Unpopular Opinion time:

There's something weird going on there

For the wholesome ask meme!

1 for Dima and his brothers

4 for Anara

14 for Chayne

20 for Sunny

And 42 for Em!

1. (For Dima and his brothers) What is their go-to comfort food?

Dima's comfort food is actually blini/crepes with a sweet filling, he also LOVES milkshakes!

Danila loves any kind of dumplings x3

Pyotr likes bbq (or more so he just likes to cook it… FIRE)

Pavel just likes tea (in his favorite cup and saucer is a bonus haha)

4. (For Anara) What is the thing they like the most about their friends and what is the thing their friends like the most about them?

So the only true friend Ana has at the hospital is probably Natalya (the head nurse) ^^; Ana likes Natalya because… I guess the best way I could describe it is, she's like an overly caring and nice aunt xD She's always inviting Anara over to her place for lunch or to gossip about things. She also helps Anara out a lot around the hospital (especially when she was brand new).

Natalya loves Ana because of her charm. She loves how kind, optimistic, and talkative she is (with her and everyone she meets in the hospital). And also how she's not afraid to break Pavel's rules xD

Aaand Pavel… I wouldn't really call them friends, but it's very much a teacher whose proud of their student kind of thing. Anara appreciates his honesty and no bs/blunt approach to stuff (though she does admit he can be too strict/harsh sometimes).

And Pavel appreciates that Anara is open to learning and trying anything, and her determination. Even if she fails at something, she'll bounce back and try again 10 fold. He sees great potential in her in the world of mad medicine.

14. (For Chayne) Quickly, let them give us some life advice!

(oh Chayne pffft)

20. (For Sunny) What is their hidden talent? Is that a skill they’ve been practicing since childhood or just something they happen to know and never had the chance to show? Was it something forced upon them, taught by someone close, or they picked it up themselves?

Singing was his hidden talent for a bit. He only really sung in groups/or with his mom growing up. But once he was in college and needed some extra funds (so did Chayne), they started singing/busking on the side. Sunny also can play ALOT of different instruments! Most were self taught, other times people in the hippie commune taught him, or his dad.

42. (For Em) Let them vent for a second, without the fear of being judged. What would they like to say?

Eeeey, ya'll get a small sneak peak of what I've been cookin haha xD

(some WIP sketch panels ^^)

Jersey on my mind (part 28)

Disclaimer! Mentions of abuse will occur in this part, a flashback from Mila’s past.

With accustomed fingers, Mila tightens the laces in the well-used, dirty running shoes. First the right one, then the left one. Like a ritual, she simultaneously extends first the right side of her neck, then the left. Her eyes flicker between a cluster of bruises on her knee and the man standing with his back against her, looking out of the window of the old, worn dressing room. The warm coat is free from dust grains and hairs. The dark hair is perfectly combed over his scalp and the scarf that protrudes behind the coat collar is dark navy blue. A poster boy for the state, or rather a man, but also her father, state official Sergey Volkov Yuroshenko. With his tall body and proud attitude, he could just as easily have been the president of Russia himself.

“What a day.” Papa exclaims. “Beautiful. Just perfect.”

Had it not been her father standing there, Mila would have thought that the man at the window was blind. Outside the window it’s completely gray and gloomy. As far from a hot, sunny summer day it could possibly be. 

Probably an old Soviet-era habit. All fathers who mentally remain in the Soviet universe  probably think the same thing; the grayer the better. If it’s not summer and hot as hell and they happen to be parked at the Dacha, drinking vodka. The greater the contrasts the better.

The fog was dense over the landscape while the car drove over almost deserted roads. Mama and Papa in the front seat and Mila in the back seat, half lying, sleeping. She has been driven out of town, to a large sports facility with an athletics track, and a 3.7 mile forest track for cross-country running. Three weeks earlier it was announced on the school’s bulletin board that Mila had been selected to compete in the Moscow district’s cross-country race. Baffled, she stood there feeling anything but happy, while her two friends Vera and Nataliya happily bounced up and down next to her by the big board, overjoyed to be picked to participate in the same competition, but the one for girls. 

“We’ll come and watch, of course!” Vera comforted Mila, as the three girls went to the next lesson.

“Absolutely!” Nataliya agreed.

Mila glances at the window, past Papa and wonders if her two squires are out there somewhere, shivering and waiting for the race to start. 

“I have a feeling that you’ll win. I know you will.”

Mila yawns, doing her best to hide it. To avoid questions and admonitions to go to bed earlier, or to hear that she is a sleepyhead. Is it not enough to go to bed at eight the day before a competition, when all your friends are allowed to be awake until ten?

“Mhm.” 

“You'll make a lasting impression.”

“Maybe because it’s a race for boys.” Mila sighs, lets down her legs and rests her dirty running shoes on the floor, finally saying something from her heart. “Haven’t you noticed we’re all alone in here, Papa? I am the only girl here.” She holds out her arms, as to point out the obvious. “I wanted to be in a race for girls, with other girls. This is-” 

Papa fends off Mila’s proclamation, waving it away with his hand.

“Girls are weak.” 

“I am a girl.”

“Don’t remind me.” 

Mila’s gaze drops. The statement is short, but says it all. No, she shouldn’t remind him. It only makes him upset. 

“This is a great day, for our family.” The voice is hopeful, or rather, full of anticipation. It makes Mila feel a bit unwell, sick. “The whole Moscow district. Many important people are sitting out there watching. A great day, indeed. Lucky us, being here early, so we got seats in the stands. Kirilov and his wife weren't that lucky.” He chuckles. “He works at the office, on the floor below.” The elucidation that the colleague’s tiny, cubic workspace is below his own, real office, with solid walls, seems to cheer him up a bit. “What was the son’s name? Well, Doesn’t matter.” He continues. “They are losers, all of them.” Papa glances at her. “They don’t have what it takes. No. This requires stamina. Discipline.” 

He proudly straightens his back while looking out the window, at the stadium and the forest. Mila feels how the knot in her stomach grows to the size of a cabbage head; knows what’s expected of her. She always knows. Only first place is good enough, especially now, at the district championship. As if he could read her mind, Papa turns to her, with his arms clasped behind his back like an officer inspecting his cadets. The only difference is that it’s not a poor cadet he stares down, but his fourteen-year-old daughter, who will run 3.7 miles, and is expected to do it faster and better than teenagers who are both one and two years older than her. Just because Papa forced her to be better, faster, than her peers, than anyone else. 

“Second best is not enough.” he preaches and walks up to her. “Only the weak are satisfied. You, Milaya, are not weak. You will win. A second place would be trivial.” 

“Like being a damn clerk.” Mila mutters.

It takes a millisecond for her to regret saying it out loud, or barely audible, but Papa has the hearing of a fox. The dark eyes turn almost black and the big hand firmly sweeps through the air before Mila has time to react and duck. It hits the spot where it was intended and Mila falls off the bench and lands on the cold tile floor. With a throbbing head, she feels the large hands close around her neck and prevent air from entering or leaving her trachea as Papa squats over her.

“Don’t talk to me that way, devochka.” he hisses between clenched teeth, while Mila struggles to make him ease the grip around her neck. She clings to the steady, strong wrists and kicks with her legs, but there’s no use. He’s strong and frankly, pissed off. The facade has crackled, as it sometimes does, and anger is directed at her, as always. Maybe because it is always Mila who is the root of the anger, the sadness, the disappointment. One thing is certain, she will not be able to complete the race if he does not let go, soon. “Was that supposed to be funny? Ungrateful-” he breathes through his nose, whereupon he forces a faint smile to appear on his lips, which is anything but happy. He releases the grip and rises. “Do not disappoint me, Milaya. Do.. not..-”

And he leaves the sterile, chill dressing room. The door slams shut and Mila is left alone on the floor. Her heart is racing in her chest and stars dance in front of her eyes. No, she can’t faint now. Instead she coughs, grasps for air. Her chest feels like she’s just been close to drowning. The pain is aching. Angry tears want to escape her eyes, but Mila passes them back into the tear ducts. It could have been worse, she thinks. It could have been much worse. Mila repeats the mantra over and over inside her head as she coughs, and sits up. Bite the bullet, Mila. 

She’s gonna show him. She’s going to show them all. Papa should at least have a reason to- 

On trembling knees Mila rises, leaning against the bench and stumbles over to the dirty mirror on the wall. She looks past the scribbled “Galina loves Pavel” in red marker pencil and meets her own face staring back at her. A pale face with big blue eyes. The long hair is set in a ponytail and the fringe is a bit tangled, due to the fact that the hairdresser sneezed just as she made the cut, one week earlier. The head is set on a long neck, attached to a pair of sharp shoulders. On the side of Mila’s pale face the bruise is already starting to take shape and the lower lip is cracked at the side. Her neck is completely red.

“Zdorovo...” Mila sighs, touches the cracked lip slightly, to get the blood away. “Prosto zdorovo. Just great.”

Bozhe moy, he really did a winner on that hit. At least he didn’t aim for her legs. Smart move, Mila thinks as she adjusts her jaw a little, making the lip sting slightly. Then she wouldn’t have been able to run. 

Swearing, Mila staggers into the small toilet, a sad look; she turns on the tap, which of course only has cold water to offer her, splashes it on her face and shivers throughout the body. She blinks the water out of her eyes and looks out the open door, through the window in the other room, out at the gray weather. Spring sure takes its time this year. It’s freezing outside. Mila looks down at her poor, scrawny, bare legs in the red shorts. At least it’s not the river Volga in the middle of the winter. Positive thoughts. 

At the same time, the angry signal bounces over the area, finds its way into the changing room and announces that the race is about to start within ten minutes. Papa has given his ‘pep talk’ and has probably sat down next to Mama at this point in the stands, probably drinking Mama’s homemade hot Sbiten and eating sandwiches. Well, now it’s Mila’s time to do her part. It’s showtime. 

She leaves the shabby dressing room and steers her steps towards the edge of the forest, prepared to win a marathon. She has to. Taglist:  @lonewolf471

Star Trek - Dating them would include:

Disclaimer: don't own star trek or any of its characters

Kirk

·      Butt slapping

·      Kirk’s irresistible smirk

·      Him being in captain mode around everyone else so no one makes the mistake of him being soft

·      Falling asleep without him but waking up with his arms around you

·      Traveling the galaxy together

·      Shore leaves going by too fast

·      Him never letting you go on missions without him

·      Winking

·      Cheek kisses

·      Making out in obscure parts of the ship

·      Scotty kicking you out when he catches you two in the engine room

·      Running your hands through his hair

·      Wearing his shirts

·      An obvious relationship

·      You bring out a sweeter, gentler Kirk that no one has seen before

·      Even though he still has sex with you a lot, he values you more than anyone else and makes sure you know he thinks you’re priceless and he wants you for more than sex

·      Teasing

·      The whole crew being afraid of you when you’re mad at him

·      Pranking each other and the crew

·      The two of you not being allowed to share a room because you disturb the whole crew with your “late night activities” (interpret how you want ;) )

·      Nicknames for you: short version(s) of your name, babe, beautiful

·      Nicknames for him: babe, sexy, captain (which he NEVER gets enough of), Jim (obviously)

 Spock

·      Eyebrow raising

·      No PDA whatsoever

·      Surprisingly passionate sex

·      Calculated, but somehow loving, compliments

·      Kirk inevitably giving him unwanted dating/woman advice

·      Lots of Vulcan blushing

·      Spock tutoring you

·      Finding his intellectual rants adorable

·      Him caring about you more than anyone would think

·      Him being wary of using the word “love”

·      Nicknames for you: “I do not see the purpose of a nickname as her/your name is already perfect.”

·      Nicknames for him: Commander (when you’re mad at him), babe

 Bones

·      Shoulder kisses

·      Little to no PDA

·      Sweet kisses

·      Wearing/sleeping in his shirts around your shared room (which he secretly thinks is adorable)

·      Giving him massages after stressful days (so, like… every day)

·      Being the only one who’s able to pull him away from his work (only sometimes)

·      Butt slapping (only when no one else is around)

·      Jim making up excuses for you to go see Bones

·      Jim being like a big brother

·      Jim non-stop teasing Bones, even though he is happy for you two

·      Dammit, Jim

·      “Dammit”

·      Sarcasm

·      Being the only one to make him smile (not around anyone else though)

·      “I swear! It was a real, genuine smile!”

·      “Yeah, sure, (y/n). And Scotty doesn’t drink on his time off.”

·      “Hey! How else do yeh expect me to survive on this ship with you trashin’ her every other mission?”

·      Him carrying you to bed when you work yourself to sleep

·      Jealous Bones

·      Your relationship remaining a secret for however long you can keep it that way

·      Cliché dates whenever possible

·      Stargazing during shore leave

·      Helping him cope with his “fear of dying in something that flies”

·      Mischievously hypoing him when he refuses to rest

·      Him accidentally finding out you’re ticklish during a medical exam and using that as blackmail so you quit hypo-ing him

·      Bringing him lunch when he won’t leave his office

·      Only referring to him as “Dr. McCoy” when you’re mad at him

·      Him sleeping elsewhere on those days XD

·      Nicknames for you: sweetheart, darlin’, short version(s) of your name

·      Nicknames for him: Bones (obviously), Len, babe, handsome

 Chekov

·      Being the cutest couple on the ship

·      His adorable boyish yet sexy accent

·      Him always making you smile

·      Forehead kisses

·      Him forbidding you from wearing a red shirt

·      Him splitting his time on shore leave between seeing you and going home to Russia

·      Chekov smiling at you as he watches you sleep in his shirts

·      Goodbye kisses

·      Him resting his forehead on yours and looking into your eyes <3

·      Him teaching you Russian

·      You getting so excited when you get things right

·      Chekov being super proud of you too

·      Everyone shipping you two (no pun intended)

·      Helping him pronounce “tough” English words

·      Tangling your hands in his curly hair

·      Chekov excitedly talking to you about the latest theory or science thing he learned and watching his eyes light up as he does so

·      Nicknames for you: angel, moya lyubov (“my love” in Russian)

·      Nicknames for him: babe, Pasha, actually calling him Pavel, moya lyubov (when you finally learn to pronounce it right)

 Scotty

·      That accent tho <3

·      Trying to hold in your laughter during his outbursts

·      Secretly filming him when he’s drunk

·      Letting him vent to you and vice versa

·      Trying to mimic his accent to drive him crazy but he thinks it’s cute

·      Teasing him in front of new recruits so they aren’t as afraid of him

·      Smiling while kissing

·      Making him bang his head on pipes after calling his name (oops)

·      Drinking together

·      Sitting on pipes with Keenser

·      Cheek kisses

·      Him cursing people when they interrupt your time together (when he can’t ignore their calls)

·      Goodbye pecks on the lips

·      Always bugging him while he’s working

·      Listening to him complain about the newbies

·      Falling asleep to him lecturing about engineering

·      Him not being able to get mad about it cuz he thinks you look cute when you’re asleep

·      Nicknames for you: lass, lassy, sweetheart, babe

·      Nicknames for him: Scotty (obviously), Monty, Mr. Scott (when you’re mad at him)

In fair Verona, our tale begins with ALVA FAE, who is TWENTY-FOUR years old. They are often called ARIEL and are NEUTRAL. He uses HE/THEY pronouns.

A father set in his ways, a mother who refused to speak up, Alva from a young age was forced to face the fact that their family would never understand them. Growing up in a Mennonite community in New York with eight siblings, Alva was often the one pushed aside. They were not manly enough, they were not well spoken enough, they were not strong enough to do any of the things their family needed them to do. Because of this, their father gave up on them at an early age, leaving a young Alva ALONE to their own devices. They would often go out into the fields, daydreaming of a life they could never have, wind flowing around them, they pictures what it would be like to have it take them away. Somewhere new, somewhere far. But Alva dared not dream around their father, no. Instead, they focused on staying quiet, staying INVISIBLE. If their father was not to notice them, then perhaps they might escape unscathed. The only time they ever let their voice free, was when they were allowed to sing at Sunday Mass. He remembers still the light of pride in his mother’s eyes as the congregation looked at him, his voice resonating for all to hear. He wonders now if she would still be proud of him, if she would still love him, knowing the things he had done.

The older they got, the less this worked. Now that Alva was growing into a man, there were RESPONSIBILITIES they now had to take over. They had to act their age, they had to stop looking at life as though he could be anything but who he was. He would follow in his father’s footsteps. and his father before him. He would marry a woman, she would have eight more babies, and they would then follow along that path. But what was he to do when, even then, nothing felt quite right? The more he would pretend, the more he felt CONSTRAINED, lost, and like he was slowly losing any type of hope for life at all. On Alva’s seventeenth birthday, he met the woman who was intended to be his wife. At the time, it was difficult to understand the nauseous feeling in their stomach at the thought, but the further they were from the situation, the more they could see just how far from themself they had strayed. The nausea in their belly nothing more than a warning that their body, and their spirit, were no longer aligned. The night before their wedding, Alva laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling begging for a solution, for anything to get them out of there. It came in the wind, somewhere in the distance, the sound of a group, talking and laughing, walking down the road. It was odd for anyone outside of the community to be around those parts, especially at night, but Alva took it as a sign from God. They packed up whatever things they had, as silently as they could, they concealed their face, climbed out of the window, and ran to SALVATION. 

They took him in, the leader of the group taking a particular interest in him, taking advantage of his innocence, and showing him just what he had been missing out on in the real world. What could he do but follow along? Until he escaped, until he took whatever money he had, and left. They were in France then, he had followed them to college there, his ticket paid for by the man whose rag doll he played. And there he was again. Lost, alone, TERRIFIED. He changed his name and moved on, forever leaving the past behind him, never daring to look back. Sometimes, he let himself wonder. What would have happened if he had never left? If he had married that woman, had their kids, lived their mediocre and unhappy life? Wouldn’t it be the same feeling of dissatisfaction? Perhaps that was his fate, perhaps his life was meant to be lived in IN-BETWEENS. In between himself, in between worlds, in between life. Once again, Alva lost their voice, and once again, they were cursed to a life of in-betweens. Alva made their way through Europe, with no place to stay permanently, they found the beds of strangers to sleep in. Some kind, others not. After a while, they all began to blend together. They no longer knew what they were looking for, no longer knew who it was that could help them, that could save them. They decided they were ready to give up in Italy. That perhaps the wind would never sweep them away, that they would be held tight in the CHAINS he himself had created forever. 

One final drink, they told themself. One final drink and that would be it for them, they would finally go and drift in the wind. No longer would they be STUCK in between, no longer would anyone take advantage of them, no longer would they be tied to a world they felt they did not belong in. No longer would their voice be tied up in his throat, refusing to resonate, refusing to be free. As they walked back to their hotel room, they passed the cathedral. It was the first time Alva enjoyed feeling small, looking up at it as though it were his safe haven, as though perhaps this was his final chance to connect to God before everything disappeared for them. Perhaps, despite all that he had done, he would still be able to make it into Heaven. He walked in and found himself to be alone, his footsteps resonating around him. And, memories of his youth filling him with emotion, he SANG. He didn’t notice the sound of her footsteps, and when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he assumed it to be God. Telling him it was alright, that his sins would no longer matter in His kingdom. He closed his eyes, letting his voice dissipate, and that was when he heard her. Mona. She offered him a home, she offered him sanctuary, she offered him a voice, power, family. A sense of BELONGING. Alva, seeing her as a gift from God, agreed. Broken and fragile, he followed her to the Dark Lady. She delivered on everything she promised, and for that, she’d gained his loyalty. He works as a lounge singer there, looking over the room, seeing who had taken a particular interest, and, when the show was over, he used whatever skill he had to coax out their secrets. For once, he had the POWER. For once, he could TAKE, and did not have to give in return.

MONA CHEN: Salvation/Employer. The comfort of a mother was never something they thought they would feel again. In their youth, they were close to their mom, stayed by her side and made sure to hide behind her when things got rough with their dad. Leaving her was the hardest thing Alva had to do. But he had to. While Mona doesn’t satisfy the comfort he needed, truly needed, from his mother, she did make him feel at home. Made him feel safe. And because of that, they are extremely faithful to her. They gather up intel and give it to her willingly, only keeping the darkest of secrets in his own heart. He knows better than to share it all, knows better than to give someone everything they could ever want. Especially someone who saved him. 

PAVEL LAM: Amusement. The past isn’t something often brought up for Alva. It’s something he would prefer to keep locked inside, hidden away so no one would see. But people have questions, they’re curious. They look at this person, so tall and proud, and want to know where one garners such confidence. Alva has taken to lying about their past, about where they’ve been, what they’ve done, and with that comes some elaboration. While it isn’t all a lie, they really did learn to shoot a gun from a wealthy man in Spain, they don’t tell people it was to get away from him. They don’t tell people they learned they were a good shot when the bullet went right between his eyes. He hasn’t shot a gun since, and he doesn’t intend to. Of course, it’s all the more entertaining to tease Pavel, to brag about how great they are, when they see the way their face reddens with annoyance. 

MAEVE PETRE: Interest. The flower of Verona, the sun evading the darkness, there is a lot people don’t know about Maeve Petre. Or, more importantly, there’s a lot Maeve doesn’t know about Maeve, about her family, about her past. Everything had come to light on an uncharacteristically rainy day. Her father and his best friend came sauntering into the Dark Lady, and while her father was preoccupied, spilled his heart to Alva. Of his past, of the wrongs he had done, of the blood on his hands. It wasn’t what they had wanted to hear, what they had expected, and they hold the information close to their heart, unsure of what to do with it, who to tell. He sees the fire in Maeve, wanting to please her father, wanting to right wrongs done to her family. But can he just sit by and watch as she works for the side that so cruelly slaughtered her mother? That ruined her family?

TRINITY ZAKARIAN: Ghost. There is a darkness to her that freezes Alva to their core. It’s rare for them to ever feel scared anymore, not after the things they’ve seen, the things they’ve done. But there’s something about Trinity, something that brings him back to his worst place, reminds him of every memory he tried to keep buried down. Trinity looks into his eyes and sees fear, and a part of them believes that she lives off of it, thrives when he is being weighed down. He avoids her as much as he can, though it seems like she always finds him. Always is looking for him. As though she has something on him, something that could hurt him, something that could jeopardize the home he had built for himself in Verona. 

Alva is portrayed by SIMONAS PHAM and was written by KASS. They are TAKEN by GABE.

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A few days into the fresh energy of the new year, I’m still processing a lot from 2019 because it was a huge year for me. I think it’s a big missed opportunity for self-growth if you don’t take some time to reflect on your year, what it taught you, how it shaped you, and what your goals are moving into a new year. Resolutions can be cheesy and cheap, but serious self-reflection and actions towards your goals are what will move you forward.

In 2019, I got to experience a lot of things I love. I photographed one of my favorite artists, I went to 6 music festivals (including my first SXSW and EDCLV), I traveled to Vegas, Italy, Germany, France, Colorado, and Mexico (not to mention a few weekends away in the lovely Austin, Texas). I connected with many different people this year, a few of whom have stuck around to be good friends. I graduated college surrounded by the support of my amazing family, started my first semester of grad school and my first real job, and I fell even more in love with Pavel after we made the decision to move in together.

Whew. Talk about self-growth. Years like this that are filled with change are definitely among the most difficult ones I remember, but getting older is cool sometimes because I recall other similar times when I felt challenged, pushed, and even frustrated, but then ended up getting through it and life being way better on the other side. For example, when I first moved to Houston in 2016. Another similarly big transition year, 2019 didn’t come without its struggles, but those have been incredible learning moments and just as important as my highs. 

Overall though, growing up is hard. I think this is something I say often, but I really feel that in my soul. Sometimes I feel like I have a grip on adulthood, I’m now financing larger trips and travel plans for Pavel and I, I’m seeing more of the world, I’m less afraid of doing adult things alone and less afraid of the unknown general. At the same time though, so much of my identity is rooted in my youth. Young, wild, and free, you know? Nothing is better. So in many ways, feeling this slip away from me year by year as I get older and have to handle more and more of my own responsibilities really sucks. Not being able to be as carefree or have as much free time can be a challenge that comes with adulthood, but fortunately having the level of self-awareness I’ve developed, I’m also realizing that I don’t actually have to buy into that narrative anymore. Can I be a fully responsible, independent adult and still create time for myself and give myself breaks to play, dance, and rest? Absolutely. Can I be a smart, professional, respectable person while still being funny and quirky and myself? Hell yeah. Getting settled into adulthood by moving out and going through all these changes I did this year has helped me realize that my life is really my own to shape and create however I want. I’ve learned that no matter what advice others give me or see fit for me, the decisions are mine to make at the end of the day and I’m the one who has to live my life every day. As the indecisive libra I am, this was hard at first but I can literally feel myself growing into my power and that feels fucking amazing. 

Major shifts also happened in my academic/professional life that were extremely difficult to go through, but I have a feeling were a huge plunge in the right direction for me. For most of undergrad (which was only 3 years), I was committed to staying in academia to get my Ph.D. in political science and then working as a professor. This was mainly for 3 reasons — I was always good at school so I thought putting off finding a job to stay in school longer would be an easy solution, I wanted to stay in an area I excelled in and felt comfortable in, and I didn’t explore my other interests/options enough at the time. I also couldn’t see myself dressing in business clothes, working in an office or corporate-type job. Essentially, I settled for something I thought would be more comfortable, but it turned out my undergrad program had not challenged me or prepared me for this grad program at all. Instead of being comfortable, I was thrown to the wolves in classes and material I was completely unprepared for and not even interested in. Not to mention, I felt incredibly alone and isolated from my classmates because many of them were older, already had a Master’s degree, and their lives revolved completely around the department because most of them worked as TAs while being full-time students. Meanwhile, I was working outside of academics, wanted to maintain my personal life and hobbies, and simply could not keep up with the pace and demands of the program. Nor did I want to, because seeing both the Ph.D. student and professor life up and close as a grad student made me realize that’s not the life I want as a professional. Academia can be incredibly stifling of new ideas, very bureaucratic, and has cookie-cutter ways to ‘making it’ in your given field. I learned that it is not an environment where my skills and personality would flourish, and I deserve better than that. I realized it’s unfair to both myself and the people who could benefit from my skills to force myself to fit into a box I simply don’t fit into.

That doesn’t go to say I have it all figured out now because I surely don’t. In fact, I’m on a whole new journey of finding jobs and fields I’m interested in, then gaining the right experiences and connections to get those jobs. Fortunately, I saved my grad school career by advocating for myself. Last semester, I immediately realized I hated the poli sci program, started exploring other related degree options, dropped my most difficult class after midterms, and then pushed and begged my advisors to actually do something to help me do something about my situation. After exploring and talking to people a bit, I realized my skillset would be a lot more applicable for something in Communications, like Public Relations or Mass Communications. I’ve always had a mind for communication, media, and relating to others as a deep empath. With broad applications in the world, I also realized this is a degree that I can make, not one that makes me. I can apply it and use it to do anything I'm interested in — from entertainment PR and marketing, to journalism and writing, to leadership and team management. My advisors were able to transfer me into the Communications MA for this spring, even though technically I would have had to apply and start in the fall. An important consideration about leaving political science was that they had given me a full scholarship covering my tuition, but since I’ve transferred I’ll now have to figure out paying for this semester myself and then finding scholarships or other ways to pay for the next 2 years (because I’ve made it this far and I refuse to have student loans). I’m so glad I didn’t let the money stop me because I would have lost that scholarship anyway since I dropped a class and didn’t get the most impressive grades, plus no scholarship is worth suffering in something you don’t want to be in and that won’t get you where you want to be.

Aside from the whirlwind that was this last semester, I am incredibly proud of myself for getting through all these crazy changes and still managing to be my joyful and best self (at least most of the time). I had my days where I cried hard after school and work, and some dark weeks this semester, but I made still doing things that make me happy a priority. Yoga, music, travel, going to festivals, going out with friends, seeing my family, and just slowing down for self-care. Finding familiarity and comfort in these things that bring me joy, combined with support from Pavel, are what got me through my hardest times this semester. Now I feel more settled into my new life being moved out, I feel more confident and powerful because I made my own decisions, and I feel excited about this new journey and the fulfillment and abundance this new path will bring me. 

Speaking of Pavel, it’s actually unreal how seamless and perfect moving in with him has been. Of course, we are immensely privileged because we aren’t dealing with rent, bills, or even cleaning much. But nonetheless, we’ve dealt with challenging times together but just going to bed together and waking up together makes life better. He’s my best friend in every way, living with him and sharing a space together is so magical and beautiful. I feel so safe, welcomed, and open to create the space and life I want here. I feel so cared for, valued, and loved with Pavel. We work so well together, it feels effortless and deliciously perfect. He grounds me, and this space has become home so quickly because of the way he makes me feel here. Moving out has taught me so much, helped me start overcoming a lot of fear and anxiety, and just allowed me to blossom more into myself. I will be forever grateful for Pavel helping make that happen with me at this point in our lives where it was so perfectly needed. I respect and love him endlessly for being the mature, intelligent, caring, patient partner that I need in my life. 

2019 was also a year of letting go of a lot of friendships, people, and energies that no longer serve me. I realized that I am a wonderful friend who is ready to give support, love, guidance, hugs, and my whole heart to someone who is willing to give all of that back and who is deserving of receiving that from me. Even though I’m in a healthy and happy long-term relationship, I still feel myself holding space in my heart for deep friendships and connections with other people (specifically with women/feminine energy), but I haven’t been able to fill that space since moving to Texas. I miss the friendships I grew up having, and I put a lot of pressure on filling that space for a while, but I realizing forcing it gets me nowhere and a lot of people simply aren’t in a place to be able to reciprocate my energy in a meaningful way. A lot of people are really caught up in their own lives (which is totally understandable), already have other people filling the space for friendship in their lives, or simply aren’t at the level of maturity and growth that I am so they can’t connect with me on a deep level. Making close friends as an adult is way harder, people are just busier, but I really do trust that I will attract the right people and they will come into my life at the right time.

Continuing to expand and grow into my spirituality and spiritual practices by meditating, journaling, listening to podcasts, and practicing yoga has also brought me solace and internal happiness. It’s hard to describe and most people my age/similar to me are really disconnected from having their own authentic beliefs/practices because they either go with what they’re taught or dismiss it altogether. For me, having a career path I find exciting and fulfilling, a stable romantic relationship, healthy friendships, a spiritual practice, and fun hobbies are all areas of my life that I need to satisfy to feel balanced and genuinely happy. Knowing this, and after reflecting on all of these areas within the past year, I’m manifesting the following for each area in 2020, but I also know the Universe knows more than me and things may go differently for a reason (like my poli sci program not working out) so I trust that I will receive this, or something better...

☽ Career — I will get a second job/start a side hustle that will help fund my school and travels this year, I will start learning exciting new things that prepare me for a field/job I’m passionate about, I will secure an internship that pays well and allows me to practice/gain useful skills, I will get scholarships for next school year, I will feel a sense of belonging and make friends in my new program, I will continue learning and exploring different options/opportunities, and I will make connections with people who can mentor me and help me grow into starting my career.  

☽ Relationship — Pavel and I will continue to support, love, and care for each other in all aspects. Our love will continue to grow and flourish as we grow in life together. We will go on adventures that make us feel happy, excited, exhausted and refreshed. We will add to our stories and crazy experiences. We will continue treating each other with love and respect, supporting each others’ growth as individuals while also growing together in a really beautiful way. 

☽ Friendship — I will continue to grow my valuable friendships with people who are on the same wavelength as me. I will have a lot of laughs and good memories with people I care about. I will get deeper into the communities of like-minded people around me (music, yoga). I will find more friends who inspire me and actively support my creative ideas/work. I will develop deeper and more fulfilling friendships with people who reciprocate my energy, and I will extend myself in new ways by being the person I needed for others. 

☽ Spirituality — I will continue practicing meditation and yoga as much as I can. I will also continue to read one book per month and listen to one podcast per week to grow the value in my practice. I will journal and synchronize my self-growth with lunar and astrological cycles, which allows me to tap into my higher power and divine connection with the universe. I will also consider doing a YTT this summer or winter, but regardless I will find outlets to be of assistance to others and give back in this area that has been of such deep value in my life. I will practice breathing, mindfulness, and presence to feel grounded during stressful times. I will get better at protecting my energy and staying rooted in my own positive energy and affirmations (aka, not letting other people’s BS or toxic energy affect me). 

☽ Fun — I will continue going to events that surround me with good energy and good people. I will continue doing what brings me joy, allows me to move and release tension and energy, and that brings me closer with like-minded friends. I will continue to make the incredible trips and experiences I desire a reality by saving money and smart planning. I make more of an effort to bring this good energy with me into my every day by being myself and sharing my laughs and joy with the people around me. I will continue to feed my inner child, my creativity, and my natural human existence on this earth.

I have no doubt that 2020 will continue this amazing momentum and growth that I have cultivated over the past year. I am beyond blissful and grateful for the incredible year I had and all it taught me, but I’m also ready to move forward feeling more prepared, confident, and capable of making everything I can imagine a reality. 

Season 2 Cassette 2: Ulster Museum (1973)

[tape recorder turns on]

Welcome to the Ulster Museum in Belfast. I’m the director of collections, Mary Breathnach. As we enter the new decade of the 1970’s, we face many changes to the art world. Many national borders have fallen away, our world joining together in economic and political unity, but as history changes before our eyes, so does it stay the same.

The Ulster Museum, part of the collected museums of Western Europa, is proud to present “Red Love – the Passion of Claudia Atieno”, sponsored by the Harmon Family Trust. These are Atieno’s most popular works, many from the mid-1960’s when her career was at its height. “Sunshine Afternoon”, “Still Life with Tomato Plant and Sword”, and even a recently discovered repainting of “Still Life with Cat”. It’s been some months since anyone has seen Atieno. Some have even claimed her absence is sinister, that she is missing, that she may even be dead, a long and brilliant career possibly cut short at its peak. While we feel it’s best to refrain from sensationalist speculation, we are also loath to promise more art, when we cannot be sure there is more to come.

Thank you for choosing to take our audio cassette tour. Your audio guide today will be Roimata Mangakāhia, herself an esteemed artist and friend to Atieno. The audio tour begins at the south entrance of art gallery 3. The tour follows a counter-clockwise pattern around the exhibit. Each piece with an accompanying audio lecture will be noted with a blue star on the numbered title card, and there will be at one on the recording to indicate where you might pause the cassette before moving on to the next work.

Please enjoy your visit to Ulster Museum and the exhibit “Red Love”.

[bell chimes]

Painting 101: “Still Life with Tomato Plant and Sword”, by Claudia Atieno, oil on canvas, 1962.

It is one of her most discussed and debated works, and it’s one of the collection of paintings that shifted her career from successful artist to celebrity. As much a celebrity as a painter can be while still alive, of course. The painting sold at Sotheby’s in 1969 for nearly one million pounds, and is on loan to this exhibit.

Many critics admire the gentle and crafty hand at work here. Notice the thin strokes of orange and pink, creating the sunny glare on the tomato. Atiano nearly exposes the texture of the canvas with such thin passes of the brush. It looks almost like watercolors, rather than oil, and it is shallower than the rest of her painting.

Lean closely to the left side to see this remarkable detail. What is exposed? What is vulnerable?

You’ll notice that the titular sword is not visible here. But just past the trellis in the tomato plant you can see a nearly empty garden. The grass is mangy and uneven. But what appears is a large blotch of unusable dirt is actually a mound. The sword of this work’s title has been buried in the garden.

This painting premiered at the Berkshire Museum where Atieno was living at the time, as a resident artist in the former United States. Atieno’s home now is in Cornwall. It’s a large house somewhere along the road to disrepair. Sitting alone on an island, some distance from the mainland.

My first few visits to Cornwall, Claudia and I had tea at a café called Joyeuse, named for Charlemange’s sword. We were served sandwiches and scones and in the back, there was a small garden with sparse grass, and a small, insipid vegetable plot. The tomato plant was the only thing that grew well there, but often the squirrels stole them just as they reached maturity. The owner of Joyeuse, a petite-figured man named Jennifer, who wore square-rimmed glasses and wool leggings, hung his handmade replica of the eponymous sword just above the doorway to the garden area in the back. He had used a wood base and aluminium veneer. It was pulled slightly from the sheath which was emblazened with large jewels that hardly seemed real at all, but were stunning and smart in their own right.

In this painting, look closely at the upturned soil in the garden. Imagine Charlemange’s sword! [whispering] Imagine it now buried in the garden in this painting. Examine the uninspired tomato vines, their drooping and bare stalks fully revealed. But impossibly beautiful in Atieno’s rendition. How will you be remembered?

Atieno does not expect viewers to know about the now defunct Joyeuse café in Cornwall in Western  Europa, but she certainly expects viewers to understand that if the title says there is a sword in the painting, then there. is. a sword in the painting, and it is your job to find it.

The garden at Joyeuse and even the sword to which it refers were clear influences on Atieno’s seminal masterpiece, and the longer I have looked at this painting, the more I wonder if the sword -is- buried in the ground, an underlined tribute to our post-reckoning international order of peace or perhaps – knowing Atieno’s wry sense of humor and love of subtle symbolic critiques, perhaps the sword has been dug up.

Look closely at the mound of dirt. The arch of the bound could suggest a burial of weaponry. But in the oblong black patch toward the top, I see the suggestion of a hole rather than a heap. The sword. is. missing. And Atieno does not know where it is. Perhaps the viewer themselves holds it?

Do you? Do you hold the sword?

[bell chimes]

Painting 102: “Marketplace Summer Afternoon”, 1965.

A painting of a crowded food market. Notice the almost boneless limbs on the merchants. The apple cart vendor in the lower right has an arced elbow that never quite reaches a point, her knees are nearly S-shaped. You can see the ocean over the tents in the background. Many books refer to this scene as St Ives. This is likely Plymouth.

I recognize that view from my brief time living near there. But perhaps I’m wrong. This is why we make art, to help us remember more beautifully, not more clearly.

[bell chimes]

Painting 103: “Stapler”, 1968.  

It is a painting of a black Swingline stapler on a black background. The audacity of this painting irritated many older artists, as it looks like a poorly lit photo in an office supply catalog.

Look closely at the black of the stapler and the black of the background. Is all darkness the same? How absent is light, in the absence of light?

Atieno on the surface is displaying her technical skills. It is photographic quality in every way. It looks – like almost an advertisement here on the Ulster Museum wall. Perhaps Atieno was making a commentary on the commentary of the pop art movement. But most likely she’s simply showing off her technique. She was quite prolific in her art, and they’re all good works, as you can see here in Belfast. But in her mind, mastery of form was mastery of art. But in my mind, an artist can always do more.

In Cornwall, there were cliffs overlooking the sea. At high tide, I would take off my clothes and dive the ten meters’ drop. I encouraged Claudia to dive with me, but she couldn’t do it. These beautiful cliffs, along an endless cool sea, a scene she could paint and did, but not one she could truly explore. For fear of what? Not heights. She did not flinch at bending over the ledge. Not water, either; she swam regularly, when she could walk down to the shore.

I always wanted her to jump, to plunge. To risk pain or embarrassment, to feel bodily the glory of this rare nature. To paint something truly epic, busy, tall, complex, masterful. To make more astonishing what was already astonishing. To freefall into the vastness that contains both wilderness and tranquility.

But when eyes were on Claudia, she demurred. She believed in frightful conspiracies and intimidated power brokers of the new society. But when the world looked at her for commentary, she sometimes just wanted to paint staplers.

There’s been so much talk about Atieno recently, so much speculation. People say she’s disappeared. [scoffs] This seems ridiculous to me. Artists are reclusive sometimes. We need to be, the world is our inspiration, sure, but also our most dangerous distraction. It is more likely her so-called disappearance is not a disappearance at all but an absence, a hiatus, a time spent away from the pressures of celebrity, to rethink her artistry.

Look closely at the Swingline logo in the painting. What does it mean to be convinced to buy something?

[bell chimes] [tape recorder turns off] [ads] [tape recorder turns on]

Painting 104: “Fingers together”, 1967.

Atieno here has painted a self-portrait of sorts with her sometimes partner Pavel Zubov, a lesser known sculptor she had met in 1965 in St Petersburg. The painting shows two sets of fingers intertwined. The simple contrast in skin tones and the smooth lines of each knuckle create a crosshatch pattern that strikes the eye even from 50 meters away.

Look at the fingers. Can you tell which fingers are the woman’s and which are the man’s? In your mind – what signifies a male finger versus a female finger? Are race and skin color connected?

In Pavel’s skin you can see subtle indications of veins, the pulse one can feel in physical contact with another. Notice the soft brushwork, creating an almost gauzy effect. The natural inclination is to assume gentle love, young love even, giving the plump smoothness of each finger. Although given this was 1967, Atieno might be giving herself too much credit to paint herself with such supple skin. I would also caution you not to be accept too much naïve love in this painting. This work is a popular poster to be hung in university dormatories. Its brash idealism is hiding something harsher.

Look closely at Atieno’s nails. Short, chewed down, an indication of stress. Zubov’s are keenly manicured, almost sharpened. His little finger is out of view. Some writers have suggested that she deliberately did not paint it as a symbol of the child they lost only two months before birth. At best, that is a weak symbolic gesture for the immense tragedy of a miscarried child. [angrily] At worst, it is a lie conceived by hack writers trying to sell papers, as Atieno never carried Zubov’s child. The little finger is not missing. It is hidden from view at this angle, a symbol yes, but of Zubov’s opacity in love. He had many partners.

This should have been fine, their relationship was polyamorous, as were all of Atieno’s relationships. But even with permission, Zubov felt the need to conceal. He convinced each lover that was monogamous, hiding each from each.

I lived with Claudia for a time. It is large, that house. And often full of people, Claudia obviously and Zubov most of the time. They were passionate. Sometimes both naked in front of me, sometimes leaving their bedroom door open. I admired their free spirit, their ability to confront each other with ideas and personal jabs and even great gulping kisses. It was clear that others who lived in the house from time to time were unused to this passionate couple. In that house, the borders between friendship and otherwise were blurred. I can personally attest to this. Lack of transparency to Atieno was equal to deception. If you did not say how you felt to her, whether it was about her art, herself, someone else, or even what kind of tea you would like that afternoon, she believed you to be hiding something. She likewise would be completely honest with you. And as Zubov never brought any other sexual partners to the he house as Atieno did, she suspected he was hiding something. And she was right.

Look again at the intertwining fingers in the painting. Is Atieno being completely honest with you? Are you being honest with anyone?

[bell chimes]

Painting 105: “Sunshine Afternoon”, 1968.

One of Atieno’s lesser known works, Zubov found it in his basement two years ago. It is a painting of sunlight slicing through grey clouds over what is presumably the Celtic Sea. The water in this picture is choppy. Look – at - the choppy water.

[bell chimes]

Painting 106: “Self-Portrait with Cat”, 1972, unfinished.

This painting was recently discovered by Zubov in his home. Atieno already had a painting called “Self-Portrait with Cat”, despite claiming never to have had a cat. I asked her about this painting once or twice, and she was completely unwilling to discuss it. I got the sense she simply did not like this work, but yet here is another version of the same picture. In what you can see of her face, she’s making the same facial expression as in the original: a wry smile, her eyes fixated to something distant, but her face is older, as is the cat’s. Its eyes and neck sagging. The light coming in the window is orange. A sunset.

Look closely at her eyes. Are those the eyes of a woman holding a cat she does not own? Whose cat is it? Look at where the brush strokes end in this unfinished work.

Why would she paint this painting again?

Zubov eventually admitted to having four other lovers, but he refused to tell any of them about the others. He only told Atieno because, as he said, he loved her more. He added, “I would leave them for you, Claudia. I would leave them for you.” But she threw a salad fork at him. And she said she couldn’t love him back, if he did not love the  rest of the world as equals. While I believe this sentiment is suffocatingly idealistic, I understood that Atieno saw Zubov’s deception as a lack of respect for himself and the other men and women he was seeing. He priced comfort over truth, and Atieno could not abide that.

Over the few years I knew Claudia, we grew close. Which is to say we were with each other often, and intensely. Claudia fought and argued with me. She sometimes called me names, but as long as I said how I felt, we could work through our disagreements and convince each other of [whispering] almost anything. We talked of her ending her relationship with Pavel. Sometimes she threw things. Sometimes I couldn’t speak for fear of crying in front of her. Eventually it was thought that Pavel should not come back, our conversations were so full of passion, honesty, intimacy. [chuckles] I still wonder who thought this thought first.

Perhaps it was Claudia’s idea, all along.

She ordered Pavel to leave, and he returned. She ordered him to leave again, and he returned, although later than before. After the third command to leave her alone, he seemed not to return at all. But every so often Claudia would receive parcels with no return address. These boxes would contain a single piece of an animal: a tooth from a fox, or large rodent. An ear cut off a rabbit. And one time a field mouse, cut in half at the torso, and all of its blood drained. I urged Claudia to call authorities, but she said Pavel always sent her studies of new sculptures he was working on.

Atieno began this redux painting “Self-Portrait with Cat”, featuring Atieno in her wicker chair on her enclosed patio, the cliffs below her. On her lap, the calico cat. Behind Atieno in the self-portrait along the cliffs, there is a small figure near the ledge. As she did not finish this painting, it’s difficult to say her intention with this rough blotch. Most assume it is a tree, but I have been in that home many days, and there is no tree there. It is a human, or at least a man. I do not know who the man is or what he wants or intends.

This painting is unfinished because Atieno disappeared. Rather, she left her Cornwall home without taking it with her, and left no forwarding address.

[whispering] I do not think she has disappeared. I don’t think she’s done anything so dramatic.

Claudia was last seen at her home in Cornwall in October 1972. Pavel arrived while Claudia was at the market. I answered the door. Pavel and I nodded at each other, but otherwise did not communicate. I left that afternoon to give a lecture at the rebuilt Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, and I-I’ve not seen Claudia since.

I don’t want to imply Pavel in her disappearance, nor give into suspicions that she is dead. I think, or hope, or some word like that, some word like that, that she’s back home near (Dedoma), or in a commune in Halifax or perhaps in another cottage by the sea, wanting us to wait for her next work. Something the profilic artist rarely required of us. [wistfully] Wanting to challenge and provoke and amaze us.

I think that. I hope that. I something something that. [tape recorder turns off]

Within the Wires is written by Jeffrey Cranor and Janina Matthewson and performed by Rima Te Wiata, with original music by Mary Epworth. Find more of Mary’s music at maryepworth.com. The voice of Mary Breathnach was Sarah Maria Griffin.

And please rate and review Within the Wires on Appel podcasts and tell your friends about our immersive little show. Also you can get Within the Wires T-shirts and posters at withinthewires.com Within the Wires is a production of Night Vale Presents. Check out our other podcasts, like Welcome to Night Vale and Alice Isn’t Dead and The Orbiting Human Cirucs of the Air and Convesatioins with People who Hate Me, and coming this month, a brand new podcast from Joseph Fink and John Darnielle called I Only Listen to the Mountain Goats, and a brand new fiction podcast called It Makes a Sound.

OK, our time is done. It’s you time now. Time to stop by the museum gift shop. Grab yourself a souvenir book of paintings about potato canons. Pick up a poster featuring a vulture in a tuxedo. And buy a commemorative vase made out of baby back ribs.

'Doob' : How much did I sink? Rajiul Huda Dipto Particular movie that is trending now. A movie which is creating controversies and to some extend getting appreciations from some movie lovers is 'Doob (ডুব) : No Bed of Roses'. Highly expected movie with a known content and the context of family drama are the elements of this movie. International star Irrfan Khan is sharing the screen with experienced and star actor from Bangladesh Nusrat Imrose Tisha along with Rokeya Prachy and in a very important role Parno Mittra. In a few line the story is (Not a spoiler), A film maker Javed Hasan had a love marriage with a beautiful girl when they were in their teenage. An elder daughter and a younger son came into their life. Once, he casted Nitu in his film who was the classmate of Saberi (Javed's Daughter). Javed and Nitu fall in love (though I did not see the growing chemistry) and got married. A family got divided into two parts. Once, Javed Hasan died. Then, how did the two divided parts react this is all about the movie. It has been 4-5 days of the movie release and I have seen the movie today ( 31 October, 2017). These are my very own views on this movie. Here, I will be looking into few sides of this movie. Direction and Script: 'Doob' is written and directed by Mostofa Sarwar Farooki. This is a script where the characters did not talk too much verbally but they tried to make the audience understand their emotion and the scene through their expressions. The director was trying to keep his script alive in the screen through long shots. Very less dialogues have been spoken. Few days back I saw a movie where there were less dialogues and more shots. That was 'Dunkirk'. It gave me a very different and rich movie experience. Surely, the opposite happened with 'Doob'. Most of the shots were too long that, I could not feel the vibe. It is like, you are hungry and looking for food. After searching for food, when you do not get it you do not feel the hunger in you anymore. Few shots were too long that, I could feel the long breath of my next seated audience even. In some of the cases, director Farooki was successful to build the scene but in most of those he failed. Performances : Mr. Farooki has casted the right people for the accurate roles. The main attraction in this movie was Irrfan Khan. Irrfan was giving his level best. Unfortunately, he could not get that much time in the screen where he could show his talent. I was loving his style and dialogue delivery but again I was seeking for more. More and more. The story is all about him. He is surely the point of the circle. I was waiting to see his walks, his charismatic looks, his body language, his smiles and cries more and more. I got the less. He did not get the time to grab the sympathy of the audience. Rather, he was seeking for it. I was loving his voice. In few dialogues, his poor command over Bengali language could have been be caught but it was tolerable. The thing which caught the eyes more that, he is a film maker but I could not see a movie set. Not even a single 'Action' or 'Cut'. No establishment of his film maker entity. Just showing a film city in the screen does not prove that he is the famous film director in this film. Does it? Rokeya Prachi was at her best. When Javed Hasan died, her approach towards it was remarkable. A silent but sad woman who is seeing the break down of her own family, who knows what is going to happen next but can not solve it. Then, again I was not pleased to see her for such a short time. I was seeking to see the chemistry between her and her husband. I got less again. One of the finest performances has been done by Nusrat Imrose Tisha in the role of Irrfan's daughter. Yes, it satisfies to see her a long time in the screen. Her emotional imbalance, her moves and expressions and last but not the least her dialogue delivery was something else. The very first scene, where she and Parno Mittra were seated next to each other and the hesitation both of these actors have shown is actually something I wanted to see in the whole movie. Well done. Another talented actor Parno Mittra got the less in the script I would say. She was presented surely as the negative body of this movie but she could not get the time to establish that. Again, the lacking of the script. Parno's pronunciation of dialogues with her aggressive moves was very eye soothing. Even, I loved it when she was sharing her cigarets with Irrfan. Her soft and hard approach was fantastic. She had nothing to do more as the script did not let her to do more. A little role has been done by a young boy who plays the role of Irran's son. I could not see the father and son relationship except a single shot. Rather, I have seen father and daughter relationship in a broad way. I do not know, I can remember it correctly or not but when Javed Hasan died his daughter but not his son was taken by his brother to that place where the dead body of Hasan was. The boy has performed very well in the short role. He looks pretty good with it. There were few characters who could get a chance or at least a broad space in the script. The care taker of the film city, the driver or the assistant director. They appeared in the scenes, and somehow vanished away. Technical Aspects : First, Cinematography. The best thing of this movie is the cinematography of it. Fantastic camera work, beautiful scenes has been captured even some normal looking scenes have been shown wonderfully. Cinematographer Sheikh Rajibul Islam has given his best. Very technical, very eye soothing actually. You can sometimes feel the scene, sometimes live in the houses or sometimes feel the emotion of the characters because of some close shots or some wide shots. It shows the experienced level of the cinematographer. Correct use of correct lenses and capturing the beauty was all about it. I would see the movie again just because of the fantastic cinematography. Colour has gone to a better level in Mr.Farooki's movie. Specially, Doob. Then again, is was not so much cinematic in this sense. Sometimes, it seems raw and sometimes does not. It could have been better, much better. Music is done by Chirkutt and Pavel Areen. Wonderful music. 'আহারে জীবন' was played in the background but not for long time. Loved instrumental version of 'পুরানো সেই দিনের কথা'. Background score was there and the work has been done nicely but I think Mr.Farooki did not use the background score so much. There are so many long shots where the audience felt bored, these background scores could have been set to keep the scene alive. Music helps not to feel disturb. At least, I have learned it after watching 'Doob'. Again, less much use of wonderful element. Something else : When, Javed Hasan died I thought now I need to cry because the director might have tried to make the audience cry at this moment of this movie. I was forcing myself to cry. Not a single drop came out. I did not feel the sympathy for the protagonist ever. The script could not build it. It was failed to create a bonding, a relationship, a chemistry between the protagonist and the audience. This is the most important thing of film making, specially of script writing. This movie is a family drama, where neither I smiled much nor I cried much. I was amazed with most of the scenes because of the cinematography and execution, but I felt bored most of the time because of long shots and exaggeration of unnecessary elements. I personally believed this movie will change the thinking of audience, their thought about so called 'Art Film', but the opposite happened. This is very scary. I never seated to see this movie in the theatre with the vision that I am going to see the life of a famous writer of our country in the screen now. I never thought that. I took this film as a film should be. Still, I see this like that way surely. The weakest part of this movie is the script. I follow Mr.Farooki for his making. He is one of the talented director our country has ever got. There is no doubt in this. I was expecting the strongest script from him, of his level. Got the weakest script ever. As I mentioned, 'Doob' is a kind of film which is being criticised and loved at the same time. Definitely, this movie is a milestone for our film industry according to its International appreciations and recognitions. Audience is the life of a movie. If film making is called the Director's medium, I would say film itself is the Audience's medium. Directors like Mostofa Sarwar Farooki will keep giving us hopes and masterpieces and we will keep cherishing them and will be continuing feel proud of them. The journey has started. Some movies are not made to be rated. 'Dood' is one of those now.

Lizaveta

THERE was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly, and confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta was a dwarfish creature, "not five foot within a wee bit," as many of the pious old women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad, healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered about, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempen smock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb's wool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had leaves; bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard, called Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and diseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to him. But she rarely did so, for everyone in the town was ready to look after her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's employers, and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople, tried to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and sheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress her up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral porch, and taking off all that had been given her - kerchief, sheepskin, skirt or boots - she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock as before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the province, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizaveta, and was wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And though he was told she was an idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about in nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties, and must not occur again. But the governor went his way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At last her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of the religious persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, everyone seemed to like her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town, especially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk into strange houses, and no one drove her away. Everyone was kind to her and gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and at once drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met. Sometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it to her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted anything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop, where there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on her, for they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by them, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to church. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle (there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up "at home," that is at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went there every night, and slept either in the passage or the cow-house. People were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some of the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but that is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud? It happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years ago) five or six drunken revellers were returning from the club at a very late hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the "backway," which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles on either side. This way leads out on to the bridge over the long, stinking pool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and burdocks under the hurdle our revellers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness. It occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether anyone could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so forth.... They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was impossible. But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and declared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a certain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that time he was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and entertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in reality he was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time when he had received the news of his first wife's death in Petersburg, and, with crape upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly that even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The revellers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion; and one of them even began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea even more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity, and at last they went on their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore that he had gone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no one ever knew. But five or six months later, all the town was talking, with intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta's condition, and trying to find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a terrible rumour was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than Fyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumour going? Of that drunken band five had left the town and the only one still among us was an elderly and much respected civil councillor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could hardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it. But rumour pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing at him. Of course this was no great grievance to him: he would not have troubled to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud, and did not condescend to talk except in his own circle of the officials and nobles, whom he entertained so well. At the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked quarrels and altercations in defence of him and succeeded in bringing some people round to his side. "It's the wench's own fault," he asserted, and the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict, who had escaped from prison and whose name was well known to us, as he had hidden in our town. This conjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that Karp had been in the neighbourhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three people. But this affair and all the talk about it did not estrange popular sympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A well-to-do merchants's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her house at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their vigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the high, strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have been lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny. The most likely explanation is that it happened naturally - that Lizaveta, accustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow managed to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt down, injuring herself. Grigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch an old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit down, put it on her lap. "A child of God - an orphan is akin to all," he said, "and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who has come from the devil's son and a holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no more." So Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor Pavlovitch did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted vigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at his adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname for the child, calling him Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname. So this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant, and was living in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our story begins. He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smerdyakov, but I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of Smerdyakov in the course of it.