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hummelinthenorth-archive · 5 years

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HOLY SHIT IS THAT [ CHRIS COLFER ]?! Oh, wait it’s just [ KURT HUMMEL ]. Damn, [ HE/HIM ] looks good for [ 26 ], good thing that they’re [ HOMOSEXUAL ], I might have a chance. I hear that they call them the [ BROADWAY FASHIONISTA ] of the [ NORTH SIDE ]. I guess that’s because they’re [ SARCASTIC ] and [ STUBBORN ]. But I don’t think a lot of people know that they’re also [ DEVOTED ] and [ PASSIONATE ].

01. BASICS

Full Name: Kurt Elias Hummel

Nickname: He doesn’t really have many nicknames to be honest; people used to call him ‘Porcelain’ in high school, but that doesn’t really bother him much anymore

Sex/Gender: Male

Birthday: May 4th

Age: 26

Astrological Sign: Taurus

Occupation: Actor, Singer, Photographer

Spoken Languages: English, French, ASL

Sexual Orientation: Homosexual

Birthplace: Riverdale, MA; Northside

Relationship status: Single

02. PHYSICAL TRAITS

Hair Color/Style: His hair color varies from dark to light brown depending on whether he’s in the sun or not; he wears it cut short and well-coiffed

Eye Color: Glasz

Face Claim: Chris Colfer

Height: 5′11

Weight: 163 lb

Tattoos: Three, small stars on inside of his left wrist

Piercings: None

Unique Attributes: Small scar just above his left collar bone; his ‘countertenor’ singing voice; his eyes

Defining Gestures/Movements: He cracks his neck a lot more than he probably should

Posture: Healthy; sits up and strands straight

03. PERSONALITY TRAITS

Pet Peeves: People who interrupt, bullies, homophobia, people who walk slow, overly confident people

Hobbies/Interests: acting (though this is his occupation, it’s also a hobby he loves), cooking, fashion design, singing, dancing, reading, drawing

Special Skills/Abilities: His singing voice is definitely one of the most unique things about him; he also fluently speaks French

Likes: Broadway, Harry Potter, cooking, sex, fashion, animals, singing, dancing, spending time with his friends, NYC

Dislikes: Ignorance, homophobia, bullies, people who are mean for no reason

Insecurities: He has a fear of failure and not being good enough, despite the success he has managed to achieve

Quirks/Eccentricities: Knows how to use sai swords, can’t sleep without some sort of background noise

Strengths: consistent, resilient, reliable, honest (to a point), devoted, responsible, versatile

Weaknesses: can be a bit manipulative, stubborn as hell, snarky, a little blunt at times

Speaking Style: Depends on who he’s talking to; generally, he’s articulate, though a little rambly at times (especially when he's talking about something he's passionate about)

Temperament: He tends to keep his head in most things, though there are certain things that immediately set him off; overall, he is a generally happy person

04. FAMILY & HOME

Immediate Family: Burt Hummel (father), Elizabeth Hummel (mother), Aaron Hummel (adopted brother)

How do they feel about their family? coming soon

How does their family feel about them? coming soon

Pets: None as of right now; in New York, he wasn’t home enough to take care of a pet even though he really wanted one. He has no plans to move home to Riverdale, but when he finally does (and we all know he will) he’s going to invest in finally getting himself a furry little family member.

Where do they live? He owns a small one bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, but he lives at home in Riverdale while his father is healing/in the hospital.

Description of their home: Neat, organized, open. Many bookshelves.

Description of their bedroom: Airy and open. Many earthy colors. King-sized bed that takes up a good portion of his bedroom, though he also has a walk-in closet for all of his clothing. Part of his living room serves as a work-space for creating and designing his own clothes, which he does in his spare time.

05. THIS OR THAT

Introvert or Extrovert?

Optimist or Pessimist?

Leader or Follower?

Confident or Self-Conscious? A little of both, depending on the situation.

Cautious or Careless?

Religious or Secular?

Passionate or Apathetic?

Book Smarts or Street Smarts? That being said, he also knows how to pick a lock and can defend himself in a fight

Compliments or Insults? Bit of both, truthfully

Pajamas or Lingerie? Bottoms only, but only in the winter; otherwise, naked

06. FAVORITES

Favorite Color: Dark green

Favorite Clothing Style/Outfit: Anything he considers to be fashionable; he is almost always sharply dressed unless he’s at home without anyone to see him. At home, he’s usually in sweats and a loose-fitting shirt.

Favorite Bands/Songs/Type of Music: Anything and everything Broadway, Pop, Top 40′s, R&B, Jazz, Piano, Violin, Classical; honestly, he has a fairly wide taste in music

Favorite Movies: Romance, Comedy, RomCom, Horror as long as he’s not alone

Favorite Books: Harry Potter, anything dystopian, mystery novels; honestly, he’ll read anything that keeps his attention

Favorite Foods/Drinks: Pizza; red wine.

Favorite Sports/Sports Teams: He’s not much of a fan of sports, but he can follow if someone else he’s interested in has interest

Favorite Time of Day: Early Morning

Favorite Weather/Season: Fall

Favorite Animal: Penguins

07. MISCELLANEOUS

Fears/Superstitions: coming soon

Political Views: Liberal

Addictions: Coffee. Tea. Britain.

Best School Subject: Languages (English & French); he taught himself ASL

Worst School Subject: Maths

School Clubs/Sports: He played football for a few months in an attempt to fit in, but that was the extent of his high school athletic career. He broke his arm during a game once, and he was done.

How does he get money? Through his acting jobs. He’s also a secretary at Vogue.com

How is he with technology? Very adept.

08. PAST & FUTURE

Fondest Memory: Making Christmas dinner with his mother the first year Aaron was adopted

Deepest, Darkest Secret: When the casting director for The Book of Mormon hit on him after auditions, he caved and slept with the man to give himself an upper hand to finally get on the big stage. He was upset (mainly with himself) when the man cast him as Elder McKinley instead of Elder Price like he had promised, but he accepted the role regardless. Kurt dated the casting director for a very short time after this, in an attempt to ease his own uneasiness with what he’d done, but it didn’t work out.

Dream Vacation: France

Best thing that has ever happened to this character: Moving to New York and making a life for himself.

Worst thing that has ever happened to this character: His mother dying

What do they want to be when they grow up? A successful Broadway star as well as the owner of a successful fashion line

Perfect Date: A nice dinner (home cooked or in a restaurant), walking under the stars to get to know each other; he also wouldn’t object if it ended in sex, though it doesn’t have to.

09. HIGHLIGHTS OF HIS LIFE

Growing up in Riverdale wasn’t a picnic, but he knew that there were others who had much more difficult lives than he had

He had always been closer to his mother than his father, emulating her in many ways (including adopting some of her habits and passions as his own), and when she passed away it absolutely devastated him. He didn’t speak for nearly two weeks, and when he did he would only speak to his family. It took a few more months and much more therapy before Kurt finally started returning to his old self.

His father was and is unaware, but after Aaron ran away when Kurt was 17, he has kept close contact with his brother on a fairly regular basis; he doesn’t agree with the way Burt treats Aaron. Kurt might not understand Aaron’s desire to be in a gang or put himself in dangerous situations, but he also knows his brother wouldn’t be involved in anything he couldn’t handle. In the last year or so, he hasn’t been able to talk to him for as long as he would like because of his own busy schedule (employed as a secretary at Vogue.com as well as auditioning for shows), but he still makes sure to carve out time in his schedule to keep tabs on his little brother.

Being the son of the Sheriff didn’t exactly make him popular in high school, but he didn’t let the bullies stop him from being himself. That being said, after a particularly hard year being bullied in his Junior year - he spent much of his Senior year keeping to himself. He didn’t voice his opinions as much, but he instead chose to set his sights on his future. New York City and the New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts. Auditions for the prestigious school were brutal, with only fifteen people around the country being accepted to the program he wanted each semester, but Kurt was over the top excited when he received his acceptance letter.

In the eight years since leaving Riverdale in his rear view, Kurt has truly come into himself. In recent years, all his hard work has finally started to pay off, and he’s managed to make a name for himself in the Broadway circuits. It took him a bit, but Kurt finally managed to land a leading role for himself in the Broadway show Newsies, where he’s been playing the role of Davey. Before this show, all of his roles had been in Off-Broadway productions, ranging from extras to leading roles.

As much as he loves New York and Broadway, though, when Kurt received the call in the middle of the night that his father was in the ICU at Riverdale General, having suffered a massive heart attack, he put his life on pause and came home to Riverdale to help take care of him.

#gdhqintro #// so this took forever. apologies.#[ kurt rel ]

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forestbathing-studies-blog · 7 years

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The Art of Forest Bathing VI

In order to write I decided to live in Chamonix, France, next to the Mont Blanc, highest mountain in Western Europe. get the cross-country skis out. Without snow in Lappland yet I have not skied through the forest every evening and some mornings too. My body misses the excercise and movement. And these short sojourns in nature go far beyond keeping fit. ‘If you want to solve a problem, take a walk,’ the saying goes.

We all remember our favourite hike, or trek. I remember my favourite cross country ski journey. It was in the Alps, in France, and I’d skied up the Chamonix valley to give blood at the village of Argentière. I’d settled into the comfortable couch and let the pretty nurse slide her fingers up my arm to find a vein and drifted into pleasant flirtateous dreams.

When finished in Britain one is lucky to get a cup of lukewarm tea and stale biscuit. But I was in France. At tables laden with salamis and red wine the locals found out I was Scottish, who are great friends of the French.

It was dark when I staggered out, bottles and blood empty, laughter and hearts full. Of course I had quite forgotten the effects of copious red wine on a relatively empty stomach after a blood donation, and when put on skis skied straight down a bank into a small river, where I stood chuckling for a few minutes.

Unbeaten and undaunted after this mild setback, I struggled downriver, cracking through the ice, until I pulled myself up onto a wooden bridge, from where I set off on my journey again straight off into the mountains, lost for a full two hours in the moonlit dark.

Back in time, just, for a conference on organ donation, where I unfortunately fell asleep and was escorted out.

But I had donated blood from my heart infused with love-at-first-sight for the prettiest nurse this side of sunrise. I found the most illogical way home on the postcard mountainside. Through snow sprinkled with moonlight I plunged, like falling into a warm desert dune with a nurse’s whispered words on my lips, skipole firm and snow crystals still soft and plentiful, like Saharan sand.

My pilgrimage home had taken me further than the longest route I could find, to thoughts of far places. And I had done more than enough for the haiku, composed while clattering in a river bed, remembered and thus rendered below.

I took a job as a mountain refuge warden there for a while, at some 2,000 metres altitude, but soon enjoyed reading the mountains more than a reader would have reading my never-appearing novel, so I moved down to the centre of town as winter set in. I loved Chamonix.

In the town I enjoyed a friendship with the PGHM, the mountain rescue team, a friendship I struck when working at the refuge, and particularly when one night a hammering at the door woke me; a man in a terrible state, having stumbled and jumped down the steep mountain side to the refuge after watching his wife fall over a cliff. The rescue helicopter went up to look with searchlight and found her, but radioed back they could not get near her in the cliffs at night, and that anyway, she had not survived the fall, that much they could see. I had gone up anyway to find her, especially after the helicopter team told me in no uncertain terms not to tell the man his wife had been killed in the fall until morning, as he might very well just step straight over a cliff himself at the news. So I went up the mountain in order to not have to answer his questions, and after a few hours saw she was not in a state of survival, and I waited till morning, standing at the door of the téléphérique, the cable car, to tell him, at which he crumpled onto the floor of the cabin, and the big moustached cabin operator later remarked:

‘’you know Hamish, I would have expected him to fly at you in a rage and hit, beat you.’’

‘’Yeah, great. Thanks.’’

The PGHM had recovered her body and then got into an argument with the local police, who wanted to take the man back to the scene for ‘questioning’.

‘’I’ve seen it before,’’ the station head of the PGHM had remarked: ‘’we’ll have two bodies over cliffs. He’ll jump.’’

There were other solid friendships; with the ski instructor, a woman who had skied down the very difficult Bossons glacier, after walking up with her skis for over eight hours, and who giggled at my British reserve when she and her friend had thrown their tops off to sunbathe at a mountain lake only hours after meeting me; and there was Catherine D’Estivelle, the climber, who that summer had climbed the Aiguille Verte — the Green Needle, alone, over eleven days, bivouacking on the rock face, and the woman who owned the bar that let me keep a tab running all winter, the bakery owning couple who made the freshest bread on the spot, which I ate where it was cooked, and the other mountain people, who regarded the tourists with mild indulgence; the tourists who had a penchant for acting like tourists — you know what I mean, of which perhaps the most touristy were the Swedes, who drank copious amounts of booze but would not touch the water, for fear of it not being pure, who boasted of a clean Sweden while uprooting all the Christmas trees in Viking exuberance and drinking coffee slowly each morning, wearing heavy mountain gear that clinked and jangled and jarred on their nerves.

And I decided to leave. To leave the town I loved. The blue/green late afternoons in the shade of the pine tree slopes of the mountains, the cream mornings of snow-capped mountains between open shutters, the newsagent who gave me my morning newspaper and coffee every morning when I walked through the door, and the mountains, again, and my mountain climbing partners and the seasons.

My last season in Chamonix was late summer, in the Saami definition of eight seasons. I was living my last few weeks in a tent at the bottom of the Mer de Glace glacier, and my morning plunge into the water rushing off the bottom of the glacier brought a new definition to the word cold, as well as embarrassment, when one morning I had jumped in, lay down briefly in the current and clambered out quickly, and heard a ‘’coooeeee!’’, looked left, looked right, looked behind, looked in front, my skin growing red, my vital parts shivered to mere millimetres, and then heard the ‘’coooeee!!’’ again, looked left right front back sideways and finally..upwards, to see a woman on delta wing, circling before landing, and laughing at my lack of restraint.

And the morning I left I met a silver-haired solitary Czech climber, who was hammering nails in his boots and knotting old ropes — his dream happening at last: climbing Mont Blanc, his food with him in cans, his home a tarpaulin over a wire, his happiness complete.

I was going to Oymyakon, the coldest town in the world (lowest temp recorded -71.2ºC/ -96.16ºF) , in Yakutia, Siberia, and chosen because I was sure that sitting in a hut in the coldest town in the world was a sure-fire way of writing, and importantly, completing a book. Immediately I set about planning an expedition through Yakutia, until I remembered it was to write I was going, and to attempt to ensure I was getting myself stuck into a small cabin, with a pile of logs, tea pot and long lost love deep in fur. The last one was not actually a requirement, though it was true that having someone to cook always means a necessary routine can be installed into a writer’s drab existence at the table, which is in reality a window of course. Yakutia, and in particular Oymyakon, fits some requirement’s of a writer’s retreat, but not all: it was exotic, not pricey — the cash flow is going in 1 direction after all, if the book is to be scribed — and the fish can be caught and cooked, a welcomed way to meditate. Oymyakon is a small town, the nature is beguilingly beautiful, but it forces you back to the writing table quickly, and the natives are not too restless. The town is found on the infamous Road of Bones. It does get a sprinkling of tourists, which is nice, and not all are similar to the Norwegians who got stuck and needed rescuing, claiming to be broken down, or the Germans who also got stuck and chose not to leave their vehicle when being rescued to thank the rescuers. (They would have been charged in another country of course, in places like Vancouver, but then would have probably found ways to sue for being charged for stupidity, as some do.) The fact that conditions were harsh, and risky, like the mountains of Chamonix, is something of a bonus for a writer. But it is also a pleasure when the little luxuries are available — bananas were prevalent, which was comforting, because at -55ºC ( -67ºF) they are more useful to hammer nails into wood than a badly made hammer, and don’t stick to the tongue like the head of a hammer does — something I can personally vouch is true, and if you don’t think you look absolutely stupid walking around town, even in Oymyakon, with a hammer stuck to your tongue, then think again. The wolves do hunt at night, and it if true that if the cold mist descends with the plummeting temperature in the deep snow and you are lost, then you have about 15 minutes to unlose yourself and find your way. After that your chances get pretty slim pretty quick, except your chances of being found next morning when the day is clear, a mere few metres to your cabin. But this provides the tension for your novel, so is worth the risk. Did I write the book? Yes. Did I find a cook deep in the fur, in a cabin down the road? The culture in Yakutia is captivating. And for those against fur, I can honestly tell you from experience that artificial fur just shreds; falls apart at those temperatures, and not keeping warm is not a question of fashion. Everything is different in summer though, when they welcome dawn on the longest day of the year at the summer solstice. Travel narrows our horizons — the more we learn about other cultures, the more sure we are about universal truths. And in Yakutia a universal truth is hugging cooks keeps you warm, as long as you compliment the mammoth steaks — tens of thousands of mammoth bones or even frozen mammoths have been found throughout history, so there’s a chance…

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hummelinthenorth-archive · 5 years

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