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utahimeow · 10 months

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cw — pregnancy

gojo’s absentminded whistling as he shuts the front door alerts you that he’s arrived home.

you jump from your skin, hands quivering as the reality of it all begins to sink in. nerves gather in your stomach, spinning rapidly until they morph into nausea — although that might just be morning sickness.

your heart pounds through your ears, pumping so loudly and quickly that it drowns out all other noise. it means that you don’t hear when your husband enters the kitchen, and you’re not aware of him until one of his huge hands grasps your chin and gently tugs your face until your lips meet his.

the gut-wrenching nerves waver and fizzle out from the way satoru handles you so tenderly. and it’s always been this way — from your very first kiss, satoru’s ability to put your mind at ease so effortlessly has never faltered. every touch of his forces even the slightest of fears in your brain to melt away.

he pulls away, pouting, his crystal eyes filled with curiosity, and before you manage to get a verbal greeting out, he springs to ask you a question.

“why is your heart beating so fast?”

the curse of being married to the world’s most powerful sorcerer means that trying to hide emotions from him is futile. it’s not a real curse by any means, however nothing goes unnoticed — even when it’s a burden you refuse to let him help you carry.

“i have something to tell you,” you say, struggling to hold back your soft grin.

“you’re pregnant,” he says — not in curiosity, not as a question, but rather as-a-matter-of-factly.

your mouth drops, along with your heart. you’d hope it would be a sweet surprise to him, after all, and now a baffled disappointment sits in the pit of your stomach.

“how- what? how did you know?” you stutter. it wasn’t simply a guess, and you can tell from the way he smirks.

“my six eyes sensed it,” he explains. when your eyes brim with tears, his own features fill with concern. i fucked up, he thinks immediately. “angel, what’s wrong?”

“well, you could have pretended not to know! i wanted it to be special when i told you,” you whine, and he gives a lovesick laugh as he gathers you in his overwhelming embrace.

“i’m sorry, sweet thing,” he coos, soothing his hand over your hair. his voice becomes low when he speaks again, almost a whisper. “it’s still special though. we’re… having a baby.”

he says it slowly, like it’s the first time he’s actually comprehending it. because it’s no longer an unspoken thing as it had been for the past two weeks — it’s real.

and as satoru kisses the top of your head, he thinks how he’s holding his entire world in his arms — you, and the life growing inside you.

#something silly and self indulgent for the summertime #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo imagine #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #꒰ lovers. ꒱ — gojo

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greenandsorrow · 4 months

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What once was.

the secret history fanfic

"One likes to think there's something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I've learned one thing in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn't conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does is a fool."

I'm a fool. Richard was right. Love has the power to conquer many things, it makes the shy brave and the brave shy, but it cannot conquer death. I used to think Henry could not be conquered by neither love or death. I such was a fool.

Notes;

This story will be very self indulgent and maybe not for everyone🤭 I am aware that the characters of the book aren't meant to be romanticised and I'm also aware of all the elitist stuff and pretense that's portrayed in the book, but I still love it.🏛️🍂☕

No Bacchanal will take place in my story. The characters will still be messed up, but not guilty of murder. Richard will not be the narrator. Another mention, this is Henry centred🥹

Just read it for what it is I guess!

The title is basically "What once was" by Her's.

The secret history hit different for me when I read it -I've read it three times so far- because 1) I'm greek, live in Greece and speak greek 2) during high school I was basically studying ancient greek and latin non-stop 3) I am silly. I hope you'll like this attempt to insert a new character and change the plot. Obviously, this isn't even trying to compare to Donna Tart's exquisite talent, it's just fanfiction.

Next chapter will come out during summertime. That's just an introduction. I'm a bit insecure about writing something I aspire to be a bit more "serious", especially when it comes to my use of the English language, but it's fine I guess.

My OC, Rita, is definitely my shameless self insert. I didn't want to make her flawless. I also wanted to explore the contradiction between a real, almost bohemian in a way person to Henry's perfectionistic and almost non human at times personality. Rita is genuine, she is simple but in a complicated way. She shares the same passion of the ancient world with her classmates, but not in their flamboyant manner. In a way, it's her heritage, Plato and Homer and the twelve Gods of Olympus, but she embraces the fact in a grounded way, not in an obsessive one.

Just like the title is inspired by a song, so is Henry and Rita's backstory. The childhood I'll be referring to is inspired by Taylor Swift's song "seven". Childhood friends that get separated for years is the theme here.

Warnings; possibility of smut/nsfw content, mentions of childhood trauma, triggering themes in general, mentions of abandonment, physical injuries, mental issues, homophobic people from the 80s, some very cute moments that might be out of character for the gang, stereotypes that I don't resign with but are part of the plot, dark themes that might have to do with death etc.

the masterpost

my masterlist

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izzyizumi · 4 years

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IzzyIzumi / KoushirouIzumi’s Digimon Adventure AMVs Index

AMVs marked with an [ * ] after the title were OLD AMVs made long ago sometime around circa 2006-ish Digimon fandom era when I was young. I did my best with these AMVs even way back then but YEAH. ALL AMVs featured here may be subject to improvements / fixes down the road. CHARACTER SONG SERIES AMVs:

Yuuki wo Tsubasa ni Shite [ I’ll Turn My Courage Into Wings ] [*] ~ Taichi Yagami’s Adventure Character Song [ featuring bonus Taishiro OTP + etc. Taichi side ships/friendships ] Walk on the Edge [*] ~ Yamato Ishida’s Adventure Character Song [ featuring bonus Yamato/Jou + etc. Yamato side ships/friendships ] Ashita wa Motto [ Tomorrow I’ll Be ]: ~ Sora Takenouchi’s Adventure Character Song [ featuring bonus Yamato/Sora + etc. Sora side ships/friendships ] ( * note - I’m planning on doing more character song AMVs eventually ! ) [ however, this may also take me an eternity ]

TAICHI x KOUSHIRO SHIP DEDICATED AMVs: ( * note: may be incredibly silly / self-indulgent . YOU HAVE BEEN informed ) One DigiWeek with Taichi & Koushiro [*] ~ aka Bare-naked Ladies feat. “Digimon: The Movie” Beautiful Disaster ~ Kelly Clarkson In the Rain (Piano Cover) ~ Miraculous Ladybug Miraculous Ladybug AU ! Taishiro [ “lyrics” here ] ~ Miraculous Ladybug ~ basically it’s a not-exact-parody of pre-Miraculous Ladybug TOEI PV ~ slight Tri + Kizuna previews scenes are here, near ending TAISHIRO “ REPEATVERSE ” AMV SERIES: ( * with inspiration from “ Kagerou Project ”’s songs, but NOT [ COMPLETELY, OK ] A DIRECT PARODY ):

[ * bonus side ships / friendships / polyships featuring the Adventure kids may also apply depending on the AMV ! ( see descriptions ) ]

Kagerou Daze / (aka) Kagerou Days [ Heat-Haze Daze ] ~ recommended as a starting point for understanding the timeline ! ~ mainly Taishiro during Adventure era-gone-VERY-VERY-WRONG Kagerou Daze AMV with replaced music edits: - Additional Memory [ a darker emotional song yet with a strong resolve ] - Imaginary Reload [ the same as above applies to this one ] - Rolling Boy [non-Kagepro Vocaloid song; “Rolling Girl”] mini / short edits: - Days ~ mainly Koushiro + Taishiro

Children Record ~ recommended as a starting point + if you want one more upbeat ! ~ features Koushiro + Taishiro + an Adventure Chosen ensemble

RED ~ recommended as a dramatic but cool song ! ~ mainly Taishiro with bonus Our War Game + 02 eras

Lost Time Memory ~ recommended as another dramatic, yet action-oriented song ! ~ mainly Taishiro during Tri era

Yuukei Yesterday [ “ Yesterday Evening ” ] ~ recommended as a somewhat more upbeat, sweet, funny “ LOVE ??? ” song ! ~ mainly Taishiro during Adventure + Our War Game eras

Summertime Record ~ recommended if you want something more emotional with nostalgia tinge ! ~ note: it is also more like an ending theme / “ending” of sorts ~ mainly Koushiro + Taishiro + Adventure Chosen during all + Tri eras

Shounen Brave [ “ Boy Brave ” / “ Brave Boy ” ] ~ recommended if you want something with an optimistic ending ! ~ mainly JOU + Jou / Mimi focus, with the bonus background sideships ~ this one is meant to portray more of Jou’s role during the ficverse ! ~ bonus Yamato x Jou implied sideship can be read in, as well

Outer Science ~ not recommended if you hate villains being ... villains ~ recommended if you enjoy Adv!villains-being-villains and creepy lore things ! ~ basically the villains vs. Taishiro + Adventure Chosen [ list will be updated as future AMVs are made / added ! ]

LOST AMVs:

aka AMVs I lost when my old computers crashed - TELL ME if you have them ! ( PLEASE tell me if you have seen these I AM DESPERATE )

Digimon Frontier - Warriors [ Yugioh opening song ] [ * ] ~ featured mainly the 1st five Frontier spirit evolutions + battle with Lucemon

Digimon Frontier - Chie to Yuuki da [ Takeuchi Junko song ] [ * ] ~ iirc this one might have had Takuya because of the song but ( ??? )

^ The above may have been found / exchanged via Win MX of old * or my old OC fansite if you ever saw these on an OC fansite ( ?!? )

^ I DO NOT EXPECT TO FIND THESE but if I don’t at least the 1st Frontier one I plan to remake in the future, too !

#digimon amvs #digimon anime music videos #izzyizumi amvs #izzyizumi amvs index #izzyizumi posts #izzyizumi fanworks #repeatverse #fic: repeat #REPEAT TAISHIRO #taishiro #amvs #index #mine #(I'M GETTING LOST FINDING MY OWN AMVs TBH .....)#(I'M SORRY IN ADVANCE FOR EMBARRASSING)#(I'VE JUST BEEN MAKING SELF INDULGENT OTP AMVs SINCE 2006 IT'S KIND OF MY THING OK.....)#(I'M NOT EVEN KIDDING I'M LEGIT DESPERATE TO GET THESE FRONTIER AMVs BACK BUT I HIGHLY DOUBT)#(ANYONE WOULD EVEN REMEMBER THEM)#('AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO REMEMBERS WINMX' -ME)#('I ACTUALLY USED WINMX FOR AMVs' -ME)#(This Is How You Know I've Been Here WAY Too Long)#(OK BUT IF I REALLY NEVER FIND IT I'M REMAKING THAT ' WARRIORS ' AMV SOMEDAY TOO GDI)#(I LOVED THAT ONE ACTUALLY)#(I'M STILL SO UPSET I LOST YOUNG ME'S HARD WORK BECAUSE OF MULTIPLE CRASHINGS LIKE)#(I HAD THEM BACKED UP EVEN and then LOST THEM AGAIN)#(needless to say I Learnt My Lesson Since At Least)#(liesdown)#(LEAVE ME ALONE)#(WAIT DID I EVER UPLOAD THE MIRACULOUS LADYBUG AU TAISHIROS)

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tffny-g · 5 years

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Sept. - Dec.

September started slow and fuzzy, with residual summertime in my camera roll and much more “flight” than “fight” in my limbs. I moved in with myself, I wore cherries in my ears…I sketched, I smiled, I held on tightly to my identity while meeting mentors for coffee…I tried out the phrase “I’m a law student” and willed my heart to be entirely in it. September felt good to me.

October started with me and ma cooking together, fanning out our handmade noodles and tossing them in flour. I listened to her cry herself mute - I held her, I placed her pillow next to mine, and I shut myself off entirely to soften the second-hand blow. October was Peter. We met over dinner in a whimsical restaurant filled with children - we threaded through Nuit Blanche together that same night. Under the influence of art bringing the city to life, I let the idea of what it could be win me over. I let Peter fill my calendar once or twice a week, until he wasn’t enough to fill the idea of him anymore.

November was persistent, silent suffering, like a permanent headache. Autumn came and spread like wildfire over the treetops, across each brick-walled building, and the scent of it hit me head-first like a firetruck. Getting out of the house became trial and error. An internet friend once pointed out to me that since the early 2000s, I’ve written violently about the seasons, intertwining them with emotions. This autumn, I realized that I have seasonal affective disorder. I have it, I’m admitting it, and it’s fine... It’s fine. The air quality is different when the leaves start to decompose, and it makes me compulsively think about the autumn of 2015 - being told “Tiffany, I’d die for you”, and feeling absolute despair and absolutely whole - and wondering if autumn will ever feel like something better…but it’s fine. On the days I ended up getting out of the house, my hair was always done and my makeup proper.

I picked up a coffee habit. I am digging deep inwards to figure out how to stop past traumas from manifesting in the present day. I made two important friends, one of whom is helping me unpack childhood trauma, using the buffer of a silly accent. We have spent a large chunk of time with each other’s families, and as it turns out, I really want to be a sister - all this time, I’ve wanted to be a sister, to have a sister, like I should have. A sister to lean on, to cry with, to make ma laugh better than I can by myself, and to share the burden of being the glue of the family. The other one while important, is “maybe” a friend, big and tall, and has comfortably found a resting place in my heart. My hands are more upfront with him than my voice is, and sometimes on a bad day, all I want is to wrap myself around him, rest my hand on his belly, and say nothing for a long time. I continue to be a magnet for men who harbour entire Pandora’s boxes for human hearts, and who try to fill up all their empty spaces with music that says what they don’t know how to say. I take my coffee now with a splash of milk.

December has me defeated by the cold. I can’t seem to stop sleeping, and I am desperate to get the colour out of my hair. I am restless to see Lisa over a hearty meal and alcohol, I am disenchanted with the concept of meeting new people, and I am exhausted from the thought of recruiting for employment…I am exhausted. I am remembering how to cry again...it feels like waking up from a deep slumber of careful contentment. I am exhausted, but still self-indulgent in my diet, my art, my writing, and my yoga practice. I am self-indulging in making myself feel whole throughout this winter.

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imagineclaireandjamie · 7 years

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anonymous asked: Sapphire's post reminded me of Our Story! The most recent chapter wasn't the last one was it?

Liv says: I’m calling this Chapter 8.5. It still ties into their second marriage, of course—I just couldn’t resist Julia and little Claire. And a massive thank you to @lenny9987 who is always willing to read my drafts and give me feedback <3

Read Chapters One through Eight here.

Our Story

Claire has few memories of her mother, and those that exist are only half-formed. Hardly memories at all.

Rather:

Small blips of sight and sound and smell. Directionless aches in the night, skin raised to gooseflesh by a living darkness. Sometimes there is a vision of two fine-boned hands, their fingers playing the air with passionate arcs and flutters. At others, there are emeralds winking from pale lobes, and a whisper of bergamot on the stretch of neck below. Baby, a voice says, so clear but distant, it’s only for one night. We’ll be back before you—

Fragments.

Among these, however, there is one that is complete. It is something Claire parades at dinner parties, a piece of trivia that reduces her childhood to the first five years of her life. No funerals, no suitcases. No grief hollowing her little, avian bones. Only: Easy.

In this memory, Julia Beauchamp wears a sweater dress and Kork-Ease boots. Her heels are impractical for a stroll through the park, though that is what they are doing—strolling—as they have done every Friday since Claire could walk. It is just the two of them, mother and child, while her father toils in a dark mechanic’s shop, slicked with sweat and sleeved in black grease.

He will return so deflated that evening—“Like my own bloody oxygen pumped the tires.”—that Julia will kiss the moons under his eyes, will regret not capturing the sun. And so the following week, when Claire remembers her father’s tired face, she will produce a drained Dasani and hold it skywards. Autumn seeping inside the bottle and then inside her pocket; the bright November gliding down Henry’s throat over an meatloaf dinner. (He will indulge his sweet daughter, drinking and drinking until the December day where he cannot; where Claire must pour the bottle over a mound of dirt.)

But while Henry tinkers with cars so, too, does Claire’s mother do her own work. Observing, absorbing, and storing the day away—right here, on this park path.

That is how Claire’s one full memory begins: their joined hands swinging, and their eyes taking. Dried leaves; flannelled backs bent over canoe oars. So vivid in her mind, even now.

But when Julia says, “Baby, how about we play our game?” young Claire breaks the hold and sighs.

At this point, it has been two weeks since the death of her four-year old self, a feat for which she feels a tremendous pride. With the simple opening of her palm, she can now present her age—Five! Can you imagine?—without ever bending her thumb. Her parents often overlook this incredible development in Claire’s life, still seeing her as the girl with four wiggling fingers, as the walnut nestled in Julia’s stomach. Baby, Baby, Baby.

Claire waves at her mother, as if to say, Five, Five, Five.

“Silly me!” Julia cries. “What I meant to say was: Claire Elizabeth. An honest mistake.”

The correction is enough to earn Claire’s forgiveness. She huffs a petulant “All right,” though she has been waiting for this all week, the moment when her mother’s words begin to change. Their game, with its stories she only sometimes understands, is the key to a world she is slowly (but surely!) approaching.

Claire looks around and searches for their first target.

“Him!” she says, pointing to a man grieving his damaged kite. It lies in the arms of an oak, speared but bloodless, and the protruding branch reminds Claire of summertime splinters. Those little knives of wood, which always wheedle beneath her toes when she dances across the porch, barefoot. (Julia is an expert at removing such splinters. No tweezers needed, just, All better?—and it is. Her fine-boned hands giving Claire’s feet their rhythm again.)

“My. He’s a bit of an odd duck, isn’t he?” her mother says, studying the old man. She tilts her head to the side, as if the angle will reveal the source of his almost-tears, his slumped posture, the very soul within. “Robert! That’s his name. Robert—Owner of Toy Shops.”

Claire giggles with excitement. This has always been her mother’s trick: the divining of lives from the smallest of glimpses. Julia has been known to call it Magic, though Claire has grown more skeptical since the dawn of October 20th. (Magic is, after all, a baby’s word.)

“He’s a recent widower. Do you see how he wears a ring but keeps watching the couple over there?”

Claire does see, and she drafts a mental note for school the next day: Tell Mrs. Heath that Mum is smarter than that scraggly bugger, Albert Whats-His-Face.

“No children either. He and his wife…his wife…” And just as Claire remembers, Einstein! Julia cries, “His wife, Susan! Dear, dead Susan. Both turned off by the whole business of childrearing. Susan’s mother up and left when she was only three.”

“And joined the circus?”

“Yes. I daresay she joined the circus.”

“Poor Robert, Owner of Toy Shops,” Claire laments. “Poor Dear, Dead Susan.”

“Mhmm, such a shame. Poor Dear, Dead Susan didn’t stand a chance against those wretched measles.” (At this, Claire’s fifth year gives her a sudden rush of gratitude. For Dr. Rawlings, who once stuck her with a vaccination needle. For her mother, who covered the red dot with a Pooh plaster. All better.)

“But why is he flying a kite, Mum?”

“Why, indeed…”

This is a crucial part of their game: where Claire probes with further questions, thereby allowing a detailed history to form. No room for doubt when everything is fully realized—just the growing surety that maybe, maybe their guesses are correct.

“I’d wager he’s quite lonely now, and for the first time in his life, he’s regretting they never had children.” Julia’s voice is so confident, that Claire nearly forgets it’s all a game. Almost believes in the name and the wife and the unborn children her mother has given this sad, old stranger. “Flying the kite is a way to…conjure them into existence. A big What if? Rather maudlin if you ask me.”

Claire cannot make sense of these fancy, foreign terms—conjure? maudlin?—or why anyone would fly a kite for their nonexistent kids. Still, Claire nods, Of course, of course, and plans to comb the ‘c’ and ‘m’s of her father’s dictionary. Ask him, casually, for clarification. (And if Henry were here, he would temper his wife’s candor with a more age-appropriate fantasy; shake his head. Even to her own husband, her mother has always been slightly incomprehensible.)

“Baby,” Julia says, suddenly serious. “Claire. Don’t you dare live to regret a thing. Promise me that if something scares you, you’ll do it.

“I’m not scared of anything,” Claire announces (except spiders and cavities; except Father Christmas burning in the chimney and the night noises coming from her parents’ bedroom). “When Willie Burke stole Jacob’s sausage roll last week, I gave him a wedgie. And he’s two years older than me!”

“A wedgie? God, you are fearless!”

Whenever Julia laughs, as she is now, it is the sound of a goose deep in his cups. Oddly enough, Claire prefers it to the less embarrassing, less recognizable titters of other mums. Should Claire ever lose her mother, finding her would be a cinch. She’d just listen for that boisterous, snorting honk, and—presto!—there she’d be. Boisterously snorting and honking.

“You know, munchkin, you’re my favorite. I’d be terribly sad if I didn’t have you.”

“I think I’d be sadder. Papa never cuts the crusts off my sandwiches.” Claire turns once more to the old man. Her brows, just two brown lines of the softest down, knit together. “Will I ever be as sad as Robert, Owner of Toy Shops?”

“Not if I can help it,” Julia says, smiling. “You’re stuck with me.”

“For your whole life?”

“My whole life. I’ll never stop squishing those precious cheeks of yours.”

“Mum! That would hurt my face.”

They go on walking, leaving Robert and the shade of Dear, Dead Susan behind. Claire’s hand has returned to her mother’s, a granting of all past and future forgivenesses, if only to catch some of that maybe-Magic. Discover if it truly exists.

“Your turn!” Julia says, and she chooses a young boy picking flowers. “How about that lad over there? With the Chinese plumbago?”

Claire keeps her mouth shut, though ideas immediately spring to mind. He is a prince picking a posy for his princess, a wizard whose dragon follows a strict vegetarian diet. She keeps these conjectures to herself, wanting to prove that she is big—no baby! no walnut!—and has adultness growing inside her, like the flowers.

The boy reminds Claire of her runty friend, and so she announces, “His name is Jacob.”

“And what’s Jacob picking the flowers for?”

“They’re for his mum to paint,” Claire says. “She’s a…a famous artist, and she’s the only one who can get the plumbago blue just right.” (Too late, she realizes she has mispronounced plumbago, plumbagel. Feels one of those treasured links to adulthood disappear, alongside the missing ‘o.’) “She eats plenty of Vitamin A, so her eyes see what other people’s can’t.”

Julia smirks as the wind lifts her honey curls, then sets them back on her shoulders. So gentle, like the wind was made just for her, to offer its autumn-crisped affection. (Cinderellas and Rapunzels may not be real, Claire thinks—but mothers certainly are. Beautiful, ethereal, capable of a maybe-Magic. The closest thing.)

“That’s very kind of him,” Julia says. She squeezes Claire’s slippery five-year old hand, and the game goes on:

Under the sycamore lies a former ballerina, who once danced for Queen Elizabeth. Not far from her—“Near the tennis court, see?”—is an American scientist. He has made a profound discovery, something that cooks inside a glass beaker and over a flame. A cure for cancer? The bubonic plague? Who knows, but it’s Brilliant. (Boobonic plague? Claire frets, pitying her mother’s chest.)

And then there is that couple—the same one Robert had watched with such depravity—once Claire and Julia circle back to the gates. The man is dubbed Hal, the woman Minnie. Hal is given a talent for poetry and weather-predictive ankles. Minnie, a mastery of crossword puzzles and a penchant for box-color hair dye (How else to explain that lucent shade of blue-gray?). The pair met, per Claire’s request, in Morocco.

“Like in that movie you and Papa always watch!”

“Casablanca? Darling, that’s perfect!” her mother exclaims, then adds, “Eloped in 1908. A love 65 years in the making.”

This last statement makes Claire pause. 65 years, she realizes—despite her complicated relationship with double-digits—is a span of time much vaster than her own life. She can hardly imagine surviving that long, yet she suspects that her mother, with her maybe-Magic, will do just that. Live forever, being incomprehensible and laughing like a drunken goose. (Unfortunately, Julia’s so-called Magic will not prevent the crash that cracks her open. The middle of winter, and the geese a hundred steps ahead; long gone.)

“65 years? Mum, that’s ages.”

“It is,” her mother replies. “But if you asked them, I’d reckon they’d wish for 1,000 more.”

It’s Julia who takes the final turn, and so Claire shows her a girl by the lake. She is staring out towards the opposite bank, where a boy slices the cold, calm water. Each time he reaches the shallows, he stands, smiles at her until she looks at her lap. His reddened nose and his shaking arms have won something: the girl’s restless fidgets, the teeth biting the cushion of her lower lip.

There is a peculiar light on her face, though the clouds have stolen the sun and tucked it behind their fat, cumulus bodies. The light suggests something great, Claire thinks. A holy, incandescent secret. It is what gave Minnie’s bouffant its faint blue halo, and here it is now, spreading all over this girl, right up to her ears.

Julia gives her only a brief glance—not even a tilt of her head—before she seems to understand.

“Easy,” she says, and she nuzzles Claire’s scalp. Bergamot and the maybe-Magic filling the kiss. “She’s found her soulmate.”

(On a day in August, Claire wears another white gown, carries another bouquet, and walks down another aisle ensconced by well-wishers. She feels a sense of fear as she comes before her husband, who she is marrying for the second time after nearly two decades. It is, she understands, the fear of a future regret: of doing this again, of not doing this again. And it is this fear that dares her to welcome the weight of the thistle ring, marry this beautiful man at the foot of the altar. Watching her, watching her—so much in his eyes. You break my heart wi’ loving you.

Claire recites her vows, teary with joy, but loud enough to be heard from the gallery. She pictures her younger self and her mother up there, observing, absorbing and storing away the sight of her. The not-walnut, the woman-grown now saying, “I do,” to 65 years. More.

And just as Jamie leans in for their kiss, young Claire notices how her older self is shining from the inside out. That same holy secret, all over her. And Julia, leaning down to Claire’s little skull, says, Easy.

And when Claire and Jamie turn to the crowd, Claire looks to the gallery. Holds her head like that, tilted upwards, as Jamie whisks her down the steps, towards a shower of rice.

Do you see? Claire is saying to her younger self, wanting her to know that there is grief but, Baby, there is Magic in the world.

Do you see? she is saying to Julia, wanting her mother to know for certain—at least this once—that she is right.)

#our story AU #well this got out of hand #featuring: julia beauchamp #why did you restrict yourself to christmas eves @liv

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sarahaltmanposts · 7 years

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It Summertime… (feigned excitement) Yay!

Have you noticed there are some seasons you like more than others?

I used to really enjoy the summer…I think.

Like most kids, as summer neared I was excited. I remember the sixth period bell ringing on the last day of school and how different I felt. It was as if my body sensed the change. I’d double-check that my locker was empty and walk the hallways as students threw papers in the air. It’s like the hall was buzzing with anticipation.

Having less daily structure for a few months was a nice change. I’d hang out with friends, stay up later at night, do more fun activities and generally, enjoy a slower pace from the school day routines.

But over time, I’ve noticed a slow, creeping change occurring. Subtle at the beginning, I’d sense an uneasiness through the summer months. I’d notice moments where I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin, my blood was racing so fast. I'd feel fidgety, restless and antsy. And those moments grew into longer moments. And even longer moments.

Then I found myself getting irritable much more often during the summer months. Peri-menopause is no companion to the heat, for sure! It took several snips and snaps at my kids before I realized the heat was really beginning to affect my behavior.

Hmmmm….so maybe I don’t like the summer?

Along with the heat came a sense of being stifled and stagnant. I feel tight, like I can barely breathe. Using the air conditioning to change the temperature only moderately helps the problem, because although it cools off the house and my body, it also compounds those feelings of oppression.

And the slower pace and lack of structure that was such a nice change so many years ago, now leaves me feeling anxious. Summer is also a slower time of the year for work, which contributes to my distress. My husband and I find ourselves waiting out the months so we can get back to the busyness and routine of our lives.

Uh, so, no. I guess I really don’t like the summer.

So what’s a girl to do?

To start, I can learn how to accept the benefits of using the air conditioner. Even though I was raised in Florida, my parents rarely used our air. And when they did it was for a very special occasion. As a result, I feel guilty using our air conditioning. I’ve paired cooling our house down with indulgence; and indulgence equals bad. That’s a powerful awareness because it resonates with one of my key misinterpretations: that self-care is selfish and bad. So with that awareness, I can now forgive myself for buying into the belief that taking care of myself is indulgent and bad. Next I remind myself of the truth: as I take care of myself, I am better equipped to take care of those I love around me. And spending a little extra money to use our air conditioning will ultimately serve us all.

Second, there’s a judgment present that I’m silly (dumb, stupid) because I like structure and routine. That’s also a very familiar voice- the one that whispers “Look around, everyone’s so chill and you’re all uptight having to stick to a routine because it makes you more comfortable.” Yeh- it’s not such a pleasant voice. To temper that voice I remind myself that I also appreciate times where routines fall by the wayside. So some forgiveness around these beliefs and positive self-talk would also serve me.

And third: so what if I don’t like Summer? Who really cares anyway? Because the truth is, we are all unique, Spiritual beings and call these experiences to us to deepen our connections with our selves and Spirit. And it’s really ok to not enjoy something that many others do!

So today I’m going to sit back and enjoy a guilt-free scoop of vanilla (YEP!) ice cream!

I had a wonderful few moments recently as I watched my boys playing in a swimming pool. I sat back in my chaise lounge, took a deep breath, noticed how fresh the air was (I was in San Diego!) and had the thought, “Wow, this is nice.” Shortly after, I went back inside to enjoy the air-conditioned rental house!

I’m open to many, many more moments like that.

Happy Summer!

In loving,

Sarah

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creativedogtrainingonline · 7 years

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This Summertime’s Films: A Good Reason to Stay Outdoors?

This past Sunday, the venerable New York Times issued a special section on upcoming motion picture releases for the vital summer season. Prior to laying out what we have to anticipate, the first page included a series of “Memos to Hollywood” from critics A.O. Scott and Manohla Dargis.

I believed Mr. Scott in specific provided some important, though hardly new, recommendations for the market:

1) Allow people to see motion pictures how, when and where they wish to;

2) Repair our nitwitted, complicated rankings system;

3) Offer some edgy young filmmakers the opportunity to enliven the embarrassingly stagnant phenomenon referred to as film comedy;

4) Political accuracy is the opponent of art and home entertainment- take a stand; go for some debate in your movies, get individuals talking;

5) Scorsese and Spielberg- believe small again (fat possibility); and lastly,

6) A depressingly apt and descriptive listing of all the worn out solutions still being flogged to the public, accompanied by a genuine plea to do something different and better.Ms.

Darghis, working as she does for one of the leading surviving newspapers in the land, influenced me less than her colleague. Maybe she is indicated to speak for the youth, however the youth I fulfill are brighter than this.

For instance, she saluted Pixar for making a movie with a female protagonist (something on everyone’s mind), decried the representation of effeminate gays (does Sean Penn count?), and requested more motion pictures with Rachel McAdams and James Franco (I like Franco, however I’m seeing lots of him. Does he require a job?).

A lot of annoyingly, she opposed A.O Scott’s first well-crafted point about the general public’s desire to take in film how, when and where they choose by taking the urban public to task for not supporting foreign and independent movies at their community arts-house! After all, “DVDs and downloads fade beside the big-screen experience”, and business like New Yorker films are failing!

This is our fault, Manohla? Hollywood’s marketing might, which marginalizes the awareness and distribution of these smaller sized films, is not the primary culprit? And sorry to break it to you, but more and more people see a great part of their movies at home, and really happily too, for factors of cost and convenience.

Later I needed to question if the ensuing irony appeared to anyone at the Times. Moving on from this lead post, I quickly discovered that the remainder of the section was controlled by plugs and ads for just the sort of films these critics are asking Hollywood to stop making.Among the cinematic treats in shop for us this summer season: The much anticipated re-make of “The Taking Of Pelham One, 2, Three “for those who found the initial classic had too numerous words and inadequate bullets; A drama (yes, drama-and about terminal illness

) misleadingly titled “Funny Individuals”starring Adam Sandler and Seth Rogen, logical possibly because their latest funnies stopped being funny; A brand-new variation on the plodding”Da Vinci Code”called”Angels and

Demons “, with Tom Hanks still sporting that silly haircut(just Hollywood so blatantly aims to profit from failure); The inevitable follows up … for “Harry Potter “(he should have chest hair by now),

“Ice Age”, and the forever witty, effervescent” Night At The Museum”; For those already nostalgic for”Beverly Hills Chihuahua “, the high-minded Jerry Bruckheimer brings us a motion picture called “G Force” starring-you guessed it-a guinea pig; Not to discuss a brand-new(airbrushed) Sandra Bullock romantic funny called “The Proposal”, starring a much more youthful guy with good hair called Ryan Reynolds.Of course, it’s not all bad; it never is. To be reasonable, there are always a couple of surprise gems buried in the middle of the muck.

Personally, I will wonder to see whether: The classically lovely (however never effeminate)Johnny Depp can bring off his representation of tough, macho gangster John Dillinger in”Public Enemies”; Quentin Tarantino can pull himself from his current wave of creative self-indulgence with”Inglorious Bastards”, starring Brad Pitt; Meryl Streep’s performance of Julia

Child in “Julie and Julia”approaches my own legendary impersonation-search “Julia Childless”on YouTube.Till these out of breath moments show up, Ms. Darghis, I will remain blissfully at house, viewing the Requirement release of”The Pals Of Eddie Coyle “on DVD. Who knows? I might even set my very own Bob Mitchum Movie Festival. A featured film blog writer on The Huffington Post, John Farr lectures on timeless movie and is editor of www.bestmoviesbyfarr.com, a website and blog that celebrate over 2,000 of the best functions ever made, old and new, domestic

and foreign. project

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