#maybe that its not even vulgar? just a simple dismissal | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whatsarasaid · 4 years

Note

As a prompt: Heartman & Mama nerding together pls

title: tossing rocks. fandom: death stranding. rating: teen & up. word count: approx. 1000. characters: heartman, mama (målingen).

—

“What’cha got?”

Mama had stopped answering with the typical ‘hello.’

They rang each other multiple times a week with new research or ideas on how to help Sam, so it seemed silly to chirp a formal greeting at every call. Heartman found their growing familiarity refreshing. Though he had worked with Mama and Lockne during the initial expedition out West, they were never close. The twins may have been an integral part of the Chiral Network, but they had also been young, and there were many, more experienced engineers with whom Heartman had consulted instead. But Bridges, having lost a majority of their workforce to BTs and voidouts, now relied heavily on Mama and her expertise. Which meant Heartman did, too.

Not that he minded in the least. Her measured confidence was a counterbalance to his frantic theorizing, steady when he raced and focused when he diverted course. Whenever he needed to chatter out his constellational thoughts, she was there to map them. To understand. He could blather to Sam all day (and, sometimes, accidentally did just that), but he realized that the porter’s intelligence lied in the kinesthetic, not the scientific. Mama, on the other hand, could track with his jargon. Speak his language.

The moiré chiral projection showed her lying beneath a suspended trike, wrench in hand, and grease spotting her forearms. Multitasker that she was, she had set up her chiral camera to record in her workshop so she could tinker as they spoke. She said keeping her hands busy got her brain turning enough to keep up with his.

“Sam’s bodily fluid analyses are back from Deadman and they are fascinating,” Heartman said as he paced back and forth across his lab, articulating with his hands, “They contain chiral matter, as we knew they would, but it seems as though these excretions negate the chiral matter within BTs. As you know, when living matter meets dead, they mirror each other, resulting in annihilation. But Sam’s bodily fluids don’t mirror. They match. This causes the BT to, well, dissolve. Or, maybe ‘resolve’ would be a better word, if we’re being philosophical about it. Who knows? Either way, this is a magnificent discovery.”

“So, I’m guessing the question is now: how are we going to utilize it?”

“Precisely, how are we going to utilize it,” he opened his palms, “My initial thought is in some sort of anti-BT weaponry.”

“I mean, it’s definitely possible,” Mama shuffled up onto her elbows, tapping her spanner against the floor in thought, “Sam’s blood—or whatever—just needs a vehicle to travel its target, right? So, we encapsulate it in a projectile—a bullet or grenade or something. The ink in marking rounds and paint grenades could even be swapped out. Easy.”

“Indeed,” he thrummed his fingers against the AED as his mind revolved, “Quite a simple solution. Though I’d want to further refine the technology. Give it some elegance.”

“Heartman, considering what these things are,” she smirked, “I’m not sure you could ever call them ‘elegant.’”

“I will admit that when you look at it in a certain light, it is unfortunately vulgar.”

“Don’t worry, it’s still a good idea,” she raised an indifferent shoulder, “Telling Sam will be interesting, though.”

A sharp squeal pierced from the other side of the line. Mama jerked up, and peered out into the distance, checking on something in her lab. After a moment, she settled back down with a dismissive wave, “Sorry ’bout that. Her new favorite thing is randomly squawking. She’s fine.”

Heartman’s smile grew tight. He didn’t know much about Mama’s situation. Just that she had been pregnant with Lockne’s child, and after the attack on her hospital, had cut off all contact with her sister. But the whole thing radiated suspicion. Like how Mama had turned the ruined hospital into her lab. Or how she had adopted a moniker. Or how she had given birth over fourteen months ago, but her daughter’s vocalizations still sounded like those of a newborn.

“Are you ever going to talk to Lockne?” The question was asked in concern, but as soon as it came out, he wanted to stuff it back in. Who was he to confront her on such a thing? People in glass houses ought not throw stones.

Mama went silent. And then a fizzled clatter rang through the chiralgram as she tossed her wrench into the nearby toolbox. “Sure,” she said, lying flat against the ground. Her hands sat limply on her ribcage as she rolled her head against the concrete to sigh up at the ceiling, “Someday.”

“That was inappropriate of me, Målingen, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Mama mumbled as she rubbed her forehead, leaving behind a dark smear, “Some days are just harder than others.”

“They are,” he echoed back, thoughtful.

Uncertainty undertowed between them. Heartman longed to say more—he did, truly. But it seemed as though he had already mucked things up enough. He wished she could visit, wished she would open up, wished he would open up. But all the wishing in the world didn’t help.

Thirty-seconds until cardiac arrest. Please hold on to something secure. Activating lab security measures.

“I’ll let you get to dying,” Mama said as she sat up and dusted off her hands, “In the meantime, I’ll draw up some plans for prototypes. Should have them to you in a few days.”

“Målingen-”

“Take care of yourself, alright?”

Heartman plopped down on his chase lounge, feeling defeated. His mouth opened and closed, searching for words to comfort her, to let her know she didn’t have to pretend to be fine, to let her know he too knew what it was to be trapped and alone and scared.

But all he could get out in time was, “I’ll do my best.”

Five, four, three-

His heart stopped as her image flickered out.

end.

#death stranding #heartman #mama (death stranding)#målingen #prompts #this has 'life in the time of corona' vibes

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hungryflowers · 4 years

Text

Let Me Fall in Love With You

RadioHusk Week Prompt Day 2: To Love a Dumbass

Chapter 2: I’d Fumble For You

Parties, different versions of entertainment, highly crowded venues with loud, obnoxious music was not Husk’s scene. The only silver lining that would come from being in public with a bunch of lowlives, worst of the worsts and generally unpleasant assholes would have to be the free tab on booze.

So when Alastor invited Husk out for a night on the town, the old man thought it was going to be the same abhorrent experience of debauchery, raucousness, and vileness he grew to expect whenever he went out. In contrast what he was going to go and experience was something he never knew he wanted to feel in his time in this hovel of Hell.

When he saw this ‘Radio Demon’ next, his eyes were stuck on the swanky suit he sported as he opened the door to his ratty ass apartment.

“Darling you are not going to my party like this are you?” The grinning idiot gestured to his body, making the cat look himself over.

“What party? And also, why the fuck do you care about how I look? I don’t even like being around you, so seeing me is already enough.” Husk snapped as his tail swished to showcase his physical agitation.

“I care enough because you are my guest! I told every Sinner in my territory about you and me, so it is a given that if you’re my beau for the night, you must look the part.” He stepped inside the house, dark red velvet coat tails tipped in gold trailed behind him as he went into the male’s living space without any actual consent.

“Beau?! I ain’t your fuckin’ beau. I ain’t nobody’s bottom boy! So get the fuck out of my house!”

“Please, Husker...”

“What the fuck did you just call me? Name’s Husk fuckface! Not Husker, not Husky, or some stupid shit like that! Husk!” He snarled at the pet name.

Alastor kept his gaze fixed on the cat the whole tangent. He became increasingly aware of the affect this feline was having on him. Golly, he wanted to get in it with the male for a great while, he wanted Husk to vent to him, or merely yell at him. What a way to thrive on his companionship.

“Deeply sorry about that Husk, my dear. Now that you have concluded, may we get you all set for the special get together?” Alastor leant over the huffing, puffed up male. Husk was about to snarl again when something flickered up his wall. He screamed, body hiking high as a shadow swirled around his feet.

“What the fuck is that?! What is it doing?!” The male hopped on the closest thing to get away from the black ick on the floor.

“My assistant. Don’t mind him, he just likes being in business that he has no involvement in.” Alastor tipped his head, waving his hand to dismiss the shadowy being. The thing shared the cutout physical form of the one it was conjured from, it lingering on his shoulder like a living attachment. Blue eyes squinted at the feline while skinny arms jutted out to grab at him with willow long fingers. The deer demon swatted the hands away, “Shame on you! Did I not just try to will you away? Off it now! Shoo. Leave this beauty alone.”

The thing frowned, even as Alastor held his grin. The puppy eyes not changing his mind in the slightest. An unsound huff left the creature as it faded out somewhere in the room.

Husk went about pointing at the spot where it had been, a wobbly gargle of questions would have fallen from his frozen mouth but Alastor was already grabbing the cat up to have him prepared for the unknown event tonight.

After nearly snarling at the bastard to piss off for nearly an hour and a half, Husk was resigned to his fate. The demon made it hard for him to say no, let alone give him a physical out. He, maybe, could be able to endure a night with this grinning loon. What was the worst that could happen?

“Ready, my beau?” Alastor bowed as he opened the door to his swanky looking car; a deep, cherry wine red mobile that kept to his aesthetic and intrigue.

Husk’s chest rose in annoyance, otherwise not correcting the demon. He sat down on the posh, plump looking white leather seats. He didn’t feel like sitting in front with Alastor; not sure what he could possibly try.

“You still haven’t told me about this party you have for me. Where the hell is it?”

“Oh! You’ll enjoy it! It’s quite a good time. And it’s a special surprise for you. I’m not going to just open up and tell you everything,” His claws went around Husk’s, raising it to his cheek to rub the fur there. The cat was fighting for his paw back when Alastor stated, “There is also unlimited alcohol, if that’s something you are into. What am I saying? Of course you are!!” He laughed as they pulled out of the driveway.

Two words caused Husk to stop fighting for his paw: Unlimited. Alcohol. Maybe this Radio Demon character wasn’t as weird as he thought.

“You got wine?” Husk asked, short and simple. A faint smile coming to his face when Alastor nodded at him without looking, “Beer?”, Another nod. “Whiskey.”

“Yes my dear. Everything and all types you can have and want! I never entertain guests with a dry party.” He snuggled deeper in the relaxed paw.

There wasn’t much to be said after that, the cat demon sitting through the car ride, blood buzzing, chest at a rattle, fur feeling a little staticky. Perhaps this would be different.

Their arrival was around eleven at night, the allure of the blood moon added appeal to the not at all shabby joint they were at. Husk rolled down the window to listen to the sounds of an era that thrive on the songs of their time. Jazz music blew from trumpets and saxophones, scat man swayed to the beats they made on the fly. Each corner of the building glowed, more bathed in iridescent green lighting. Some came from lightbulbs in sconces, another light source were firelights in lanterns at the entrances. A black, intimidating oak door held all the liveliness on the inside. Neon words flitted in the cat’s vision; the words in bold cursive, the lettering swirling and winding over on another. He could make out the first word before Alastor put his hand on his shoulder, somewhat jostling him.

“Let’s make our grand entrance shall we?” He hopped out the car, that Husk never knew had stopped, and opened the older man’s door to escort him out.

“What the hell is this place?” Husk adjusted the oversized coat the deer demon gave him to cover up his outfit underneath, he felt like a dame on her first night out.

“Husker... this is my establishment for the most cultured, most affluent of us Sinners. A cabaret of illicit senses that must be sated by only the most delicious delights and decadences of the afterlife! Welcome to Lé VooDoo Parlóur. Isn’t it magnificent?!” He brought Husk in for a side hug that didn’t feel comfortable.

“This rat house is your joint? Ha! I’ve seen better hole in the walls in the red light district.”

“Yes, but are they as ceaselessly classy as this?” He asked as he pulled up Husk’s chin to look better into his eyes, made softly golden by the effects of the lights.

Husk grumbled but thought of no other place that could be like this. He had only been to a jazz bar in Hell once, and the music was below shit quality. The booze was the only thing that kept him there, if not for the winking dandy damsel and drunk jack offs that tried to pull him from the music for a cheap thrill. He fancied himself a fella of cheap tastes and vulgar etiquette.

“Fine, I’ll let you embarrass yourself by dragging me into this fancy hole. Lead the way.” Husk pulled on his coat as Alastor pulled on his arm to guide them to the imposing looking oak doors. On the french doors were weaved intricate spiraling patterns and odd runes that didn’t spell out anything in the cat’s language.

Alastor knocked on both doors with a racking pattern. They waited for a moment when one came open. Husk could have imagined it came open on its own, but a graveling voice came from behind the door.

“Password.” Very simple, too threatening.

“William. We’ve been over this. You know my knock. When you hear me knock, I enter. I don’t need a password for my own Parlóur.” The grin stayed in spite of the agitation fogging his tone.

“Al? You’re more than forty-five minutes late. I should make you say the password just for that.” The grizzle soften a touch as a reptile demon, most likely a crocodile, pushed back the door.

“I was getting my plus one ready. I did tell you I was having a guest,” His grin could not possibly get wider as he shuffled Husk closer, “William, this is my beau, Husk. Husk, William!”

Husk did not want to shake the croc’s hand. It was only from reluctance he did anyways.

“Nice. Get your ass in here. And you better apologize to your guest for waiting, Al.”

“My dear William. I owe them no such thing. The fact that showed up at all is the compensation they pay for entering my bar.” Alastor dropped his lighter over jacket to reveal his choice of wardrobe for the evening. He sported his dark red, much darker than blood, overcoat with golden stenciling over the chest, arms and shoulders. On his shoulders were long strings gold tassels, a black and red top hat on the top of his head, covering up the stubs he had as antlers. His bottoms were pinstriped and straight legged waist high pants that were tucked by a formal black undershirt. The top of his neck had been covered, showing off the black, red and gold bowtie that rest right atop it.

A microphone stand was his choice in what Husk believed to be a cane of some sort. He looked over the gold laced coat tails of the demon’s long coat, the fabric dripping over his red and black pants.

“Let me have your poncho, dear.” The words getting Husk out whatever weird trance he was swept in. He pulled it off to hand to Alastor. Very little adjusting had to be made for Husk’s wears for the night. From top to bottom, he was dressed in a dazzling, eye-catching red and white. Sitting atop his head, a top hat, red dominated with a silk white band laced around the felt, sat in between his ears. His suit jacket was of crimson everywhere except the lapels, a white waistcoat held him in snug yet loose, the fabric a sturdy satin. His lower half has pinstriped red, flowing pants that covered his feet, his tail swishing out in leisure.

As they moved through the long halls the music became a touch louder. As did the conversations and laughter of a get together. He wasn’t sure what he would expect as the double doors opened.

The party was like nothing Husk had ever seen before. Let alone experienced since his time here. He half expected all kinds of raunchy, wild and vulgar manners to be presented here. What he got was a semi loud, not at all wild, flavorous swing of delights to all senses. Sinners were dancing, singing, laughing and playing on instruments all around. There was enough food and cocktails to go about to everyone. On a grand stage was a female, locks of silver, and a voice like sweet wine as he caressed the microphone like a lover at night. Her slim form was dripping from head to toe in rose red, the flowing material barely showing her ankles as she serenaded the crowd.

They arrived as her song ended, the sinners extending her a roaring applause along with bouquets of cut flowers. She tipped in a humbled bow as she exited the stage behind a burgundy carpet.

“Let’s get you to your seat. I have a special, private area just for the both of us.” He pulled him along as the announcer struck up a jazz band. The band was softer but played strongly. The song was more than enough for some Sinners to move out their seats with their partners for the evening. Husk barely resisted the urge to follow a fox demon in a green, short dress.

Alastor took them behind a purple curtain to reveal a more private sector of the parlor. There had to have been at least a dozen velvet booths here. And Alastor sat him down at the one closest to a smaller stage.

“Order what you want. It’s all on me dear. I’m going to let our guests know you have arrived.” Alastor didn’t sit as he moved away from the slightly nervous cat demon. The lights in the room were blossoming ripples of green and purple. He tapped at the marble table as he awaited a server to bring him some booze for the night. He made it a point to try and get plastered on a much free booze he could wrap his paws on.

“S’cuse me. Ya’ll have any absinthe in here?” Husk asked over the light piano.

The sever, a winged bat demon nodded, a smile coming to his features, “Sure. Do you want a cup or a bottle?”

“I can get a bottle?!” Husk couldn’t believe this was true. He’s always wanted to try that shit, but no lower tier liquor stores carried it, so he drowned on other things, “Then shit, I’ll have the whole bottle then.” He laughed.

“Perfect, I’ll have that right out for you.” And then he was gone. Quite the night this would be.

The next time he saw Alastor again, the grinning shithead was on the stage. Why? Husk could not deduce. Or was just tipsy enough to not ask. But his ears perked up the demon addressed the small, private crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, whether you be a Saint or a Sinner, please give me your attention,” Alastor spoke as he removed his velvet jacket to show off his red and black waistcoat. The spare creatures in the room acknowledged him, Husk being amongst them, “I have opened my long retired Parlor up for a very special occasion. And that is for a very special significant of mine that I have recently taken up as my own.”

Oh! Oh Fuck! Oh shit! Wait, what the fuck?!

“Please listen to this very dedication that I proposed. He’s quite shy, but will come around. This is for you...”, ‘Don’t you fucking say it’. Husk’s brain roared in dread, “Husker.” ‘Motherfucker!’ Husk wanted to physically shuck the husky bottle of absinthe at the Radio Demon for just mentioning him. The feline put his paws over his head as the crowd awed and clapped for Alastor. He was going to fucking kill him! Once this was over, he was going to die. Again!

The band awaited for Alastor’s cue, a side glance and a nod, before beginning. The music came softly... fleeting in feeling as Alastor closed his eyes and began,

‘A summer romance

Hasn't a ghost of a chance

I know But a summer romance Should have a chance To grow

Septembers nearly over

The weather will be here There won't be time to live and laugh and love again This yearIf you and I could linger Until that early snow

Perhaps this romance might find time to grow’

“Oh shit, oh fuck!” Husk gasped out in exasperation, wings going over his head as he listened to the lyrics. He locked eyes with Alastor a couple of times, the younger man’s smile going fond as he continued,’

‘A love that is happy and meaning Because uncertain and heeding When weather brings its promise of Spring and a brand new year to love him

I wish you would remember

I know you won't recall We have discarded This romance at all’

This bastard wasn’t being eccentric. Not going off like a madman about an apparent love confession. He was singing, not only singing... He was straight up serenading him. He continued the whole way through until the music and lyrics came to an end, and a loud applause and whistles followed. Husk drank from the bottle, a hard ass double, triple as it went down his throat. He couldn’t care to discern the taste; he just had to get piss drunk as fast as he could.

“I hope you had a fantastic night! I know I sure did!” Alastor looked over at Husk, who was so drunk he ended up falling asleep on the ride home. It was well past one in the morning, so Alastor suspected that that was enough partying for one night. Alastor was so high on his new found feeling for this feline that he didn’t care about how the male cat cursed, swung and swore at him in his drunken haze. It would wear off soon anyways and then they’d make more memories. What a thrill!

The car came to a stop in front of the old male’s home, the slobbering cat too inebriated, and sleepy to move himself out of the car. Alastor tutted as he opened the male’s door and dragged into his home. He had to fish for the right key, but once inside it was smooth enough from there. And the cat demon still hadn’t awoke. He pulled him up so that he could try to make him walk up the stairs, which proved to be a bad idea. He ended up levitating the large, heavy beast into his filthy room; content to lay him atop the blankets.

“Goodnight beloved.” He pressed his face into the cat’s cheek before walking out of the room, rounding the staircase and left the home of his newfound romance. Or was it infatuation? Huh, he could feel stupid for things like these.

Husk woke up sick as fuck, some god forsaken gurgling coming up from his throat as he rushed into his bathroom, tripping over his own tail as he slumped against the toilet. He couldn’t recall he felt this kind of miserable but the absinthe being drained from his guts did make the dream of Alastor singing to him sound less real. He flushed his nasty contents before getting up. He burped, the smell foul as he headed into his kitchen. While he scampered for a meal, he found a paper letter on the coffee table by a wrapped box. He examined the parchment, sealed by red wax, then opened it. Inside the contents it read’

‘That song was the best, if not stupidest thing I offered up to you.

I intend to give you more than serenades at the blood moon, my Husker.

P.S I have a special treat for you. More to come,

Alastor.

Husk looked over the letter a couple times before throwing it, going to the box to see what this idiot had in store. What he got was exactly what he was thinking of: A full course meal, breakfast wrapped up well, still steaming. ‘What the fuck?’ He mouthed out the though, but did not much else as he went to devour the food.

Was there coming back from this dumbass show of affection? Husk thought no. There was no way he could ever think differently of an idiot in love. He was beginning to assume he’d soon be one.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin alastor #husk #alastor

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werewolfdays · 4 years

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snippet - First Kiss revamp

little callback to the very first little drabble that I posted on here about a year and a half ago. pretty cool to go back and read my old stuff and see the differences and improvements. Anyway, enjoy some soft tender shit -

Just like always, my mind drifted to Nadya. I wanted her so bad that every step away from where I knew she was felt like the wrong step. That every room she didn’t occupy wasn’t worth being in. That every mention of her made my chest tighten painfully. Whenever I was in her presence, she commanded my full attention without even doing anything. My skin tingled every time I touched her, like I was losing control, but somehow not in a bad way. Every single part of me ached for her. I’ve never met anyone that could beckon both me and my wolf in such a way. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold out before finally doing something about this.

My sister’s snapping fingers right in front of my face shook me out of my day dreaming. The sounds of mingling wolves in the Den came flooding back to my senses. “Wow, you were in it pretty deep.” Skye mused, taking a quick sip of her drink, “Have you heard a single thing I’ve said?”

“Sorry.” I told her, taking a swig from my glass of whiskey.

“It’s because of her, isn’t it?” Skye guessed with a knowing smile.

Her way too accurate guess annoyed me. “No. I’m just tired, okay?”

She rolled her eyes at me, clearly not fooled by my lie. It made me uncomfortable. Sure, I could admit to myself what I was starting to feel, but Skye knowing it too without me having to say anything left me feeling too exposed. Too vulnerable. Not to mention the fact that it felt like I had to talk myself off of a cliff whenever I got the urge to act on my feelings.

“You’re reading too deeply into this.” I continued with a sigh, “It’s not a big deal, just an attraction.”

“Okay,” Skye replied sarcastically, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. I tensed slightly in my seat, knowing her enough to anticipate that she wasn’t going to let it go with a simple okay. Sure enough, she nonchalantly added, “So just fuck her and get it out of your system already.”

“Jesus, Skye!” The vulgar implication made every muscle in my body recoil in offense. If it was anyone besides my sister who had said that I would’ve throttled them. “Don’t- don’t talk about her like that.”

I tried not to come off as angry as I was because the shocked look on my little sister’s face made embarrassment bubble up in my chest and I had to look away. Skye wasn’t expecting me to go on the defensive with such intensity. I wasn’t either and I felt my body react to its own shock, blinking and leaning back in my seat. When I looked back up, I saw Skye’s face slowly brighten in a satisfied smile. Then I realized that she had said what she said just to get a reaction out of me. It must’ve been what she was hoping for if her shit-eating grin had anything to say about it.

I scoffed and shook my head, “I can’t fucking believe you.”

“What?” Skye taunted, “You can’t hide it as well as you think you can. And you shouldn’t have to. It’s okay to want someone, Jayde.”

“Not her.”

Skye raised her hands in exasperation, “Why? Because she’s human?”

My attention focused on the amber liquid held in my solid grasp. I swirled it around, watching a small golden wave slosh against the side of the glass. If I gripped it any tighter, I feared I would shatter it. All I did was shake my head again. The conversation was taking its toll on me. I was afraid and frustrated and the combination was painful.

“No, it’s not just that.” Skye suddenly became serious herself, “It terrifies you. You have deeper feelings for Nadya and that scares you because you think it will destroy you both.”

My gaze shot back up to her in astonishment. That was not the kind of reply I was expecting to hear from Skye. It was way more real than I was prepared for and I was left speechless for at least half a minute. It felt like my sister had just opened a trap door right under my feet and watched as I went plummeting into the dark. Of course she was right. I still feebly tried to fight my feelings. I thought maybe I could eventually convince myself to let it go. To let Nadya go. For both of our sakes. But this discussion began to make me realize that it wasn’t possible. Dread filled my heart, making it sink into the pit of my stomach.

After I recovered from my shock, I downed the rest of my drink and narrowed my eyes coldly, “Thanks for the insight.” I growled, getting up to walk away.

“Jayde,” Skye called, but I didn’t even bother to look back. She knew better than to come after me right now.

At first I wasn’t sure where my legs were taking me, but then it became obvious. I was looking for Nadya. It became a bit of a habit for me to go looking for her when I was stressed. She always helped calm me down. Just her voice, her presence, was usually enough to placate whatever restless demon was banging around in my head. Nadya had somehow become my greatest comfort. Of course I saw the irony in going to her to calm myself down now, but I needed her.

That thought made me stop dead in my tracks. I needed her. Without meaning to, I confirmed what Skye had said yet again. Without realizing it, I was in a deep hole, too deep to climb out of now. And I was the one that had dug myself in it. If I wasn’t careful, I would drag Nadya down with me. But selfishly, I couldn’t bring myself to change direction. I stood there like an idiot, willing myself to turn around, but it didn’t matter because I needed her. Guilt couldn’t stop me from moving towards her, but it filled my bones with lead.

I eventually found myself standing in front of the door to her room. My hand reached up and hesitated. There’s still time to walk away. I told myself. But I couldn’t. I simply didn’t have it in me. Three knocks sounded when I finally rapped my knuckles against the wood. A long breath expelled from my lungs as my arm fell back down to my side and I waited.

It only took a few seconds for Nadya to answer the door. As soon as she saw me, her face lit up in a gorgeous smile. Just like that, everything melted away to the relief I felt whenever I was near her. “Hi, Jay.”

“Hi.” I greeted, letting an easy-going smile spread across my face, “Just wanted to check on you.”

“Oh, thank you.” Nadya said sincerely, taking her glasses off and stepping back to open the door further, “Do you wanna come in?”

“Uh,” I hesitated again, knowing that if I crossed this threshold there might be another line I would attempt to cross. But there was no walking away even if I wanted to, “Sure.”

“Everything okay?” Nadya asked once she shut the door behind us.

I walked into the center of the room, checking how this new place was working for her. She hasn’t really been living in it long enough for her scent to be fully incorporated into the space yet, but it still hung in the air like a comforting blanket. Nadya’s medical textbook was lying open on the bed next to a pile of handwritten notes. I smiled to myself at her conviction. She’d been torn away from her school life and her career path, but she didn’t let that stop her.

“I’m fine, it’s just,” I reached down to run the tip of my finger along the line of a sentence she wrote, “My sister knowing me too damn well, I guess.” I glanced up to see her giving me an understanding smile. Nadya didn’t ask, but I could tell she was waiting to see if I would elaborate. I knew she wouldn’t make a big deal about it when I didn’t. That made me feel even better. To change the subject, I asked, “How are you settling in?”

“Well enough,” She nodded while she took in her room, “And I’m not getting as many weird looks as I was a few days ago. I think people are getting used to the whole human living here thing.”

I let out an amused breath, “You aren’t the first and I doubt you’ll be the last, but yeah, sometimes wolves like their space away from humans. If anyone gives you trouble, you tell me.”

Nadya half-shrugged dismissively, “Don’t worry, I don’t think it’s like that.”

“I hope not.” My biggest worry when bringing Nadya here was territorial werewolves. Especially ones that got a bead on a beautiful young human. As far as I knew, there weren’t any wolves like that here, but you never know. Someone like that might show up someday. One thing is for certain, I wouldn’t let anyone like that near her. Just the thought of it made me inch towards Nadya protectively.

“I was thinking,” Nadya started somewhat nervously, “Maybe I can help the people here like I helped you. I heard there’s technically a clinic, but nobody really goes to it?”

“A lot of wolves prefer to let their wounds heal on their own.” I shrugged, usually being one of them myself.

She pursed her lips, “Even if you guys have supernatural healing, that’s still dangerous. Things can heal incorrectly or you can take longer to recover if it’s not treated it right. I can help.”

“Nadya,” I sighed. It could potentially be a huge risk for her to play doctor to injured werewolves. I could think of a million different ways it could go wrong. Not only that, there was a part of me that balked when she said, like I helped you. I didn’t want anyone else to be touched by her like I was whenever she treated my wounds. It was personal and intimate between us. I wanted it to be only me. Then I realized what I was feeling was jealousy. That I was trying to take possession of her. Stupid wolf instinct. I cursed inside my mind. To spite that horrid emotion, I relented, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Her excited smile was stunning. It made the effort of fighting off that irrational jealousy worth it. I noted that I had subconsciously taken another step towards her. Drawn in by her entrancing warmth.

“Thank you.” Nadya’s eyes were brightened with encouragement, “I’ve just been needing to do something useful with my time here. You know, earn my keep? Maybe people might actually want me to be here if I prove my worth.”

Even with the amusement she expressed in that last sentence, I replied seriously, “I want you here.”

I couldn’t tell if she caught my deeper meaning, but her smile remained. “Good to know I have at least one person on my side.”

I shook my head at her self deprecating joke. “Everyone will see what kind of person you are soon enough. Then you’ll have dozens of werewolves on your side.”

Another step closer.

“What kind of person I am?” Nadya brow raised up in question.

“Yeah.” I nodded, standing just a foot away from her, “The kind of person that sees the best in everyone.” My eyes didn’t leave hers and I drank in the warmth of her comforting gaze, “The kind of person that brings light to the darkest places.”

“You sure you’re talking about me?” Her voice spoke quietly, eyes darting down for a split second, noticing the final gap between us closing.

I was close enough to feel her uneven breath against my skin now. Able to hear erratic thumping in her chest when I listened for it. The sound matched the feeling in my own. “You could make a dead heart beat with hope.”

The intent written all over my face wasn’t lost on either of us. I hadn’t really planned this far ahead, but I just couldn’t stop myself anymore. Not unless Nadya wanted me to. She didn’t step away. Didn’t say any words of protest. Still, it felt like I was cornering her. Maybe I had read her wrong all along and the rhythmic racing of her heart was panic. Now that I thought about it, I smelled a hint of fear on her. A fear that reflected my own, making my hands shake. The very last thing I wanted was to prey on her. Or make her feel like she had to do something that she didn’t want.

My entire body was tingling, buzzing like an electrical storm was brewing under my skin as my lips hovered inches away from hers, “Is this okay?” I whispered.

Nadya’s breathing was incredibly shallow, “Yes,” She said so quietly that I relied more on her nod than her voice for consent.

Unable to withstand the torture any longer, I leaned in. I brushed my lips against hers in the lightest, softest peck I’ve ever given anyone. A part of me was afraid that if I came on too strong it would scare her away. But the experience of contact like this for the first time sent my mind spiraling completely. Nadya let out a quiet gasp that I felt hot on my lips. I realized it was because she forgot to breathe. I must’ve forgotten too, because the buzzing made my knees weak. In an effort to not topple over, I set my trembling hands on her waist to steady myself. Finally touching her gave me enough courage to lean in for a second time.

The second kiss wasn’t as shy as the last. Nadya reached up to cup the back of my neck, pulling me closer at the same time I squeezed her hips and drew her deeper into me. To my pleasant surprise, it was Nadya that deepened the kiss. Her lips parted mine and I eagerly accepted the invitation. I got completely and utterly lost in how soft she was. Her sweet taste was better than I expected. My tongue brushed against hers briefly, causing the hand that wasn’t at the back of my neck to excitedly grasp at my right arm.

This was everything I ever wanted. It was more. It was exactly what I needed. I guess I’ve known that the entire time. With the clarity her lips gave me, I realized it was ridiculous to ever deny any of it. I was so overwhelmed by it all that the tingling made my body go numb, but I could still feel all of her. Every inch of her that was pressed up against me. The warmth of her body and her mouth. The way her fingers tangled in my hair. How her breathing got shakier in response to the galloping of her heart. It was all-consuming and remarkable.

Kissing Nadya made every doubt I ever had about being with her fade away. I knew things would be different with her. I could feel it with every stroke her lips made against mine. I could feel it in my heart. My wolf could feel it too. I sensed its presence come to the surface to experience everything that the girl in my arms made us feel, causing my senses to explode. That’s never happened to me before. Not like this. Not without a full moon. And it wasn’t a lack of control, which was mystifying on its own.

Buried in the intensity, under her usual scent of mixed autumn spices, I caught a subtle note of arousal. The scent excited both me and my wolf. I started to kiss her harder for a few beats, beyond my control. A growl itched the back of my throat, hungry for more of her, hungry for the kind of contact we had been starved of for months, but I didn’t want to push it. I was content with the gift of her intoxicating kisses. Nadya didn’t need my primal urges ruining the moment.

I reluctantly pulled away, only realizing now just how little oxygen I had been taking in. Nadya was breathing heavily too, leaning her forehead against mine almost like she was tired. We remained quiet for at least a minute, both of us still basking in the bliss. Each steady breath I felt her take reminded me that what just happened wasn’t a dream. It was real. I kissed her. And she kissed me back. Everything was okay for these precious few minutes.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a good while.” I finally told her softly.

“You shouldn’t have waited so long.” Nadya replied.

#ocs #original characters #original writing #original story #wlw #My writing #im in a soft bitch mood #been wanting to rewrite their first kiss for a while so here ya go #also I know I said it was cool to reread my old writing #but its also cringy as fuck #like its usually not as horrifically bad as im expecting #but still like... yikes lmao #my ocs #Jayde #Nadya #Skye #Jayde pov

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unofferable-fic · 6 years

Text

UNOFFERABLE: 17 - RISKS

Summary: The unexpected arrival of an injured Midgardian child clinging to life causes a ruckus on Asgard. The princes, Thor and Loki, are somewhat intrigued by this unusual guest, unsure as to how and why she ended up in such a state. What they did not expect, however, was the turn of events her appearance would inevitably cause.

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Set Pre-Thor 1

Pairing: Loki x OFC

Inspired by this imagine

Warnings: Fluff, angst, more long awaited fluff.

Word Count: 3,561

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Playlist: “I Can’t Figure Out What’s Going On” — Half Moon Run, “Run to You” — Pentatonix, “Lovers” — Ruth Barrett

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A/N: Also available on AO3 and FanFiction.net. Oh Jesus, it’s happening...

A peaceful night’s rest seemed to allude Loki in recent weeks. His mind was consistently plagued with thoughts of Ellie that were new, daunting, and oddly intriguing. He was not used to this; wanting someone for more than just sating himself. He had had many Aesir in his lifetime, but never had he desired to spend time with them afterwards.

Am I being foolish? he thought, laying wide awake in his bed, his eyes boring into the ceiling. I have always vowed never to waste my time with such flippant emotions. Forming attachments is nothing but unnecessary weakness. I do not wish to be dependent on another. It would be unwise to involve myself with her.

But would she even wish him to? Did she feel the same ache in her chest and uneasiness in her abdomen that he suffered with at the sight of her? He had no reason to believe that she actually was attracted to him. She grew up with him from a young age and had definitely formed a fondness of him — that much he could believe — but attraction? He doubted it. He was used to getting his way with the servants and the others that he seduced, but nothing stretched on further than lust. He did not wish for anything more. He would not allow it.

But this Midgardian woman…

With a heavy sigh, he sat up in his bed, feeling an uncomfortable combination of being physically exhausted but wide awake in his mind. He threw his legs over the side and sat with his head in his hands. He would not act on these feelings. He was foolish to think that they were anything but a hindrance to him. He dismissed it as being nothing more than wanting to lay with Ellie out of mere curiosity — he had never had a Midgardian before considering they were so beneath the Aesir.

This is lust and nothing more. All I must do is find a willing servant to find release and I will return to seeing Ellie as the way she once was.

Loki sat for a long time on the side of his bed, reassuring himself that this was the best choice and promising that he would stand by it. Seeing no hope in falling asleep at this rate, he stood up, pulled on a tunic and pants, and left his chambers. He walked around the palace at his leisure, taking no notice of the Einherjar on night duty as he passed them. He didn’t think about his destination or where his bare feet were taking him; he just kept walking, blocking all thoughts of her from his mind. He wasn't surprised when he arrived at the library, but strolled inside and shut the large doors behind him. Inside, the room was illuminated by the moonlight peaking in through the tall windows. He gazed around and made his way towards one of the shelves, specifically one on the history of Midgard, his bare feet mostly silent on the wooden floor. When he rounded a corner, he hesitated in perplexity at what he saw.

“Loki?”

Ellie sat in his favourite armchair with a book in hand and her legs pulled up to her chest. A small candle was lit on the table beside her that gave off only a feint glow in the vast space. All she seemed to have on were her sleeping clothes, which only consisted of a light gown. A lump formed in his throat almost immediately.

“Ellie,” he mumbled. “What are you doing still awake?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she replied with a smile and set the heavy book down on the table. “Can’t sleep?”

His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, but it was truly difficult to tear his gaze from her attire. “Sleep seems to allude me of late.”

“How come?” She sounded concerned, and he didn’t doubt that she also looked it.

“If I knew why, I would probably be able to fix the problem.” He certainly hadn’t meant to sound so snappy, but his silver tongue was working against him that night.

When he stole a glance at her, he noticed the hint of hurt on her face. “Sorry I asked.”

“And why is it that you cannot rest either?” he questioned, hoping he could undo his previous rudeness, and took some hesitant steps towards her.

Stop walking to her, you fool! Stop it!

His feet carried on of their own accord. Tonight, his brain was taking a backseat.

“Over-thinkin’,” she grumbled and scratched her head. “About stuff. Can’t sleep when my head feels like it’s melted.”

“That’s understandable.”

She nodded and let out a sigh. “I was hopin’ reading may distract me long enough to fall asleep, but my mind keeps insistin’ that I waste time thinkin’ about it.”

“So pensive as usual then?”

She gave him a wry look but smiled. “Oh, ha ha ha. Very funny.”

“What are you reading?”

“Seiðr stuff mostly. I thought it could maybe distract me.”

He nodded and stopped next to the table, gently reaching out to run a finger over the book’s spine. “So what exactly is it that has claimed all your thoughts?”

She looked up at him with a smirk. Despite her appearance, he could tell that she wasn’t as relaxed as she made herself out to be. She was fingering the hem of her gown quickly, a familiar nervous tick. “Hey, if you’re not sharing then neither am I.”

He eyed her carefully, removing his hand from the book. She had peeked his interest without question and he wanted to know. “Ellie…”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“You know I don’t like it when you call me by such titles.” That wasn’t entirely true; nowadays, every time she called him ‘My Prince’, his abdomen clenched hard and he had to think of something else to prevent his breeches from tenting.

“I’m your maid — it’s sorta in my job description.”

“You are more than just my maid,” Loki answered without hesitation, but his reply was met with silence. The pair gazed at each other for what felt like the longest time from their positions. Ellie’s expression was unreadable and Loki was hoping that his was the same. Her lack of any answer only made him regret his words. He was doing an absolutely terrible job of acting like nothing was bothering him and he knew that she was no fool — he may have been the God of Lies, but she saw right through him. She did grow up learning from the best, after all.

If their silence confirmed anything, it was that they both knew when it came to class, his statement was a lie — she was no more than a mortal surrounded by gods.

“I know, we’re friends too,” Ellie sighed and got up from her seat with the large book in her small hands. “I should probably head to bed and leave you to whatever over-thinkin’ you are up to. Apparently you don’t want to talk about it, so I won’t try to help.”

He watched her walk over to the nearest bookshelf and return the book to its rightful home. Loki couldn’t help but let his eyes take in her figure as she stretched upwards to put it away, lingering on her backside. His jaw clenched at the sight and his eyes remained fixed even when she turned back around to walk by him.

“Goodnight, Loki,” she said with a nod as she passed him.

“Wait,” Loki called before he could even think of a reason not to. She froze on the spot with her back facing him, and to keep her there, he added quickly “Don’t… go. Please.”

Slowly turning to face him, he was treated with a look of bewilderment. “It’s really odd hearin’ that word come from your mouth.”

Loki couldn’t help but grin at her comment. “Please? What is so funny about that?”

Ellie tilted her head to the side. “Oh, come on. It’s hilarious.”

“Then at the risk of sounding hilarious, please stay for a moment.”

“If you insist.” She stood in front of him with her arms wrapped around her midsection. “So what’s botherin’ you? Is it your father?”

He knew he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t possibly let her know that she was the reason he couldn't sleep at night anymore, that she consumed his dreams to the point of insanity. So he would do what he does best, and lie. “He’s always bothering me, so no.”

“Then Thor, maybe? You’s seem to be getting on well lately though.”

“Thor has somehow managed to be less irritating than usual of late.”

“How about the Warriors Three, then? They’re sometimes able to get your goat.”

At her mention of the group, Loki’s mind began to weave a simple lie that could distract her from the truth. He had to avoid her realising what the problem was at all costs.

He looked at her hard, his lips set in a firm line, and remembered the comments Fandral had been making towards Ellie lately. That could work as a distraction, considering there was even truth in it as well. “I am not overly fond of Fandral at present.”

She listened intently, stepping closer to him. “For what reason exactly? I mean, besides his gratuitous confidence and general cockiness, what’s he done to deserve your displeasure?”

He fixed his gaze on her. “I do not like how he speaks to you.”

Her brow piqued at that. “How he speaks to me?”

“Yes. He is vulgar and his comments distasteful. You do not deserve to be spoken to in such a manner.”

“Umm, when did he say anythin’ inappropriate to me?”

Loki’s brow furrowed at her genuine look of surprise. How could she not realise how Fandral had treated her so ill? Was it possible that she even enjoyed his advances? The thought made Loki’s stomach sick. It was not possible. He refused to believe it.

“For one, in the training yard ereyesterday. He passed comment on your form while ogling you like you were a marinating ham.”

“Oh, that. Well, you know Fandral — he was probably joking. Plus, he’d bed anythin’ with a pulse.”

With a tone matching the sharpness of a blade, he said. “Oh, is it possible that you perhaps relish his advances?” His eyes narrowed as his stomach grew more sickly with each passing second.

Ellie immediately choked with wide, disbelieving eyes. “What? No! Are you insane?”

Loki held his arms out at his sides and leaned in closer to her, expecting for her to retreat back a few steps, but she remained poised on the spot. “I am merely putting two and two together, my dear. You do not dismiss his actions and it appears that you almost delight in them.”

And just like that, she snapped. “I do not enjoy them! What in the name of God makes you think that Fandral or anyone in this Godforsaken realm would ever look at me like that? I’m not even from here — I am a Midgardian! I’m mortal! I’m fucking nothing to you people!”

Towards the end of her short rant, she had begun to scream and her voice cracked. Her outburst shook the whole library and the pregnant silence that followed was almost painful. She breathed raggedly, her shoulders shaking with the anger that welled within her. When she opened her mouth to continue, her voice was almost a whisper. “I was left to die in a fuckin’ alleyway by the person who was supposed to love and protect me, the person who probably killed my brother and mother, and now I’m stuck on a different fuckin’ planet, realm — whatever — where I’m the only one of my kind. I can’t be with a god and a god could never want me. I’d be dead and buried in a bloody heartbeat compared to you lot.”

Loki couldn’t hear anymore of it, and he damn well nearly broke down when he saw the tears roll down her cheeks. He had caused this. He was the one that upset her and it killed him. He immediately wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a tight embrace. For a split second he could feel her body tense at the contact before she relaxed and wrapped her arms around his neck. With his arms around her waist, he let his chin rest on the top of her head. Her face was buried in his chest and her body shook with unsteady breaths.

“You are not nothing,” he whispered to her reassuringly, hoping to banish at least some of her doubts. “I do not want you thinking such things when they are so far from the truth. You…” He hesitated when he felt the lump in his throat, contemplated whether he should say it. Would he be taking one large step backwards? “You are not nothing to me, little one.”

He froze, awaiting some response. Any response.

Please say something. Please tell me that you care.

He peered down at her when her head tilted upwards and their eyes met. They were stained red from tears but he remembered thinking how good it felt to have her in his arms and how truly beautiful she looked when she studied him like that. She was inspecting him like something on display, a fine artefact found and placed behind glass to be surveyed in wonder. He hadn’t been expecting it, but suddenly her arms tightened around his neck, pulled him down, and her lips were on his.

He nearly leapt out of his own skin. He vaguely remembered letting out a small yelp at the contact before she suddenly pulled away, but he kept his arms firmly locked around her waist. Now they were both panting heavily.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to… I had t-to know what i-it would… feel like. I s-shouldn’t have, I’ve never—”

This time around, his lips cut her off. He took the lead, kissing her with the ferocity that he had been holding inside all those months as it came flooding out. His arms pulled her lithe body as close as it could possibly be against his own. He could remember nibbling on her bottom lip and the mewl that came out of her nearly sent all of the blood in his body straight down south. After what felt like a long time — but not nearly as long as he needed — he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers.

“That may have been what I was over-thinkin’ about earlier,” Ellie admitted between catching her breath with a look of what he could only hope was admiration. She was smiling now.

He chucked as her hands splayed out over his covered chest. “Kissing me?”

She gulped and averted her gaze, clearly nervous at the mention of the position they were in. “Well, yes, kissin’ you was a thought, but mostly just you. And me. And what you thought of me. I wasn’t sure whether you would want to kiss me.”

He let out a noise that was a mix between a sigh and a laugh. “Oh, little one, I have been thinking of kissing you for some time now.”

“R-really?” she squeaked in disbelief. “You’re not lyin’?”

“I would not lie to you about that,” he insisted and pulled her in for another deep kiss. For a moment, he savoured her taste and grinned when a shiver went up her spine. “I did not know if you would want me. I thought you would want another rather like Thor or Fandral.”

She grimaced at the thought. “Thor? Oh, God, no. I love that guy, but he is in no way my type. Don’t even get me started on Lover Boy either. You’ve been the only one who caught my eye. I just couldn’t imagine a god like you wantin’ me like this.”

His dug his fingers gently into her skin, giving just the right amount of pressure for her back to arch and her body to push into him. “That is a huge relief for me to hear, considering I have wanted you like this for a while.”

“Are you tellin’ me that all this time we have just been tip-toeing around each other, convinced that the other definitely wasn’t attracted to us, when we were both actually really into it?”

“I believe we may have.”

There was a short pause before they both burst out into a fit of laughter. Loki watched her as her eyes watered with happy tears this time around and felt warmth spread through him, the earlier sickness completely vanishing.

“We’re idiots,” she giggled and toyed with the neckline of his tunic.

“Of the highest order,” he agreed before lifting her suddenly in his arms. She squealed and her legs went around his waist, probably out of instinct more than anything else. Setting her down on the nearby table, he settled between her legs and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured. He truly meant it. She could knock the wind out of him with just a smile.

Her cheeks went pink almost instantly. “And you are extremely handsome.”

“My dear, you flatter me.”

“No, I mean it.” She paused briefly and opened her mouth a few times before closing it again. He merely stared at her and waited until eventually she managed to speak. “Loki?”

“Yes?”

“I know that you’re really experienced in… this stuff, and I’m not. At all. That—” A gulp. “—that was my first kiss. I’ve never courted another. Does my inexperience… does it bother you?”

He gave her a look of genuine surprise. “Hearing that I am the only one to taste your lips is one of the finest things that I have had the pleasure of knowing. And, Ellie, you taste delicious. I also feel inclined to mention that I have no issue with educating you in the more physical aspects of courting.”

He licked his lips and gazed lustfully at her, unwilling to sugar-coat what he was saying. Her cheeks were well and truly crimson now.

“Loki!” she hissed and slapped his shoulder. “You absolute scoundrel!”

“I believe the title of ‘Trickster’ suits me far better, love.”

“If you so insist. But does this means that you want’a court me?”

For the briefest of moments, he hesitated. The instinctive need to flee from any form of vulnerability was rising again somewhere in the back of his mind. But Loki’s physical urges took control of the situation, reminding him how her lips had just felt against his, how her body trembled in his hands…

He wanted this.

He wanted her.

Badly.

He had to make sure that she was his and his alone. No one could ever touch her in the ways that he would. No one could ever look at her like he did. For once, he was not concerned with this ending badly. Right now, the thoughts of her being with someone other than him was the worst outcome and he refused to let that happen.

He made a decision and he stuck to it confidently. “I do want to court you. You know, I have not been able to sleep lately because I could not get the thought of you out of my mind. It was scary, I will admit, as I have not cared for many people in such a manner before. But now that I have you in my arms, I am rather willing to say that I would much prefer to keep you here as long as I can.”

“But what of your mother and father? Odin is not goin’ to like this.”

“Oh, fuck Odin,” he groaned. “He rarely likes anything. But I will admit you are not wrong.”

“And Heimdall?”

“Darling, what do you take me for? I come to this library at night when I desire privacy, even from his prying eyes. This room is glamoured at this hour as always. He has no inkling as to our escapades in here. Despite that, I think we should keep this a secret, just for the moment.”

“So, a secret. Just between you and I?”

He nodded. “You and I. On that note, I very much want to kiss you again.”

She seemed nervous as he ran a finger over her cheekbone. “I really like kissin’ you, I just don’t really know if I’m any good at any of this.”

He chuckled deeply, leaning in closer to her. “Oh, my dear, you are far better at kissing than you realise.”

Soon, her lips were once more compliant against his and their bodies pressed tightly together. Loki had kissed many people in his life and he prided himself on his ability to make his lovers weak at the knees with just his lips and silver tongue, but never had he drawn such pleasure from merely a kiss. All rational thought and warnings against making himself vulnerable were banished to the far corners of his mind. With her hands in his hair and his teeth on her neck, he could barely form a coherent thought.

The sensation was like nothing he had felt before.

And, by the Norns, did he love it.

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flammiferr · 6 years

Text

The Hobbit Equation

Starting my reread, I questioned the workings of hobbits more deeply than before. I questioned what exactly the difference is between Bilbo (then later the four LOTR hobbits and to a lesser extent, Buckland) and the rest of the Shire that is so distasteful.

Here’s what I came up with.

Most hobbits: simplicity + ignorance

The distasteful exceptions: simplicity + knowledge

Ringbearers: knowledge - simplicity

Simplicity and ignorance is the rule of the Shire, at least near Hobbiton. You can see this in the culture, the dialogue, the narration, and the priorities. They value comfort and good food, party invitations and pipeweed. The entirety of the Shire gets caught up in Bilbo’s party. The post office is flooded and overwhelmed, food is essentially the central feature of any event and hobbit parents are willing to bend their rules if it means their children get a free meal. It’s only the Speech they dread.

Hobbits are simple. They want a simple speech. Before it even starts, the hobbits dread hearing Bilbo’s poetry, or his allusions “to the absurd adventures of his mysterious journey.” The hobbits don’t want knowledge of the outside world. They want to remain isolated for the sake of simplicity, but what they end up with is willful ignorance. They look down on Buckland, call its people strange, because they ride on boats like the outsiders and live unnaturally close to the Old Forest and the edge of the Shire. They live too near to danger, to knowledge that would change them. They don’t want to hear it, and they dismiss all who do as crazy and uncivilized. They blame Frodo’s parents for their own death because they tempted fate. They say Bilbo’s cracked and Frodo’s cracking. They make fun of Sam for learning from Bilbo and condemn Gandalf, an outsider, as a disturber of the peace.

It is with Bilbo’s Speech that this silent battle comes to the forefront. This has been simmering the entire time Bilbo has been back, and now it is boiling over. The battle is Bilbo’s knowledge and complexity versus the Shire’s willful ignorance and simplicity.

After Bilbo greets the different families, the book reads,

“Today is my one hundred and eleventh birthday: I am eleventy-one today! ‘Hurray! Hurray! Many Happy Returns!’ they shouted, and they hammered joyously on the tables. Bilbo was doing splendidly. This was the sort of stuff they liked: short and obvious.”

But then the Speech starts to change. He says he has called them all here for a “Purpose,” with a capital P. This is when some of the Tooks begin to listen carefully. Because Bilbo is deviating from the norm. Something about how he says this implies something new. This is a sign of Bilbo’s Speech going off the rails, and a reference to the “Took-ish spirit” of Bilbo’s that leapt at the chance for adventure all those years before. The Tooks pick up on the change, and they are interested.

Bilbo then announces that he has Three Purposes, and each one is more unacceptable than the last. The First is well received at its beginning (flattery is easy to understand), but then it becomes too complex. The hobbits are confused and unsettled. Thrown off, and made to think.

“Indeed. for Three Purposes! First of all, to tell you that I am immensely fond of you all, and that eleventy-one years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable hobbits. Tremendous outburst of approval.

I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve. This was unexpected and rather difficult. There was some scattered clapping, but most of them were trying to work it out and see if it came to a compliment.

Secondly, to celebrate my birthday. Cheers again.

Bilbo returns to the simple, and receives a positive response. They are easy to forgive this short complexity, because they don’t want to think too hard about it. They are ready to move on and are still happy to be filled with good food.

“I should say: OUR birthday. For it is, of course, also the birthday of my heir and nephew, Frodo. He comes of age and into his inheritance today. Some perfunctory clapping by the elders; and some loud shouts of ‘Frodo! Frodo! Jolly old Frodo,’ from the juniors. The Sackville-Bagginses scowled, and wondered what was meant by ‘coming into his inheritance’.

Now he alludes to what is about to happen. He is not only celebrating Frodo; he is setting up his imminent inheritance of Bag End, which of course is noticed by the Sackville-Bagginses. This is a transition from Bilbo to Frodo narratively as well. We followed Bilbo in The Hobbit, and now we will follow Frodo through The Lord of the Rings. We see that Frodo is liked by his peers, just as Bilbo once was. But the hobbits are more suspicious of Frodo because of his upbringing with the changed Bilbo. But Frodo still has his simplicity. He can balance well the simplicity of the Shire and the complexity of Bilbo. He knows how to mediate between them. Bilbo has shared his knowledge with Frodo, and Frodo does not yet have the Ring (something that will take away childlike simplicity). But the Ring is part of his inheritance, both literally and narratively. He is bound to the same fate, and the hobbits notice this as the years pass. (I’m getting ahead of myself; more about the Ring later). Frodo is still in love with the Shire, and the Shire accepts him, because he still has simplicity. He is popular: smart, adaptable, and open.

“Together we score one hundred and forty-four. Your numbers were chosen to fit this remarkable total: One Gross, if I may use the expression. No cheers. This was ridiculous. Many of his guests, and especially the Sackville-Bagginses, were insulted, feeling sure they had only been asked to fill the required number, like goods in a package. ‘One Gross, indeed! Vulgar expression.”

Here, some of Bilbo’s feelings come through. He has been isolated so long from hobbit society that he no longer sees them the same way. One Gross: an expression not meant for describing people (as stated earlier in the chapter). These hobbits, his relatives, are no longer his people. Except for Frodo. He and Frodo are now the only people he knows. He is setting them aside from the general populace. And it is this populace, these people present, that he wants to send a message to. And these hobbits are now both unsettled and angered, now even most of the Tooks. Bilbo, no longer caring what they think of him, is committing social suicide before he leaves just so he can finally challenge their way of life.

“It is also, if I maybe allowed to refer to ancient history, the anniversary of my arrival by barrel at Esgaroth on the Long Lake; though the fact that it was my birthday slipped my memory on that occasion. I was only fifty-one then, and birthdays did not seem so important. The banquet was very splendid, however, though I had a bad cold at the time, I remember, and could only say ‘thag you very buch’. I now repeat it more correctly: Thank you very much for coming to my little party. Obstinate silence. They all feared that a song or some poetry was now imminent; and they were getting bored. Why couldn’t he stop talking and let them drink to his health? But Bilbo did not sing or recite. He paused for a moment.

Thirdly and finally, he said, I wish to make an ANNOUNCEMENT. He spoke the last word so loudly and suddenly that everyone sat up who still could. I regret to announce that -- though, as I said, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to spend among you -- this is the END. I am going. I am leaving NOW, GOODBYE!

He stepped down and vanished.

Bilbo has felt since his adventure that he has been keeping a secret: the secret of culture, history, the Ring, adventure. Knowledge that he has been trying to share for years, but the hobbits have been willingly blind and deaf to it. This creates an unhappy dichotomy -- a tension that Bilbo releases in his Speech. He literally SHOUTS his differences at the hobbits, going through the list of what they think is unacceptable or what they don’t like. He has everything in this speech: complex words, references to adventure and foreign places, ‘One Gross.’ And when he does this, even though they’ve been insulted, they pass it off as just mad old Bilbo. Because that is easier than examining it. But there is unrest; the hobbits are upset that he made them think. For a brief moment, they are speechless. Frodo gives them a simple explanation they can accept, but for a while, they are still disturbed; even good food will not satisfy them. Bilbo has succeeded in briefly challenging their way of thinking. But then the hobbits blame Gandalf, an outsider, and decide that Bilbo must have fallen in a pool or river and died. A normal way of dying -- his adventure cut short with a realistic end, as a warning to any who might also get such silly ideas. They want things to be simple as they always were, but Bilbo is on a different level; all of his knowledge, his complexity, made him an outcast. One side has to give.

Bilbo has lost both his simplicity and his ignorance, and thus cannot stay in the Shire. He no longer belongs. There is no place for him. Frodo, as the years pass after the party, also begins to lose this belonging, and often regrets not going with Bilbo. He knows things about the world, he knows that great and terrible things are out there. That knowledge becomes a burden in the Shire, where no one else knows or cares; just like the simplicity and ignorance of Sam, Merry, and Pippin are initially an obstacle for them in navigating the world outside. But Frodo is different. Wheras Sam, Merry, and Pippin have a hard time because they still belong to the Shire, Frodo has a hard time in the Shire because he’s starting not to belong. What is different about him, then, that Sam, who was also taught by Bilbo, does not share?

The Ring, the sinister part of Frodo’s inheritance. Part of Frodo’s dissatisfaction may also come from his personality, but the Ring is an instrument for the loss of simplicity. It creates dissatisfaction, the want for more. It twists who you are, and you lose your innocence. This is the thing that drove Gollum, another hobbit-like creature, away from his own people. The longer Frodo carries the Ring, the more he forgets about the simple things. As he gets closer to Mordor, and the Ring becomes stronger, we get this dialogue from Frodo: “I can't recall the taste of food, nor the sound of water, nor the touch of grass.” This is eerily similar to what Gollum experienced under the mountains, where the Ring had so long to corrupt him.

“And we wept, Precious, we wept to be so alone. And we only wish to catch fish so juicy sweet. And we forgot the taste of bread... the sound of trees... the softness of the wind.”

This quote is a close echo of Frodo’s (or rather, vice versa). The Ring works to separate you from comfort, to go against your nature. For the simple hobbits, this is good food, nature, and especially companionship. This is why Frodo would have failed without Sam and his loyalty. Sam not only reminded him of these simple things (with his yet intact simplicity); he refused to leave Frodo even when the Ring tried to drive Sam away.

Eventually, even Sam, who also bore the Ring however briefly, feels the need to leave the Shire and sail like Frodo and Bilbo did. Frodo and Sam are the only two that listened to Bilbo’s stories and poetry as children. They had that knowledge from early on, and the Ring took away their childlike simplicity.

Merry and Pippin are different. They retain their simplicity throughout the story and beyond. Their shared connection of simplicity with the Shire allows them to become excellent leaders with the knowledge and experience that they gained. This difference and growth is highlighted in the Scouring of the Shire, when the hobbits take charge and Merry blows the horn of Rohan in response to Sandyman. I’ll get into this when I get to the end of my reread.

Finally, we’ll look at the Grey Havens. This is where Merry and Pippin most show their difference from Frodo and Sam. After Frodo leaves, Sam is comtemplative, sorrowful, and silent (though he can still delight in his family). Merry and Pippin walk back to the Shire singing. They are still joyful, mature and yet childlike (as opposed to the childish ignorance of the Shire previously). They still have their simplicity and, after the Shire has been so rocked, can bring their knowledge to the changed Shire in a subtle way. Because it was by the hobbits’ ignorance that they were susceptible to Saruman.

Merry and Pippin have been built up by their adventures, they have grown (literally and figuratively) and give off an aura of competence but also an aura of joy. They adapted to the world beautifully. Frodo and Sam were torn down by their adventures, Frodo so much so that he can no longer find peace in Middle Earth, while Sam can still be rebuilt by his family and his own rebuilding of the Shire itself. By restoring the nature of the Shire, he restores a bit of that simplicity in himself, until his own time to sail.

To conclude (at last), the proper growth of a hobbit is from childish to childlike: something Frodo achieved before even leaving the Shire. He experienced negative growth with his loss of simplicity, and thus, like Bilbo, was no longer able to stay in the Shire. He did, however, go a bit more quietly than Bilbo, whose Speech was the manifestation of the dichotomy of ignorance vs. knowledge, and a measure of how the Shire needed to change. So this is the hobbit equation: simplicity and ignorance, or simplicity and knowledge. The Ring takes one away from their nature, and they become un-hobbitlike, like Gollum became un-hobbitlike. Theirs is a healing that can now only come from the peace of Valinor.

(This has gotten abhorrently long. I’ll continue building on this idea as I go through the books, along with my other thoughts and theories. Hope you enjoyed! )

#lotr #ardametanet #bilbo's speech #flammiferr's meta

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overhotchoco2 · 3 years

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.*. Soft To Be Strong .*.

“The vulgar error is to think that love is a kind of illusion. It is the fault of bad poets who encourage this mistake. ‘I am completely enraptured,’ lovers say, as if somehow they were being deceived. When the affair ends, they say, ‘I have been stripped of my illusions’. When they cease to love, they say, ‘Oh. I see him clearly now.’ The reverse is the truth. The everyday world is shrouded. We see it dimly. Only when we love do we see the true person. The truth of a person is only visible through love. Love is not the illusion. Life is.” - D. Hare

Do you ever get this sensation that when you meet the one, it’s just supposed to work out? Little effort, and the effort people talk about (“relationships take work”) isn’t supposed to be that difficult, confusing, painful.. “real” effort. Not only that, but all your individual issues up to that point (baggage, walls up, disappointments, calluses) will magically go away when you lay eyes on each other or talk?

But in reality, I think some of us experience … not that. Meeting the one will not magically make you less afraid of the things you’re afraid of, magically solve all your “childhood” issues (basically, any issue up to that moment, really), magically make you a perfect communicator and listener, magically fuse together with another person’s habits, fears and different perspectives. No amount of knowing they’re the one will remove doubts about them as a person, your readiness for commitment, make life fall into place or even guarantee you’ll be together happily ever after from that simple fact. And some say it isn’t even a fact; that “the one” or “your person” (or to us 80s children: “soulmate”) isn’t even a thing, but a choice, which I personally feel it’s people’s excuses of ignoring all of the above (and below) to keep on searching for that perfection that is right under their nose. I do think “the one” does exist, but like I said, I also think it’s not a guarantee you’ll get to spend your lifetimes together, unfortunately, because - I think we have this idea in our heads that it’s not supposed to be hard. We think when they say “it’s hard work” it’s either not as hard as they warn, or that we can simply avoid it cuz we don’t need anyone else but ourselves. And that’s interesting, because some of the wisest, most spiritual and enlightened people I personally know, don’t quite agree; we’re social beings, and we’re partner beings. Being alone is not only not genetic, but it’s for the ones who choose to stay afraid.

And I can be quite easily put in this category.

But I want to go back to - we think when we meet our person, it’ll just flow and we’ll just be in sync and know each other beautifully and perfectly; finish each other’s sentences. Then we discover, if we’re lucky to run into our “one”, that maybe it isn’t so. But we’re kinda maybe taught that we’re supposed to; that it’s supposed to be perfect.

“Why do I feel with every atom of my being that I found the one, but yet it’s not fitting like a puzzle, and I still have all these fears, and are these my fears or theirs, etc. etc.?” is what we might ask ourselves. It shouldn’t be so hard, I shouldn’t be afraid, I should be elated and in a long honeymoon period - just a month, oh no! Run away! That means it’s not the one.

But “the one” isn’t about actions or feelings or sensations. It’s something you just know when you’re open to … well, everything. The whole Universe.

We all have heard the saying (and if not, you’ve heard here once or twice so far) that relationships take hard work; they’re not easy, they’re hard. How much do we really hear that and understand how hard the work actually is? And what type of work, too. I can tell you - not much. We just say it and repeat it cuz we sound mature, but we all think it’s not going to take that much work, or… and this is another good one: you’ll be magically inspired and excited to do the work. The person will be “worth it”. And then we get into a whole other issue of not feeling worthy when things don’t work out because one or both choose to keep looking or fleeing.

Where did we get these ideas, though? It makes absolutely no sense. You take two people who have been brought up differently, have different innate perceptions of life and everything in it… heck, you see it in siblings how different and how volatile those relationships can be, and they grew up in the same house with the same parents, going to the same school, etc. etc. And you expect, especially nowadays where people meet from across the globe, two people to magically just fuse and skip through a field without any problems, without any huge, major, difficult, excruciating problems in tackling those differences? Ever?

I think when it hits you, it hits you. May it be experience, may it be age, may it be self-work, may it be luck, may it be fate - I think when you get it, you get it. And it doesn’t have to be when you found your person. It can easily be before, during or even after. Those who somehow get it before, I think are the lucky ones. Those who get it during just in time, I think are also lucky enough. And those who get it after, I think it is unfortunate. I don’t believe when you meet your right person, you’ll want to make it work more, it will be easier or nothing can tear you apart. You can choose to ignore it. You can choose your fears, your doubts, your ego before it. It doesn’t make it any less true, nor false. When you find the right person especially later in life, I feel we have invisible, thick and heavy walls of baggage; we think it will be like the first crush in high school - all simple, straightforward, clear and doable - but it’s more like the Grinch or Scrooge trying to not be… grinchy and scroogey. If we’re lucky, we’ll try, but we may be so far gone in our defenses, we may not even try or see a need for it.

We think when we meet the right person, and I use “right person” for those that do not subscribe to fate and stars ✨ and aligned faith… it can be someone you choose based on some criteria, all logical and so forth,we think we can unload everything and they’ll love us unconditionally, even right away, too. That somehow they’ll just understand us. That we’ll understand them. If you’re christian, perhaps you know of Babel, and if you’re not, you at least know the translation software; and if you don’t know either, Google always has the answer.

As people, we live in this illusion that we actually understand each other when we speak the same language. I remember how in disbelief I was of Anna and Mursel - how can two people who can not speak more than a few words of each other’s language, know they love each other and they’re the one? As much as I believe in “ones”, I even found that one hard to believe, and you do start dismissing it and diminishing it “oh, it must be a scam. No? Well, it must be based on looks. Maybe not? Well, it must be because they can’t understand each other and they’re in love with who they think the other one is…” and so on and so on. But isn’t this just our jealous cynicism built out of calluses life’s thrown our way?

“Love is not the illusion. Life is,” as D. Hare says it. If you have been so deeply hurt by life and by love that you hold on strongly to your cynicism, then you can say this is just an opinion, a poetic movement and perhaps even that it didn’t work out too well in the play and it’s been taken out of context. I wouldn’t know of the latter, I don’t really know of either of them.. but when I saw this quote a few months ago, it clearly exemplified what I’ve learned, and I’m still fighting with every fiber of my being, even knowing this is right; surrender yourself.

This potential propaganda of some wounded people scorned in love- the more I learn about humans, the more I’ll say that it’s probably self-harm but they might not realize that - of how love is blind, or that one puts on love goggles triggered by mere chemical reactions for procreation in their brain… what benefit does it bring you to believe it vs. the other side? Because you choose to hold on to it or adopt it for you think it benefits you in some way. But I say - surrender is the true way.

A few months ago, I stumbled upon a song that spoke to me in a way no one saying the same message has ever gotten through to my core, to my ego, softening it to put its weapons down (or at least start thinking about it).

Marina - “Soft to be Strong”

“I know it's hard to be soft I know it hurts to be kind I know that when love is lost It's only fear in disguise

And I guess I've known it all along The truth is you have to be soft to be strong Finally, I feel the fear is gone I found out love has to be soft to be strong”

And my favorite part that speaks to my most hurt inner child:

“And I made myself believe Other people wanted to hurt me”

I urge you to listen to the song as it transmits meaning much better in its natural form.

This has been a long one, but it’s also been a while and it’s such a packed subject - I haven’t really even gotten most of it out on this virtual paper. But I hope enough to make you self-reflect a little bit.

I know there is a “one”. I know it goes beyond physical, mental, emotional attraction and it has little to do with any of those three’s logic. I don’t think I know that it’s a guarantee, unfortunately. But I don’t know that it’s not. Everything points in the direction that we can screw it up, or maybe as it was fate to find it, it was fate to lose it, or maybe we may never be able to shake off what is truly for us.

I have many regrets I can’t think how I would’ve done different, because how can you prepare truly for something you don’t know, never experienced before, can’t be taught, and at times you may not even believe in? All I feel I can do is be better now, and lean into whatever comes next. Yet, I still feel unprepared for any of that.

I wish finding “the one” would be magic. I wish it would be easy, everything would go right, both would choose to work at it and on themselves, at the same time, in the same way, with the same understanding. Not everyone out there with someone has found the one, and some are truly very happy. I think if you have, you’ll understand this message, but if you’re one of those, you might disagree with it or understand it differently. We’re all as clueless as the other, though. Who knows what the truth really is. All I can say is I believe every word I wrote on this virtual platform. I’ve felt all of it in a way words might fail to convey its meaning.

My life has gone through a lot of … a lot, these past few years. I may not have experienced everything everyone else has experienced, but not everyone has reflected necessarily as much as I have, either. It’s not a competition. Finally, I feel calm and awake and even happy. I’m grateful for how life’s turned out lately. Don’t think this is coming out of a bitter left-of-center feeling. I’m at peace. I’m excited most of the time about how much more I see now than ever, and also coming back to myself from who I’ve shed along the last ten years little by little. I choose to be happy, but my person is a real thing and with all my respect, love and peace in my heart, they will always be with me wherever life has yet to take me. I don’t know why. I don’t have the answers. I just have the observations.

“No shame in being sincere” - Marina

...and thank you to all before me through whom I can see this.

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filmista · 7 years

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아가씨 (The Handmaiden) (2016)

“You can even curse at me or steal things from me. But please don’t lie to me. Understand?”

"East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet", Rudyard Kipling once wrote. Now Kipling was, of course, an old-fashioned, imperealistic racist who suggested all sorts of unsavory things with this qoute, but in a way there is point in it: it proves particularly difficult to export certain elements of eastern film production culture to the west.

Case in point: Korean directors Park Chan-wook and Bong Joon-ho, who both had the opportunity to make a first English-language film over the past two years, were both left with a serious hangover. Bong made the amazing ‘Snowpiercer’, a film that was massively misunderstood and dismissed by some critics and comercially flopped in the US. And Park went through the exact same thing with the maybe even better, ‘Stoker’.

The problem with those films might be that the directors didn’t want to compromise their style and thematic interests for the English audience. In essence, they made Korean films, but in English, and the fact that they used to go beyond the familiar narrative paths that the public is used to, didn’t really turn out in their favor.

Bong now went to Netflix to try again with the film ‘Okja’, Park just returned home and made the sumptuous melodrama ‘The Handmaiden’.

The story takes place in Japan's occupied Korea of about 1930. The young, illiterate Sook-Hee (Kim Tae-ri) is hired by the charming Fujiwara, a scammer (Ha Jung-woo) to infiltrate the household of the translator and book collector Kouzuki (Jo Jin-woong)

The plan is simple: Fujiwara will seduce the filthy rich trophy of Kouzuki, Dame Hideko (Kim Min-hee) to then take off with her money. Sook-Hee is positioned in the house to drive Hideko into Fujiwara's arms as quickly as possible, after which Kouzuki is left alone with his book collection.

That is the original plan, but of course, there’s much more to it than that. ‘The Handmaiden’ is built as a film in three parts, each telling something from the perspective of another character.

As the story progresses, we see certain scenes coming back a second or even third time, but with more information - cheaters are deceived, characters appear to be secretly conspring together and even the last moments of the film are still loaded with an ultimate doubt: who can trust who?

A striking feature of recent Korean cinema is the way in which the directors often combine trashy sensational pulp stories with an elegant visual style and a remarkably serious tone, as if they themselves don’t realise how much their plot lines tend to go into pure exploitation.

Take Park's International Breakthrough film Oldboy: an often extremely violent revenge film with plot lines around incest and a gloriously unrealistic punchline in the end.

But it’s served with so much aplomb that it almost becomes art. In ‘The Handmaiden’ he actually does the same: he gives us a pot boiler that goes shamelessly over the top.

Where part one of the film is another gothic melodrama part two suddenly changes into a kinky erotic thriller of which Paul Verhoeven would be proud.

There is even a long lesbian sex scene that almost seems an Asian variation on ‘La Vie d'Adèle’, but then shot with a shot from the position of one of the two ladies' vagina, yes really... It however is a genuinely emotional and passionate scene.

Just to say, Park Chan-wook doesn’t crawl back for much. In part three, he pulls out all the violence with a long, freakish torture scene that has nothing to do with reality. Park has very consciously made a vulgar, exploitative film. Sex! Violence! Perversion! Fraud! Exclamation marks!

You shouldn’t confuse this with bad cinema or even with tastelessness. That vulgarity and sensiatonalsim simply form the frame Park works with, nothing more. What he then does stylistically and thematically with that vulgar matter is less nothing than brilliant.

First of all, there is the visual side: where Western movies increasingly choose a purely functional, sometimes eventually dull visual grammar of shot/ countershot or otherwise consciously go for a very understated style of long-held wide shots, Park dares to go for theatrical, swift steadicam shots, which complement the exuberant side of the plot perfectly.

The sets are also impressive: Kouzuki's country house is described at the beginning of the film as a mix between Japan and Great Britain. This provides a number of unforgettable locations, such as a library that also serves as a reading room and auditorium, or even a hidden torture room.

Purely on the narrative side there’s the inventive way that all the plot elements collide - pulp perhaps, yes, but well-structured pulp. However unlikley the plot can might get to be, eventually it all clicks. Despite the large dose of melodrama and the triple structure, ‘The Handmaiden’ remains a perfectly coherent film in which each scene has its meaning.

Park even finds the time for a fascinating theme about the role of women in the society of the time. Both Hideko and Sook-Hee are actually systematically abused in the film. Hideko by Kouzuki, who shamelessly exploits her wealth to expand his book collection, and in addition to this regularly obligates her to read pornographic literature to him and his friends, purely to turn them on.

In turn, Sook-Hee is manipulated by Fujiwara to participate in his plan. It goes without saying that both men underestimate the women, but their mentality speaks volumes. Park gives a feminist point of view to a genre that has often been accused of misogyny, which is refreshing.

The handmaiden is flamboyant cinema, in which the plot of a B movie is linked to the intelligence and visual refinement of a prestige film. Add to it all the actors, who are visibly having fun with their roles and you get a lively, almost scandalously entertaining film.

“He should have told me she was so pretty.”

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theamberfang · 5 years

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IDA: A Study in Gold 3-23

I had been tired the past few days for these posts, but its even worse today: I feel ready to go back to sleep. I guess I didn’t sleep very well on top of waking earlier this morning. Again, I considered skipping today, but I’ll persevere and see what I can manage to do anyway. I’m preemptively expecting to only get one sentence done, but maybe I’ll surprise myself.

Source

"There is no need to be vulgar," I answered, although I took no offense at her implication.

Judith doesn’t seem to be amused by this sort of joke. When she calls it “vulgar” though, wonder if that’s only because of the joke’s sexual nature or if the interspecies component has anything to do with it. She says that no offense was taken, but is that because she is fine with interspecies couples or because it’s such an extreme impossibility to her that she sees no point in taking it seriously?

Another component, unrelated to any sort of prejudice, is Judith’s experience with people - specifically her own family - trying to match her up with a man. Her parents were focused on getting her married, but I can imagine her siblings making jokes of a sexual nature, similar to Ramford here. This flat dismissal could just be something she is used to.

Beyond trying to figure out what she might mean with her dialogue, the use of a simple “answered” actually helps get across the idea that Judith isn’t really bothered by Ramford’s joke. It’s a neutral description, and in this situation really underscores her lack of a reaction.

Some few ribald comments at the expense of two mammals of opposite genders proposing to live together was to be expected, and so long as it never arose above that I would not mind her little jokes.

Though I’m not familiar with the word “ribald,” I don’t think it’s too hard to piece together from the context. I did look it up anyway though, and according to Google it “refers to sexual matters in an amusingly coarse or irreverent way.” It’s actually more specific than I had guessed with the addition of amusing irreverence; it’s precisely the type of comment that Ramford had made.

This sentence implies that heteronormativity actually trumps any taboo regarding interspecies coupling. I suppose if one were directly translating race to species, it makes sense, and many Zootopia fanfictions do the same thing. It’s simpler to translate our own human experience directly than to adjust these things according to the setting. This isn’t necessarily a wrong interpretation or anything either, but I have read stories where interspecies coupling is significantly more “queer” than homosexuality, and I personally think it makes more sense. With that cleared up about this specific narrative, I think I can assume Judith really doesn’t mind the concept of interspecies coupling and she was really referring only to Ramford’s ribaldry as being vulgar.

Since that doesn’t seem to be a problem, when Judith says “so long as it never arose above that,” she probably means as long as Ramford doesn’t seriously imply that she should start a romantic relationship with Nicholas. The problem being the romantic relationship, and little to nothing to do with the fact that they are different species.

While I did not find Wilde to be of any interest in the particular way in which Ramford had suggested, I was considerably interested in my new acquaintance, and I found my thoughts consumed by him on the entire ride back to my hotel.

Despite saying she doesn’t find Wilde sexually attractive, this is the sentence most teasing of potential romance yet. It seems that both Ramford and Judith have made the mistake of conflating lust and love: just because two people hit it off doesn’t mean their relationship will lead to sex, and just because two people don’t find each other sexually attractive doesn’t mean they can’t fall in love with each other.

To be fair to them, these ideas are conflated in popular culture, but I personally think it is actively damaging to do so. With our monogamous traditions, we often expect a single partner to fulfill too many of our needs. We need all sorts of love and support, and it’s unreasonable to expect one person to provide all of it. (If someone has met those expectations for you, then you are a lucky exception and you should cherish that person all the more.)

#indepth analysis #a study in gold #wanmwad #asig chapter 3

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notwhelmedyet · 7 years

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fic : Hellfire, Spitfire and the Fantasy of Choice

...so I locked myself into writing from Chromedome’s point of view in Seeing Double, but there were some things that could only be expressed from Rewind’s perspective. Hence, I’m writing a couple of very short stories to fill in the gaps!

This is a story that takes place in the same continuity as Seeing Double (link!). However, all you need to know from that is it’s set circa mtmte issue 33 and that Rewind doesn't get away from the DJD and is taken as a trophy. This is what happens next. Also delves a sliver of my interpretation of Rewind's life pre-Dominus.

Read on ao3 (link) or below

"Your toy threw it's leg at me," Kaon complained, holding up the leg. It had barely scuffed him. His silhouette cast a spiny shouldered shadow against the projection, cutting through the shaking image of Domey's lifeless body. They'd locked his neck joint that morning to stop him from turning the picture to face the wall, but the shaking wasn't even an act of resistance. Apparently it was his body's natural reaction to terror. How convenient for him that it served his purposes of also making them miserable.

Just like his leg. It was their fault for detaching the things and then leaving them within reaching distance. He'd pulled the other one close, ready to throw it at whoever next tried to touch him. Probably that awful little medic again. He shuddered and the video on the projection spluttered to a halt. It stayed black for a moment and then looped back to the beginning of the footage, Overlord's execution.

Tarn looked over at Kaon with narrowed eyes. "Are you frightened of the thing?"

"It's a nuisance. We should take the arms off, stop it from bothering us. It's much better now with the vocalizer cut off."

Rewind clicked irritably, "You are all dead." The odds of them ever having learned clickspeak were slim, but at least he still had the satisfaction. To punctuate the statement, he spelled out the threat again in sign language and then with several vulgar gestures he had stored in his database.

"It is a bit...feisty still," Tarn admitted. "Ask Nickel about cutting down on it's fuel, see if that quiets it."

"The projector's an auxiliary system, it'll cut out if we cut its rations much more," Kaon said.

"Mm, not if Nickel goes in and links it up with the emergency response circuitry. It's a fairly simple medical override. Like we did with Nimbus so he could enjoy more of his time in Helex's smelter without offlining himself."

"Ah, yes. That was enjoyable," Kaon agreed. Behind them, Pipes' paint bubbled and peeled, hands desperately trying to hold his spark in his chest despite the gaping hole. The image shook and shuddered.

Tarn walked over to Rewind and knelt, staring at him, head cocked. Rewind kept his grip on the leg. "Little thing," Tarn said, "you are comforted by the thought of resisting us. But the more you resist, the more pieces of you we will take away. Eventually you will only be the projector and your video and the silent scream you cannot voice. And what will be the point of resisting then?"

He got up and walked away. "Comm Nickel," he said over his shoulder. "She can do that coding before we hit the planet."

He wasn't sure what was going wrong, but there was something about the Energon that was making him sick. He'd been subsisting on the meager rations they gave out at the relief center for two stellar cycles, after he lost his position doing data entry to a new wave of Functionist propaganda. It wasn't enough, but it had been better than nothing. Now it hurt, an all around ache through his cabling but centered at his fuel pump, like something was clamping it tighter and tighter and the liquid couldn't compress. He found himself passing cycles counting kliks, trying to distract himself from the pain and then from the hunger when the pain was so bad he couldn't get up to get his ration for the day.

Disposables weren't allowed at the community clinic anymore. And even if they were, he had no Shanix to ply a medic with.

"You need a placement," one of his neighbors clicked at him. He had a weird dialect of clickspeak, this mech. He was one of the laser pointers and he'd come from somewhere far away, some patron who'd traveled from...maybe Tetrahex. Rewind couldn't remember anymore. Maybe his memory was corrupting.

"I am no slave," he said.

"Soon you won't be," the neighbor said. "Soon you'll be dead."

"Better to die free," Rewind said.

"You are stupid," he said back. "This can not last. When change comes, you will be dead and we will be free."

It took two of them to carry him to the Functionist center, where he waited eighteen cycles for an especially down on his luck patron to select him from the pens. He spent the next 67 stellar cycles in solitude, processing and storing astronomy datafiles. But that first fueling on real, uncut energon was like a taste of the afterspark. Sure, it was low grade and barely filtered, but it wasn't like it took much energy to sit in the dark and think. He composed poetry for a few stellar cycles, then switched to translating the classics from memory into clickspeak. First his own dialect and then what he could remember of that Tetrahexian laser pointer. When he tired of that, he started reanalyzing the starmaps he received for his own entertainment. The constellations became a tiny army of angry memory sticks surrounding the Functionist Council, bludgeoning them to death. He named each one. It was better than death, he supposed. He was pretty sure. He was nearly certain.

His next patron nearly had an army of memory sticks all his own, a cohort of seven. He worked in Iacon's local government and used them to file and access court records. The work was worse, more files about death, petty crime, addicts and abuse. But he got to walk again. There was a click in his left knee he didn't remember from before his first placement, but he couldn't be sure it hadn't started up earlier. He hadn't been very coherent those last months.

The luxury of that patron was the company. The Functionists had apparently completely brainwashed everyone into believing that the 'lower classes' could barely follow simple instructions, let alone be capable of mutual communication. They seemed to think the chatter of his coworkers was babble.

Which is what it was for Rewind for the first few deca-cycles. Clickspeak had changed while he'd been locked up playing with linguistics and they chittered in amusement at his odd turns of phrase. But before long he adapted and they were all on speaking terms.

"Allergy," Frame diagnosed. "You were allergic to crude Energon. They started using crude instead of processed at the relief centers right about that time."

"I'm allergic to it too," Buffer said. "Pretty common for our frametype, actually. Three of my old cohort were allergic."

"It's good you came in when you did," Frame said. "Even if you could have lasted through it, they closed the relief centers to 'disposables' not long after that. That's when I finally broke."

"I lasted another seven stellar cycles," Flicker said, adding a dismissive trill at the end. Rewind had been telling them about how his old Tetrahexian neighbor used to do that. He was never sure if it was only him or an actual dialect, but it had certainly become part of the cohort's pattern of speech. "Had a friend who was conscripted into mining and he shared rations with me until they reassigned him off-planet."

"A moment for the helpers whose fate we'll never know," Index said softly. They all looked over. Index had been selected the same time Rewind had, but had adapted to speaking far slower. He'd been given an assignment at the beginning of the Functionist upswell and had been alone storing financial records in a closet somewhere until the landlord who'd been his patron had finally gone bankrupt. Even Rewind's old clickspeak had been virtually unintelligible for Index at first.

"We are in darkness but may they have light," Rewind said. They all echoed him and cut their optics for a klik in respect. Then they jumped back to work before someone could notice. Rewind had never heard any of the six acts of gratitude before coming there, but he was learning their import to his new friends. It wasn't religious, but it made them feel less small and their suffering not just theirs but part of a community's.

Those stellar-cycles had been his happiest years until Dominus recognized his worth. He sometimes turned them over in his head, let the memory's now well-rounded corners comfort him with it's familiarity. None of that cohort had survived the war. Almost none of his frametype had survived the war and the bad years that lead up to it. But their deaths were familiar. Given long enough anything could become familiar and comforting. He turned those memories over and then he let the images projected on the wall wash over him, blunting the edges a little bit at a time.

The creature they called a sparkeater was nothing of the sort. He looked a lot like a turbofox, but some of the details didn't quite match up. Too much ruff around the neck. Rewind had seen the thing attempt to eat his friends' dead bodies and the first time it tried to lay down beside him he flinched away. It flinched back and ducked it's head down, scurrying off to some other corner of the ship.

When it tried again, Rewind was already delirious with hunger and lack of recharge. He'd never seen them feed the pet, he realized. Was it was only permitted to drink from their kills? If so, it would be even hungrier than him. There was no one in the lounge to watch the eternal feed at that moment, so he worked up the effort to click at it. "Maybe what you are is not your fault," he said. "Maybe you are good." It looked at him with enormous eyes and circled closer before curling up, nestled by the socket for his left leg. It was warm. "You are good," he said, experimentally. "I forgive you."

It hummed in pleasure, sending vibrations up through his frame.

If they hadn't taken his arms he'd have been tempted to pet the thing, maybe groom the spines of its coat into order. As it was, he drifted on the heady daze of too little sleep and the vibrations rumbling through his body. At some point he'd grown so weak that consciousness no longer felt real. It made the forgiving easier. "You are good," he said again. "You deserve better than this."

#my fics #mtmte #maccadam #rewind #djd #dominus ambus #i want to rate this mature #but then i'd disappoint people looking for smut?#but it is very dark #also #weirdly #linguistics of the lower classes of cybertron #mine #gay space car robots: IN SPACE #mtmte fanfiction

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: Getting Comfortable with Sexy and Silly Art

Jason Pickleman, “SEX” (all photos by the author for Hyperallergic)

CHICAGO — I’ve been thinking about growing up as a first-generation Taiwanese American in suburban San Diego. I left for school and came back smug, telling my family the places I’d been, the people I’d met, the art I’d seen — and became frustrated when they didn’t care or couldn’t understand. I always wanted to forget that San Diego suburb, and forget those Asian American traditions that I thought stifled one’s inability to comprehend the culture and politics of art. But SEX, an exhibition in one of those places I’ve been since I left San Diego — Chicago’s Lawrence & Clark gallery — features works that struck me as laughably brash before they slowly revealed their intimacy, pulling the rug out from under my feet. It showed me that the Taiwanese American bubble of an upbringing I had tried so hard to leave behind actually gave me the ground to think about art, that art only means as much as you can bring to it, and that I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss my identity.

SEX is an exhibition that doesn’t follow the structure of one, but that’s because Lawrence & Clark is a gallery that doesn’t adhere to the conventional model either. The art exhibited is all from the collection of Chicago-based graphic designer and gallerist Jason Pickleman, who has been collecting the work of emerging and established artists, most with ties to Chicago, for the last 30 years. SEX changed frequently during my visits over the summer — pieces were moved, added, and taken out; and walls were repainted different colors. Pickleman hangs works salon-style and lets them spill off the walls onto the floor, giving the space an instinctive, stimulating, but snug atmosphere that encourages visitors to get closer and gradually notice the details and connections in and between works.

Installation view of SEX at Lawrence & Clark

SEX came together when Pickleman decided to re-create the titular bold, hot pink sign that hung above Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood’s King’s Road boutique in the mid 1970s, which he first saw in a magazine as a teenager in suburban Chicago. In the gallery, the letters look like they might fall at any minute; vinyl is wrapped tight around beckoning bulges and curves sculpted out of MDF. “SEX” shows how text, simply read or uttered, is sounded out and thus becomes physical and sensual. But the piece isn’t sordid or gratuitous; instead, it boldly proclaims and subverts taboo with punk flair.

Puppies Puppies, “Spaghetti and Condoms” (2015)

The same audacity is present in Puppies Puppies’s “Spaghetti and Condoms” (2015), a sculpture made up of a narrow, rectangular, mirrored pedestal on which a can of Chef Boyardee canned spaghetti and two boxes of Trojan condoms sit. The work is based on an image of a spaghetti-filled condom that strangely went viral on Tumblr in 2014. To write critically or poetically about a mesmerizingly disgusting internet trend seems absurd, but maybe Puppies Puppies appears to have made this piece specifically for this reason: to make art criticism and art history look just a little contrived. The mirrored stand almost disappears as it pulls you in and reflects the space and objects immediately around it. It’s incredibly hard to take a photo of the sculpture without catching a reflection of yourself in it. Normally, by the standards of today’s selfie-focused art, that would be a big plus. But Puppies Puppies wryly satirizes selfie culture by highlighting a viral image too gross, embarrassing, and fetishized to want to be in a photo with.

Detail of Puppies Puppies, “Spaghetti and Condoms” (2015)

Ultimately, “Spaghetti and Condoms” is smart in its subversion. The sculpture slowly reveals itself to be visually simple and beautiful. The royal blue in the Chef Boyardee logo matches the blue on the boxes of Trojans, and the stacked forms appear minimal and confident. I visited on the day Pickleman decided to “finish” the piece by spooning the spaghetti into a condom, and the resulting curved, bloated shape was oddly elegant and restrained. Puppies Puppies asks viewers to suspend their initial disbelief, and questions why we might be so quick to discount the sometimes irrational allure of low or popular culture, while giving art more credibility because it is labeled as such.

Sam Lipp, “Free Hospitals” (2015)

Across the gallery, Sam Lipp’s painting “Free Hospitals” (2015) quietly but assertively balances out “Spaghetti and Condoms” with an equal but opposite reaction. It’s a medium-sized painting with red, green, blue, and black rectangular forms that waver in each corner, with the words “Free Hospitals” placed between them. “Free Hospitals” isn’t even proclaimed — the painting doesn’t read “We should have,” or “There need to be” free hospitals; rather, the text is stated plainly. Each rectangle is mottled with the three other colors in the work; little specks of paint stand up ever so slightly, like the polyester on a paint roller left out to dry. The shapes and words hover beneath this thin, gauzy sheen of paint that appears rough and abrasive — like you’d skin your knee on the surface if you fell on it. “Free Hospitals” appears sad and gentle at first, but is actually quite cutting, especially when the simple idea of “Free Hospitals” — ie. basic health care — seems so far out of reach.

Cameron Clayborn, “Coagulate 1” (2017)

“Free Hospitals” works in layers, first eliciting a gentle appreciation that builds into a devastating, melancholic wash. It resonates with the rest of the work in SEX, which seems to focus on the subtle intimacy that can be drawn out of art. In this regard, Cameron Clayborn’s sculpture “Coagulate 1” (2017) is patient, proud, and sensual, but never vulgar. “Coagulate 1” features 10 dark brown, tan, and gray leather and felt sacks in varying heights in front of a mint green wall. Some forms stand erect, some fall limply, some are rolled over and scrunched into each other, but they all touch, the wrinkled leather and soft felt rubbing up against each other. Visible stitching crawls up the sides of these carefully handmade forms, and some are sealed at their tops with sharp, rusted, threatening metal clamps.

Matt Stole, “Modernist Phallus” (2005)

The rest of the works in SEX likewise mix humor and thoughtful critique. If much of modernism has been about macho male bravado, Matt Stole dismantles its ego with “Modernist Phallus” (2005), a drawing of just those words, austerely inscribed in pencil on an Art Institute of Chicago letterhead, ultimately erasable. Sterling Lawrence’s “Casting Elbows” (2015) features an abstract, awkwardly-shaped, and flesh-colored body part — is it a sex toy? — protruding from a small, burnished metal square. Out of any clear context, the elbow looks curiously uncomfortable and unsexy.

Several years ago, I would have ignored SEX. I would have been annoyed by the work, likely because of my Asian upbringing, which championed a serious, reticent, and demure work ethic above all else. There was no time for brashness, or silliness — my dad certainly didn’t see the point 35 years ago when he moved to San Diego alone to go to school, nor does he see it now, waking up at 6am six days a week to open up the family print shop. Though my parents did not and still do not understand the work I’m interested in, they support me the best they can. Indeed, if growing up Taiwanese American has taught me anything, it’s to do your job, but still be respectful of difference; to be silently and individually proud of identity, and never to engage in negative, aggressive arguments.

To be sure, there are problems with the conservative submissiveness that is part of my cultural inheritance, but it has also encouraged me to strive for patience in the face of difference. And so, even though SEX initially made me uncomfortable with its flagrant absurdity, it challenged me to take my time. SEX pulls you in with an awkward recklessness that eventually gives way to a woozy intimacy, reminding you how raw and personal art can get.

Sterling Lawrence, “Casting Elbows” (2015)

SEX continues at Lawrence & Clark (4755 North Clark Street, Chicago, Illinois) through October 1.

The post Getting Comfortable with Sexy and Silly Art appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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literateape · 7 years

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Anger and Empathy: The Lasting Accomplishments of the Women’s March on Washington — Part II

By David Himmel

"Anger and Empathy" is a three-part report. The final installation will be published tomorrow. Read Part I here.

Signs, Splinters, Pregnancy and Lesbian Farmers

Nicolette had booked our stay at the home of a fellow musician friend’s parents in Falls Church, Virginia. The Potrykos family provided the perfect crash pad. A basement with enough air mattresses, blankets, snacks and endearing hospitality to make any unknown out-of-town protester feel perfectly at home. Mr. Potrykos deals in real estate and had secured us exclusive credentials to park in the underground garage of Patriot Plaza, located just a few blocks from where the rally was meant to take place the next morning.

It was late when we arrived at their doorstep, but they didn’t seem to mind one bit. Happy we were there, happy we arrived safely. After an hour of chatting around the fireplace, we retired to our respective air mattresses and overslept.

We didn’t stress too hard over the late start. Falls Church was only a twenty- or thirty-minute drive to D.C. But then, traffic—uh-duh—was a nightmare. It took us an hour to get even close to where we wanted to be. The Prius did well in traffic. Dean drove as Nicolette’s friend—now all of ours—Kate Potrykos, navigated while Jessica and Nicolette announced clearings in lanes and warned of obstacles ahead, as well as commenting on the signs being carried by the droves of people heading to the rally. I was focused on the Prius’ dashboard, mesmerized by its accounting of power used and levels of the best environmentally-friendly performance. It made me feel guilty for owning a strictly gas-powered car. And a Volkswagen at that. If I wasn’t the patriarchal enemy of women, I was certainly the gas-guzzling enemy of the environment.

“Tell you the truth,” Dean said, “I’d rather have a GTI driving in this kind of traffic.”

Ah yes. Redemption. Gas makes the ass move.

With the most direct route to Patriot Plaza blocked off, as well as the next three routes, Kate and the app Waze suggested zigzagging through D.C.’s neighborhoods. Having grown bored of the Prius’ dashboard eco-shaming me, I took notice of what was happening around us. Women, men, the old, the young, black, white, brown, etc., liberals and potential progressives occupied every block as they made their way to the rally and the start of the march. Protest signs hung from apartment balconies. Two of which I saw multiple of, bothered me.

1) “Not Our Bigot” Fact is, he is our bigot. We elected him. Well, the Electoral College elected him but the Electoral College is still a system we allow to exist. And that he is our bigot is why we were all there. That’s why we’re all gathering in protest, right? To oppose the bigot we allowed to get into the White House because of our long history of party politics, identity politics, dirty politics and a comfortable notion of faux American exceptionalism. (That it was Trump vs. Clinton is also a part of this self-centered, egoist behavior.) We failed ourselves for too long and Trump was the end result. But that’s the thing, the end is here. We’re now against the wall and we have to see to it that his bigotry does not succeed.

I say this to those who voted for him, too. Because, if it hasn’t happened already, many of those voters will see the error of their ways as the Brotherhood of Evil CEOs continues to strip down regulations that keep all of us safer and healthier. The swamp Trump said he was going to drain will only continue to flood. The schools to which we send our kids will crumble faster and harder, and without the majority of Americans realizing this and stepping up to fight against it, we’ll all fail and our bigot will have won.

So, yeah, dismissing him as “Not Our Bigot” is missing the whole goddamn point of making the sign in the first place.

2) “Love Trumps Hate” Plain and simple, it’s terrible copywriting. And it’s that kind of all-thumbs marketing the Clinton campaign championed that helped solidify her loss and Trump’s win. I understand the sentiment. But for Christ’s sake, the slogan against him uses his name. When I was a radio disk jockey, I worked for a station whose direct competitor was called Sunny 106.5. My program director instructed all of us to never use the word “sunny” when giving the weather report. “We don’t ever want the listener to think about Sunny. Use sunshine instead.” It was a challenge because we were in Las Vegas, a town with weather that is mostly sunshine. The Clinton Campaign would have been better served to keep the idea of Trump out of mind entirely. It failed miserably.

There was a hefty segment of the campaign that focused on pointing out how mean and offensive he was. But voters didn’t care about all that. What Clinton should have done was focus on her capabilities rather than his inabilities. Because the Trump campaign fed off of any and all attention. Using his name against him only fed the hungry beast. And worst of all, the slogan “Love Trumps Hate” is one rogue apostrophe away from declaring love Trump’s hate.

The March, I was realizing, was the moment when all Americans were being called to action to own up to our failures and make amends.

If the March was going to be a success, if real progress was going to find a way to beat our bigot, we had to be aware of semantics and our missteps and, most of all, aware of the reality that faced us and aware of the future that reality would provide.

Finally, at our reserved parking space we unloaded, geared up and set out to the rally.

Some of the more vulgar but direct signs.

Jessica Comfort is weird in that Portland way of being weird, which is to say she’s interesting. She lives in a house that is half boat on all land. She used to make and sell handbags for a living, but has moved into the business of antiques and now runs the store with her boyfriend. They focus on mid-century items because that’s what sells. However, she has a penchant for Edwardian things, and although it’s part of her job description to buy and collect old stuff other people don’t want in order to sell it to other people who do want it, she admits to being an Edwardian clothing hoarder. So no, her Edwardian fashions are not for sale.

Because of her skills as a seamstress, she was able to, at the last minute before leaving Chicago, round up the materials needed to whip up a clear backpack so that we had a bag that met March standards to carry our snacks and bottles of water. The request from the March organizers to allow only clear bags of a certain size was for safety reasons. And so we saw lots of marchers with transparent backpacks hanging from their shoulders. Not a one looked homemade, and all of them were smaller than the allowed size, save for ours. I felt a rush of superiority that we had the most unique transparent, plastic backpack made by my friend, and I had to remind myself not to be a competitive asshole. This was not the place for that sort of behavior. I was there to do good and I needed to be better.

In the thick of it—everyone was in the thick of it—I stood mostly by myself. Jessica and Nicolette and Kate were bunched up in front of me and Dean was off filming. I stood next to a group of young women. They were loud, they raised their signs when the excitement called for audience participation. They had dyed hair and bright lipstick and multiple ear piercings. One of them, however, was less animated. She had shoulder length brown hair, little makeup, earlobe piercings only and the kind of light winter jacket that you’d find in any outdoor store in any shopping center in any city. I tell you this because her appearance matters only to show the contrast between her and her friends. She looked more middle-America—the kind of voter Trump appealed to most—than she did libtard-America, which is probably how most opponents might describe most March attendees. And that, of course, is idiotic.

Then I noticed she was pregnant. Six, maybe seven months in. The weather that morning, as Madonna cursed and challenged the conventions of singing on pitch, was in the balmy low fifties. The hive of hundreds of thousands were mostly—from my vantage point—in light layers with scarves, hats and some gloves. But this girl stripped off her jacket and fanned her sweater at the collar and then at the waist. She shifted and stretched. The standing had made her uncomfortable in her considerable physical state of pregnancy. I empathized with her discomfort, though I had never experienced any of the discomforts pregnancy brings. But hey, discomfort is uncomfortable. I know that much.

Gloria Steinem. Ashley Judd. Illinois Senator Tammy Duckworth. California Senator Kamala Harris. Six-year-old Sophia Cruze. Token white man, Michael Moore. All the speakers rallied the crowd. There were cheers and there was applause. Signs were hoisted and waved. But not from this young pregnant woman. She was trying to find some semblance of comfort within the crowd. But she did have a sign. The small piece of poster board read, “For the little girl on the way.”

There are plenty of women who have never experienced sexual assault, or workplace discrimination, or have had to make the awful choice between keeping or terminating a pregnancy, or have been concerned about not being able to afford healthcare. And many of those women were there. They were there because they had loved ones who had been, or are at risk. They had seen the horrors of injustice before and had heard the rhetoric that had allowed those injustices to occur—even encouraged them.

And that’s what’s important. It didn’t matter what you had experienced or how you had been wronged as much as it was about the crime of anyone being wronged. The words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. reverberated in my mind: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” That quote had made it onto a few signs as well.

I don’t know what the young, pregnant woman was concerned about specifically. “For the little girl on the way.” Perhaps her concern was climate change. Because if the Brotherhood of Evil CEOs gets its druthers, her little girl on the way might spend her sixtieth birthday drowning under the weight of melted ice caps or not getting to blow out the candles on her cake because there won’t be enough oxygen in the atmosphere to allow fire to burn. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was there and by being there, she was poised to protect her daughter from hate and villainy.

She noticed the bottled water in Jessica’s clear backpack. “Excuse me,” she said, tapping Jessica’s shoulder. “Can I buy a bottle of water from you?”

Jessica, Nicolette, Kate and I instantly sprang into action opening the bag, digging down toward one of the bottles, our hands getting in the way. We told her, “No, no. It’s yours. Of course. Take it. Yes, absolutely.”

“Can I give you a dollar?” she asked.

“Are you kidding. We brought this for everyone,” Nicolette said.

The water, the snacks, the tampons… everything in everyone’s clear plastic backpack was for everyone. Even for the baby girls on the way. And probably the baby boys, too.

Still, I teetered back and forth between feeling empowered and a part of the gathered mass to feeling like an interloper. An unwanted guest. A helicopter parent at a teenager’s make out party. A speaker at the rally, a male, I don’t know who it was—I missed his introduction—and I’ve been unable to find any record of him since, took hold of the microphone after Scarlett Johansen spoke and said, “As men, we must protect our women!” This garnered some grumbles, low-register boos and hisses and sideways glances from the crowd. And I thought, Whoa, brother! Tread lightly. It’s not what you’re saying, it’s how you’re saying it. Jesus, you’re going to get us guys killed! I understood what he meant. He was telling men that we needed to join our women, our sisters, mothers, daughters, friends, cousins, et. al., in the fight against injustice. He just used the wrong words.

Perhaps he was part of the Clinton Campaign. Great intention, poor execution. Bad copywriting. Myopic in oration.

There were other triggers. Another sign.

“Knock Out the Patriarchy,” with a drawing of the uterus, fallopian tubes, and ovaries presented as boxing gloves. I loved the artistry of it. It was clever. But it made me feel like a bad guy, like the enemy.

These women were angry. They were angry about a lot of things but they could find common ground in the common cause of being angry at white men—men like me. Even though their collective disdain toward the general population of my kind was never directed at me, it was hard not to feel guilty and responsible. I knew and I know I’m not to blame. But plenty of people not unlike me are to blame. OK, maybe I’ve forgotten the time(s) I was an insensitive prick who used his privilege for self-promotion and evil instead of for good. But I can’t remember when. And if I ever was, I am sorry. I spent much of the time marching in Washington on revisiting my own privileged life. I didn’t find myself guilty but the feeling continued to flirt with me.

When the rally concluded, we headed toward the direction of where the march was meant to go—west on Independence Avenue—like slow cattle leaving the corral for a long drive. We quickly got stuck. A traffic jam of smiling, happy, empowered people unlike anything I’d seen before took form. For as angry as women were for the decades and decades of mistreatment, they sure were full of grins. From the vantage point on top of a sand-filled dump truck in the middle of the street, you could see that the sprawling D.C. landscape was jam packed. Everyone was trying to march but no one was moving. No one could move.

“There’s too many people. Can’t march,” an older white man said to me. “The march is canceled,” he said. I considered that he was from the opposition, sent in to hinder the march’s success through courtly deception.

I looked around at the others, my friends and strangers, who had heard this and we confirmed that the March may have been a bust. The five of us decided to move away from the center and find a restaurant to have lunch and exploit their plumbing. The several cups of coffee we had downed back in Falls Church had taken hold of our bladders like an occupying force. As we headed away from the center of it all, we got wrapped up in what appeared to be the actual march that we’d been told had been canceled.

Ah ha! The old white man was an enemy agent for sure.

But no. Not at all. As it’s well known now, there were too many people to march down the pre-determined path. And so the people broke off into three or four splinter marches. It was organic. Maybe some were heading for their cars or walking home or in search of port-a-potties. We became part of a march made of several hundred thousand women, men and kids of all colors, shapes and sizes. We were moving. We were doing what we came there to do. Our urine took a back seat.

We chanted: “Tell me what democracy looks like! This is what democracy looks like!”

“Her body, her choice!” My body, my choice!”

We had to stop every few yards so other marchers could take photos of Jessica and Nicolette with their signs. One was a freeze frame of Rick Astley in his Never Gonna Give You Up video with the words, “Human Rights, Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down.” The other was a photo of Kathy Bates as Evelyn Couch in Fried Green Tomatoes. It was the scene in the Winn Dixie parking lot after Evelyn has the parking spot she’d been waiting on stolen by “younger and faster” girls in a Volkwagen Bug. As the girls stroll off flipping their hair at Evelyn, she proceeds to ram her larger, heavier car into the back of the bug causing it to crumple. The girls run back out screaming at her, “Are you crazy?!” Her response is a stonecold stare and the line, “Face it girls. I’m older and I have more insurance.” But Jessica’s sign was written:

"Face it girls. I’m older and I have more insur… Oh wait… Damn it."

We continued. There were smiles everywhere. Jessica and Nicolette marched in step with each other, their arms around one another. Their friendship had been bonded by fun and feminism, and here they were sharing that bond with half-a-million other people. It was like watching the final dance scene of a Bollywood film.

A tall, dark-skinned man with a beard was leading our march in song. “This little light of mine… I’m gonna let it shine. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.” He led the crowd through six different versus of This Little Light of Mine. When he stopped, a black woman and her friend, an older white woman, worked hard to cram different, event-specific lyrics into the song. “Won’t let Trump put it out… I’m gonna let it shine.” It didn’t last long.

There was what seemed to be an endless amount of marchers and sign wavers coming along with us. And there were spectators with signs lining the sidewalks and overpasses as we made our way through town. I had no idea where I was in relation to where I wanted to be or where we were headed. And maybe that’s because we had no destination. We were marching, so, I suppose, we were exactly where we needed to be.

At Independence Avenue and 12th Street SE, I was swallowed by a rush of people. We had marched straight into another splinter march. Maybe three other splinter marches. It was hard to tell. The scene was erratic. All of these different songs and chants being sung and chanted at the same time. We were momentarily stuck the way we were before the one march split off into what we were facing now. The five of us were being separated. I shouted to them all, “Over there!” and pointed to a patch of sidewalk next to a food truck that looked like a safe place. We pushed our way up and across stream to get there.

Jessica and Nicolette had to pose for more photos with their signs.

I’ve been to crowded places before: Disney World, summer concert festivals, the Mexican–American border in Tijuana. In most traffic-related instances, I’ve felt and participated in a purging of internal rage and hatred toward and against my fellow human. That is, after all, the leading side effect of traffic jams. In all instances, we become enraged because other people are in our goddamn way, preventing us from living our lives and doing what we want to do when we want to do it. That could have so easily been the case at Independence and 12th. Instead, everyone—from the fringes of the traffic jam to the eye of its storm—remained calm, friendly and in good spirits toward one another.

All of our anger was directed at the man who was at the real cause of the jam—President Trump. We wouldn’t have been there without him. And I imagined him during an important speech in the Rose Garden years from now bragging off topic that there had never been a bigger protest for any other president, and so immediately after taking office.

Clear of the fray, we made our way back down Independence Avenue. Dean zigzagged the street capturing images of the aftermath. We were getting closer to where the rally took place hours ago. Jessica and Nicolette remained lovable figures because of their witty signs.

Finally, the five of us were together as one and we walked past the Air and Space Museum, which is where we were standing during the rally. We laughed at ourselves and then cursed ourselves. We couldn’t see them at the time because of all the people and the signs and the pussy hats. Barely fifty yards from where we were stood two-dozen port-a-potties. We seized them.

Kate split off from us at Patriot Plaza to host a dinner party of sorts at the apartment she shared with her boyfriend. The four of us settled into the Prius and relished resting our legs. I called my old family friends, Gerred and Holly Howe, who currently live in D.C. We had planned on meeting up at the rally but clogged cellular service made communicating across the sea of pink headwear difficult. With the march(es) mostly over, there was finally enough reception that our phone calls could get through to each other.

“Come over. We’re drinking wine and talking about the day. We’d love to hear your stories,” Gerred said.

“I now have hope and I’m finally latched onto it,” Jessica said as we drove to Gerred and Holly’s house.

We met a few of Gerred and Holly’s other friends who had come to town for the march. We passed our phones around to show the photos we’d taken in a friendly challenge of who saw the best signs at our respective marches. Phog, the Howe’s new puppy, made violent love to the elder dog’s bed while she, Sally, watched on with affectionate disdain. We drank beers and got a little drunk on the amazement that marches took place all over the world, on all seven continents.

The other friends had flights to catch and Gerred drove them to the airport. Holly and the four of us walked to Far East Tacos, described to us by Holly as a delicious hole in the wall. We weren’t the only ones who had this idea. The small to-go restaurant was full of marchers with empty stomachs. There were more waiting in the parking lot. The young woman working the register, and the two male cooks were not expecting the rush. They were out of several items including the steak I was hoping to get on my tacos. Holly assured me that anything I ordered would be delicious and hit the spot. I’m not a picky eater and in the 24 years that I’ve known Holly, I have always put my absolute trust in her advice.

We over ordered and took our wait to the liquor store next door. I grabbed a six-pack of a light lager, Jessica and Nicolette purchased a large bottle of Jose Cuervo Grapefruit, Tangerine Margarita. We returned to Far East. The same energy we had experienced all day was still going strong despite the reduced menu and long wait for grub. Holly opened a beer. Jessica and Nicolette got into the margarita using the small, plastic cups intended for sauces as shot glasses.

“Here,” Nicolette said lining up three more plastic shot glasses. Dean came back in from the parking lot where he had been on the phone with his counterpart who had documented the Chicago march. She poured a shot for him. We toasted and drank. The drink was sweet and not my usual speed but was finding itself right at home as the alcohol made its way into my bloodstream.

“Let’s pour shots for everyone,” I suggested.

“Who wants some margarita?” Nicolette called out, her old bartender instinct kicking in.

We filled the eight or so people left in the restaurant with booze until we ran out. We even lined up shots for the Far East Taco employees working their asses of. Jessica ran to get another bottle. With everyone a little buzzed, conversations opened up. I was interested in talking to the local white guy I saw walk in earlier. He was on the phone with someone and was shocked when he saw how busy the place had been. “Whoa. It’s the busiest I’ve ever seen it. It’s probably going to be a while,” he said into the phone.

“You’re a white male,” I said as I handed him another shot of fruity, pink margarita.

“I’m a Cuban male,” he quickly corrected me.

“OK,” I said. “You’re a Cuban male. Why did you march?”

“My wife and I live here. We have a two-year-old son and a girl on the way. I wanted our son to see democracy in action. I wanted to support a movement so that our daughter has the same opportunities as our son.”

I thought back to the pregnant woman at the rally. His cause and hers were similar. And they were in line with Jessica’s and Nicolette’s, and mine and Dean’s, and Holly’s and Gerred’s. We all had quite different conditions and experiences but we had a shared desire—equality, human rights, women’s rights. In that restaurant, the reasons for marching given by the patrons never once mentioned a hate for Trump or his Brotherhood of Evil CEOs. Perhaps that was understood. But it’s important to recognize that the quick answer to Why Did You March? was about making a better future. Jessica’s hope was not hers alone.

And then I talked to Swan, a self-described lesbian farmer from South Georgia. Her wife, Jennifer, was smoking a cigarette in the parking lot. Together, they live on and operate a 240-acre farm on the banks of the Satilla River in Camden County, Georgia. The March, Swan told me is, “like therapy.”

Two years ago, Swan was working as a child abuse investigator and human trafficking specialist in Florida. Fortunate circumstances allowed her and Jennifer to retire and purchase the land outright. Their cost of living is incredibly low and they are able to pretty much do whatever they want with their land and their time. They use both to operate an organic farm and are almost completely self-sustainable. They grow 80 to 90 percent of their own food. They sell or barter with whatever they don’t use themselves.

They call themselves the Hairy Farmpit Girls. Because, you know, lesbians don’t shave their pits. And lesbian farmers especially don’t shave their pits. But Swan was quick to tell me that she and Jennifer both do shave their armpits. They chose the name because of the antiquated stereotype and because, well, these girls like to have fun with wordplay. They have a pig named Tammy Swinette; a donkey named Jaqueline O-Asses; goats named Billy Vanilli, Baaad, Baaad Leroy Brown and Vincent Van Goat. The chicken that never blinks is called Beth Anphetamine. “She’s mean but she really wants to be a mother. She’s always trying lay eggs,” Swan said. “Like a meth addict.” Another chicken is Ruth Bader Hensburg. The rooster with big hair is Roo Paul. There are 70 animals on the farm and they all have names like this and their own backstories.

The life Swan and Jennifer share sounds ideal. Who among us wouldn’t want to retire in their early thirties and own three-and-a-half miles of riverfront with 70 pets to keep you fed and earn you money? And for the most part, Swan and Jennifer live a charmed life on their land with their animals. Perhaps it’s the American Dream. But they’re planning to ditch the charming dream for a slightly northern way of life by moving up to Athens. It’s not something they really want to do, more something they have to do, Swan said, “Because of how Camden County is.”

Where they live, they’re the anomaly. “We drive a big pickup truck with a Clinton sticker, and a typical lesbian Subaru with a Clinton sticker. We get shit all the time,” said Swan. Their property is on a road with only a handful of homes, most of which are used as vacation or weekend getaway spots. Swan described it as a road of well-to-do southern Tea Partiers who all hate each other despite being on the same side of the political and social spectrum. “They’ll pull their guns on each other during the weekends then head back to their law firms on Monday.”

The Hairy Farmpit Girls have had guns drawn on them, too. The threats arrived shortly after arriving in Camden.

“Jen and I got married only a couple of months ago,” Swan said. “But we were together for six years before that. And when we first got the property, it was only in my name. I was out of town. Jen was walking around the property and some neighbors decided to go up and tell her that she wasn’t allowed on our property. She explained that it was her property, too, but they said that they don’t recognize our relationship and that she needed to leave the property if I wasn’t there.”

It’s not as if the neighbors come strapped looking for a fight. But the farm has fallen under siege in other ways. Like logs being thrown through their mailbox and bottle rockets launched at their donkeys. Taking issue with their lesbian lifestyle is one thing but what did a jackass do to deserve that kind of violent bullying?

Occasionally, Swan and Jen will have about sixteen kids come to the farm to play around, plant and visit with the animals. Half of the kids are white. The other half are black or biracial. When the kids are there, some neighbors will drive by the property, slowly, trying to get a glimpse of the black kids in hopes of staring them down and intimidating them.

Yet, because it’s the south, much of the distaste for the lifestyle of the Hairy Farmpit Girls is delivered in backhanded, sweet, southern politeness.

“We deal with other local farmers all the time,” Swan said. “We’ve been told that they’re against homosexuals and that we’re going to hell but they still love us and our products. They just want us to know. It’s either real polite with a hug or its whiskey-based without. But then they’ll call the next day and you can hear the hug in their voice.”

The Hairy Farmpit Girls are brave, and despite the threats and intimidations, they work hard not to live in fear. “But after the election, we were scared of everybody again,” Swan said.

As soon as they heard about the march in D.C. they knew that had to go. “We knew we wouldn’t be outcasts. We needed to be surrounded by people who weren’t just stuck in their own bubble.”

It takes a lot for both of them to leave the farm. There’s an incredible amount of planning required to keep the place running and the animals tended to. Since living there, the only other time both Swan and Jen left was for their wedding. But, Swan said, “We had to do this.” They arrived in D.C. with three other friends—all straight women from Florida—on Friday at two in the morning, “all on the same cycle.” They marched. They basked in the joy and safety of not being the freaks. Because, “it’s a losing battle when you’re in a red state.”

One-and-a-half bottles of margarita down and the whole population of Far East Tacos buzzed, our order came up and we humped it back to Holly and Gerred’s house. We tore into our food like starving savages and continued the process of communicating our thoughts on the day between bites.

To be concluded...

#Women's March on Washington #Donald Trump #Patri #Sexism #Equal Rights

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juliayepes · 10 years

Text

The Prism of Pete Doherty’s Lyrics

Babyshambles? More like shambles, judging by Pete Doherty’s public buffoonery and substance abuse. Yet beyond that façade lies a poet deliberately testing limits.

Some people may neglect to take him seriously because of his antics, but Pete Doherty may be one of the best lyricists of his generation. For Doherty, who famously won a scholarship to study poetry in Russia while in his teens, songwriting is the primary form of expression. And it is his lyrics, good-natured but defiant, that should be regarded as his only real answer to his public. Even as his life grows increasingly hazy, Doherty’s lyrics remain simple, poetic, and clear.

With his first band, the Libertines, Doherty was half of a great songwriting pair with Carl Barat. Their songwriting process was precarious; the music was inspired by their power struggles and, to a large extent, contingent upon them. Doherty was the happy-go-lucky merry prankster to Barat’s more sober and structured older-brother figure, and the ongoing clash of their personalities invigorated their music. But even though their songs depended upon their own stormy relationship, they had a liberating effect on the listener. Doherty himself was a surprisingly sunny presence amid the gloomy, moody rock scene. He never went too far into petulance; instead, he played a kind of rock-and-roll Peter Pan, incorrigible but inspiring in his romanticism. On “Campaign of Hate,” from the second Libertines album, Doherty cheerfully proclaimed, “Don’t believe them when they say / That you don’t get nothing for free / It’s all for free / Follow me!”

From the beginning, Doherty insisted on freedom but beneath his willful defiance, he displayed a deep-seated yearning for approval. On “The Man Who Would Be King” from the Libertines’ self-titled second album, he sang, “I lived my dreams today / … I’ll be living yours tomorrow / So don’t look at me that way!” And while he often made the suggestion that he was just following his heart, on the earlier “Don’t Look Back Into the Sun”, he uncharacteristically suggested that other people were just jealous. On “Eight Dead Boys,” from the first Babyshambles record, Down in Albion, he sings, “I want love / I want it all”. And therein lies his particular frustration: He longs for total freedom, but total freedom can lead to chaos.

This tension creates pathos. A restless longing for freedom, coupled with the intimation that he knows he can’t handle it, is a lyrical theme that dates back to his earliest songs. His lyrics make it clear that his belief in personal freedom is what he holds most dear. When on “A’rebours” Doherty sings, “If you really cared for me / You’d let me be / Set me free”, freedom is a ringing affirmative but also a desperate necessity. In retrospect, his choruses of “Let me go” and “Set me free” seem a bit desperate. While in the Libertines, Doherty wanted to break free from Barat, but now it is less clear what he wants to get away from. Doherty is still “too polite to say / I defy you all!” as he sings on “A’rebours,” but on Down in Albion, he continues to plead for understanding and acceptance.

But acceptance was becoming harder to find, even as his public persona inflated. By the time Doherty formed Babyshambles, he had become noticeably unhinged. It’s clear Doherty has had trouble dealing with the freedom that large-scale success has brought him. The scene in these songs is bare: There’s almost no one around. Those that present are only too happy to serve him a wince-inducing dose of reality. “You look better now than last time / But you still look better from afar!” someone tells him on “Eight Dead Boys.” Then they get even harsher: “You look better now than last time / But you’re still no better than before / The life that you wanted was not in store / You’re going to be in the dark once again.” Many of these songs are composed of other people’s reproachful monologues, and the cumulative effect is convincing. When he sings, “There’s nothing nice about me / And almost everyone agrees” on “Back from the Dead”, he sounds truly sorry.

But the edge has always been there. Many of Doherty’s songs contain a variation on this kind of conditional statement:

I think I now understand what I misunderstood before, How your love gives me so much more. I’m free again I can see again But if I should fall…

Similarly, when he sings, “If I had to go / I would be thinking of your love” on “Last Post From the Bugle”, you know that it’s not a matter of if but when. Even when he’s reassuring someone, “We’ll meet again some day,” he knows that “there’s a price to pay” for every action or deferral he makes.

As a Libertine, Doherty wrote songs in which he dreamed of reaching Arcadia, a mythical, utopian place “without rules or authority.” But because of fame and the extra freedom that it brought, he became able to live a life that more closely resembled his utopian ideal. And what happened? Confusion led the once frolicsome singer astray. Like William Blake, the radical visionary poet, Doherty seemed powerfully gripped by his vision of heaven and hell.

But a flight of fancy is especially powerful when you can practically touch it. In Doherty’s case, he dreamed about a world (and a life) that was fanciful, but that could practically come true. But as he spiraled deeper into addiction, the ideal seemed more and more out of reach. On Down in Albion, Doherty seems helplessly caught between Heaven and Hell, Innocence and Experience. His experience of hell permeates his songs, but even more powerfully, they demonstrate his awareness that heaven still exists. Doherty’s adoption of the nickname “Baby Shambles” validates others’ opinion of him—he is the most striking contemporary example of a public figure as little-boy-lost.

Yet there’s no lingering bad taste for this scapegrace. Though his songs are often dark, they don’t seem bitter. Maybe it’s because the music is melodic and his voice is sweet that Down in Albion doesn’t leave an impression of spitefulness. Although there are certain injuries he can’t seem to forget—on “Eight Dead Boys” he sings, “When it suits you, you’re a friend of mine” eleven times in a row (!)—Doherty’s hopefulness doesn’t crumble. A perfect example is in “Eight Dead Boys” when Doherty first talks about disillusionment, then mentions love as a saving grace:

Promises, promises, promises I know: you’ve heard them all before Love is, love is, love is Love—oh well, it’s just around the corner.

This may be his defining lyric. Though he can’t believe anyone’s promises anymore, he can’t help but come back to his hope in love. Even when his intentions seem skewered and confused, he demonstrates his resolve to be true to his childhood dreams. Like another famously prodigious romantic, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Doherty knows it’s the dream itself that matters, not its fulfillment. The problem is he can’t remember exactly what the dream was in the first place. The best part of “Loyalty Song” (which deals with this issue) is during the chorus, when he starts clapping in an effort to keep his band’s accelerating tempo steady. The rhythm of his band is speeding up, and he’s clapping to keep time, just as his lyrics belie his confusion: “And there’s nothing gonna keep me from my… / What did I dream?”

Yes, it just might be that reality is too crude and vulgar for one of the UK’s most gifted songwriters. So why is Doherty such an affirming rock-and-roll presence in spite of all his escapades? The answer: his self-awareness. Doherty has always seemed to know exactly what people think of him. On “Don’t Look Back Into the Sun” he recognizes that his public, which remains both fascinated and dismissive of him, begrudges him his success. At the same time that he begs for liberty, he acknowledges that it’s killing him. Success may be the worst thing that ever happened to this singer. In “Loyalty Song” the line “I found solace in the flood / Every body knew that I would” runs like a punch line. And on “Fuck Forever,” one of Doherty’s personal favorites from Down in Albion, he ponders “how to choose between death and glory”:

I can’t tell between death and glory Happy endings don’t bore me They, they have a way A way to make you pay And to make you toe the line

Justice, he says here, has a humbling effect, but he seems willing to play by the rules if he’s allowed his happy ending. This willingness to give and take has been characteristic of Doherty’s relationship with his public as well. He has always been courteous. Though he hates to be scolded, the closest Doherty has ever gotten to an all-out rebuke of his public was on a live (and unrecorded) song, the still polite “Do You Know Me (I Don’t Think So).” Instead of turning hateful when others deny, condemn, and judge him, the singer, who on “East of Eden” likens himself to a wounded sparrow, becomes doleful; he just can’t understand why people aren’t nice. In “Fuck Forever” the only criticism Doherty offers is similarly soft: “You’re so clever / But you’re not very nice.” But then Doherty turns introspective and identifies the reason his own free-and-easy ways harm him: “I’m so clever / But clever ain’t wise.”

—Julia Yepes

June 3, 2007

#essays

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