meg !!!!!!!! i believe you said ur taking days off so i hope you are enjoying the off time and also for the kisses thing i would love to see "running their thumb over the other’s lips" w my babes lashton (or any of them that you want i just reread ur meeting at a gig lashton today and they make my heart happy SO) ok ily bye <3

sam babe!!! okay this got away from me a little but here is a some fluffy lashton wedding au??? with photographer ash??? and a whole lot of side malum??? idk what happened here but hope you enjoy! Love you!!!

It’s already gotten dark when Luke wanders outside the wedding venue for a bit of fresh air. He finds a bench to sit on, closing his eyes for a second and resting his head back on the wall. The day had been about as chaotic as he’d expected from Michael and Calum’s wedding, and he was ridiculously happy but extremely drained. The ceremony itself had been absolutely beautiful; Luke knew he'd be emotional watching his two best friends getting married but had almost overtaken him during their vows. It had always been "Calum and Michael" as long as Luke had known them, Luke just happy to be a third part of their duo, soaking in a bit of the love they could help but emanate whenever they were together. Watching the two of them marry and confirm "Calum and Michael" for as long as they would have each other was something that had always been inevitable, but also filled Luke with an emotion he couldn't describe, fizzing through his veins from his heart to his fingertips. 

The day had continued in a hazy mess of laughter, love and champagne, Luke even managing to get through his best man speech with as little trauma as he would have thought possible, especially having the added pressure of being a double best man for both grooms. He’d started by launching into a story of the first time that the three of them had gotten drunk and Michael had accidentally admitted he thought Calum had "really nice hands" and it had all gone swimmingly from there, Michael even having to wipe his eyes on Calum’s jacket sleeve surreptitiously at one point, something Luke will definitely be bringing up with him later.

"Hello," He hears a voice behind him and jumps, sloshing a bit of his champagne over his knee. 

The photographer — “Ashton” — as as he had introduced himself earlier, stood leaning against the wall next to him with a slight smile. 

He was the honestly the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen, light brown hair curling slightly on the top of his head, glittering hazel eyes and a dimple in his chin that appeared anytime he encouraged any of his subjects to smile more or turn this way or that. That wasn't even mentioning his hands, long fingers clutching his camera as he snapped away. He had been distracting Luke all day, drawing his eye whenever his mind wandered for a second, and he wasn’t sure whether it was his own wishful thinking that most of the time Ashton seemed to be looking back. Michael had told him offhandedly before the ceremony that he was apparently a friend of Calum’s from college, and Luke was going to kill him (after his wedding day maybe) for not introducing him to Ashton sooner. 

"Uh," Luke said intelligently to Ashton. "Are you here to take a photo of me? Because I’m not being very interesting right now."

Ashton laughs freely, "Sorry for making you jump, can I sit for a second?" He said gesturing at the empty space next to Luke. “No photos, promise.”

Luke nods, blushing. "Of course, sorry.”

Ashton laughs again, sitting down and scooching slightly closer to Luke. "Do you want to know a secret?"

Luke cocks his head at Ashton and smiles at the man talking to him, "Go on then, what secrets do you have photographer man."

"I've not been a very good photographer today," Ashton says, with a glittering look in his eyes.

"What do you mean, you look great to me?" Luke says then turns even redder. "I mean you look like you're doing a great job to me." He amends, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ashton positively grins back at him. "Because I've been taking too many photos of one subject, bad form, should be covering everyone here."

"What of the happy couple?" Luke scoffs, "I think that's allowed."

"No, too many photos of someone else," Ashton says, smiling even wider and giving Luke a significant look.

Luke chooses an unfortunate time to take a sip of champagne from his glass and almost chokes, and Ashton laughs again and smacks him on the back as Luke tries to get himself under control.

"You're not serious," Luke says, biting his lip slightly, a habit he can't seem to break, even several years after removing his lip piercing. He's not too upset about it now though, watching Ashton track the movement with his eyes before coming back up to meet Luke's with a smirk.

“Do you want to see?" He asks, holding his camera up towards Luke.

Luke pauses before nodding slightly and Ashton slides even closer to Luke, pressing their arms together and turning the camera back on. He begins to flick through the photos, and Luke can immediately tell that they are going to be beautiful, even the raw images in the tiny viewfinder are gorgeous, capturing the almost loving glow the whole night has glittered in.

"Wow you're incredible," Luke breathes out and he hears Ashton make a little embarrassed noise next to him.

"Thank you," Ashton says quietly, before continuing to scroll through the photos rapidly.

Luke's blush deepens by the second as he notices himself show up more and more often, waiting for a drink at the bar, making his best man speech, dancing with Mali's daughter, and even more of him at the ceremony, the unmistakable look of love and emotion in his eyes as he watches his best friends in the whole world get married.

"You're a great subject," Ashton murmurs, so close to him now he's basically whispering in his ear. "Could be a model with those legs actually."

Luke goes red again and ducks his head to hide his smile. "Fuck off," he pinches Ashton's knee.

"I'm serious, you're a dream to photograph, those eyes, these curls," Ashton lifts a hand from his camera to pull a loose piece of Luke's hair between his fingers, Luke turning his body slightly towards Ashton. Luke slides the hand that he pinched Ashton's knee with up his thigh slightly and rests it there, looking up from the camera to look at Ashton properly from under his eyelashes.

"That nose," Ashton says, sweeping his index finger down Luke's nose, a barely there touch. "And these lips," He adds, pulling Luke's bottom lip down slightly with his thumb, before brushing his thumb gently over them. 

Luke smiles underneath Ashton's thumb, takes a deep breath and leans in slightly, eyes meeting Ashton's, and Ashton pulls his hand away and replaces it with his lips, pressing gently at Luke's. He kisses him softly, and then pulls away slightly.

"This okay?" He asks Luke in a murmur.

Luke just responds by slotting their lips back together and kissing Ashton with purpose, slipping his tongue between his lips, and hand coming up to hold the back of his neck.

How long they stay like that Luke doesn’t know, the summer breeze ruffling Luke’s curls, the sound of laughter and music drifting out the open door and Ashton underneath his lips. He can’t quite work out whether the warm feeling bubbling up inside him is from the champagne or from Ashton himself, leg pressed against his and a hand cradling his jaw as they kiss.

“Oh my fucking God!” Luke hears a voice exclaim and he pulls his face away from Ashton’s to glare at the interruption, to see Michael staring at him, a look of glee on his face.

“Calum get out here now!” He shouts inside, “Luke’s making out with your photographer friend!”

“Michael!” Luke protests, dropping his forehead on to Ashton's jacketed shoulder.

“What the fuck, are you joking?” Calum half jogs outside, a delighted look on his face which only grows bigger when he sees Luke and Ashton, still half wrapped around each other on the bench.

Luke goes to extract himself from Ashton, but the other man just slips a hand into Luke’s, leaving their legs pressed together. 

“I fucking knew it!” Calum crows. “Didn’t I say Luke would be all over him like a rash?” 

Michael howls with laughter, dragging Calum closer to him and sliding a hand around his waist. 

“I hate you both so much,” Luke whines into Ashton’s shoulder, feeling it shake slightly under his forehead with suppressed laughter.

“Anyway,” Michael says, “Hate to break it to you both but we’re about to cut the cake and this is something that we might want a photo of down the line.”

Now it’s Ashton’s turn to blush, he mumbles out an apology as he gets up, pulling Luke up alongside him. Calum just shakes his head at the two of them and smiles. “We’ll see you in a minute,” He says, tugging Michael back into the building, both of them giggling.

“See I told you, not a very good photographer today, too distracted,” Ashton says with a small smile, tucking Luke’s hair behind his ear where it had been ruffled by the wind, and then leaving his hand resting loosely against Luke’s neck.

“Well I personally still think you’re doing a great job,” Luke says with a small smile, leaning in to peck at Ashton’s lips again.

“Well duty calls now, but maybe I could persuade you into a dance later?” Ashton rubs Luke’s cheek slightly with his thumb, grazing his cheekbone.

Luke’s smile grows wider, “See you on the dance-floor, photographer man.”

Ashton laughs and tugs him inside by the sleeve of his jacket. Luke follows him giggling, feeling a bit too much like he’s floating on air.

untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.

Anonymous said: I didn’t know too much about the late British philosopher Sir Roger Scruton until I followed your superbly cultured blog. As an ivy league educated American reading your posts, I feel he is a breath of fresh air as a sane and cultured conservative intellectual. We don’t really have his kind over here where things are heavily polarized between left and right, and sadly, we are often uncivil in our discourse. Sir Roger Scruton talks a lot about beauty especially in art (as indeed you do too), so for Scruton why does beauty as an aesthetic matter in art? Why should we care?

I thank you for your very kind words about my blog which I fear is not worthy of such fulsome praise.

However one who is worthy of praise (or at least gratitude and appreciation at least) is the late Sir Roger Scruton. I have had the pleasure to have met him on a few informal occasions.

Most memorably, I once got invited to High Table dinner at Peterhouse, Cambridge, by a friend who was a junior Don there. This was just after I had finished my studies at Cambridge and rather than pursue my PhD I opted instead to join the British army as a combat pilot officer. And so I found out that Scruton was dining too. We had very pleasant drinks in the SCR before and after dinner. He was exceptionally generous and kind in his consideration of others; we all basked in the gentle warmth of his wit and wisdom.

I remember talking to him about Xanthippe, Socrate’s wife, because I had read his wickedly funny fictional satire. In the book he credits the much maligned Xanthippe with being the brains behind all of Socrates’ famous philosophical ideas (as espoused by Plato).

On other occasions I had seen Roger Scruton give the odd lecture in London or at some cultural forum.

Other than that, I’ve always admire both the man and many of his ideas from afar. I do take issue with some of his intellectual ideas which seem to be taken a tad too far (he think pre-Raphaelites were kitsch) but it’s impossible to dislike the man in person.

Indeed the Marxist philosopher G.A. Cohen reportedly once refused to teach a seminar with Scruton, although they later became very good friends. This is the gap between the personal and the public persona. In public he was reviled as hate figure by some of the more intolerant of the leftists who were trying to shut him down from speaking. But in private his academic peers, writers, and philosophers, regardless of their political beliefs, hugely respected him and took his ideas seriously - because only in private will they ever admit that much of what Scruton talks about has come to pass.

In many ways he was like C.S. Lewis - a pariah to the Oxbridge establishment. At Oxford many dons poo-pooed his children stories, and especially his Christian ideas of faith, culture, and morality, and felt he should have laid off the lay theology and stuck to his academic speciality of English Literature. But an Oxford friend, now a don, tells me that many dons read his theological works in private because much of what he wrote has become hugely relevant today.

Scruton was a man of parts, some of which seemed irreconcilable: barrister, aesthetician, distinguished professor of aesthetics. Outside of brief pit stops at Cambridge, Oxford, and St Andrews, he was mostly based out of Birkbeck College, London University, which had a tradition of a working-class intake and to whom Scruton was something of a popular figure. He was also an editor of the ultra-Conservative Salisbury Review, organist, and an enthusiastic fox hunter. In addition he wrote over 50 books on philosophy, art, music, politics, literature, culture, sexuality, and religion, as well as finding time to write novels and two operas. He was widely recognised for his services to philosophy, teaching and public education, receiving a knighthood in 2016.

He was exactly the type of polymath England didn’t know what to do with because we British do discourage such continental affectations and we prefer people to know their lane and stick to it. Above all we’re suspicious of polymaths because no one likes a show off. Scruton could be accused of a few things but he never perceived as a show off. He was a gentle, reserved, and shy man of kindly manners.

He was never politically ‘Conservative’, or tried not to be. Indeed he encouraged many to think about defining “a philosophy of conservatism” and not “a philosophy for the Conservative Party.” In defining his own thoughts, he positioned conservatism to relation to its historical rivals, liberalism and socialism. He wrote that liberalism was the product of the enlightenment, which viewed society as a contract and the state as a system for guaranteeing individual rights. While he saw socialism as the product of the industrial revolution, and an ideology which views society as an economic system and the state as a means of distributing social wealth.

Like another great English thinkers, Michael Oakeshott, he felt that conservatives leaned more towards liberalism then socialism, but argued that for conservatives, freedom should also entail responsibility, which in turn depends on public spirit and virtue. Many classical liberals would agree.

In fact, he criticised Thatcherism for “its inadequate emphasis on the civic virtues, such as self-sacrifice, duty, solidarity and service of others.” Scruton agreed with classical liberals in believing that markets are not necessarily expressions of selfishness and greed, but heavily scolded his fellow Conservatives for allowing themselves to be caricatured as leaving social problems to the market. Classical liberals could be criticised for the same neglect.

Perhaps his conservative philosophy was best summed up when he wrote “Liberals seek freedom, socialists equality, and conservatives responsibility. And, without responsibility, neither freedom nor equality have any lasting value.”

Scruton’s politics were undoubtedly linked to his philosophy, which was broadly Hegelian. He took the view that all of the most important aspects of life – truth (the perception of the world as it is), beauty (the creation and appreciation of things valued for their own sake), and self-realisation (the establishment by a person of a coherent, autonomous identity) – can be achieved only as part of a cultural community within which meaning, standards and values are validated. But he had a wide and deep understanding of the history of western philosophy as a whole, and some of his best philosophical work consisted of explaining much more clearly than is often the case how different schools of western philosophy relate to one another.

People today still forget how he was a beacon for many East European intellectuals living under Communist rule in the 1980s.  Scruton was deeply attached in belonging to a network of renowned Western scholars who were helping the political opposition in Eastern Europe. Their activity began in Czechoslovakia with the Jan Hus Foundation in 1980, supported by a broad spectrum of scholars from Jacques Derrida and Juergen Habermas to Roger Scruton and David Regan. Then came Poland, Hungary and later Romania. In Poland, Scruton co-founded the Jagiellonian Trust, a small but significant organisation. The other founders and active participants were Baroness Caroline Cox, Jessica Douglas-Home, Kathy Wilkes, Agnieszka Kołakowska, Dennis O’Keeffe, Timothy Garton Ash, and others.

Scruton had a particular sympathy for Prague and the Czech society, which bore fruit in the novel, Notes from Underground, which he wrote many years later. But his involvement in East European affairs was more than an emotional attachment.  He believed that Eastern Europe - despite the communist terror and aggressive social engineering - managed to preserve a sense of historical continuity and strong ties to European and national traditions, more unconscious than openly articulated, which made it even more valuable. For this reason, decades later, he warned his East European friends against joining the European Union, arguing that whatever was left of those ties will be demolished by the political and ideological bulldozer of European bureaucracy.

Anyway, digressions aside, onto to the heart of your question.

Art matters.

Let’s start from there. Regardless of your personal tastes or aesthetics as you stand before a painting, slip inside a photograph, run your hand along the length of a sculpture, or move your body to the arrangements spiraling out of the concert speakers…something very primary - and primal - is happening. And much of it sub-conscious. There’s an element of trust.

Political philosopher, Hannah Arendt, defined artworks as “thought things,” ideas given material form to inspire reflection and rumination. Dialogue. Sometimes even discomfort. Art has the ability to move us, both positively and negatively. So we know that art matters. But the question posed by modern philosophers such as Roger Scruton has been: how do we want it to affect us?

Are we happy with the direction art is taking? Namely, says, Scruton, away from seeking “higher virtues” such as beauty and craftmanship, and instead, towards novelty for novelty’s sake, provoking emotional response under the guise of socio-political discourse.

Why does beauty in art matter?  

Scruton asks us to wake up and start demanding something more from art other than disposable entertainment. “Through the pursuit of beauty,” suggests Scruton, “we shape the world as our own and come to understand our nature as spiritual beings. But art has turned its back on beauty and now we are surrounded by ugliness.” The great artists of the past, says Scruton, “were painfully aware that human life was full of care and suffering, but their remedy was beauty. The beautiful work of art brings consolation in sorrow and affirmation…It shows human life to be worthwhile.” But many modern artists, argues the philosopher, have become weary of this “sacred task” and replaced it with the “randomness” of art produced merely to gain notoriety and the result has been anywhere between kitsch to ugliness that ultimately leads to inward alienation and nihilistic despair.

The best way to understand Scruton’s idea of beauty in art and why it matters is to let him speak for himself. Click below on the video and watch a BBC documentary broadcast way back in 2009 that he did precisely on this subject, why beauty matters. It will not be a wasted hour but perhaps enrich and even enlighten your perspective on the importance of beauty in art.

So I’ll do my best to summarise the point Scruton is making in this documentary above.

Here goes.....

In his 2009 documentary “Why Beauty Matters”, Scruton argues that beauty is a universal human need that elevates us and gives meaning to life. He sees beauty as a value, as important as truth or goodness, that can offer “consolation in sorrow and affirmation in joy”, therefore showing human life to be worthwhile.

According to Scruton, beauty is being lost in our modern world, particularly in the fields of art and architecture.

I was raised in many different cultures from India, Pakistan, to China, Japan, Southern Africa, and the Middle East as well schooling in rural Britain and Switzerland. So coming home to London on frequent visits was often a confusing experience because of the mismatch of modern art and new architecture. In life and in art I have chosen to see the beauty in things, locating myself in Paris, where I am surrounded by beauty, and understand the impact it can have on the everyday.

Scruton’s disdain for modern art begins with Marcel Duchamp’s urinal. Originally a satirical piece designed to mock the world of art and the snobberies that go with it, it has come to mean that anything can be art and anyone can be an artist. A “cult of ugliness” was created where originality is placed above beauty and the idea became more important than the artwork itself. He argues that art became a joke, endorsed by critics, doing away with a need for skill, taste or creativity.

Duchamp’s argument was that the value of any object lies solely in what each individual assigns it, and thus, anything can be declared “art,” and anyone an artist.

But is there something wrong with the idea that everything is art and everyone an artist? If we celebrate the democratic ideals of all citizens being equal and therefore their input having equal value, doesn’t Duchamp’s assertion make sense?

Who’s to say, after all, what constitutes beauty?

This resonated with me in particular and brought to mind when Scruton meets the artist Michael Craig-Martin and asks him about how Duchamp’s urinal first made him feel. Martin is best known for his work “An Oak Tree” which is a glass of water on a shelf, with text beside it explaining why it is an oak tree. Martin argues that Duchamp captures the imagination and that art is an art because we think of it as such.

When I first saw “An Oak Tree” I was confused and felt perhaps I didn’t have the intellect to understand it. When I would later question it with friends who worked in the art auction and gallery world, the response was always “You just don’t get it,” which became a common defence. To me, it was reminiscent of Hans Christian Andersen’s short tale “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, about two weavers who promise an emperor a new suit of clothes that they say is invisible to those who are unfit for their positions, stupid or incompetent. In reality, they make no clothes at all.

Scruton argues that the consumerist culture has been the catalyst for this change in modern art. We are always being sold something, through advertisements that feed our appetite for stuff, adverts try to be brash and outrageous to catch our attention. Art mimics advertising as artists attempt to create brands, the product that they sell is themselves. The more shocking and outrageous the artwork, the more attention it receives. Scruton is particularly disturbed by Piero Manzoni’s artwork “Artist’s Shit” which consists of 90 tin cans filled with the artist’s excrement.

Moreover the true aesthetic value, the beauty, has vanished in modern works that are selling for millions of dollars. In such works, by artists like Rothko, Franz Kline, Damien Hirst, and Tracey Emin, the beauty has been replaced by discourse. The lofty ideals of beauty are replaced by a social essay, however well intentioned.

A common argument for modern art is that it is reflecting modern life in all of its disorder and ugliness. Scruton suggests that great art has always shown the real in the light of the ideal and that in doing so it is transfigured.

A great painting does not necessarily have a beautiful subject matter, but it is made beautiful through the artist’s interpretation of it. Rembrandt shows this with his portraits of crinkly old women and men or the compassion and kindness of which Velazquez paints the dwarfs in the Spanish court. Modern art often takes the literal subject matter and misses the creative act. Scruton expresses this point using the comparison of Tracey Emin’s artwork ‘My Bed’ and a painting by Delacroix of the artist’s bed.

The subject matters are the same. The unmade beds in all of their sordid disdain. Delacroix brings beauty to a thing that lacks it through the considered artistry of his interpretation and by doing so, places a blessing on his own emotional chaos. Emin shares the ugliness that the bed shows by using the literal bed. According to Emin, it is art because she says that it is so.

Philosophers argued that through the pursuit of beauty, we shape the world as our home. Traditional architecture places beauty before utility, with ornate decorative details and proportions that satisfy our need for harmony. It reminds us that we have more than just practical needs but moral and spiritual needs too. Oscar Wilde said “All art is absolutely useless,” intended as praise by placing art above utility and on a level with love, friendship, and worship. These are not necessarily useful but are needed.

We have all experienced the feeling when we see something beautiful. To be transported by beauty, from the ordinary world to, as Scruton calls it, “the illuminated sphere of contemplation.” It is as if we feel the presence of a higher world. Since the beginning of western civilisation, poets and philosophers have seen the experience of beauty as a calling to the divine.

According to Scruton, Plato described beauty as a cosmic force flowing through us in the form of sexual desire. He separated the divine from sexuality through the distinction between love and lust. To lust is to take for oneself, whereas to love is to give. Platonic love removes lust and invites us to engage with it spiritually and not physically. As Plato says, “Beauty is a visitor from another world. We can do nothing with it save contemplate its pure radiance.”

Scruton makes the prescient point that art and beauty were traditionally aligned in religious works of art. Science impacted religion and created a spiritual vacuum. People began to look to nature for beauty, and there was a shift from religious works of art to paintings of landscapes and human life.

In today’s world of art and architecture, beauty is looked upon as a thing of the past with disdain. Scruton believes his vision of beauty gives meaning to the world and saves us from meaningless routines to take us to a place of higher contemplation. In this I think Scruton encourages us not to take revenge on reality by expressing its ugliness, but to return to where the real and the ideal may still exist in harmony “consoling our sorrows and amplifying our joys.”

Scruton believes when you train any of your senses you are privy to a heightened world. The artist sees beauty everywhere and they are able to draw that beauty out to show to others. One finds the most beauty in nature, and nature the best catalyst for creativity. The Tonalist painter George Inness advised artists to paint their emotional response to their subject, so that the viewer may hope to feel it too.

It must be said that Scruton’s views regarding art and beauty are not popular with the modern art crowd and their postmodern advocates. Having written several books on aesthetics, Scruton has developed a largely metaphysical aspect to understanding standards of art and beauty.

Throughout this documentary (and indeed his many books and articles), Scruton display a bias towards ‘high’ art, evidenced by a majority of his examples as well as his dismissal of much modern art. However on everyday beauty, there is much space for Scruton to challenge his own categories and extend his discussion to include examples from popular culture, such as in music, graphic design, and film. Omitting ‘low art’ in the discussion of beauty could lead one to conclude that beauty is not there.

It is here I would part ways with Scruton. I think there is beauty to be found in so called low art of car design, popular music or cinema for example - here I’m thinking of a Ferrari 250 GTO,  jazz, or the films of Bergman, Bresson, or Kurosawa (among others) come to mind. Scruton gives short thrift to such 20th century art forms which should not be discounted when we talk of beauty. It’s hard to argue with Jean-Luc Godard for instance when he once said of French film pioneering director, Robert Bresson, “He is the French cinema, as Dostoevsky is the Russian novel and Mozart is German music.”

Overall though I believe Scruton does enough to leave us to ponder ourselves on the importance of beauty in the arts and our lives, including fine arts, music, and architecture. I think he succeeds in illuminating the poverty, dehumanisation and fraud of modernist and post-modernist cynicism, reductionism and nihilism. Scruton is rightly prescient in pointing the centrality of human aspiration and the longing for truth in both life and art.

In this he is correct in showing that goodness and beauty are universal and fundamentally important; and that the value of anything is not utilitarian and without meaning (e.g., Oscar Wilde’s claim that “All art is absolutely useless.”). Human beings are not purposeless material objects for mechanistic manipulation by others, and civil society itself depends upon a cultural consensus that beauty is real and every person should be respected with compassion as having dignity and nobility with very real spiritual needs to encounter and be transformed and uplifted by beauty.

Thanks for your question.

popsicles - diodeshipping

word count: 3615

unfortunately i can’t add a link for ao3 because tumblr is dumb and this won’t show up in searches if i do so my ao3 is @demipancake!! it’s on there

i wrote the last two sections of this past midnight last night so idk if they’re any good but ace seemed to think they were so Here We Are i guess

anyways ash and clemont? gay

thanks to @aro-ace-thetic for betaing this for me!!

Clemont sighs as he puts the last cardboard box down in the future living room of his new apartment. He glances around and out the window, gazing at the city view for a few seconds. Bonnie left ten minutes ago to catch up with a friend who lives in the city, and of course she left the heaviest boxes for him to carry. Something about getting in shape? Clemont wasn't really listening.

Finding the apartment hadn't been easy - after all, it had to be close to the college, and given how popular just staying in a dorm was, finding one close was tough. Lumiose City isn't the cheapest place for an apartment, either. They were lucky to find one as close and inexpensive as they did - and even then, it's a twenty minute walk to campus, and wasn't the best quality. Clemont wasn't great at walking - or, running, rather.

Luckily, that's all over now, and all that was left was to unpack.

To… unpack.

He stands in the middle of the room, surrounded by a sea of cardboard. Just moving everything up here was a task and a half - maybe he could just find the sleeping bag he had somewhere in these boxes and order take out.

He's about to do just that when there's a sudden knock at the front door, and he jumps. Clemont picks his way through the maze and opens it.

There's a man standing in the hallway with a bright coloured box tucked under his arm. He has dark, messy hair that doesn't look like it's been brushed in weeks and tan skin, and he's wearing a hat indoors, for some reason. He has tiny lightning bolt marks on both his cheeks, underneath giant chocolate-y eyes which light up when he sees Clemont.

“Hey! You must be the new neighbour, right?” he says, tilting his head to one side in a way that was far too cute for Clemont's heart. “I'm Ash. Ash Ketchum.”

“Cl-Clemont.” The scientist in question desperately wishes his heart would stop beating so loudly - he's sure Ash can hear it.

“Nice to meetcha, Clemont!” Ash grins, showing off pure white teeth. “Can I come in?”

“Well, I, uh… haven't started unpacking yet.”

Ash squints and his nose scrunches up adorably. “Do you have a fridge?”

Clemont blinks. “Uh… yes? Don't all the apartments in this building come with fridges?”

“Well, yeah, but is it working?”

“I think so.”

“Great! Because these popsicles are gonna melt otherwise,” Ash says, holding up the box under his arm so Clemont can read what it is. Sure enough, it's a box of popsicles - three different flavours: pineapple, berry, and… banana.

“Banana flavoured popsicles?” he asks sceptically.

“I like them.”

Fair enough, Clemont thinks, then realises they're still standing out in the hallway and steps aside to let Ash in. He grins and adjusts his hat as he walks in, weaving around the boxes looking for the kitchen.

“So why did you come to my apartment with a box of popsicles, exactly?” Clemont asks, following Ash to the kitchen to find him stuffing the box into the freezer.

“Well, I bought too many popsicles, and I was gonna give them to Shauna, but I've already given her a box this month,” he explains, shutting the freezer with a flourish. “And then I remembered that you were moving in today, so I thought I'd bring them to you!”

“Oh, well, uh… thank… you?” Clemont says, wondering whether he should be grateful for someone dumping their accidental purchase on him.

“You're welcome!” Ash gives a toothy grin, blissfully unaware of Clemont's questioning tone. He claps and rubs his hands together. “So, what box are we gonna start with?”

“What?”

“It's too late to back out of this,” Ash says teasingly, and Clemont can feel his face getting warmer just at the tone. “I'm helping you unpack, and there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

Clemont looks into Ash's eyes and sees he is one hundred percent serious about this, and there really is nothing he can do to stop him.

He sighs. “Okay, well, I guess we should start with… the bed?”

Ash's face lights up, as if he wasn't actually expecting to get this far, and races off to the living room, before poking his head back around the doorframe. “Which box is the bed in?”

Clemont sighs to himself, smiling, and follows.

---

He's been in Lumiose for one and a half months now, and he and Ash have somehow become good friends.

He's gotten over his infatuation for him, too. Really, he has. Yeah, he's cute, but he doesn't have a crush on him or anything.

Seriously.

...Maybe.

In any case, Ash had realised that Clemont had somehow never seen his apartment before. Which is why he was standing outside of it slightly nervously, while loud meowing came from inside.

“Come on, buddy, can't I have one friend over?” drifted Ash's voice through the door. The meowing grew louder, until eventually there was the sound of a door clicking shut, and the mewling was muffled.

The front door swings open to reveal Ash standing there, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, that was my cat.”

Clemont smiles back. “I love cats.”

“He's having a bad day.” Ash glances at the door next to him. Ominous scratching noises come from it, along with the occasional mewl. Ash shakes his head fondly, before gesturing for Clemont to come in.

Ash's apartment is a lot like him, in some ways - there's unorganised clutter everywhere you look, including a few dead houseplants and a Pikachu plush on the coffee table. The couch is red, a few shades lighter than the tone of his cap - or, caps, seeing as Clemont could see at least two strewn about haphazardly in this room alone. There's a few awards for generally doing amazing things for the community (as if he couldn't get any more perfect, Clemont thinks, before hastily wiping that thought from his brain) across the shelves, as well as dog supplies, for some reason.

“Take a seat, make yourself at home!” Ash calls out, heading straight to the kitchen and leaving Clemont alone in the living room. He sits down, and realises there's a photograph lying on the coffee table. It's a picture of Ash and a golden retriever wearing a highlighter yellow vest.

“I got popsicles!” Ash sings, entering back into the living room. Clemont snaps his head up and smiles as he sees Ash holding an already opened popsicle in one hand and a banana one in the other. They're weird, but he's begun to like the taste. Ash hands him his popsicle and plops down on the couch next to him, sucking on his own lolly.

Clemont, struggling to open his, nods to the Pikachu plush. “So, you like Pokémon?”

Ash laughs, accidentally touching his nose with his popsicle and squeaking. “My cat is named Pikachu,” he says sheepishly after he recovers.

“Oh my God, that's adorable.”

“He looks like a Pikachu, I'm telling you!”

“I haven't seen him, I can't say!” Clemont laughs, finally managing to get his banana popsicle open.

“He's very friendly! Just not so trusting of strangers.” Ash gestures to the door, where scratching sounds still emanated. “I can let him out if you like.”

“Oh, that'd be great-” Clemont starts, but Ash is already halfway to the door. He opens it and a golden blur springs out and skids to a halt in front of Clemont. He blinks.

He really does look like a Pikachu.

He's a golden tabby with big brown eyes and stripes zigzagging across his back. He's very fluffy, and his tail almost looks like a feather. He sniffs at Clemont's leg, before jumping up onto the couch to scope him out better. He seems to deem him okay, and rubs his head against Clemont's hand.

“Aw, he likes you!” Ash says, having returned from letting Pikachu out. “I told you he was friendly.”

“I didn't even know you were allowed pets,” Clemont says, stroking Pikachu's back with one hand as he purrs.

“Oh, I pay the extra fee. Pikachu means a lot to me, I don't mind it.”

Pikachu, as if knowing what his owner was talking about, steps forward and leans all the way off the edge of the couch in order to rub his face against Ash's leg. Ash leans down to stroke him, and Clemont feels something in his chest spark at the soft smile he wears on his face.

“You like dogs?” he says after a moment, gesturing to the photo on the table. Ash’s eyes light up.

“Oh! Yeah, I’m a service dog trainer!” He smiles as he picks up the photo. “That’s Kaya, she graduated recently.”

“...Graduated?”

“Yeah, that’s what we call it when a puppy finishes their training.” He smiles, as if remembering something. “One of the other trainers said if she didn’t make it, he’d adopt her himself.”

“I’d adopt her if I had the chance,” Clemont says. Ash laughs, and he feels everything is right with the world.

---

Clemont hasn't exited his apartment in three days, except to go to classes.

He has good reason to though - he has a physics test this week and he doesn't wanna fail. He has enough food to last him a few more days - he has to study or he might not pass, and if he doesn't pass it'll reflect on his overall grade, and then what would he do?

There's a sudden loud knock coming from the front door and Clemont jumps. He glances to his notes on diffraction grating and sighs before getting up to open the door.

As soon as the door opens an inch, Ash is barrelling into the apartment with a box in his hands and determination in his eyes.

“Hey Clemont! I brought friends.”

“What?”

Two girls walk in behind Ash, one of them with short, dirty blonde hair and another with brown in pigtails. He vaguely recognises them and remembers they share one of the bigger apartments above him.

Another girl skips in at the end of the group, and Clemont does a double take. “Bonnie?”

“That’s right!” Bonnie smirks, moving past Clemont to get to the living room. “Ash called me and told me to come over.”

“What? Why? How does he even know you?”

“He’s friends with Max!”

Clemont groans. “Of course he is.”

He follows everyone through to the living room, where they apparently had already made themselves at home. Bonnie already had her feet on the coffee table. Ash comes out of the kitchen without the box, along with five popsicles that Clemont swore weren’t in his freezer before. He hands Clemont, still in shock, a banana one (because of course he does) and gives the others to the girls, keeping one for himself.

“What… is going on?” Clemont asks in a daze, banana popsicle in his hand.

“You haven’t been outside in three days, we’ve come to drag you out,” Ash explains, lifting his pineapple popsicle in Clemont’s direction.

“But… I have a physics test-”

“Doesn’t matter! You’re coming with us. Or at least taking a break.”

Clemont stares at the popsicle in his hand and contemplates kicking them all out and going back to his practice worksheet. Then he sighs and smiles, unwrapping the popsicle and gesturing to the girls he didn’t know. “So… who exactly are you?”

“Oh! Sorry.” The brown haired one laughs around her popsicle. “I’m Shauna!”

“Serena’s my name,” the other says, bowing her head slightly in Clemont’s direction.

“Nice to meet you! I’m Clemont, though you uh, probably knew that already.”

“Alright! Let’s go,” Ash says, dumping his popsicle stick in the bin (how did he eat it so fast?). He pretty much races to the door and swings it open, leaving the rest of the group in the dust. Everyone else laughs and goes to follow him. Clemont takes a last look back at his physics revision, then laughs softly to himself and walks out the front door, locking it behind him.

The entire group except Ash still have their popsicles, though Bonnie’s is almost gone. Serena falls to the back of the group, next to Clemont.

“So… Ash is pretty cool, huh?” she says, and Clemont gets the feeling she’s trying to imply something, but he doesn’t know what.

“Yeah, he’s awesome.” he says warily, wondering what she’s getting at.

She squints at him, and sighs, as if knowing he wasn’t going to get it. “I used to have a crush on him too, y’know.”

He jumps and squeaks in surprise. Ash and Shauna look back at them questioningly and Serena gives them a thumbs up. Clemont can feel his face getting warmer. “I don’t- what? I don’t have a crush on him!” he hisses, trying to not let Ash hear.

“It’s written all over your face. I’m so sorry.” Serena shakes her head slightly and smiles. “He is the worst person to have a crush on.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“He’s oblivious to everything around him unless it’s an animal.” She claps him lightly on the shoulder and starts to move back to walking beside Shauna and Bonnie. “Good luck.”

Clemont looks at the back of her head blankly for a minute. Ash glances back at him. “Hey Clemont, are you okay? Your face is kinda red,” he says, and Clemont shakily smiles at him and nods, unable to speak. He smiles back, and turns around.

Clemont stares at him for a second, then buries his gradually growing more and more red face in his hands.

He absolutely has a crush on Ash Ketchum.

---

Ash bursts into the apartment, and Clemont, having been walking near the door, yelps in surprise and jumps a foot in the air.

“Clemont! Clemont Clemont Clemont-”

“That is not what I gave you that key for!”

“Sorry, but look at these!” Ash shoves a box in Clemont’s face and he takes it and holds it away so he can read it. His face slowly morphs into a mix of disgust and intrigue.

“Peanut butter banana popsicles?”

“Exactly.”

“Wh-” Ash doesn’t wait for Clemont to finish his sentence, instead grabbing his hand and dragging him through to the living room. He’s been holding my hand a lot recently, Clemont realises.

Ash lets go of Clemont’s hand and grabs the box from him. He tosses him one of the popsicles, taking one for himself and throwing the box on the coffee table. He plops down on the couch and tears off the wrapping.

Clemont sits down next to him and unwraps his one, watching as Ash lifts his to his mouth and takes a bite out of it. He immediately makes a face.

“It’s not… bad?” he says, uncertainly. “These flavours should not be cold.”

“Why do you bite into them?” Clemont shakes his head fondly and gives his popsicle an experimental lick. “I like it.”

They eat them in silence and Ash finishes his in under a minute like usual. He taps his finger on his leg a few times before getting up.

“Is this the only reason you came over?” Clemont asks amusedly, and Ash grins sheepishly.

“It was, but do you wanna go do something?”

Clemont tilts his head. “Like what?”

“I dunno, like, go get a milkshake or something.”

“We just had popsicles.”

Ash grins. “Your point?”

Clemont sighs fondly, finishing off his lolly and grabbing the wrappers and Ash's stick to put in the bin. “Okay, let's go.”

Ash blinks. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, sounds fun.”

Ash smiles even wider, and races out the door. Clemont isn't too worried about catching up - Ash doesn't have a car and can't drive, so he won't get very far.

Sure enough, Ash is waiting impatiently next to Clemont's car, and hops in immediately as soon as he unlocks it. Clemont laughs and gets in the driver's side.

“Can we go to Cafe Soleil?” Ash asks.

“What? That's on the other side of the city.”

“Yeah, but they have the best milkshakes.”

Clemont knows this is not a fight he can win, so he drives to Cafe Soleil without complaint.

They tumble into the warm cafe, and Ash orders two milkshakes to go.

(“Clemont, what do you want?”

“Uh… strawberry's fine.”

“One strawberry milkshake please, and uh… do you do banana?”

“I'm sorry, we don't.”

“Chocolate's fine, then.”)

“Clem.” Ash whines when they get out of the shop. “Clem.”

“What?”

“It's almost sunset.”

“...Yeah?”

“Can we go out to the firefly field?” Ash's eyes sparkle, and Clemont doesn't even know what the firefly field is, but he knows they're going there.

“The what?”

“The firefly field! Have you never been there?”

“...No?” Clemont says, wondering if he'll get home tonight or spend eternity in the “firefly field”.

“Come on, you have to go!” Ash exclaims, tugging on Clemont's shirt sleeve.

“Okay, we can go! You're gonna have to give me directions though,” Clemont says, but Ash is already back in the car.

They drive out of the city, sipping on their milkshakes (well, in Ash's case his milkshake was gone before they left the street) and Ash giving directions.

“This is the place!” he says happily, and Clemont stares out the window at a seemingly random cornfield. The sun was setting at this point, and it was getting dark already. Ash jumps out of the car and Clemont follows, slightly bewildered.

“What's up with this… random cornfield?”

“We gotta wait for the sun to go down.” Ash sits on the bonnet of the car and gazes up at the yellow-orange sky. Clemont sits next to him, but can't focus on the sun and keeps catching himself staring at Ash, and the way the sun reflects on his face.

The sun slowly goes down over the horizon as they watch, until it disappears completely. Ash sighs happily, then jumps down off the car and goes to the fence of the cornfield.

“What are you-” Clemont starts, then gasps as Ash hops the fence and fireflies spring up around his feet. “...doing?”

Ash grins at him, the light from the lightning bugs illuminating his face. He runs his hand over the stems and tiny lights spring up from under his fingers.

It's mesmerising.

“Come on, Clem, it's fine!” Ash spins in a circle, lights floating around him and making him look like a god commanding his army of angels.

In the back of his mind, Clemont realises this is trespassing, but he doesn't really care. With some difficulty, he climbs over the fence, and the fireflies respond to his hands as well.

Ash cheers, and suddenly grabs his hand and tugs him through the field. They run along, laughing as bugs fly up behind them, until they eventually collapse in the middle of the stems.

Their laughter slowly dies out and they fall into a comfortable silence. The stars are starting to show now, and Clemont wonders if he'll ever have the energy to get up.

---

Clemont hovers nervously outside Ash's apartment with a brightly coloured box. He keeps going to knock, but then thinking better of it.

Eventually, he manages to do three quick knocks on the door, then immediately panics as he hears Ash's voice on the other side call out “Coming!”

This was a mistake.

He has to wait a bit for Pikachu to be put in the other room, but eventually Ash opens the door and grins when he realises who it is.

“Hey Clem! What's up?”

“Uh, I…” Clemont's having a lot of second thoughts about this idea, and none of them are good. “I have to talk to you about something.”

Ash blinks, face becoming serious, and he seems to notice the box. “Is that… a box of popsicles?”

“Y-yeah, it's, uh… it's just to lighten the mood? I guess?” He laughs awkwardly. “I'm so sorry, this was a bad idea-”

“No, it's okay!” Clemont glances up at Ash. He's looking at him with a weird expression on his face. “Come in, uh, make yourself at home.”

Clemont shuffles into the living room, putting the box on the coffee table, next to the picture of Ash and Kaya that still hasn't been moved. They both sit on the couch, slightly more stiff than normal.

“So, what did you wanna talk to me about?” Ash asks, tilting his head (adorably) slightly.

Clemont can feel his face start to heat up already, and he hasn't even started talking yet. “Okay, well, uh…” He takes a deep breath. “I… like you,” he almost whispers. “I really like you. Like, romantically, I mean,” he adds hastily, knowing how dense Ash could be sometimes. “And I don't- you don't have to pretend to like me back, or anything, and I'm sorry, and I've probably made this more awkward than it has to be, and-”

Clemont is cut off by Ash's lips on top of his.

His brain barely registers the fact Ash is kissing me, before Ash is pulling away, panic in his eyes.

“I'm sorry! I didn't mean- I just-”

Clemont shuts him up by kissing him again, and one hand goes up and tangles in his mess of dark curls. Ash starts kissing back after a moment of shock, hand caressing Clemont's cheek.

Ash tastes like banana popsicles and the off-brand peppermint toothpaste he uses. Like fireflies in a field surrounded by stars, and the cold, cold wind blowing through the stalks.

They break apart and Clemont looks into Ash's widened eyes. He imagines his own expression isn't much better.

“I really like you too,” Ash whispers, and Clemont kisses him again.

GET YOURS AT: https://ift.tt/2CCCh33 What the hell is YUNGBLUD, anyway? Is it a sassy stage name for British-born Dominic Harrison to wave his freak flag and pink socks under? Is it a musical vehicle that has absolutely no allegiance to genre as much as it does to getting the message across? Or is it a school of thought where the world’s youth can stand united to hasten the destruction of all the social, political and cultural barriers designed to separate them? If you said, “all of the above,” Harrison is ready to give you a big hug, an anthem or three and the empowerment to change the world, one person at a time. “This is what I’ve always wanted to create,” Harrison tells writer Jake Richardson in the next issue of AP. “I grew up with ADHD, and because of that, a lot of people misunderstood my intentions. I didn’t fit into a box that society was accepting of. If you’ve ever felt like you’re outside of that box, you’ll know how awful it is—that feeling of inadequacy permeates your brain. “I wanted to build something that would defy what was suppressing me, and that’s what YUNGBLUD is—it’s creating a community of people who are themselves no matter what,” he continues. “You are safe to be yourself here: Regardless of what the fuck is going on outside, for the length of the show or the time we’re connecting online, you can be you and forget about all the bullshit.” Heralding the recent release of his live album YUNGBLUD (Live In Atlanta), this month’s cover story finds Harrison candidly discussing everything from his roots, the darker periods of his life (“If you’re depressed, there will be a rope hanging in front of your face somewhere: Don’t fucking hang yourself with it. Grab it and climb it”), pissing off old people on British TV and his conviction toward the power of his generation. Because unlike most rockers, Harrison doesn’t want you to worship him: He wants to light your inner fuse to do great things. GET YOURS AT: https://ift.tt/2CCCh33 “I believe in my generation because we’re so fucking smart,” he announces. “Yeah, we’re a bit arrogant, but that’s because we’ve got to be when you look at what’s going on around us: Brexit, Trump, war, privatized health care, racism, gender inequality, homophobia. We know the future we want to be a part of, and this isn’t it. We’re being held back by old ideologies that don’t understand us, but we’re gonna get that future we want to see.” Discover what Team YUNGBLUD wants to see in the world in the next issue of AP, available right here... GET YOURS AT: https://ift.tt/2CCCh33 ALSO IN THIS MONTH’S ISSUE Tatiana Shmailyuk, vocalist from head-swiveling metal outfit JINJER, had to pass several armed guard checkpoints to finally arrive at a computer for her Skype interview with AP. Any band in America bemoaning their purported “struggle” can drink an icy-cold tall boy of STFU right about now. On their new album Morbid Stuff, Toronto outfit PUP deliver punky pop that’s couched in wit, wry observations and more heart than a flipped Hallmark semi-truck packed with Valentine’s Day cards. That’s why we asked the v. cool JEFF ROSENSTOCK to blow the breeze with the guys before their national television debut. Another round of IPAs and beard oil for the table, please… NEW YEARS DAY frontwoman Ash Costello is one of the nicest people with an address on Earth. But on NYD’S new album, Unbreakable, she’s breaking the floodgates wide open, addressing what people expect from her and what she’s going to give them. In this month’s photo special, we’re perusing the portfolio of photographer ASHLEY OSBORN, who you may have seen hard at work capturing the action on one awesome tour or another. Besides picking all the great images (better get an extra copy to hang on the wall), Osborn shared all the stories behind each one—and the pleasure was all ours. AP ARCHIVES is all about the nü metal this month, with stories revealing who escaped certain death at a DEFTONES shoot; KORN’s state of mind during their first magazine cover; and who the most awesome member of LIMP BIZKIT was. (Hint: He doesn’t wear a red baseball cap.) BLACKBEARBLACK BEAR told us about all the soul searching and beat-crafting behind the making of his new album in ALBUM ANATOMY. Mikaila Delgado from the wondrous trio YOURS TRULY wasn’t going to let illness curtail her from seeing the world and rocking out, and her story is living proof regarding how IT GOT BETTER. Oh, and because we’ve been rockin’ that new YUNGBLUD live album a little too much, we picked 10 ESSENTIAL songs to listen to while you’re raising hell and evading law enforcement. Did we mention awesome photos, inspiring fan art and 12 recommended bands waiting to cozy up to your ear canals? Let’s go! GET YOURS AT: https://ift.tt/2CCCh33 by Alternative Press

I fucked up and I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself

I haven’t done any “storytelling” yet on this blog, because, generally, I don’t think it’s necessary. Generally, I think the story can be a distraction from the work that needs to be done: the deep emotional work of grieving, the cognitive work of belief change, the behavioural work of state management. Generally, I think the story can keep us stuck in the past - the brain can’t distinguish reality from something that is vividly imagined, and we can play that video over and over and over again, obsessively. We can end up going around in circles.

But telling the story is important. It’s a way to externalise our thoughts. It helps give order and structure to our thinking. And it creates an opening, an opportunity for the people who care about us to offer emotional support. If we keep it all to ourselves, if we carry that burden alone, we miss out on the opportunity for true intimacy that can only come from vulnerability.

I have many stories, but there is one in particular. It’s a tragedy. In my mind, it’s such an awful story that for years I didn’t give myself permission to share it with anyone. It’s too sad, too painful, best not to burden anyone else with it.

I believe this, along with focusing on the horror of the circumstances, is why seven years later I still have unresolved grief.

That’s a euphemism if I ever saw one. “Unresolved grief” sounds so tame. My heart was shattered into a million million pieces, the video replays in my head as vividly as the day it happened, and the vortex of rage and misery and regret and sheer agony has not abated in the slightest. But yes, unresolved grief.

Recently, I gave myself permission to tell this story. Equal parts Richard Grannon’s coaching and Pete Walker’s books inspired this shift. But because I’ve denied myself the right to tell this story for so long, it’s a bit garbled. It’s disorganised. I go off on tangents and lose track of the story I’m telling.

So I’m going to tell it here. As an exercise. As a step in my grieving process.

Now that I’ve been evasive and mysterious for 350 words, this is a story about a dog. The dog dies at the end, so if you’re sensitive to that, please don’t feel compelled to read it.

My first act of independence, when I moved out of my parents’ homes and in with my shitty boyfriend, was to foster a dog. Not just any dog, but a pit bull. This was important to me: I live in a place where pit bulls are banned, and I felt (and still feel) that this was unfair and unjust, that these dogs were simply misunderstood. Scapegoated, just like me. And because of the ban, the only way I could legally have a pit bull was by fostering, with the idea that they would eventually be adopted outside the area of the ban.

I did my research, picked a rescue, and poured my heart into the application. Having never had a dog before, what I lacked in experience I would make up for with enthusiasm. I remember binge watching Cesar Millan and poring over 100s of pages of research on dog food.

Then Olive arrived and she was perfection. A petite white pittie, with an adorably pink spotted belly, and a big brindle spot around her eye. Spotted bat ears and a baby underbite. A wrinkly velveteen forehead and comically expressive eyes. The most food motivated dog I’ve ever met and sharply intelligent, if you had a treat for her you were the only one who existed in the world at that moment. She was desperate to please and would start offering up tricks unprompted: maybe you want me to sit? maybe you want a paw? She was full of energy but was just as happy to cuddle on the couch, and if you left the room she was coming with you. Yes, even if you were going to the bathroom. If we were in separate rooms she would split her time between us, moving back and forth to check that her people were OK. 

She didn’t care much for other dogs, though she made a few doggy friends. She was skittish at loud noises and pulled like mad on leash. She hated the muzzle that she was required to wear by the ban - even though it was pink to match her toes. Still, she let me put it on. Just as she let me put on the hated winter boots that protected her delicate skin from the winter salt, and the hated winter jacket that kept her exposed tummy from freezing.

I called her the princess and the pea, because only once did I ever see her lay down on the carpet: if there was laundry on the floor, she was curled up in the laundry; if there was a pillow on the couch, she was curled up on the pillow; if there was a pillow on a blanket on another blanket on a pillow on the bed, well, you know where she was. The one time she laid on the carpet was when everything else had been moved out - and even then she found a sunbeam to curl up in.

She learned that if she hopped into the tub and scritched at the drain, one of us would usually come over and turn on the tap so she could drink fresh running water. She learned not to cross the invisible line separating the living room from the kitchen, and would skitter to a stop even if she was chasing a ball and it rolled past. She learned to put herself to bed in her crate when she was tired, and to wait patiently (read: drooling-ly) to be given permission to devour her food.

She was an endless source of joy and love and energy, and I loved her with all my heart.

But she was the only bright spot in my life at that time.

This isn’t a story about the ways in which my shitty boyfriend was shitty. This isn’t a story about my mother using guilt and shame to control me. This isn’t a story about the immense pressure I was under studying engineering, working, cleaning, cooking, taking care of everyone except myself and the debilitating depression and anxiety I was suffering. All these things played a part in what happened next, but I don’t want to focus on them here.

We decided to move. (Read: I was shamed and guilted by my mother and my boyfriend into moving). The problem was that the condo we moved into didn’t allow dogs. I justified it by telling myself that Olive would get adopted any day now, and that anyways, this was exactly the type of reason why I had decided to foster rather than adopt. So we moved, and Olive went back to the rescue.

Despite giving them plenty of notice, the rescue didn’t have a spot for her, so she was kenneled for a while. She picked up kennel cough along the way. That alone was enough to leave me feeling extraordinarily guilty, but my hands were tied with the condo. And it gets a lot worse from here.

Olive went back to a foster family who had previously fostered her. They loved her but it was not a good fit - they had two dogs of their own, and while Olive got along with one, she didn’t get along with the other. They also had a fenced yard, something we’d never had in our cheap apartment. For a while it seemed to be going well, with Olive playing with her doggy friend and getting to spend so much time running around outside, off leash and without her hated muzzle. 

Rolling in the grass, chasing her friend, digging up the yard. She could even climb trees: she would jump straight up, at least ten feet in the air, into the Y of a big tree in the centre of the yard, and come down later covered in sap. We could even visit her sometimes: I remember the moment when she would notice us, and it was instant recognition. Then it was all sloppy kisses and tail wags and a joy you could feel.

Then one day I got the call: Olive had jumped the fence, and she’d gotten into a fight with the neighbour dog. Everyone was OK, there were only minor injuries. But the rescue had decided to kill her.

I know I’m supposed to say “euthanise”. I know I’m supposed to say they “put her down”. I know I’m supposed to pretend it was a painless death, but it fucking wasn’t. I saw it with my own eyes and no one will ever be able to convince me that she didn’t die in agony. Because I saw it.

I begged. Of course I begged. Suddenly, I could see what a mistake I’d made. Suddenly, there was nothing more important in the world than saving my baby girl. I was going to drop everything, adopt her and move outside the area of the pit bull ban, dedicate myself to getting her the training she needed, do everything in my power to keep her safe and to ensure she never ever had cause to get into another fight - but they didn’t want to hear it. 

A committee of people dedicated to saving the lives of pit bulls had voted and decided that she would die, and I was powerless to stop it. I even began to plan how I would kidnap her and go on the run - knowing full well it was illegal and they could send the cops after me - but the other foster told me to drop it, to accept it, that I was making things worse by fighting it, and that got to me.

To this day I still don’t know if I made the right choice.

I was there when she died. We’d spent the afternoon together, playing, spoiling her rotten, giving her all the food she’d always wanted but wasn’t allowed to have. When we went to the vet, he spoke to us gently, gave her a muffin to eat, and put in a stent so that she wouldn’t have to die in the back alone. When it was time, he gave her the single shot that killed her and I saw the look of confusion and pain in her eyes, I saw her sway and go limp and collapse, and I saw the life drain out of her.

Please if anyone reads this, please take away just this one thing: if you ever euthanise an animal, demand two shots: one to put them to sleep, one to kill them. They will tell you that you don’t need the first because it’s a painless death. I promise you, it is not.

I have her ashes. I have a few hairs I collected at the time with half a mind to get a DNA portrait made one day. I have an imprint of her paw we’d made in playdough once upon a time. I have some photographs and some videos. And of course, I have my memories.

I think one of the worst things about losing a dog is that most people don’t understand. They think it’s a small grief because it wasn’t a person. You don’t get a funeral. You don’t get bereavement leave. You don’t get bombarded with cards and flowers and casseroles. People don’t call or visit or tell you they’re sorry for your loss.

The one bright spot in my life was extinguished and I was supposed to just get over it.

It’s hard to put into words how I’ve suffered over this. I was - am - furiously angry. I’ve spread the blame around - the rescue, the foster, the government, society, the condo board, my mom, my boyfriend, and of course, inescapably, me. If I hadn’t agreed to move. If I’d kept sight of what was important. If I’d stood up for myself. How could I have been so stupid? so short-sighted? so limp-willed? How could I have abandoned her like that?

Of course, now I know how. Over two decades of training had led up to that moment. But before that moment, the only one who had ever been hurt by it was me. And I’ve never managed to let myself off the hook for it.

I read somewhere, in a book about grief I’d flipped through at the book store, that sometimes, when we lose someone in a traumatic way, we put all our focus on the circumstances of the death. The how and where and when and who and why. The sense of injustice, the horror, the deep sense of guilt, of helplessness, of powerlessness. And these powerful emotions, I think, can keep us hooked. In the same way that endlessly replaying the video, replaying the story can keep us hooked. Reliving it again and again, torturing ourselves.

The book asked a simple question: Would your loss be any less if your loved one had died in different circumstances?

And of course the answer is no. Resoundingly no. Earth-shakingly no. A light went out in my world, and even if she had died of old age twenty years in the future, it would have been - and is - a tremendous loss.

So every time this video starts to play in my head, I gently take myself by the hand and say, yes yes yes, I know, it was terrible, and I know you feel so angry and so sad and so upset, and you have every right to feel that way. But also, do you remember the moment you first met her?

Usually, this helps me focus my grieving on what I’ve actually lost, rather than get sucked down the vortex of the story. It has its own weight, its own pull, its own gravity - I can’t always escape it, but I try my best. I think this is how I move my grief forward, so that maybe one day I will resolve my grief, whatever that actually means.

If I was going to summarise this story, I would say: 

I loved a dog. But I gave her up willingly. Then when she was in trouble, I couldn’t protect her and now she’s dead.

I fucked up and I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself.

I had to write 2400 words to discover that that, really, is the essence of this story.

Immortals

( PROMPT: In order to blend in with people and gain more knowledge I keep attending different schools under different names and you sit next to me in a lecture. You can hear me muttering that the teacher is wrong and when you ask how I can be so sure, and on reflex, I tell you that I was there oh no )

A/N: Still hoping that I’ll meet Tom Holland when I go off to London. My brother’s in London, and I can’t wait to see his grumpy face!! If anyone has any recommendations on where to go/what to eat, please come scream at me in my inbox!!

Taglist (permanent): @mainspidey | @x-wing-starwriter |@tomsleftbrow | @tryn25|@tanglefire | @midnight-memorial | @tiny-friggin-human |@tacklemyackles| @fangeekkk |@beamagtuto | @captainaudreystark | @hellosuperewczi | @dasia-aye

Another new identity, another new school. You’ve lost track of how many there have been over the years. Two hundred? A thousand? Always a large city, a large school, always the same routine. Places where new transfer students hardly draw anyone’s attention. 

Sometimes you wonder what you would have become if you’d stayed on the island with the Mistress – nothing but a lifetime of seducing men and practicing your magic. 

But you would have grown shallow and conceited like your sisters. You wouldn’t have been contented, spending your life stuck on the same small island. Your leaving was probably for the best.

Your new school – Midtown School of Science and Technology – is three miles away from your house. It’s the first time you’re attending a school specializing in such technical subjects, and though you’ve had a thousand years to practice finding tangents and balancing chemical equations, you’re still nervous about how you’ll fare amongst the brightest of mortals.

You have to take the subway to Midtown School. It’s larger than most of the others you’ve attended and is impressive looking, a stately red-bricked building four storeys high, surrounded by lush green lawns and trees.

You walk towards the building. As is the case with most high schools, there are crowds of kids hanging around outside. They’re divided into their cliques, the jocks and the cheerleaders, the band kids carrying instruments, the brains in their glasses with their textbooks and smartphones, the stoners off to one side, oblivious to everyone else. You notice a boy taking pictures, focusing on the scenery and sky, rather than the people around him.

You shake your head, amazed. You’ll never get over how innovative humans are. You can remember the cameras of old, how bulky and heavy they once were, but humans had improved on an already impressive invention, turning their cameras into sleek and light objects that could be put in a small pouch and carried around all day.

The photographer’s shockingly beautiful, with a mess of chocolate brown hair that frames a breath-taking face. He has ivory skin, cheeks sprinkled with the faintest smattering of freckles, and soft and warm mocha coloured eyes. He looks up, sees you, and smiles hesitantly.

You’ve never really felt anything for the mortal men that Mistress had enchanted, but you’ve never seen a boy so good-looking, much less been in the same school as one, and you’ve definitely never had one smile at you, as if he and you are friends. You’re immediately nervous, and start blushing.

“Peter! Hey man!”

A rotund giant of a boy, dressed in a black NASA T-shirt, crisp black jeans and a red hoodie, comes running right at the photographer. They’re obviously friends, and now, you stupidly realise, this boy is whom the photographer – Peter – had to be smiling at.

You could kick yourself.

Nice one, (Y/n). Scowling, you scrub at your face with the back of your hand, you march into school.

You don’t notice that Peter’s busy staring at your back, his cheeks flushed and mouth agape.

Your first period class is History with Mrs. Roberts, whom the principal describes as being “a fine teacher, one of our best, who’s won numerous awards”. You smile, nod politely. You’ve been through this before.

The principal walks you to class, holds open the door and you walk through. The classroom is perfectly square, filled with twenty-five people, give or take, sitting at rectangular desks about the size of kitchen tables, three students to each. Peter is there, sitting next to his friend, who’s vaguely Asian looking, with fair skin and almond shaped eyes. He’s scribbling madly in his notebook, but stops when you walk in, his eyes wide, the first hint of a blush blooming on his cheeks. His friend claps a hand over his mouth, snickering quietly, and Peter jabs him in the ribs in retaliation, his eyes never leaving you.

The blood rushes to your cheeks again. Great. You tear your eyes away from them, and focus on Mrs. Roberts. All eyes are on you. A whole new group of people that you’ll yet again try to keep at a distance. It’s always a fine line, having just enough interaction with them to remain mysterious without becoming strange and thus sticking out.

Your teacher is somewhere around sixty, wearing a pink wool sweater and red plastic glasses attached to a chain around her neck. She smiles widely, her hair greying and curly. The principal closes the door behind him as he leaves, and you grimace slightly.

Too late to escape.

“And what is your name?” She asks.

In your unsettled mood, you almost say “Jessica Jones”, your former alias, but manage to catch yourself. You take a deep breath and say, “(F/n) (L/n).”

“Great! And where are you from, (Y/n)?”

It’s been almost a century since you’ve heard your name spoken. You have to close your eyes to hide the sudden swell of emotions.

“Ae —,” You begin, but then catch yourself again before the word fully forms. “Singapore.”

“Class, let’s give her a warm welcome.”

Everybody claps. Mrs. Roberts motions for you to sit in the open seat in next to Peter Parker and Ned Leeds. She asks them to raise their hands, and you’re not sure if you should feel happy or embarrassed that you’ve just scored a seat next to the cute boy and his friend. Mrs. Roberts turns around to go to her desk and you walk down the aisle, and dump your bag in the empty seat, very pointedly not looking at Peter or Ned.

After a warning to be quiet, Mrs. Roberts leaves the class, and as soon as she does, Ned Leeds leans over to talk to you, completely disregarding Peter, who looks incredibly unhappy to be caught in the middle.

“Ned,” Peter says, giving Ned a warning glance before his friend can speak, “Don’t. Please.”

“(Y/n)? What was it like at your old school?”

Your gracious smile feels slightly frozen in place; you don’t like the tone in Ned’s voice, but you’ll humour him anyway. “It was . . . Hot. And humid. But the food was good. You haven’t lived till you’ve tried Singaporean food.”

That garners a laugh out of both Peter and Ned. Peter looks positively angelic as his laugh rings out, his face a bright halo against his shock of brown hair.

“What about the boys?” Ned asks all-too innocently, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Were they cute? Do you have a boyfriend?”

Peter muffles a groan with his hands.

“Um. Um?” You blink once. Twice. You knew the tone in his voice could only be nothing good. “Well, some of them were cute, I guess? But I’ve never dated anyone before.”

What worse pain could there be, to have to watch as your loved ones wither away to ash, while you alone remain perfect and unchanging?

It’s better to be alone.

Everyone always leaves you in the end.

“You’re joking.”

Peter sighs. “Ned –”

“No, I’m being serious!” You’re unsure why Ned’s so happy about your lack of a love life – or why he’s frantically jabbing a quietly-protesting Peter right in his ribs – but you smile and shake your head anyway. “I’ve been single all my life.”

“Ned.”

“Alright, alright.”

Peter seems like he’s trying to kill Ned with the force of his glare. But Ned laughs it off and holds his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry about Ned,” Peter tells you quietly. “He can be a little . . .”

“It’s fine,” You manage, still slightly stunned to be talking to him. “Really.”

Mrs. Roberts backs into the room then – what superb timing the woman has – pulling a tall metal frame on wheels that holds a sleek, modern-looking DVD player. A movie day – the lift in the class atmosphere is almost tangible. She shoves the tape into the slot and walks to the wall to turn off the lights.

The opening credits begin, lighting the room by a token amount.

Ironically, it’s a movie about Singapore. The narrator’s going on about the legend of Sang Nila Utama, a brave and handsome prince, who’d embarked on a daring sea journey to discover new islands. You could cry at how warped their description of him is. As it is, you allow yourself a disdainful snort.

“Handsome my ass,” You mutter under your breath. “Brave? Ha! They clearly did not have to spend a week at his palace.”

“It sound like you personally knew him, (Y/n).” Peter says quietly, a warm note of amusement threaded through his voice. “But he lived over one thousand years ago –”

“One thousand five-hundred and thirty three years ago, and let me tell you, he was worse than Joffrey Lannister.”

Peter laughs nervously. “(Y/n), you’re kind of freaking me out here –”

“Did you know that that little prick absolutely refused to throw his crown overboard? I told him those waters were scared, and that Poseidon would not like it if we crossed, but nooo, he just had to have his way! And I had to save the boat from capsizing, and do you know what he did?” You’re on a roll, and ranting angrily now, all your pent-up frustrations pouring out of you after so long of holding them back. “He left me on some deserted island, and if I hadn’t managed to get back with my spell, I could have died! So forgive me for not liking him!”

Peter’s staring blankly at you. His eyes are wide and shiny with surprise. You try not to think about the fact that you’ve just screwed up royally – if he didn’t think you were weird before, he definitely does now. You’re disappointed, and then you feel angry at yourself for feeling this way.

Getting attached won’t do anyone any good.

“Uh. I mean. That was a play.” Your excuse sounds lame, even to your ears. “I was in this play, about the history of Singapore and I played the part of this disgruntled sorceress, and I think some of her must have rubbed off on me. Yeah. That’s it.”

Amazingly, he buys that pathetic excuse. Peter cracks up laughing, and although your laughter is tinged slightly with hysteria, you’re laughing right along with him. If you’d been drinking, water would have shot out of your nostrils. Ned, and everyone else, is staring at the two of you, as though, and that only makes you laugh harder.

The two of you are sent out of class for being disruptive – not a great start to your school year – but you could hardly care less. It’s the first time in a long time that you’ve laughed so hard, or so brightly, and although there’s a voice whispering that you’re falling too deep, too fast, you push that aside.

You can deal with that later.

For now, you’ll pretend that you’re a normal girl.

Fishbowl Punch

So this is a story I wrote for a Discord Secret Santa, and I’m going to finally post it here! It’s kind of... a mix, but I had a lot of fun writing it.

Slickpaint, and a Solfef/Eriara mash. Cw for alcohol.

You realise you’re boned the moment she slaps some shine on your shoes and hands you a brand new tie like it’s a pleasant surprise instead of a portent of coming doom, all bright pink and the sort of thing you’d laugh off the face of the earth before putting on if it was being presented in any hands other than those soft round ones of hers that could hand you your best friend’s head on a stick and still get an earnest, aw, thanks doll in reply.

Either she knows that and is playing you like a fiddle or she doesn’t and is sincere in everything she does, and one is hot and one is cute and both just make your traitorous heart beat a little faster as you take the tie and loop it under your shirt collar and lean forward just enough she can reach up to you and do it up in a neat knot you absolutely couldn’t have managed with two hands, let alone one. Lousy knots. The woman’s a wizard at them, weaving ties and bows in shapes you’re pretty sure are non-Euclidean in nature, but if an Elder God ever comes knocking looking for some help dolling up for their prom they can take a hike because those magical hands and the bustling body of joy they’re attached to are taken, and adored right the fuck where they already are.

Dolling up is something best left to her, anyway, and she paints her face pretty as she paints a canvas, all subtle colours in the right places that are barely noticeable but could make a sculptor weep jealousy over the perfect shapes they come together to form. You call up into the bathroom if she’s going to wear that one dress, she knows, the sparkly one with the green. She asks you if you’re going to wear your nice eyepatch if she does.

You do not want to wear an eyepatch that makes you look like you’re some anime-obsessed twelve year old’s character on some shitty online collection of art that you have too much pride in yourself to know the name of. There’s a silence while you consider how best to let her down.

She’ll wear the headscarf you like with all the pastels, she calls down into the pause.

Well then.

It’s time to find your nice eyepatch.

You know you’ll find it right where you left it, shoved underneath everything else you never wanted to see again, like the full ream of love notes Clover kept posting through your door before he caught sight of that new guy with all the shouting and the hair that defies at least three laws of physics. The collection of letters seeking your wife’s affection- and also, to your continued distaste, your own- are pushed to one side and reveal a poster with your own face on it, like a further descent through the circles of hell that will end with an eyepatch or with eternal damnation, both of which would suit you about the same. The reward above your leering mug is severely out of date. There’s been at least four major incidents since then, and at least two extra zeroes slapped on the end by the powers that be.

What will be the third level of hell? You lift the poster and- oh. Er. You lift a hand to shove the lens of some imaginary viewing device aside, leaving the purely hypothetical viewer staring at a picture of the finest breed of dog ever bred, sitting on a cushion with a little tartan hat at a jaunty angle upon its noble head. If said viewer were to have briefly caught glimpse of any pictures of you in any kind of canine-based outfit, say the kind used by platonic connoisseurs of all things furred, you would tell them that first of all, they’re seeing things and no such pictures have ever existed, kid, shut your dirty lying mouth.

Secondly you would tell them that mouth better stay shut, or else.

No one can know.

Especially Droog.

And- Look, it’s not your fault that that gal at the store with the fuzzy ears was so persuasive when she started talking about that convention thing and the need for extra guests and discount rates and getting to experience the carefree life of a perfect Scottie-

Oh thank fuck there’s your eyepatch you’ve never been so happy to see it in your life.

After a little business, you return to the stairs just in time to find the missus slipping down it with all the grace her stout body can pack, dress clasped gently in one hand to lift it high enough it doesn’t get in the way of each of her steady steps. She smiles at you, cheeks dark and eyes surrounded with a pastel rainbow that sets off the dark colour in them nicely, and you’re halfway to a goofy smile back before she stops and sniffs once, then again, her eyebrows dropping with her dress and her arms coming into a tight fold over her chest.

What’s that smell, she asks you.

What smell, you say.

The smell of burning, she replies without a minute of time for your shit. And why is there ash on your fingers?

Spring cleaning, you tell her with a very serious nod.

What did you do.

You didn’t do a damn thing.

She said, what did you do.

You squeak. Damn, she’s got that look in her eye that says if you want to make it to the diner in one piece you better buck that shit right the fuck now or she’ll be packing what’s left of you in her handbag. She’s a feisty little thing, really.

You adore her.

Alright, alright, maybe you burned something, obviously accidentally, like some kind of incriminating photo that definitely, one hundred percent does not exist any longer, if it ever did. A tragedy! A disaster. How will you live without that unproven photograph haunting your every-

Was it the dog photo, she asks.

What dog photo? There is no dog photo. Was there ever a dog photo? You doubt it.

She smiles and finishes her descent, bustling past you with a very gentle pat to your arm.

Don’t worry, she says, she has copies.

Your wife is the single worst thing to ever happen to you. You set your jaw and roll your eye into the patch as you turn and sulk your way out behind her, pouting as she settles in the driver’s seat and reminds you that if she’d been looking for a child to take care of, she’d have gone looking for an adoption, not a wedding.

The place is basically empty when you show up, except for two assholes in the corner who both look like the only reason they’re even here is to hide from the fashion police and the laws of decency that forbid the wearing of stupid shades everywhere but mostly indoors- oh, and a group of kids who apparently haven’t heard dress codes have updated a little since the middle ages, given there’s one more cape involved than is acceptable in a modern public place, meaning there’s exactly one cape.

Of fucking course the waiter takes you to the table right next to them, ignoring the many, many empty tables that are literally everywhere else.

“-I’m not saying you can’t wear a cape in your own space,” one of the guys behind you is saying, slow and steady but not escaping the flat hiss the attempt at each s makes when it hits his teeth, “but that’s in your own space, where no one else has to experience its- what did he say?”

“Majesty,” a girl replies, tone so dead you’d think she was if she wasn’t speaking.

“Right, right, its majesty, because that’s totally a thing it’s got in droves.”

“My cape is fine,” hisses back becaped asshole, showing a staggering lack of self-awareness you thought only Deuce was capable of. “In fact it’s more than fine. They asked us to dress smartly and you’re all fuckin’ underdressed and jealous, that’s what you are.”

“Oh yeah. That’s exactly what’s happening here. I’m not embarrassed, I’m devastated by my stupid clothing choices that led to me being caught in this part of town without a cape. I must look like a beggar, barely able to afford a napkin for a makeshift cloak-”

“Put that down,” Cape hisses, informing you along with the chorus of giggles that a napkin had in fact probably made its way across Lisp’s shoulders. “God you wanna talk about embarrassments? You’re an embarrassment.”

“How can I argue with that? You are a professional in the field of huge fuck-ups.”

“You little piece of-”

“Can I get you a drink?” The waiter interrupts, and you’re almost annoyed at him for distracting you from the possible soap-opera in the making over your shoulder until you see your doll giving you a look and hastily sweep up the menu so you can jab at something without looking at what it is. “Oh- An excellent choice, sir. And for the lady?”

“Scotch,” she hums, and you stare at her as she adds that she’d like it on the rocks, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time as your brain filters Scotch to Scot to Scottie and you get the joke being made at your expense. Absolutely hilarious, you mutter at her once the waiter is gone. Her wink tells you she agrees.

You give it a reasonable pause before you filter back into the conversation playing out behind you, irritated to have missed some of what might actually be passable entertainment.

“-not my fault Kanaya enables him,” the girl who didn’t speak before is protesting in the kind of voice that’s bright and loud even when it’s cramped into a whisper. “She says he’s very persuasive when he wants to be!”

“Yeesh, there’s a whole thing I don’t want to know about,” Lisp answers, and you know the affronted sniffle is Cape before he starts complaining.

“There is nothing between Kanaya and I and I don’t much appreciate you implyin’ anythin’ to the opposite effect! Ain’t my fault she’s got a sense of style you’re lacking, or that she’s the only one around who listens to my voice of reason- except you, Ara, obviously, you do plenty of listenin’ to me and I appreciate it constantly, sweetheart.”

“A noble sacrifice that won’t be forgotten by those of us getting our poor ears spared.” It sounds like Lisp just reached and pat her hand in sympathy, and as your glazed eyes roam the menu you gotta say you don’t think you blame him. “A terrible burden, the path you’re walking down…”

“Eridan is more interesting than you think,” Ara replies, revealing herself as the voice of death and still sounding just as excited as the crayfish you’re considering for a starter. “He has a lot of interesting stories about the socio-political imbalances that led to historical conflicts, and also wizards.”

“And also wizards. Fuck, I’m pissing over here.” Yeah, you too, Lisp. You too.

“Wizards are cool,” Cape protests, pout audible in his voice. “Better than fucking bees.”

“Hey the only thing fucking bees right now is other bees and also humanity’s disregard for the most important species on the planet.”

“There I was thinking humans were pretty fuckin’ important.”

“Get back to me when humans can function in perfect harmony with nature to keep the whole world alive and I’ll reconsider.”

This is sounding dangerously like a synopsis of that fucking film Deuce keeps sending you sped up versions of, and this time you’re grateful for the waiter interrupting it right up until you see the monstrosity of a drink sitting beside a small, sensible glass of ice and whiskey.

“One scotch on the rocks,” he explains, placing the glass down in front of your wife even as she continues to stare at the new focus of all your barely contained hatred, “and one fishbowl punch.”

Well you can’t pin them for false advertising because that is a fucking fishbowl in front of you, filled with punch, umbrellas and straws, turned luminescent pink by the flashing ice cubes inside that are pulsing to the beat of a rave being held all over the corpse of your dignity. You stare at it, the waiter stares at you, your missus stares at the waiter and he holds up his little pad like a shield and taps frantically at the scrawled note on it you couldn’t read if you were a code breaker.

“It’s what you ordered, sir!”

Of course it is.

Before you can get out a protest he’s absconded and you’re left gazing at the mesmerising jacuzzi of poor taste that only the sort of person who wears a cape unironically would find appealing, opening and closing your mouth a few times before your dear, darling wife takes pity on you and pushes her scotch into your hand.

You could both share it, she suggests as you down her drink in one, although that would involve consuming it, and you’re not sure what shit the colour of potpourri windex would do to your insides. Come on, she prompts. You can both have a straw each and drink together and it’ll be romantic.

And then you can both get food poisoning or- if it’s a drink it’s just straight-up poisoning, right? And you can have a romantic hospital stay together!

Exactly, your missus smiles, and waits patiently until you cave in and lean forward to take a tentative sip of what you can only assume is the milk of a mutant hybrid between a cow and a stick of fruity bubblegum. Ugh. You make a face that’s probably just a redraw of the same disgusted face everyone seems to make in this godforsaken town, but your doll looks happy and you guess in some deep-down secret part of the withered thing your doctor would hesitantly refer to as your heart, that’s what really matters.

“Oh man, that looks delicious, you think I can order that?” Cape is whispering on the table behind you, and look at that, who would’ve guessed it, who could possibly have foreseen he’d want to drink the atrocious insult to cocktail menus everywhere that is glittering obnoxiously between you and your lady.

A chair creaks, once as someone turns towards you and once again as they turn away.

“We could share,” Ara monotones, “but I want the umbrellas.”

“Of course, love, you can have every umbrella that you want.”

“Ugh,” Lisp starts, “you guys are-”

“I want one.” Bubbly interrupts him, and all of a sudden her sugary voice is like a candy-cane made of cyanide. “Please, Sollux? You said it was my treat today!”

“Fef, I said my willing participation in an event involving sitting next to Eridan for an hour was your treat.”

“No, you said dinner was my treat, and that I could’ve have whatever I wanted!” She’s whining like a kicked puppy and you can perfectly picture the sort of satisfied smirk that must be lighting up Cape’s- Eridan’s? Why do you even care what their names are- face right now. “I want one of those! It’s in a fishbowl, Sollux! It’s so cute!”

“It looks like poison.” A man after your own heart.

“It looks great! Stop being a wet fish and drink it with me! Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Pretty please with a cherry on top and-”

“Fine! Oh my God, fine. You can have that, I’m not going to stop you.”

“And you’ll drink it with me?” Her smile is so bright it’s making you cast a grouchy shadow.

“...I- guess. Sure.”

Fef squeals, and it’s the delighted nail in Sollux’s coffin. Maybe you’ll see him in the emergency room later, and you can both share a knowing nod about the dangers of flashing cocktails served in pet housing.

Another sip confirms it still tastes like bubblegum.

Sollux manages to bargain his way into ordering the food before the fancy drinks, which is a valiant attempt at escaping the pink-tinted death you’re currently bearing half the brunt of. Maybe he hoped they’d forget or fill up and no longer brave the sugary terror, but his zero hour arrives and you shake your head sadly as you listen to the now fully identified Aradia order two fishbowl punches, and on purpose, which is a whole new level of shame.

The waiter asks her to repeat the order, to make absolutely sure of what she wants. You can’t imagine why.

He passes you shortly after with a tray laden with not one, but two bowls of fuschia piss, and you hear an enthusiastic thank you from Eridan and Feferi and flat ones from Sollux and Aradia, although in the latter case God only knows, that’s probably cheerful for her. You watch the waiter’s reflection turn back towards you in your own fishbowl of death, and as he hurries past you pause and wonder… Maybe if you just.

Your wife quietly enquires after what you’re doing as you reach and start slowly adjusting the bowl sideways.

Upgrading your radio to a television, you explain patiently.

You aren’t spying on anyone, are you? She told you to stop doing that.

It’s not spying if it’s in a public place, you told her that before.

And she told you that as soon as it involves a reflective surface, it’s spying.

You wore the eyepatch, you plead in a muted hiss.

Her fingers tap against the side of the glass and she inclines her hand, her other hand lifting to gently adjust her scarf. Alright, she agrees, and you continue moving the bowl until she adds an ominous but-

But what?

But she gets to take one of the pictures of you in that adorable outfit, blow it up nice and big, and make a painting out of it for her gallery.

Your eyes narrow. She drives a hard bargain.

You know what, maybe you can live without-

“What do you mean it’s stuck?”

On second thought, that sounds lovely, you hope it brings in lots of discerning patrons.

The bowl slides the rest of the way and you finally get a view past yourself, back to the table you’ve been entertaining yourself with on-and-off all night. It isn’t perfect, and you can only see the thick tresses of the two girls, but you have a fair angle on the faces of their dates as Eridan attempts to reach past Sollux’s swatting hands and grab the umbrella that is somehow jammed between his two front teeth.

“‘O! ‘Eth ‘ethethi oo ih-!” Those are probably words but between the teeth and the blockage you’ve stopped being able to pick out much more than what you’re guessing is Feferi, though you’re more amused by how the umbrella is wiggling every time Sollux’s mouth opens and closes. Sollux continues to force Eridan back, turning and leaning across the table. “‘Ethehti!”

“Oh gosh oh goodness-” Feferi is on her feet and leaning over the table, as though walking around it isn’t the option. She leans forward, over the bowl that caused this misery, planting a hand on Sollux’s cheek and bracing the other against the table that they’d been sitting at, one of two pushed together to make a four. Her fingers are spread just in front of the drink, the whole thing tipping forward under her weight. “Okay, I’ve got this! You just hold still and I’ll get this right out-”

“Wait-” Eridan starts but Feferi has got her hand off the table and on the umbrella, and you see her realise her mistake just as the umbrella pops free and takes her balance with it, feet sliding on the ground looking for a purchase they don’t find. She yelps and drops, Aradia moving to catch her but not before Feferi’s legs have flung up and kicked the table hard enough the whole unbalanced thing is flying forward and the bowl of pink murder juice is gracefully arcing up through the air.

Sollux had fallen back into Eridan’s arms and jerked back up just as fast but you know he’s regretting it as his eyes widen behind his glasses the smallest fraction before the wall of pink that’s spraying from the soaring bowl has splashed into him, splattering him and the floor behind him with the punch it also packs. You cover your mouth as Sollux opens his and lets out a pained sound, and Eridan swoops to grab some serviettes for his face but his foot hits the punch dripping onto the floor from the still shaking table and there’s an instant between him being there and him being gone, sneakers up in the air.

One knocks that table, and the punch starts to slide but Aradia catches it and lifts it above her head, sighing and handing it to a frantic Feferi as Sollux gropes blindly forward to try to find the serviettes now accompanying Eridan all over the ground. What he manages to find instead is the punch bowl, which he shoves his hand into just as it’s finished rattling around and then flings his fingers back out of in disgust, the bowl ricocheting away towards Feferi and ending up barely caught in her hand as she balances the first against her shoulder before- in an astounding show of idiocy- lifting her knee to try to steady the table she isn’t even standing in front of.

For a moment, she looks like she’ll pull it off.

She does not.

Aradia has just grabbed Sollux’s glasses and started wiping them as Feferi’s balance gives way for the second time, and you see the glass go sailing up before it comes hurtling down. Feferi barely manages to tuck and roll out of the way in time to avoid the glass or the fresh torrent of punch but her skillful youth roll takes her straight into the path of the waiter rushing to help, knocking him off his feet and sending him crashing down on her as his glasses bounce off in what promises to be a further level of hilarity.

“Fuck!” There he goes, scrambling for them, as Feferi squawks under him and Sollux finally regains vision in time to let out his assumed girlfriend’s name in indignation. The waiter gets shoved off, the dame rescued, and the glasses sit in pooling punch and await their retrieval with growing, sticky impatience.

Eridan’s hand has regained ground on the table, and Aradia is attempting to help him up but from the choked wheezes about fucking cape fucking stuck fucking hell you’re guessing he’s a little wrapped up with a fashion disaster that you’re sure is soaking up its lovely new pink ombre wonderfully as he wiggles around on the ground trying to escape his own poor taste.

Your missus moves and you think she’s going to call you off until you glance her way and see her leaning to see over your shoulder, eyes wide and lips pursed. Hah! Even she can’t fault quality entertainment like this, and you know this is the best date both of you have had in years, not including that one time in France with the accidental diamond heist. You grin at her and she rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are tinted darker as she looks back to the action and so do you.

Eridan is up, but the cape has become the second tragic casualty of the punch war after the waiter’s nose, going by the way the kid’s clutching at it and cursing up a storm with words you don’t even recognise. The cape collar, however, has remained as a delightful reminder of what was, turning Eridan into a smart casual dracula who is clinging to Aradia like she’s the only stable thing nearby- which honestly, yeah, you can believe it. She pats his back gently, before picking him up bodily and tossing him into a chair outside of the punch disaster zone, ignoring his confused wheeze as she hops over the table with perfect balance and sweeps the second pair of glasses she cleaned recently up off the ground to wipe them on her dirtied skirt before dropping them onto the chest of the bemused but thankful waiter.

Feferi is still a little unsteady and Sollux appears to be figuring out how to help while also not touching her in anyway lest he dirty her pink-splattered body with the punch that covers his own, but Aradia sweeps her up instead, up onto her arm as she thrusts the serviettes she collected during her sumersault at Sollux and then hooks her second arm under Feferi’s legs.

With that she walks over to the waiter, who has barely sat up and clearly isn’t expecting the looming figure of Aradia with all her curls cascading down her back and a fish-out-of-water hugging her tightly with legs dangling over her arms and punch dripping down the both of them.

He stares up at them both, full of the stupid kind of awe that only shows its face during spectacular shit like this, and then carefully unbuttons his apron and draws out a little notepad, with a little printed label stuck to it, which he offers up with a few dazed blinks.

“Cash or check?”

You’re going to die laughing if you start so you shut yourself up by shoving a straw in your mouth and slurping down glorious, wonderful, life-saving fishbowl punch with the sort of gusto that might get an umbrella stuck between a distracted idiot’s teeth.

Your wife joins you, your eyes meet, and she finally lets her face crack into the sort of gorgeous smile that reminds you why you married her.

You’ll have to come here again, she tells you. She’s a big fan of the drinks.

Yeah, you agree. Yeah.

Turns out, so are you.

Music Review: Mount Eerie - A Crow Looked At Me

Mount Eerie A Crow Looked At Me [P.W. Elverum & Sun; 2017] Rating: 5/5 “Everybody, it’s gonna happen. You know it’s gonna happen. It happens every day. Billions and billions of people have already died. You too will die. Sing along with us, won’t you?” – Daniel Johnston, “Funeral Home” We are always dying. We die because we fight over shiny stuff. We die because we drive with our eyes on our screens or swallow the wrong things. We die because we extract ancient dead things from the ground that in turn pollute our lungs and synthesize the hydrocarbons that do us harm. We die because our country told us to, because sometimes our stomachs are denied nutrition, because sometimes it’s easier to die than to engage in culture. Of course, we most often die because our cells stop dividing — a phenomenon we equate with ageing. We get old, we die. But sometimes these cells express the opposite: uncontrollable growth and division, which can then lead to a lump, the potential for spreading, and then, sometimes, death. When my wife told me in October 2013 that she was diagnosed with breast cancer, my first thought arrived as a question. It wasn’t about what type of breast cancer, how advanced it was, or which treatments would be required. It wasn’t about how to tell our son or our family or our friends. None of that crossed my mind. As I stood there shocked and unable to mutter any sort of consoling platitude, wrapping my arms around her as she sobbed, the only thought I had in my mind was: Is this person I’m hugging right now going to die? --- My wife is fortunately still alive, but Phil Elverum’s is not. On July 9, 2016, Geneviève Castrée — Phil Elverum’s wife, artist/musician, the mother to their daughter, and his 13-year companion — died from pancreatic cancer. A Crow Looked At Me is Phil’s open-letter tribute to her, an 11-song album that details loss and grief wearily and pensively, but with a clarity of mind. Similar aesthetically to works like Dawn and Little Bird Flies Into A Big Black Cloud, Phil presents his thoughts here with stunning candor, using just a laptop and a microphone to capture his characteristically amorphous guitar lines and thin yet comforting balm of a voice. It was recorded in the room that Geneviève died in and performed mostly on her instruments. The lyrics were written on her paper. But the specifics of its sounds and details of its creation feel as irrelevant and unimportant as any “review” of it (which is why the rating above means absolutely nothing). This isn’t just an album about death. It’s an album that lives death. Death, here, isn’t simply a cessation of bodily functions; it’s an implied process: the process of dying, the process of grieving, the process of performing these processes of death and grief. It’s a testament to how death paradoxically roots itself in life, smudging our desire to concretize abstractions and couching our anxieties in the very human tendency toward wonderment: What is death? What is life? Why does her body look this way? Why do I feel bitter? What do I do now? Rather than wailing existential poetry about the universe and anthropomorphizing the elements through his typically keen, self-aware wisdom, Phil has adopted a no-bullshit, matter-of-fact lyrical approach whose trailing musings and minimalistic narratives resemble those of a diary, a memento mori that acts more like a generous reminder of death’s impact than an artful expression of it. The resulting lyrics are shockingly simplified, but utterly disarming because of it: “I can’t get the image out of my head/ Of when I held you right there/ And watched you die,” he sings on “Swims” over swaying electic guitar, strummed as if it were a nylon. On the gorgeous “Ravens,” he softly croons over broken chords: “I watched you die in this room, then I gave your clothes away/ I’m sorry.” Because Phil deliberately foregoes using metaphors and “big-picture reflections,” much of the album’s strength lies in the excruciating specificity of the domestic and the mundane: old underwear, bloody tissues, her squeaking chair, taking out the garbage, logging time and place with a journalistic rather than artistic flair. The latter loosely brackets off various moments in Phil’s grieving process, as if to ensure their transience. Reflection here is more about remembering than ruminating, Phil shifting from lyrics like “Our daughter is one and a half/ You have been dead 11 days” (“Seaweed”) to “Do the people around me want to keep hearing about my dead wife?” (“My Chasm”). There are some truly sublime moments — the verses in “Ravens,” the refrain of “Soria Moria” — that join some of Phil’s greatest melodies, but it mostly sounds like he’s feeling his way through the chords and, ultimately, letting the words shape the songs. As a result, the melodies feel decidedly less worked over, oftentimes arriving loose and lopsided, almost indistinct. This approach, coupled with his avoidance of the towering, expansive textures of his recent work, ensures we don’t get too absorbed by our own thoughts, that we don’t get overly seduced by its musicality lest we forget that “death is real,” the album’s pseudo mantra. Which is fitting: we don’t sing along to this album, we cry to it. There’s an entrenched realism in play here, a constant, weary reminder of our soggy corporeality and our oftentimes futile attempts to transcend it. Because, for Phil, it’s not just that grief flails under a “crushing absurdity,” but that it also manifests physically, with knees failing, brains failing, faces contorting, bodies collapsing. Geneviève, too, is not just a dead wife and dead mother. Before becoming “burnt bones,” “dust,” and “ashes in a jar,” Geneviève is depicted as a dying face, a body transforming, a wife chemically reduced to something “jaundiced and fucked.” Because cancer kills, sure, but the destruction happens over time. I don’t know what it was like in Phil’s household, but ours was constantly on alert, self-isolating ourselves from the world because we were terrified of germs that could derail any progress. There were unexpected allergic reactions and multiple emergency trips, fallen hair gathering in the corners of the wood floors, trivial fights and overbearing guilt and bitterness that we are still working to get through. Intimacy was replaced by hospital gowns and premature goodnights, the body ravaged by toxic medicines, the body dismembered and, later, reconstructed. It all weighed on our then three-year-old son, who at first couldn’t understand why Mom was always sleeping and why she couldn’t play with him. But time can be an asset, and on this album and in my own life, it acts not to heal, per se, but to deteriorate memory, to exploit its imprecision in order to make us remember less clearly. Death implies replacement, substitution, a clearing of space for someone else to breathe the air we breathe or buy the shit we buy or do the other ridiculous/awesome/mostly ridiculous things that humans do. But trauma, devastation, loss — they’re not things that just go away if you’re still breathing. They linger, reduced in severity over time only because they become less functional to the social whole and therefore less necessary to dwell on once grief is internalized, once it changes our composition, effectively allowing us to be “post-human in a past that keeps happening ahead of you,” as Joanne Kyger put it in the poem gracing the album’s cover (RIP Joanne Kygerb, who sadly died this week). It never feels right to “move on” from death, whatever that means, but the world does anyway, seemingly indifferent to our pain. So, we too join in — sometimes without realizing it, sometimes with an unbelievable awareness. As Phil sings on “Toothbrush/Trash”: “Today I just felt it for the first time three months and one day after you died. I realized that these photographs we have of you are slowly replacing the subtle familiar memory of what it’s like to know you’re in the other room, to hear you singing on the stairs, a movement, a pinecone, your squeaking chair, the quiet untreasured in-between times, the actual experience of you here. I can feel these memories escaping colonized by photos, narrowed down, told. My mind erasing.” I took a couple trips recently, one to visit my cousin and another to visit my aunt. But both trips were actually painful, awkward goodbyes: roughly a week after each visit, my cousin and my aunt would be dead, both due to cancer. “Auntie Shenshen died,” I told my son shortly after it happened. He paused, then replied, softly: “Don’t tell me that kind of stuff.” --- It’s not easy to hear about death, which is of course why A Crow Looked At Me is a challenging listen. Because unlike some of Phil’s earlier work, the album isn’t a simple aestheticization of death. “This new album is barely music,” said Phil in an interview with Pitchfork. “It’s just me speaking her name out loud, her memory.” But although the lyrics are ostensibly about his own experiences with death, Phil’s documentation from the frontlines of tragedy acts, in the end, as a selfless reflection of love, carrying Geneviève’s memory in and through song, letting his admiration for her override anxiety about who he is now and how he and his daughter fit in a world without her. As he put it in a note released with the album: The idea that I could have a self or personal preferences or songs eroded down into an absurd old idea leftover from a more self-indulgent time before I was a hospital-driver, a caregiver, a child-raiser, a griever. I am open now, and these songs poured out quickly in the fall, watching the days grey over and watching the neighbors across the alley tear down and rebuild their house. I make these songs and put them out into the world just to multiply my voice saying that I love her. I want it known. As listeners, we are implicated through knowing, with the understanding that interpretation and value judgments here are essentially irrelevant. The album defies being used as an accessory for identity construction, and the words — most of which are written to Geneviève herself, except the faint glimmer of hope expressed in the final track to his daughter — are too direct, too intimate, too real to foster casual or interpretive listening. With A Crow Looked At Me, Phil — who had kept much of his family life private until last year’s GoFundMe campaign — has laid himself bare, sharing a dark, devastating moment in his family’s life with an open vulnerability that’s complemented by the strength and generosity required to give voice to it in the first place. Over many songs and many albums, Phil’s primary aim has been to communicate grand ideas, to be understood, and his own perception that he’s been unable to do so without misunderstanding has always haunted how he writes — sometimes awkwardly so. As he put it in an autobiographical essay, “[T]he truth is that I am sensitive to any thematic or lyrical misunderstandings because I actually do want to get my idea across, beyond just me, and I continue to try to get my blade sharper.” But by plummeting into the depths of his own cavernous pain on this release, relinquishing the obscuring metaphors and telling “everything as it is,” he has transformed personal grief into something like a universal sorrow, grounded in a loving, caring lucidity unlike any of his other works. Those who have suffered through loss will have much to relate with on A Crow Looked At Me, but it won’t be a salve for your despair. There are no instructions here on how to deal with grief, no moralistic epiphanies or clever grandiose poetics. But it could, at the very least, help some of us better understand how grief functions in our own lives, how being reflexive about loss can help us accept that “We are all always so close to not existing at all” or offer insight into how we too can function when “someone’s there and then they’re not.” In the context of our own narcissistic pretenses and the technologies that mediate our interactions — our constructed identities, our social media performances, our avatars and their simulations — the act of being brutally honest, of being uncomfortably direct through the highly flawed, imperfect thing we call language becomes an act of boldness and, for me, a source of inspiration. This is why I’m writing not as “Mr P” in this review, but as Marvin Lin: a longtime admirer of Phil’s music and a fellow caretaker, griever, and father, scared about the future but overwhelmed by feelings of openness and kinship. And it’s helping. http://j.mp/2mX2miL

Doyawannarootorwhat?

January 1982

 It was snowing the day my family left Cardiff for a new life in Australia.

I was eighteen, living with my mum, dad and two younger sisters and none of us knew what we were doing!

We had never even been on a plane before and the furthest we had ever traveled was  Pontins in Prestatyn.

My dad’s brother and his family had emigrated to Perth and my parents had asked my sisters and myself if we wanted to go and live there. It all sounded really exciting at the time and we had travelled to Australia House in London about a year before and passed the interview.

But now, we were having second thoughts because the three of us had steady boyfriends and we had sworn undying love and absolute faithfulness to them, like only teenagers can. So, it was a very dramatic departure, with our ‘soulmates’ shivering in the street as we drove off.

Foreigner was playing ‘Waiting for a Girl Like You ‘on the car radio and the back seat was filled with brokenhearted sobbing as the three of us tried to out-do one another in our pain and suffering.  We only got about five minutes up the road before my father turned around from the front seat and yelled:

“If you think I’m listening to this sh*t all the way to Heathrow, you can think again. If you don’t pack it in, we’re not stopping at the services.’’

We soon shut up. We loved the services.

All kids loved the motorway services. They weren’t all about petrol. There was an air of excitement, as everybody escaped from the family car and did their own thing for half an hour. The video arcades were filled with flashing lights and loud music and they were a magnet for teenagers, who lined up to play Space Invaders and drive pretending cars at 500 miles per hour.

That didn’t interest me.

I went straight into WH Smith’s and bought my two favorite magazines, ‘Jackie’ and ‘Blue Jeans’ and sat down to a breakfast of sausage, beans and chips. I was soon lost in the ‘problem pages’ and an article on smokey eye make-up tips.

Then, we were back on the road.

In 1982, flying on a jumbo jet was a really big deal. It was glamorous and exciting and people dressed up for the adventure.

It all appealed to my inner diva and I was channeling Debbie Harry, who was my idea of cool.  

So a few hours later, with my ash highlights, Adam Ant pirate shirt and a sexy Jackie Collins novel in my handbag, I nabbed a window seat on the massive plane. Pressing the button on my seat, I ordered a Bloody Mary, put on my complimentary airline socks and lit up a fag.

There was absolutely no sense of safety in the air back then; The smoking seats were at the rear of the plane but the smoke just wafted over everybody in a thick smog. The cabin crew dished out as much free alcohol as a passenger could drink, everybody had a pocket full of lighters and combined with my mother’s duty-free Opium perfume the entire place was a powder keg.

I f*cking loved the Eighties!

But most worrying was that I was invited up to the to meet the pervert pilot three times in the first two hours. Mum and Dad were completely oblivious to this man wanting me all up in his cockpit but this geezer had no chance.

He’s in charge of gravity for God’s Sake!

Why would I interrupt the deviant responsible for keeping hundreds of people 30,000 feet up in the sky? As far as I was concerned, he didn’t need any distractions. You’ve got one job. Concentrate!

Anyway, the glamour soon wore off.

The feature film was ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ but I couldn’t tell you anything about it. With one screen up at the front of the plane, Harrison Ford was the size of a Lego block and the earplugs kept jumping out of my ears. Soon there were kids screaming, spines contorting and full-on fights over the precious arm-rests.

There were no straight-through flights then and for some reason, our journey seemed to involve changing planes at every Middle Eastern airport on our way to Australia, and thirty- eight years ago those places were intimidating. Security guards and police patrolled everywhere carrying guns and scaring the crap out of all the travelers with their blank glares.

Trying to find any kind of airport staff who could speak English was like hunting for a unicorn!

Hot, tired passengers walked around in a confused, sleep-deprived daze and we were all lugging huge suitcases (with no wheels), winter coats, overnight bags and duty-free booze. Everybody was on edge and scared they would miss their connecting flight which was a real possibility.

Walking into my first public toilet in these here parts was a real culture shock I could have done without because there were no toilets in the toilet!

I opened one door after another until it dawned on me that the hole in the floor was for squatting over. The place smelled like a sewer from the dark ages and my aching bladder dried up like a prawn cracker as I held my nose and made for the exit.

‘’You’ve got to go Ju,” my Mum warned, “We’re going to be here for hours, just hold your breath.”

“Mother, I am eighteen not ten,’’ I replied, ‘if I tried to squat on that putrid, wet floor and fell in that shit, I’d grab a gun off one of those guards and blow my brains out!”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” she sighed, spotting a little old lady sitting behind a wooden table counting change.

“Do you think she works here?” my Mum whispered,

“Oh my God, of course she works here, who would willingly sit in this cesspit. “

I was young and rude and had no regard for a woman who was forced to do this disgusting job day after day.

“Mum, I can’t stay here another second. I’m literally going to catch some shit-borne plague virus.’’

I ran for the exit and as the door closed behind me, I heard Mum asking for some toilet paper. I didn’t rate her chances because in those days toilet paper was a bit of a novelty and travelers caught short were pretty much up shit creek!!

Eventually, after missing a connecting flight and spending the night in Abu Dhabi, we arrived in Perth, Western Australia and were picked up at the airport by my dad’s brother and his family.

It was the middle of summer and as we walked outside to the carpark, the heat hit us like a punch and we stopped dead. We couldn’t catch our breath and I could feel my nostril hair burning!

‘’Bloody hell Tommy, how do people live and work in this?’’ asked my sweating father who was struggling with a suitcase the size of a small car. ‘It’s like being cooked.’

My aunty and uncle laughed and told us that it was about forty-two degrees. But apparently, we would get used to it.

Living with our relatives, the heat was no hardship. Their gorgeous house had air-conditioning and was as cold as a meat freezer.

Everything had a new, exciting, holiday feel and we played ‘It’s a Knockout’ for hours with our cousins in the swimming pool while our uncle barbecued steaks the size of hubcaps.

Perth is a beautiful city and in 1982 it had a very laid-back vibe. There was a strong American influence and we loved going to milk bars and drinking milkshakes from giant metal beakers. Sales assistants smiled and told us to ‘have a nice day’ and there were palm trees growing on the side of the road.

The first time I went to a drive-in movie I felt just like Sandy from the film ‘Grease.’ Waitresses on roller skates wore cute uniforms and carried trays of French fries and hamburgers. There were groups of teenagers everywhere, smoking cigarettes and sharing sneaky bottles of Jim Beam.

The movie playing was American Gigalo, but nobody was interested in Richard Gere.

Instead of cars, most boys and girls were making out in ‘shaggin’ wagons.’

These were small panel vans that were basically a bedroom on wheels. They first became popular with surfers because there was plenty of room for a group of mates with their surfboards to travel to the best beaches.

Now, horny boys all over Australia worked their butts off for one of these prized ‘sin bins’ and would pimp them out with shag pile carpet, surround sound speakers and strobe lighting. Add a mattress, a bong and an esky full of beer and it was a guaranteed shag pad.

The rule was ’If it’s rocking don’t come knocking,’ so kids waited their turn to make great memories or more often, drunken mistakes.

I thought it was a brilliant idea. A million times better than trying to mate in a sedan in the middle of winter.

Almost all the boys had a mullet haircut, which was short on the top and long at the back (think Billy Ray Cyrus) and the girls had curly, spiral but mostly frizzy home perms. The Aussie boys described their mullets as ‘business at the front and party at the back’ and they could definitely party!

The novelty of home pizza deliveries, bronzed lifeguards and breath-taking beaches made life blissful.

Had we landed in paradise?

Was this place absolutely perfect?                                                                                

Not quite, as I was about to find out.                                                                                                                

The first time my sister and I went into the city on a Friday night it was like being transported to Las Vegas. We were with a young aussie bloke called Brian who worked with our auntie and he was really excited to show us his town.

Brian was more Australian than Dame Edna and we didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He said things like ‘crook’ and ‘mongrel’ and ‘fair dinkum’ and sounded like a seventy-year-old sheep shearer.

“Youse two are good looking Sheila’s, so if you want to crack on, go for your life” he told us.

Walking along Hay Street, the warm, balmy breeze gave the place a tropical feel and the lights from the restaurants and clubs added to the excitement. The air smelled like Chinese food, petrol and every teenager’s sexy dream.

Boys were hanging out of souped up Chevy’s and Toyota Camry’s, doing laps and calling out to all the girls while Jimmy Barnes and ACDC blasted out of their speakers.

Everybody seemed to be young, loud and ready to party and photographers were everywhere, taking pictures of the revelers for the weekend newspapers.

Beautiful bronzed girls walked around in bikinis, heading for nightclub ‘beach parties’ or Miss West Coast beauty competitions.

Pinocchio’s was the most popular place to spend a Friday or Saturday night and it blew our minds. The place was enormous with a huge dancefloor on the ground floor and two bars. Upstairs were more places to drink and dance and the place was packed.

It was all so exciting, The Police were singing ‘Don’t Stand So Close to Me’, and we were looking good.

There were dozens of blokes at the bar and we could see some of them checking us out and grinning at one another. Brian found some people he knew from work so my sister and I went and sat down in a velvet booth. Sipping our Cinzano and lemonades we looked at the dancefloor.

It was wall to wall girls, dancing around their handbags (yes, even here) and absolutely no boys whatsoever. Eventually, with Whitney Huston singing her heart out we hit the dancefloor.

Now, I was used to being wooed by Welsh boys and God love them, they had to have some bottle. If they liked a girl, nine times out of ten she was with a group of friends and the poor bloke would have to risk being ridiculed or rejected by all of them.

But many a boy took a chance and would ask for a dance or if he could buy a girl a drink, because if he asked enough girls, eventually, he might get lucky!

We danced for hours to Joan Jett, Men at Work, Adam and the Ants and Kim Wilde and I felt so happy because I loved Australia and I had just discovered B52 shots which I had been knocking back! Everybody seemed to be laughing and there was the exciting feeling of perhaps meeting someone new.

The disco lights were flashing blue and pink, the music was deafening and we were all choking on the smoke machine. It was bloody brilliant.

But, not one boy came near us

Brian was now sitting down so we went and joined him in the booth.

I had some questions,

‘’Brian, what’s going on?’’

‘’Why are all the boys standing together and ignoring the girls?’’

“Why hasn’t anyone asked us to dance?”

‘’How are people supposed to meet from opposite sides of the room?’’

‘’Is this a gay bar?’’

To be honest, I was a vain little mare.

It was all about me and I was just in a bad mood because nobody had chatted me up all night.

Brian looked at me in complete shock for a few seconds and then burst out laughing,

“Jeeze, who are you and what planet are you from?’’ he choked, ’Nobody cracks on ‘til the end of the night. Give the boys a chance, they’re drinking their grog.”

From what I could see, most of the boys at the bar were absolutely hammered and one dickhead near us had ripped off his shirt and was puffing out a skinny chest. They were all showing off, trying to out-drink one another and shouting at the top of their voices.

At about 1am the DJ started playing ‘Shut Up ya Face’ and that was our cue to leave and go next door for pizza, but before we could stand up, four young guys came over to our table.

‘’G’day ladies, how ya going?” asked the obvious ringleader with a horrible orange mullet.  He sat down next to me, grinning like a maniac and then turned to face Brian.

“Listen mate, I don’t wanna cut your grass or nothin’, so which Sheila’s yours?” he asked.

Brian shook his head, ‘’No worries there mate. They’ve just got here from England and I’m showing them the sites.”

The boy’s eyes lit up and he tried to put his arm around me,

‘’Me and the lads have been watching youse two all night. Right pair or ragers eh?’’

His mates fell about laughing

‘’Robo mate, you’re a fu##ing legend’’ shouted the boy with no shirt.

I doubted that

Robbo stank of beer and sausage rolls and his hair was dripping wet.

‘’Oh my God, stop sweating on me’’ I screamed, moving sideways along the seat.

‘’Hey, don’t spit the dummy” he grinned ‘’ I just wanna get to know ya.’’

“Well don’t come any nearer,’’ I said putting my arm out, ‘’you’re in my personal space.’’

‘’Oh she’s a pommie, ’’ shouted a tubby boy who was standing next to Robbo and seemed to be dressed as a bank manager.

“She’s well up for it. Give her the hard word.’’

Cheeky Bas##rd. I understood that alright!

Glaring up at him, I said,

“For a start off, we are Welsh not English and what are you wearing? I can’t believe the bouncers let you in here. You should be banned for life for having such hideous fashion sense. And by the way, I’m not up for anything, thank you very much.’’

But Robbo wasn’t giving in just yet and he suddenly lurched towards me, and said, ‘’Doyawannarootorwhat?

All I heard was root and what

“What is a rooterwhat?’’ I asked

Robbo threw himself back in the seat and grabbed his crotch and it seemed like everyone in the club was laughing at me.

I was over it.

“Brian, what is he talking about?  What does it mean?’’

The poor boy was starting to look uncomfortable.

“Well, a root means a sh#g, you know, getting laid.’’ he said

It was too much for me and I had to stand up.

Looking down at Robo, I couldn’t believe it.

“So, let me get this straight. You came over here to ask me to have sex with you.”.

“Bloody Oath I did. Nothing wrong with a bit of hide the sausage.” he laughed

“You must be bloody joking. You haven’t had the guts to buy me a drink or ask me to dance but you expect me to go home with you?’’

“Well not home exactly, me oldies wouldn’t like it’’, he said, ‘’but the car is parked in the multi-story on Barrack Street. We could go for it in there’’

‘’Wow, how romantic’’ I said

“Oh, so my lady wants romance, does she?’ A little dancing and some champers? said the bank manager. ‘’Didn’t realize we had Princess Diana in here tonight boys.”

“You’ve got that right,’’ I told him, ‘’I am a lady so you can kiss my arse.’’

“That’s what I’m talking about” shouted Robbo and I noticed he had vomit down the front of his shirt.

‘’We don’t want a formal introduction, just a root.’’

‘’Well I’m not interested’’ I told him, grabbing my handbag off the table.

We walked through the club and as we reached the exit, Robo’s bank manager shouted,

“Hey, Mary Poppins, no hard feelings eh! How do ya fancy a 68 and a half?

I couldn’t resist it

“What’s that?’’ I shouted back

‘’You give me a bl#w job and I’ll owe you one.”

I had to laugh.

That was the night I found out that most Australian blokes are very funny but if you want flowers, compliments and courtship, you’ll be waiting a while!

After all, there is no such thing as perfection.

Vicious Circle

(Rough draft. Unedited. Recycled idea from the beginning of an old screenplay I never finished for my writing group.)  

 Everything hurt; her legs, her back, her hips, but must of all, her feet as Amelia entered the home stretch of her latest late night shift at Howie’s Diner. Working another double as she once again attempts at building up her savings. A futile attempt, she knows. It was 11:30 PM, only one more hour to go, when she was leaning up against the counter, trying to stretch out her aching muscles.

The diner was mostly empty. There was a few kids in the back corner decked out in black and band t-shirts loudly congregating and tossing crumpled up napkins back and forth at one another, a couple sat in a booth on the far side of the kids having what Amelia can only believe to be the ending of the most boring date ever, a lonely looking man with glasses and his opened laptop, utilizing the free WiFi and free coffee and an older man who comes in every night sat at the counter chomping down on his second burger of the week; grease dribbling from his chin and his eyes lecherously looking Amelia up and down.

“You work a lot.” the greasy man says to Amelia.

Too exhausted to bother with the fake smile and pleasantries, Amelia only nods her head and replies with a curt, “Yup.”

“What time do you get off?”

Thankfully, Amelia is saved from answering the question as a bell on top of the door way chimes and a new customer walks in.

“Sorry, duty calls.” She says with a genuine smile. Thanking whatever god might be up there that has saved her from the inevitable awkward exchange. The new customer is an middle-aged man. In decent shape, but his hair is starting to turn gray. He’s wearing a long leather coat and sitting on his belt is a pistol and a badge. Tucked under his arm is a manila folder

The Detective looks around the diner for a moment, his expression blank before shuffling off to a booth and sitting down on the squeaky leather seat. He sets the folder down in front of him. Amelia, pot of fresh coffee (fresh meaning just a few hours old) in hand, makes her way to where the Detective is sitting.

“How are you doing tonight?” she says pleasantly and sets a mug down in front of the tired looking man.

The Detective simply stares straight ahead as Amelia fills the mug.

“You wanna take a minute to look at the menu?”

Stone faced, the Detective sits quietly and stares forward; his eyes far off and in some other plane.

“Are you- are you okay?” she asks, but the man just continues to stare.

Confused, Amelia looks to where the detective is staring. There is nothing there.

“I’ll uh… I’ll give you a minute.” She says before backing away and heading back to the counter.

The Detective does not reach for his mug of coffee. The detective does not go for one of the menus at the end of the booth. The Detective does nothing. He only stares. Amelia finds herself staring at the statuesque man. So transfixed is she that she does not hear the bell ringing behind her. What the hell is his problem? She thinks to herself. The bell ring. Why is it that only the crazies come out at night? Ring. I just want to go home. Ring.

“Hey! Order up! What the hell is your problem!?” the cook yells from behind the grill. “Daydream on your own dime!”

Amelia snaps out of it and shakes her head. “Sorry, Howie. It’s just that guy-”

“I don’t care, just get this shit out of my window.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” Asshole. Amelia grabs the two plates and heads over to the couple on the far end of the diner. She steals a quick glance to the clock and is dismayed to see that it’s only been fifteen minutes since the last time she checked. She groans inwardly as she plasters on her fake smile and carries the steaming plate of food, passing the unflinching Detective on her way.

“So is there anything else I can get you two?” Sounding so fraudulently cheerful that it actually causes her to wince. You have to be cheery. You have to be sweet. Honey gets money. She tells herself. The couple both shake their head and Amelia once again forces that fake smile and leaves them to their meal.

The metal kids have finished their shenanigans and have begun to file out of the diner. Shoving and leaving behind a booth full of garbage and what Amelia can only imagine is the most lackluster “tip” imaginable.

She tries her best to not make eye contact with the Detective who has still not moved a muscle since sitting down in his booth.

He grabs her arm just as she is about to pass. The movement so sudden and forceful that she feels her breath leave her. He still does not look at her. Howie rings the bell again.

“What are you doing?!”

For the first time since he walked into the diner, the Detective turns his head to look at Amelia. His eyes are glassy and bloodshot. His grip on her arm tightens, fingers digging at the already tired muscles of her bicep.

“In his house of ash and bone; My’Gdala sits on his throne.” His voice quavering.

“What are you talking about? Get off of me!”

Ring.

Time immemorial; world ablaze.You can never stop his gaze.” He continues. His grip tightens as Amelia tries to pull her arm away.

“My’Gdala is watching! He’s always watching!”

“You’re hurting me!”

Ring.

“It won’t end! It will never end! A circle!”

Ring.

“Let go of me you fucking lunatic!” Amelia screams. The old regular gets up off of his stool, seeing his opportunity for heroics. The other customer���s in turn their attention to the commotion.

Ring.

Finally the Detective releases his hold. Amelia backs away from the man quickly. The Detective blinks several times and then brings his hands up to his face; studying his fingers like their some foreign entity. And then, he buries his face into them and begins to weep.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please. Forgive me.” he says in between sobs. Amelia holds her arm with a quivering hand. The old man at the counter stands behind Amelia ready to be called into battle.

“I-it’s alright. It’s fine. Just… just wait here.”

She rushes off to go find Howie, who rings the bell once again.  

“What the hell is going on?” he asks.

“Howie, we need some help out here. This guy is…”

Amelia turns back to the Detective, but sees only the door to the diner closing. Howie comes out from behind the grill and looks around.

“What’s wrong?”

Amelia ignores him as she walks towards the Detective’s booth. The manila folder is still on the table, the gold badge being used as a paperweight. She picks the bag up and rushes to the door.

“Hey! Wait!” she calls out, but there’s nothing there. No sign of the detective, so sign of anyone.

Back in the diner, the patrons have moved on from the night’s excitement.

“You okay? Did he hurt you?” The greasy old man asks.

“Yeah. No. I’m fine. It’s nothing.” She waves him off. The old man shrugs and takes his seat. Amelia flips open the cover of the folder that was left behind.

The first page is a torn piece of notebook paper. In red ink, the word “My’Gdala” is scrawled in different forms of maniacal and haphazard scratches. In between this nonsense word are various crude drawings of a snake eating it’s own tail. In the middle of the circle there is an eye, blood red. The ink is so deep that it pushes through the other side of the paper. Amelia moves the paper aside and recoils in disgust. Underneath is a glossy photograph of a crime scene. Human bodies, women and children, reduced to nothing but chunks of meat. She forces herself to look back, wishing that she hadn’t.

A woman lays on the white carpet floor of a bedroom. Her face smashed into a pulp. An eye hanging limply out of a broken socket. She moves the picture aside.

The next photo shows some kind of art piece of a golden snake eating its own tail. It hangs on the blood splattered walls of someone’s home. She moves this one aside as well and then brings her hand to her mouth when she gets to the next.

A children’s bedroom. A small lump underneath a reddened sheet. Above the child’s bed, ‘My’Gdala’ written in blood.

She can’t stomach anymore. She closes the folder and covers her eyes with her hands.

“What is it?” Howie’s voice from behind causes Amelia to jump.

She shakes her head, wipes away tears and rips her apron off.

“Fuck this. I’m out. I’m going home.”  

It was almost midnight anyway.

  With a bad taste in her mouth, Amelia walked through the door of her studio apartment. Tossing her keys down on the table. She felt dirty. The pictures inside of the folder sticking with her the entire way home. She needed to just take a shower and go to bed, get this rotten day over with. Living alone, the apartment was quiet and quiet was not something that she needed right now and so Amelia turned on the television to fill the apartment and her mind with some kind of distraction.

She could hear the TV from the bathroom as she started the shower. She looked at her arm where the Detective’s fingers have left a series of small bruises.

She spends nearly a half hour in the shower, letting the hot water soothe her aching joints. She wants to hide away in here forever, or at least until the water runs cold. Wrapped in a towel, she looks at herself in the mirror with tired eyes. There’s laughter in the living room. Fake people fake laughing at fake situations. Whatever the sitcom is, she doesn’t feel much like laughing. She can’t get the pictures out of her head. She can’t get the Detective and his thousand yard stare and sobbing out of her mind. The word ‘My’Gdala’ burns in her brain.

She flops down on her bed, emotionally and physically exhausted.

But she can’t sleep.  

 The next morning, Amelia smacks her beeping alarm clock. She’d been waiting for it to go off. She didn’t sleep a wink. The TV played all night long, keeping her company but whatever was on it was too far away to register with her.

She stared blankly at the talk show, the people on television arguing about who might or might not be the father when suddenly, the program was interrupted and instead showed a news anchor.

“We interrupt this program to bring you a breaking news report. An absolutely horrific crime here in the early hours of the morning. Detective Marshall Pewter, a twenty-two year veteran of the Salem Police department found dead in his Beverly home with his wife and two daughters.”

Amelia sits up in bed as the screen shows a picture of the Detective from the night before.

“The sight of a horrific, ritualistic murder-suicide. We go live now to our…”

Amelia doesn’t hear the rest. All she hears in her mind are the words he screamed at her.

“It never ends.”

GET YOURS AT: https://ift.tt/2CCCh33 What the hell is YUNGBLUD, anyway? Is it a sassy stage name for British-born Dominic Harrison to wave his freak flag and pink socks under? Is it a musical vehicle that has absolutely no allegiance to genre as much as it does to getting the message across? Or is it a school of thought where the world’s youth can stand united to hasten the destruction of all the social, political and cultural barriers designed to separate them? If you said, “all of the above,” Harrison is ready to give you a big hug, an anthem or three and the empowerment to change the world, one person at a time. “This is what I’ve always wanted to create,” Harrison tells writer Jake Richardson in the next issue of AP. “I grew up with ADHD, and because of that, a lot of people misunderstood my intentions. I didn’t fit into a box that society was accepting of. If you’ve ever felt like you’re outside of that box, you’ll know how awful it is—that feeling of inadequacy permeates your brain. “I wanted to build something that would defy what was suppressing me, and that’s what YUNGBLUD is—it’s creating a community of people who are themselves no matter what,” he continues. “You are safe to be yourself here: Regardless of what the fuck is going on outside, for the length of the show or the time we’re connecting online, you can be you and forget about all the bullshit.” Heralding the recent release of his live album YUNGBLUD (Live In Atlanta), this month’s cover story finds Harrison candidly discussing everything from his roots, the darker periods of his life (“If you’re depressed, there will be a rope hanging in front of your face somewhere: Don’t fucking hang yourself with it. Grab it and climb it”), pissing off old people on British TV and his conviction toward the power of his generation. Because unlike most rockers, Harrison doesn’t want you to worship him: He wants to light your inner fuse to do great things. GET YOURS AT: https://ift.tt/2CCCh33 “I believe in my generation because we’re so fucking smart,” he announces. “Yeah, we’re a bit arrogant, but that’s because we’ve got to be when you look at what’s going on around us: Brexit, Trump, war, privatized health care, racism, gender inequality, homophobia. We know the future we want to be a part of, and this isn’t it. We’re being held back by old ideologies that don’t understand us, but we’re gonna get that future we want to see.” Discover what Team YUNGBLUD wants to see in the world in the next issue of AP, available right here... GET YOURS AT: https://ift.tt/2CCCh33 ALSO IN THIS MONTH’S ISSUE Tatiana Shmailyuk, vocalist from head-swiveling metal outfit JINJER, had to pass several armed guard checkpoints to finally arrive at a computer for her Skype interview with AP. Any band in America bemoaning their purported “struggle” can drink an icy-cold tall boy of STFU right about now. On their new album Morbid Stuff, Toronto outfit PUP deliver punky pop that’s couched in wit, wry observations and more heart than a flipped Hallmark semi-truck packed with Valentine’s Day cards. That’s why we asked the v. cool JEFF ROSENSTOCK to blow the breeze with the guys before their national television debut. Another round of IPAs and beard oil for the table, please… NEW YEARS DAY frontwoman Ash Costello is one of the nicest people with an address on Earth. But on NYD’S new album, Unbreakable, she’s breaking the floodgates wide open, addressing what people expect from her and what she’s going to give them. In this month’s photo special, we’re perusing the portfolio of photographer ASHLEY OSBORN, who you may have seen hard at work capturing the action on one awesome tour or another. Besides picking all the great images (better get an extra copy to hang on the wall), Osborn shared all the stories behind each one—and the pleasure was all ours. AP ARCHIVES is all about the nü metal this month, with stories revealing who escaped certain death at a DEFTONES shoot; KORN’s state of mind during their first magazine cover; and who the most awesome member of LIMP BIZKIT was. (Hint: He doesn’t wear a red baseball cap.) BLACKBEARBLACK BEAR told us about all the soul searching and beat-crafting behind the making of his new album in ALBUM ANATOMY. Mikaila Delgado from the wondrous trio YOURS TRULY wasn’t going to let illness curtail her from seeing the world and rocking out, and her story is living proof regarding how IT GOT BETTER. Oh, and because we’ve been rockin’ that new YUNGBLUD live album a little too much, we picked 10 ESSENTIAL songs to listen to while you’re raising hell and evading law enforcement. Did we mention awesome photos, inspiring fan art and 12 recommended bands waiting to cozy up to your ear canals? Let’s go! GET YOURS AT: https://ift.tt/2CCCh33