec.” “I’m leaving them on the table.” Trixie glanced over and watched as her newfound crush checked her pockets for her cigarettes. She finally found the crushed pack and teased one out, sliding it between her lips with a little smile. “Hey, do you know I bought those for you?” Trixie whispered. Katya flashed her a look of surprise. “Well.. I paid for them.” Made sense. Katya pulled the cigarette from her mouth and leaned in towards her.  “Do you want a small kiss, mama?” Fuck yes. But maybe..  “Tonight.” Gotta maintain some boundaries. A flash of a grin, the tiniest linger of her hand against Trixie’s chest as she clambered over her, and Katya was gone.  Trixie knew she wouldn’t be back. It wasn’t her style. But they had one more night to figure it out.

It was the second longest leg of the journey, a boiling hot summer’s morning, and Trixie was writing a song.

Stonathan Fanfiction: A Study in Attraction: Chapter 5

The door opens and Steve is greeted by the warm, bewildered smile of Joyce Byers; this is more startling than it should be. In Steve’s world, parents are rarely home, let alone present and right now Joyce is both, her face happily surprised by his arrival, her voice friendly and curious. “Steven! Come on in! Is Jonathan expecting you?”

As she’s closing the door behind him, Steve catches her stealing a quick glance in the direction of the driveway. He knows that she expects to see Nancy in the passenger seat of his BMW. Finding the car vacant, Joyce gives him a bemused look, but says nothing.

Steve has arrived a half-hour ahead of schedule hoping that he and Jonathan could fool around for a bit before heading out, but Joyce and her cheerful interrogation have thrown him off balance. He’s stammering something about grabbing a bite to eat just as Jonathan strolls into the living room.

His blond hair is towel-dried and unkempt, his slender frame clad in faded black jeans and a white T-shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders where the skin is still damp. He stops short when he sees Steve. “You’re early."

Harrington cocks an eyebrow, bites his lower lip and gives Jonathan an approving once-over that says, “Oh no, Jonny-boy, it looks as though I’m right on time.” The non-verbal message is received; Jonathan blushes and looks away to hide a pleased smile. It’s a perfect moment until Steve remembers that Joyce has witnessed the whole exchange.

“Well,” she says, breaking the awkward silence. “Have a good time, whatever you get up to.” Steve can’t bring himself to look at her, but he can easily envision the knowing grin on her face as she wanders out of the room, leaving the boys to exchange a look of wide-eyed relief.

***********

Steve is about to turn the key in the ignition but thinks better of it and places a hand on his date’s knee, leaning in for a kiss. Jonathan scowls, gesturing towards the house with a slight nod, and Harrington retreats with a sigh. “Your mom’s pretty nosy, huh?”

“She’s protective, if that’s what you mean.” Jonathan’s terse correction reminds Steve to tread carefully around the topic of Byers’ family.

When he starts the car, the radio is blasting “Love is a Battlefield” at full volume and Steve moves to turn it down. Jonathan does one better, producing a cassette tape from the pocket of his jacket and inserting it into the player just as Pat Benetar is launching into her overwrought chorus. The tape hisses for a few seconds before a sharp, jangly guitar fills the space; soon a lilting falsetto begins to croon. I would go out tonight but I haven’t got a stitch to wear… It is unlike anything Steve has ever heard, and he likes it immediately.

“Do you always carry a mix tape for hijacking the car stereos of others?”

“Top 40 radio makes my ears bleed. Besides, if you’re going to insist on driving, I insist on not being tormented by garbage pop rock.”

It’s true that Steve had been adamant about picking Jonathan up at his house rather than meeting downtown as they had for their cinema rendezvous. He reasoned that the evening would feel more like a date that way.

They pulled into the parking lot of Hawkins’ only pizzeria, and secured the last spot. “It’s pretty busy,” Jonathan observed, glancing around. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Harrington shut off the car. “Byers, we can’t sneak around all the time. No one will even notice us, provided that you can resist the urge to put your tongue down my throat between bites of garlic bread.”

“Ew. Shut up.”

“What, you don’t like garlic bread?”

Exasperated silence.

“Because I know you like putting your tongue in my mouth…”

Jonathan lunges at him as if to throw a punch, but instead grabs Steve’s jacket by the shoulder, pulling him in for a brief hot kiss then drawing back with a grin. “You talk shit just so I’ll shut you up, don’t you?”

Harrington shrugged. “What can I say? Guilty as charged.”

*************

They are seated in a corner booth of the restaurant, a large room dimly lit by old-fashioned stained glass lamps hanging low over each table. Jonathan fidgets with the straw in his cola, his eyes ceaselessly shifting around the space. Steve wants nothing more than to reach out and take his hand; it’s frustrating that, under the circumstances, a gesture intended to give comfort would only aggravate his companion’s anxious state.

“Hey,” he says softly, and Byers turns to him with a stricken look. “Everything’s cool, alright? As far as anyone else is concerned, we’re just a couple of guys out for pizza.” Then, dropping his voice to a whisper, he adds, “Nobody here has any idea about the things that went through my mind when I saw you in that wet T-shirt.”

Jonathan smiles in spite of himself. “What kinds of things?”

“Let’s just say that if your mom hadn’t been home, I would have…eaten this whole pizza by myself.” The waitress’ arrival interrupts Steve’s salacious chatter, and a tray of pepperoni pizza is set down between them.

They eat in silence until Steve gets bored. “You see, the thing I don’t get,” he remarks, around a mouthful of crust, “is that I thought you were one of those guys who didn’t give a shit what people thought of you, and now here you are more worried about it than I am.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to have been called a queer since before you even knew the meaning of the word,” Jonathan muttered.

“Well, you clearly haven’t met my father,” Steve pointed out, taking a swig of the beer the waitress brought without carding him. “That asshole never misses an opportunity to tell me that I style my hair like a faggot.”

“Christ, it sounds like your dad and my dad should get together and share a pizza,” Jonathan smirked. “Lonnie’s convinced that no ‘real man’ hates baseball, so naturally I’m a big disappointment.”

Steve gasped in mock outrage. “Wait – you hate baseball? I don’t think this is going to work out. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Not everyone can swing a bat like you, Steve Harrington.” Jonathan’s tone is unexpectedly playful.

“Byers, are you flirting with me?”

There is a bold look in Jonathan’s enigmatic brown eyes, a sexy smirk playing on his lips. In a surprise reversal of roles, Steve is blushing.

*************

Jonathan refuses to be walked to the front door, flouting Steve’s attempt at dating etiquette with a sneer. Instead they sit in the car, trying to discern if the darkened windows of the Byers’ residence mean that Joyce is asleep or that she is spying. Steve yawns, stretches and brings one arm to rest across Jonathan’s shoulders; it’s an old trick, but it works, and Byers relaxes into his touch.

He draws Jonathan close, holding his shy gaze and tracing a path along the blond’s cheekbone with his thumb. When Steve speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “You have no idea how gorgeous you are, do you?”

Byers doesn’t roll his eyes, or make a snarky comment. He just smiles, turning up the volume on the mix tape that has been a mere murmur in the background. Joan Jett’s “Crimson & Clover.” The raw guitar and laconic vocal provide a raunchy backdrop as Jonathan plants a gentle kiss on Steve’s mouth, and they soon strike a familiar rhythm, steaming up the windows of the BMW as the music vibrates around them.

Hands are beginning to wander, and Steve’s pulse is racing with anticipation but Jonathan suddenly pulls away, his eyes on the headlights turning into the driveway. “Shit! It’s the cops!” Harrington hisses, adjusting himself to hide his arousal.

“It’s Hopper,” Jonathan mumbles, zipping up his jacket and moving to exit the vehicle.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, it isn’t. Look, I’ve gotta go.” With a warm glance and a nod, Jonathan gets out of the car. Steve promises to call just as Byers is closing the door. Hopper has gotten out of his truck, and Steve watches with some curiosity as the two men enter the house together.

Harrington is about to back out of the driveway when he remembers the mix tape in his cassette deck. He hits ‘eject’ and examines the tape closely in the moonlight, his heart skipping when he reads the label, written in Jonathan’s neat hand: “For Steve, This Charming Man.”

[RO] A Distant Daydream

It is necessary for the sake of both narrative consistency and authorial vanity to start this recollection by explaining the exacting and tedious circumstances under which I rediscovered the muse for this little story.

One cold November night as I was wasting away amidst the gaudily floral décor of my University Reunion, surrounded by mundane faces and half-empty glasses, I saw her again. There is a long running cliché in the Romance genre where after the protagonist sees his old ingénue (or femme fatale depending on the story) after a long period of time has elapsed, he immediately drops everything to talk with her. Don Quixote was its victim when he clasped eyes on Dulcinea (del Toboso), great Achilles fell to it when he was with Patroclus again in the underworld, and that night I also fell to it. (Albeit with less literary significance)

The shadowy glitter of the tawdry lights illuminated the outline of her body against the faded backdrop of the Reunion. Nervously, I watched as we orbited the various old-acquaintances and older-ex-professors that stopped us to talk as we made our separate ways around the room, drawing closer until we were face to face. After the awkward introductions had been made, the meaningless pre-prepared platitudes voiced, and the small talk talked we got down to the serious business of remembrance. We started with the fates of friends, whose minor heartaches and tragedies fortified us to go deeper into the catacombs of memory. We compared our lives since University had finished and after a time it became clear to me that she had become an adult. We both had. Finally we arrived simply, on time and on budget, at our old relationship.

“At that time, if I am remembering things correctly, I was quite pleasantly in love with you.” I said. (The universal laws of literature dictates that Romance stories must always start with, in some shape or form, a declaration of love)

Her eyebrows rose as if in surprise before forming a perfectly indecipherable mask, “That must be I think the first time, or at least the first time I can remember, when you said you were in love with me. And it’s now when we’re both married!”

“Oh well maybe if I had said it more we’d still be together.” I said, “Good thing I didn’t!” (Slight awkward pause for comedic timing on her part then cue laughter.)

The flow of the conversation moved on to more extravagant and ostentatious reminiscences and by the end of it, it was clear to me that any dregs of past attraction that I had been savoring had long since been drained by her. Nevertheless, I want to capture in frozen prose the remnants of my past emotion, to prevent it as long as possible from dissipating like so much barren smoke amidst the fogs of time. Now, having described both my muse and my intentions there is little left to do except begin; a task that I am both excited and nervous about.

***************

In literature’s best beginnings the author (after a sufficient amount of pre-amble) starts by describing a meeting between two characters. As I was studying literature at that time I might endeavor to reproduce the same effect now, having done the pre-amble above I can get right to it. In this story, I (playing the “Noble Byronic Hero”) was sitting bored and alone amidst a sea of empty chairs and chattering people waiting for the lecturer to arrive. Instead of opening my workbook and preparing for the copious amount of notes that are required for true learning to be achieved, I was staring idly out the window at the assorted people walking between classes.

The lecturer entered the auditorium like he was about to receive an award and was greeted with a heavy silence underlined by the whispers of continued conversation. He made a small throat clearing bark while he was adjusting the lectern’s positioning and the silence became total.

He began reading from a loose collection of pre-prepared notes, speaking in a unique blend of French, Russian, and English accents, “Russian Literature as a notion, an immediate idea, this notion in the minds of non-Russians is generally limited to the awareness of Russia’s having produced half a dozen great masters of prose between the middle of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the twentieth…”

Despite the mesmerizing rhythm that the trilingual blend lent to his speech I (or the arrogant little shit I was) soon lost interest in the subject, having already become familiar with the half dozen great masters over the break. After nearly 2 hours of quite condescension on my part the lecture concluded and those students who had scheduled tutorials afterwards gathered around the lecturer while the others left. We were dissected into groups then turned outside armed with some tedious readings and pressing assignments. My group consisted of me (smug and self-satisfied), her (bored and busy), and one of her friends (forgettable and not really part of the story).

A straightforward and bland conversation was struck up as we debated the best approach to our shared homework. In protest of the tedious nature of the discussion, and since I was feeling somewhat bashful in new company, I spent most of my time trying to come up with the opposite answer to any question asked. (Sample: What is something that you are thankful for in modern society? Clean drinking water. Cue laughter.)

“Come on man, take this seriously. There’s no point if you’re just sitting there taking the piss,” her friend said.

“Fine, what’s the next question?” I asked.

“It says here to outline the role that the various cultural, social, and theological influences have played on the development of Russian literature throughout the 19’Th century,” she said.

“Alright, I trust that we are all aware of the cultural and social influence that my boy Pushkin has had?” I said. “By the way have either of you read Eugene Onegin? It’s fucking good.”

“Of course I’m aware of Pushkin and I’ve read Eugene Onegin,” exclaimed her friend.

“What self-respecting person who when studying Russian literature doesn’t read Pushkin?” she said. “My only regret is that I couldn’t read it in Russian. I’m confident that what makes his style so beautiful is lost in translations.”

As I continued to expound my “unique” theories about Pushkin and his influence on literature my reservations began to drop away and soon we started having a real conversation. I’ll spare you the details I was in my twenties my comments weren’t profound. However, after I finished talking the discussion moved away from the assigned work and we started to get to know each other as we told jokes, made fun of classmates, talked about exams etc.

Soon I discovered that I shared most of my classes with her and we began walking together on the way between them. I watched as our relationship grew in the broken time between lecture and tutorials and like any functionally hormonal teenager as soon as we started to spend any regular amount of time I became quite enamored with her. We smoked cigarettes outside in the sun, we worked on essays together in dusty library halls, and I told lots of bad jokes. I savored every moment that we were together and when we weren’t I was thinking about ways to make her laugh.

One bright evening as we were returning from a particularly trite lecture delivered by a particularly trite lecturer we stopped at a University Bar in order to do the only thing that people who go to University Bars do, forget the lecture that they just sat through. We sat down in a corner booth drinks in hand, there was some god-awful student band hammering out a cover of For Whom the Bell Tolls (a classic bar anthem), but we ignored them.

I started throwing out a bunch of half-baked observations and I noted that despite not being drunk my voice came out in a sort of slurred mutter, “Oh no, your other friend in literature is definitely at least a little bit gay. He has the accent. It’s a peculiar phenomenon I’ve noted, when you’re gay you get assigned a new accent.”

“Shut up! He is not!” she said. (Author’s Note: the friend in question came out earlier this year. A bit late but vindication! After 20 years I told you so!)

Reflectively, leaning back like an elder statesman confronted by a new scandal, in a slow voice I muttered, “If he was, I’d hit that.”

“Oh my god!” She laughed.

The conversation continued in a teasing jocular style for the rest of the evening. The band changed and instead of Metallica we were treated to Billy Joel. Time (and by proportion drinks) sped away and soon it was closing time. We ended up taking a cab back to her apartment and under a shared fantasy became lovers. I shall not describe with sensual derision or racy brags the details of our first night together that would altogether cheapen it; I shall keep it locked privately inside an ever receding tomb of memory.

***************

How is it I can describe, with so short a story, the thousand moments and reveries that make up a relationship? Should I describe our first date? How after a while we spent every waking moment in each other’s company? Perhaps I could keep using rhetorical questions as a device to further a floundering paragraph while I try and think? I could describe the general contentedness that fell over me, I could even spend the next few pages describing the time we spent laughing over nothing. But I think that, that description would ultimately be meaningless, cheapening the experience, and reducing the emotions I felt to mere words on a page to be read and forgotten. That time has become in my mind like a fine fabric and pulling at the stands to recall a few parting moments might cause the whole thing to unravel. Perhaps I’m wrong, I don’t know, but I feel any such descriptions would make her seem less real, just a nameless character in the dark who when described is never seen again. I’m going to move forward to the conclusion as I could well be rid of those memories but I’ll take with me the knowledge of what I felt.

After the initial glow of our relationship faded what remained solidified into a concrete routine, a useful habit that slowly suffocated. We would meet in class to ingest the readily forgettable inanity of the lectures, then move onto a quick lunch, and after sneaking cigarettes outside we went back to the classroom to wait for the time we could retire to an apartment somewhere and be alone. This rapidly became unbearable, that magic intimacy I had felt during our first night together was gone, and I began to fantasize about ways to escape. I spoke to some friends who had more experience in these matters than I did and they convinced me that the best course of action would be to come clean and break things off like a mature adult, which was what I did.

I was lounging on a bench thinking about the little speech I had prepared and listening to her complain about some essay that we were meant to be working on. Amber rays of light where broken between the trees, inciting warm shadows to drift across the park, and causing her eyes to look even more like gleaming gemstones. Eventually she ran out of things to say and the moment stretched out awkwardly as I worked up the courage to speak. I started talking about our relationship and from my tone it would have been clear to anyone listening what I was about to say. Nevertheless, I continued my way through my muddled thoughts until the final inevitable words fell with all the weight and severity of a Judge’s gavel. After I had finished she got up and left leaving me alone with my reflections.

We continued to see each other throughout the last few weeks of the semester but the connection that had existed between us was gone. After the course ended we agreed to schedule next year’s classes at different times so that we wouldn’t be together. Occasionally I would see her walking through the campus, sometimes with friends sometimes alone, and after a while we stopped even acknowledging each other becoming two strangers passing each other in an empty corridor.

***************

I left the reunion and sped off into the darkness. I said goodbye to her, again, for perhaps the last time and watched as she walked away with her husband. Now that I have emptied my emotions out onto these pages I am already starting to think clearly again; the tarlike memories that have been circulating inside my chest have been scooped out, properly analysed, and the findings reproduced here in print. In a way I feel like I have relived an entire chapter of my life and as a consequence my muse has lost the nostalgic charm that made this project seem so appealing in the first place. In the morning I am going to incinerate this manuscript and watch the ash dance on the wind like so much fiery decay, as these memories slip quietly away.

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New Post has been published on Inspirationist

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Inspirationist exclusive: Interview with Constantina Tsoutsikou, Creative Director of HBA London

Constantina Tsoutsikou, Creative Director of HBA London is a leader in global hospitality design, creating meaningful and memorable experiences for hotel, restaurant and spa guests.

Australian born and raised in Greece, Constantina came to London as a design student and has since made it her home and the base for her globe-trotting lifestyle. No day is ever the same – with visits to sites across Europe and the Middle East, the creative direction of new work in the studio to manage, a team to lead, international design awards to judge and speaking at events such as Maison et Objet. In all of this, Constantina believes in fun. “Fun and discovery are the lifeblood of great design” she says.

Her work emphasises the joy of discovery of the location, its history, and its culture. Her ways of bringing playfulness to hotels are utterly different – from a cosy, artistic boutique hotel Amadria Park Capital in the heart of Zagreb to a larger scale Hilton Amsterdam Airport Schiphol hotel, offering respite for international visitors and travellers, through to a coastal resort on the Adriatic Sea.

She is a true trend-setter in luxury hotel design: leading the European arm of a global hospitality design practice and an active explorer of new ideas herself, who gives time to join speaking platforms and judge awards. Last year, she and her team created an outstanding concept room at Sleep + Eat which, working in collaboration with London’s National History Museum, delved into ideas such as nature, exploration, and discovery.

Constantina took a few moments out of her busy schedule to talk to Inspirationist about her roots, her visions for the future and how she brings fun and playfulness to hotel design:

INSPIRATIONIST: Where are you from and where do you live now?

Constantina Tsoutsikou: I was born in Australia to Greek parents but when I was seven we left the leafy streets of Adelaide for a small rural town in Greece.  It was a big change of scene, a new way of life. By the time I was a teenager, I was eager to search for my place in the world. Design studies took me to Athens and then onwards to London. It was here I made my home, although home to me means the place where I love to be in between my travels.  I still have the same thirst for discovery as when I first set out so it’s fortunate my work takes me on creative journeys around the globe.   

INSPIRATIONIST: What’s your background? 

C.T.: I grew up in a creative family. We owned a picture framing workshop, which was something of a social hub for our neighbours. Friends would drop by for conversation about art, philosophy, politics – or fishing. At other times, my sisters and I would be doing our homework in the front room while our father moulded cast plaster sculptures or experimented with paints and new patinas in the back. My mother had an interest in wool weaving, while she also ran a business selling linen for the home.

INSPIRATIONIST: Tell us a bit about your time at Esteé Lauder and what it taught you.

C.T.: Esteé Lauder is a global company with a grand vision and multiple iconic brands such as Clinique and La Mer. Working within its design department gave me the opportunity to master brand implementation across a range of different brands and learn how to make an impact and create an experience, all of which are invaluable in hospitality design.

INSPIRATIONIST: How did you fall in love with design and why? 

C.T.: Culture, arts, a love of nature and being creative formed the backdrop when I was growing up, so it wasn’t a question of falling in love with design, but rather a natural progression in what I had been exposed to. Our house was full to the brim with vintage books, artefacts and collections of fascinating objects. You could find hand-painted Japanese scrolls and rolls of block printed silks collected from travels in Asia next to wool yarn spinners, and everything else in between! The idea of layering in my approach to hospitality design is informed by these early memories. 

INSPIRATIONIST: What is your favourite part of your job?  

C.T.: I love the fact that my role touches on every aspect of running the studio, from leading the team to fronting the drive for new business and overseeing client relationships. Equally, I am so pleased that I can remain very involved in the project work itself, especially at the beginning in leading our creative direction, then reviewing ongoing progress and, finally, at the end, making a difference with last minute adjustments and accessorising. In fact, the favourite part of my job is probably just this – rolling up my sleeves with the team on-site.

The favourite part of my job is probably just this – rolling up my sleeves with the team on-site.

INSPIRATIONIST: Where do you spend most of your time, and what does a typical day for you entail?

C.T.: To say that no day is ever the same would be an understatement! If I am in our studio in West London, the day starts at nine and I make sure to touch base with all the teams first thing. 

Projects run at different speeds, so while one may be at concept stage, another may require problem solving in minute detail. This development stage is crucial to get right. The tiniest touchpoint can make a difference. I use quick pencil sketches to convey an idea and am very hands on with materials. 

Since many of our clients are international, video conference calls are very much part of my typical day. If I am in London on a Friday, I pick my girls up from school and take them swimming or ice skating. I try to balance family life around the job, or sometimes vice versa. It takes precise planning and a few blank spaces in the diary to allow for last minute things that come up.

I am often on the road, attending project meetings, reviewing site progress or evaluating a new assignment. I prefer to test what feels right or wrong on the ground, with a tape measure to hand and trusting my intuition rather than trying to solve all problems by looking at drawings on a screen in London.  The slightest shifts in scale, proportions, or light can make or break a design idea. 

When I am out and about, my antennas are always alert for innovation. I look for inspiration everywhere and travel never disappoints. I usually return to the studio with a bulging bag of books or magazines and numerous photos of what I have found interesting.   

The slightest shifts in scale, proportions, or light can make or break a design idea. 

INSPIRATIONIST: Can you describe an evolution in your work from when you began until today? 

C.T.: Designers are constantly on a journey and evolution happens on a daily basis. Starting out, one tests ideas, the work is task driven and it enables you to learn on the job. With experience, I like to push the design envelope further. I ask questions relentlessly and scrutinise ideas and assumptions until it all falls into place.

INSPIRATIONIST: You believe that “Fun and discovery are the lifeblood of great design.” How do you bring fun and playfulness to hotel design?

C.T.: Spaces dictate how we feel in them. In hotel interiors, formality is usually required or desired, but a total absence of things that are fun or of opportunities for discovery leave a hotel feeling very impersonal and uninspiring. I believe that striking the right balance between sophistication and a relaxed ambience is key. 

To my mind, design is not dissimilar to a conversation. I compare it with sitting around a table at a dinner party – sometimes you can feel stuck with a dull conversationalist or sometimes you are  exhilarated when you meet an interesting new acquaintance and a spark is lit. 

Every design choice says something about our intent. For example, a comfortable sofa with deep cushions and smooth upholstery is an invitation to relax and unwind, or a well-framed view through the window directs you to take in your surroundings. Quirky artefacts or a disruptive feature is often what makes a scheme charming. Nobody likes an interior that feels like a monotonous furniture showroom. I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t like to have some fun. 

Take for example, the Capital Hotel in Zagreb which we have recently completed. We introduced oversized illustrations by David Doran in the Café to give a dreamy perspective on the city’s laid-back culture. They make the sun filled space feel very much about Zagreb NOW, whereas the building itself is a restored bank that opened in 1923.  At the start of the project, I talked to many people who remembered the bank when it was still operating and they told me how depressing and cold it felt. I made it my mission to take it to the other end of the spectrum and rewrite the building’s narrative. Today you could describe it as playful, warm, welcoming and full of personality. There was no place for imposing or dreary in my plans.

A completely different project, but sharing the same principle of creating fun, was our design of the new Hilton at Schiphol airport. Historically, airport hotels have been anonymous experiences; guest stay there because they have to and forget them as soon as they leave. I was determined to make this hotel stand out and a destination of choice. We christened our approach the Dutch Touch. We took the local landscape, the waterways, craft traditions and the modern day Amsterdam spirit, we even played with the design of the city’s much loved Speculaas Plankjes biscuit, and we translated all of these into a hotel with soul, one that puts a smile on the face of even the most jaded global traveller.

Spaces dictate how we feel in them.

INSPIRATIONIST: Can you share with us any exciting projects that you are working on at the moment?

C.T.: In Dubai we are building a luxury hotel, and in Istanbul our beautiful guestrooms are coming together for a new apartment tower. In Europe, I have just set out the art and accessories in the guestrooms of the Camellia Hotel in the chic Croatian coastal resort of Opatija. The guest experience here is wonderful. We have designed a joyful geometric floor covering with an energy that feels entirely complimentary to an otherwise very calm room. At night, you fall asleep to the sounds of gentle waves lapping the rocks below. The next phase at Camellia will be a wellness space over two floors which we can’t wait to get started on. Meanwhile, in London, we have a wonderful residential project in the heart of a new city centre development and I am also dipping into the world of cruise-liner design for the first time, thanks to a very exciting collaboration.

The best projects are those where there is synergy and things happen!

INSPIRATIONIST: Do you have a favourite amongst all your projects? 

C.T.: I like maintaining momentum and working fast. The best projects are those where there is synergy and things happen!

INSPIRATIONIST: What are your visions for the future? 

C.T.: Given my wander lust, I would of course like projects in new locations, as well as opportunities to work on ground-breaking concepts. Last year, we were offered the fascinating challenge of designing a guestroom that expressed London’s Natural History Museum brand and I would very much like to work on more brand collaborations such as this. Whatever and wherever the project, however, it is clear that it is evermore important to design responsibly and act as custodians of Earth’s precious resources. My last, but not least, vision is to create more places where people can connect with one another and with themselves.

My last, but not least, vision is to create more places where people can connect with one another and with themselves.

INSPIRATIONIST: How do you unwind?

C.T.: Music is a big part of my everyday life. I also read as much as I can. My favourite weekend decompression is devouring the Sunday papers. In fact, I could easily spend the entire day without doing much else, but my family has other ideas and thankfully they usually succeed in getting me out and about. 

INSPIRATIONIST: What kind of music are you listening to at the moment?

C.T.: Anyone who has stayed in our house, knows that the kitchen radio is permanently tuned to Classic FM. It goes on first thing in the morning with the coffee maker and stays on until the lights are switched off at night. 

Most of the time, I am on the go however, and I rely heavily on a good pair of earphones that keep me connected to my playlists. I am happily addicted to music and outside my kitchen, my music is more varied. I am into synth pop, electronica and experimental. On heavy rotation this month, you will find John Maus, a small Swedish band called Amason, and the Russian artist Amnfx. Happily, I have a small group of like-minded friends and we ping pong tunes to each other, new tracks or just something that struck a chord.

INSPIRATIONIST: What is your favourite colour?

C.T.: Colour in design is a great tool. It can perk up a quiet scheme and add energy and vibrance. I like wearing colour too, not just working with it. This week, I have opted for forest green, and that’s just for my manicure!