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ahaura · 5 months

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(Dec. 11) [Article] by Asem al-Nabih

Article title:

Speak up! We owe it to Refaat

Article text:

What can you say about someone like Refaat Alareer?

I’ve known Refaat since I was 10. I am now 33.

To describe him as a genius is an understatement. He was a source of many ideas. He was so humane.

Over the past days and weeks, he and I would walk every day. He always looked everywhere for inspiration. He looked at everything.

Anyone who knew Refaat, knows that he was a very solid man. Steadfast in unimaginable ways.

The day before he was killed he surprised me by telling me he felt tired.

“I’m tired of carrying water. I’m tired. I am responsible for 50 people.”

Refaat’s assassination is not just a loss to one family, it is a loss to us all. He was responsible for so many people, who sought him out for his wisdom and his ability to care.

We lost someone who was a voice of Gaza, who could convey the reality in Gaza.

He could have lived anywhere in the world. He didn’t have to stay in Gaza. He had the education and experience to work anywhere. He could have lived his best life somewhere else.

But he refused.

When I was out of the country earlier in the year, I remember telling him that I could get better job opportunities abroad.

He just said: “Or, you could come back here. You could do something here.”

So talk about Refaat. Write about him.

The last thing he said was that if he came out of this war alive, he wanted to concentrate on being a storyteller, he wanted to vent, let things out. That if God kept him alive, he would want to focus all his life to tell the stories of his people and their experiences and feelings.

Every day he and I would walk. We would go out to this or that area in search of eSIM cards or phone reception. You would find him climbing on top of high walls, lifting his arm up to get reception, putting himself in danger, just to convey a message.

He used to speak up.

Now we’re saying, speak about him. Because Refaat deserves this.

We all know about him because he used to speak about Gaza. All of Gaza needs to talk about him. The whole world needs to talk about him.

Speak up

I saw him after they bombed his house back in 2014. I saw how he went straight for the room where he used to keep all his students’ poems and stories.

They were all burned and scattered on the floor, and he would pick through the rubble to salvage what he could as if he was gathering treasure.

To him these stories and poems were the most precious memories of his beloved students. And he truly loved his students.

If you meet his students, they will tell you the same thing, that he loved them.

May God have mercy on him.

Palestine deserves that you speak about him. I personally don’t ask anything of the world because we’ve given up on the world. Gaza will speak for itself, we don’t need anyone’s help, because with God’s help, we are more than capable of saving ourselves.

But I do ask Refaat’s students and those he taught to write about him, because we are the ones who truly knew him for who he was.

The day before Refaat was killed, he and I saw a group of displaced people playing football at the Yarmouk football grounds in the afternoon. He wanted to take photos with the smoke of recent missile strikes rising in the background.

“I swear, the people of Gaza are hardheaded,” he told me. “The people of Gaza are hardheaded.”

He said it like an artist appreciating his work. Like he felt these people.

When he walked down the streets, he would advise random people, telling them where to go, where to be safe.

He never gossiped. He only spoke about what he saw with his own eyes.

And he saw a lot. That was why he would walk 25,000 steps a day.

One day, he found a dark, cold space somewhere. It had no light, no comforts, nothing. But it did have an internet connection. So he stopped. He wrote. He spoke out about what was happening.

That’s what he did.

Our people have been displaced so many times. Refaat and I went to visit the mayor of Gaza one day. He was stuck in the old city. The mayor and his family have been displaced three times. He has lost his son.

We’ve all been displaced so many times. My own family has been displaced four or five times since the Nakba. I have no friends left. I have no home.

But we bear it with dignity and honor. What has happened to us, has not happened to any other nation.

We remain dignified.

And none more so than Refaat. As we in Gaza have come to equate life with death, as we have come to feel that nothing matters any more, we must remember that Refaat always walked and talked.

His was a mission to tell the story of Gaza and its people. We honor Refaat by continuing that mission.

Speak up.

Asem al-Nabih is a friend of Refaat Alareer and one of the last people to see him alive.

#refaat alareer #asem al nabih #article #electronic intifada #palestine #📁.zip

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fictional-love-is-my-life · 4 months

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Hi... I am so happy to see my request finally come true...

So here I am with another request and I have some particular theme in mind

Human optimus prime x reader. Optimus is an English teacher where the reader studies.

One day the reader finds a letter stuck in her book which she borrowed from the Library to find a beautiful poem (which optimus left accidentally). She decided to compliment that so she wrote something of her own...and returned it

And then she and that writer (optimus) started to talk anonymously through this type of letters eventually to find out about each and and confess falling for each in 2 line poem like

"roses are red,

voilet is blue

My heart beats so fast

When I think about u"

Fill the gap as u like...u can change it a bit as well

Thank you in advance if you are doing it

If not...it's fine also no biggie

Have a great day or night ❤️🩵💙

Hello hello! Thank you for this request and thank you for being so patient with me. I have finally finished it!

Human Optimus Prime English teacher x Female student Reader

This is set in a college, reader is at least 20+

~~~~~~

English has always been one of your favorite lessons. Something about it intrigued you, especially the poetry lessons. It may have helped that it was taught by your favorite teacher.

Mr. Prime stood at the front of the class, a poetry book in his hand. All eyes were on him as he spoke, talking about many of the techniques used by the author of said book.

The bell rang, indicating the end of class. Most of the class was happy and eager to leave. But the sound made you sad, you could have listened to Mr. Prime for another couple of hours. Yet you obeyed the bell since you had a few other classes to attend that day.

“Now, if anyone is interested in reading this, I do highly recommend it. You can find a copy in our own library here on campus.” Mr. Prime stated, then began saying his farewells to the students. You smiled at your favorite teacher, feeling a small burst of energy as he smiled back at you.

After finishing all your classes for the day, you headed to the library. It was late in the afternoon, making you doubt that the poetry book Mr. Prime suggested would still be there. But you thought you would check, just in case. To your surprise, it was still available. You reached out, grabbing the book. It was a little aged, the spine was worn and some of the pages were bent at the corner. That just meant it had been well-used and well-loved.

You checked out the book, tucking it away into your bag. You were going to look at it back in your dorm room, as you were starting to get hungry.

You grabbed food from the small café on campus, then headed to your dorm room. You were happy to have one of the rooms on the college grounds, it meant you never had to walk too far for anything whether it was classes or a quick meal.

Entering the small room, you tossed your bag and food onto the bed. You were done for the day, so you decided to change into more comfortable loungewear before climbing onto your bed. You pulled out your food, eating while you went through your bag.

You tugged the poetry book out, placing it in your lap and using one hand to open it. The moment the pages came loose, something fell out. It was a single piece of paper with writing on it. The handwriting was beautiful, neat, and well-written. It was a poem. You hummed in amusement, of course, it was a poem stuck inside a poetry book. It must have been left behind by the last person who checked the book out.

Curiosity got the best of you, so you began to read it.

You re-read the poem over and over at least 5 times. It was beautiful, soul-capturing, enlightening. The words stuck in your head on a constant loop. You knew it was just a random person's work, but the way the words were written, it felt as if it was a letter made just for you.

It was so inspiring that it made you want to write your own poem, in response to them.

You worked for hours, writing then scratching out the words and starting again. After going through at least ten pages of your notebook, you finally had something you felt was good enough. It wasn’t as good as the poem you just read, but it was still good.

A few days later you had finished the poetry book you took from the library. It was about time to return it. You picked it up, then spotted the poem that fell out of it sitting on your desk. Your own poem sat next to it. You wished you could find the author and tell them how much you loved their work, but you knew you’d never find out who wrote it.

Part of you wanted to keep the poem, but at the same time, you didn’t. It was so beautiful, that you felt it needed to be shared with the world. You grabbed a post-it, writing on it “This was beautiful”. Sticking the post-it on the mystery person's poem and put it back into the book. Your own poem caught your attention.

Before, you hadn’t been confident sharing your poems with other people. But the idea of sharing it with others anonymously didn’t seem so bad. You also thought it might be quite funny, giving the next person to check out the book two poems to read. You hoped someone would appreciate your work. You took another Post-it writing “Mine is not as good” and stuck it to your poem. You then placed it into the book behind the first.

You took the book back to the library, checked it back in, and placed it nicely onto the shelf. You felt happy and a little excited, you wondered who would get the book next and what they would think of it.

Once it was out of sight, you forgot about the poetry book. It only returned to your memory when you were in the library a couple of days later. Curious you made your way to the literary section; you dragged your finger across the books searching for it.

There it was, in the middle of the shelf. Its worn-out spine made your stomach flip in excitement. You wondered if there would be another addition to the poems, who it would be by, and what it would say. However, there was also the possibility that the poems would have been taken.

You picked up the book and opened its pages. The pages instantly opened themselves, revealing a single piece of paper. It was the same beautiful hand writing from the first poem, obviously from the same writer. Yet it was different. It was new!

You instantly started to read it, still standing in the middle of the library’s aisle. It started by quoting a line from your poem, then continued on its own, saying how much they loved your poem and how beautiful they thought it was. They wrote how they felt alone in their own poetic dreams, and that your words were like a song to their heart.

Your stomach fluttered as you read the poem, in complete disbelief that they liked your work. It made you ecstatic, your creative energy bursting. You had to respond and thank them for their words.

You rushed over to an empty table in the back of the library, pulling out your notebook. Scribbling away, you tried to put your emotions into words. You had to express how much their words meant to you. You finished the poem with a few lines about how much you enjoy poetry and how the act of writing poems gives you joy, like a fresh flower on a warm summer’s day. Once you were happy with your poem you tore out the page and stuck it into the poetry book.

This time you kept the mystery person's poem. Their words meant so much to you, so this time you were going to keep it to yourself. You gently put the poetry book back on the shelf and rushed out of the library. You thought about sticking around, waiting to see who would come to pick it up. But you also thought that might be quite creepy, so you just decided to leave.

That night you lay awake; your stomach filled with butterflies. You lay on your side, staring at your desk where the mystery person's poem sat. It’s words circling in your mind. You imagined who the author was, what they looked like, what they sounded like. You could hear their voice in your head as you read their words, and you wondered if they sounded the same in real life. You pondered if they were thinking about you as well.

The next morning you got up early. Even though you had barely slept you felt energized and excited. You rushed over to the library, getting to it before it even opened the doors. Tapping your foot impatiently you waited for the library staff to arrive. Eventually, they came, your heart pounding as they slowly unlocked the door, allowing you inside.

You rushed inside, beelining for the poetry section. You scanned over the shelves, then looked again. The book was gone. You felt a sting of disappointment, replaced a few seconds later by excitement. If it’s gone, it could mean the mystery person has it. Could they have already read your poem? Were they currently writing their own response? You couldn’t wait to find out.

Since the book was not there, you left the library and made your way to the food hall for breakfast.

Classes dragged by slowly, though it didn’t matter as you weren’t paying attention anyway. Your mind was on the mystery person, wondering what their next poem would say.

That same afternoon, you skipped over to the library, once more looking for the book. Yet again it was still gone. Obviously, they must be taking their time to return it. Either that or someone else took it.

You felt sadness and worry at the thought of someone else taking the book. It was your only way to communicate with the mysterious person and you couldn’t picture anyone else getting their hands or eyes on their poems. You sighed and left the library once more. You would just have to check the next day.

The following day, you had an early class, so you were unable to go straight to the library. You made your way after the second class, moving at a brisk pace.

You didn’t know if it was fate or just pure luck. But the book was there, waiting, calling your name. You grabbed it, instantly opening it to find a single page.

Your heart skipped. Giddy you took the book and checked it out. This had become something fun and special, so you were going to take the poem back to your room to read it. And once you had, you would take your time to create the most perfect reply.

You and the mystery author traded poetic letters for two weeks. Allowing each other at least a day to take the book home and write a response. They were constantly on your mind, their words and the possibilities of who they were. You were desperate to meet them, but you didn’t know how to initiate it or when, terrified you might scare them away by asking to meet.

Every other day you rushed to the library. Your face had become well known, and it became a little joke between the staff that you always took out the same book. You never minded though, any other time you would have thought it was also strange someone took out the same book every day. But you were too preoccupied with enjoying the situation. It was fun, exciting, and exhilarating to get secret poems from a mystery person.

You made your way to the library once more, waving to the library staff.

“Back again! No need to ask what for. You might as well just take it; we know you’ll bring it back.” An older lady laughed. You chuckled; she wasn’t wrong.

The book was there in the middle of the shelf. The paper on the spine was almost completely gone, showing how often it had been taken and handled over the past few weeks. You felt a bit bad for the poor old book. It had brought you so much happiness, so you decided to try being more delicate.

You gently took the book off the shelf and opened it.

Instead of the usual single page, there were two. One was the poem, and the other was a post it. You read the poem first.

"Roses are red,

Violets are blue

My heart beats fast

When I think about you"

Your stomach flipped. Heat spread across your face as a blush formed. They put into words exactly how you felt about them. You didn’t even know this person, but they had enraptured your heart entirely. You could feel the crush coming with each poem, but this just secured it. And by their poem, perhaps they had a crush on you as well.

Your mind swam with ideas of them, and their words that you almost forgot to read the post it. You finally remembered and looked at the small yellow paper.

“You are constantly on my mind, I must meet you if you would like to. I understand if you may not be ready. On Friday, at 5pm I will sit at the bench outside the library.”

Your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you thought it might explode. They wanted to meet you. You were excited, but also incredibly nervous. Were you ready? What if you went and they were disappointed? Or what if you were disappointed?

You shook the negative thoughts from your head. You had been thinking about meeting them for a while, now was your chance and you were not going to mess it up. You take the poem from the book, sticking it into your bag. From your own notebook, you tore out one page and wrote “I’ll be there”.

You stuck the torn page into the poem book and placed it back onto the shelf.

Friday came quicker than you were ready for. You sat in your English class, staring at the clock. Usually, your attention would have been solely on Mr. Prime. But today, you thought about 5pm and meeting the mystery poem author. Your heart raced with every second. You began to plan out your outfit in your head, mentally prepping what you would wear and how you would style your hair.

You were knocked out of your thoughts by your classmate and friend nudging you. You turned to her a little annoyed that she disturbed your train of thought.

“Does Mr. Prime seem different to you?” She asked.

For the first time in that period, you looked at your teacher. He had a huge smile on as he talked, his suit was neatly pressed and he had a flower in his pocket. He looked cute.

“I don’t know, he’s just happy.” You shrugged.

“Yeah but, different happy. Happier than we’ve ever seen him.”

“Is that a bad thing?” You asked.

“No.” Your friend muttered. “I was just saying…never mind.”

You immediately began daydreaming again, picturing how the meetup would go. You practiced what you would say and how you would act.

Soon the bell rang and you were able to rush out of the classroom. English had been your final lesson of the day, so you rushed back to your dorm room to try on all your clothes. You had to find the perfect attire for the meet and you only had a few hours to do so.

After going through half your closet, you finally found the perfect outfit. A cute and flowy dress, you styled your hair and accessories to match. Once you were fully dressed you checked the time on your phone. 4.15. Your heart skipped, a small pit of anxiousness sitting in your stomach.

You breathed in and out slowly, calming yourself. It was a big day, and you hoped nothing went wrong. You really hoped they showed.

You decided to leave, thinking there was no harm in getting there a little early. They may have thought the same thing and could have already been there. You made your way to the library, your heart beating hard as you came around the corner. Your eyes instantly locked onto the bench outside.

It was empty. Your heart dropped, and you quickly looked at the time. 4.40. You still had 20 minutes, so there was no reason to get too panicked. Just because you were early didn’t mean they were not going to show.

You sat down and waited patiently, scanning over all the people who walked past, wondering if they were the ones coming to meet you. Nervously you kept checking your phone, the anxious pit getting heavier as it got closer to 5pm.

Eventually your phone read 5.01pm.

Yet you continued to sit alone. You reassured yourself that sometimes people were late.

5.05

Maybe they were caught up with something.

5.10

Maybe they forgot and they were just now on their way.

5.15

Maybe they said a different day? You pulled the post-it out from your bag, reading it and re-reading it. It definitely said Friday at 5. Your heart felt heavy, your bottom lip wobbling as you tried hard not to cry.

5.30

How long were you supposed to wait? You felt awful. You didn’t want to leave in case they arrived, but you also didn’t want to stay for too long. The idea that they weren’t coming was too painful, and you were about to just go home and cry.

You checked your phone one last time. 5.36. You rubbed your eyes, trying to stop tears before they even formed.

The sound of running caught your attention, making you look up. Mr. Prime was running over to you, his dress shoes clacking against the pavement, his tie flying in the wind as he ran. He stopped just before you. He smiled and said your name.

“Hello, Mr. Prime.” You said, wondering why he was running to you. Have you forgotten something? Maybe you hadn’t given him any homework, though you didn’t think so.

For a few seconds, you just stared at each other. He looked down and saw the yellow post-it in your hand, then took a seat beside you.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” He said, his voice sounding a little ashamed. You were about to ask what he was late for when he continued talking. “One of the students was asking for help on their project and I could not get away. By the time I finally told them I had to go, it was already 5, and then I had to run over here from my office. I do apologize for keeping you waiting.”

He then pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. It was your poem. Your mind finally clicked the pieces together. Your mind swirling with the realization that your English teacher was the mystery poet you had been talking to for the past few weeks. You tried to keep your excitement from bursting out. You had no idea what to say, all your preplanned conversations were gone. He sat there, smiling at you. His smile completely took your breath away. You had always thought he was cute, but sitting there now, finally revealed as your mystery poet, he was incredible.

“It’s ok.” Was all you could mutter.

“I’m so glad I got to read your work. It always brought a smile to my face and brightened my day. You’re a very talented poet.” Mr. Prime complimented.

“Me? You are much more talented. Your poems are so beautiful, Mr. Prime.” You replied.

“Please, call me Optimus.”

You nodded, repeating his name over in your head. He wasn’t who you expected. Never in a million years would you expect your professor to be your mystery crush. But you weren’t complaining, and you definitely weren’t disappointed. He was brilliant, and you were happy he was the mystery poet.

“I asked to meet here because I wasn’t sure where to take you or what you may like. As you were my mystery poet and I only knew so much from our exchanges.” He chuckled. Your heart fluttered when he called you ‘his’ mystery poet. “I’d like to take you to dinner if you’d like?”

“I would like that.” You grinned; your face hot from a fresh blush. Optimus suggested a nearby restaurant, one you were quite fond of. He then stood and offered you, his hand. You took it, linking your arm with his as you walked away from the library together.

The dinner was perfect, and conversation flowed easily between the two of you. You had so many similar interests, and your differences only complimented the other. After dinner Optimus took your arm once more and walked you back to your dorm, wanting to get you there safely. He paused halfway there, standing in a quiet part of the park.

“I wish to confess something, and you can tell me if I make you uncomfortable.” Optimus started. You guessed where he might be leading with the conversation, and you were very excited if you were right. “I have thoroughly enjoyed sharing poems with you. The experience was a joy, and I wished it could last forever. But the more we exchanged, the more my heart would flutter when I thought of you. I didn’t know who you were, yet your words made me feel like I did. I knew I had to meet the real you, so I could put a face to the beautiful words. And what I see now, is the words were just a reflection of their gorgeous author.”

Heat pulsed through your body from an extreme blush. He had such a way with words, written or spoken. You didn’t know how to respond, though you didn’t need to as he continued speaking.

“This may sound silly, as I only knew you through your words. But I had grown a little crush on you. And now, after meeting you in person, and enjoying the perfect night with you it has grown. I have fallen quite suddenly for you.” He confessed. His own blush was prominent on his face, even in the dim street light.

“I feel the same.” You burst out, not wanting him to be the only one to confess. You wanted to make sure it was known, so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable being the only one to pour his heart out. “I feel the same and have for a while. I have loved sharing our poems, but I knew I had to meet you. I was scared to suggest it, worried I might scare you away. You asking to meet was one of the happiest days of my life.” You grinned happily, doing a little happy bounce as you talked.

Optimus giggled, his own smile lighting up his face.

“I am so glad.” He cheered. Optimus gently took your hands in his. They were warm and gave your hands a soft squeeze. “I would like to continue this, and start having more official dates.”

You felt as though you were going to explode from happiness. You wanted to dance and sing from joy, but you kept yourself calm and just squeezed his hands back.

“Yes, I would very much like that as well.”

For a few seconds, you stared at each other, still holding hands. Optimus looked as though he wanted to say something, but was a little nervous to do so. You had never seen him act nervous before, but you found it adorable.

“May I kiss you?” He finally asked.

“Yes.” You replied immediately.

Optimus leaned down. You raised yourself a little to meet him halfway, not wanting him to bend too far and hurt himself. The gap closed, and your lips met his. His lips were soft and warm and fit against yours perfectly as if they were made specifically just to kiss you.

You kissed for what felt like an eternity, though it was most likely just a minute. You didn’t want it to end, the feeling was so magical and soothing. Optimus was the first to pull away, a happy smile across his face.

“Accidently leaving my poem in that book, was the best thing I have ever done.” He commented. You giggled.

“Well, me taking your suggestion and picking the book up was the best thing I ever did.” You smiled.

“Oh, then suggesting the book was also the second-best thing I have done.” Optimus added. You laughed, Optimus chuckling along with you. “I shall get you back to your dorm now, as it is getting late. But I look forward to progressing our relationship.”

“As do I.”

Optimus leaned down to place one final kiss upon your lips, before walking you the rest of the way home.

#ask #transformers #optimus prime #human optimus prime #optimus x reader

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kitchen-light · 8 months

Quote

INTERVIEWER When you rode your bicycle across the country you discovered you were meant to become a writer, but what are the practical ways you taught yourself to write? RYAN I’d kept a journal of that trip and decided that I would get up every day and transcribe that journal, augment it and fix it up. What that gave me was the habit. But once that was done I didn’t know what I was going to do. I’d bought a tarot deck—this was the seventies—a standard one with a little accompanying book that explained how to read the cards, lay them out, shuffle them—all those things. But I’m not a student and was totally impatient with learning anything about the cards. I thought they were just interesting to look at. But I did use the book’s shuffling method, which was very elaborate, and in the morning I’d turn one card over and whatever that card was I would write a poem about it. The card might be Love, or it might be Death. My game, or project, was to write as many poems as there were cards in the deck. But since I couldn’t control which cards came up, I’d write some over and over again and some I’d never see. That gave me range. I always understood that to write poetry was to be totally exposed. But in the seventies I only had models of ripping off your clothes, and I couldn’t do that. My brain could be naked, but I didn’t want to be naked. Nor was I interested in the heart, or love. The tarot helped me see that I could write about anything—even love if required—and retain the illusion of not being exposed. If one is writing well, one is totally exposed. But at the same time, one has to feel thoroughly masked or protected.

Kay Ryan, The Art of Poetry No. 94, Interviewed by Sarah Fay, Issue 187, Winter 2008

#kay ryan #quotes #interviews #words #found*#on poetry #on writing #tarot cards

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juliedrawz · 1 year

Text

The long awaited appreciation post/character breakdown

Note : I mixed canon and headcanon facts from my book in here. (Some infos however are still missing because of spoiler reasons)

A/N - If someone would ask me to discribe Héctor, I would tell them that he's a walking ray of sunshine, spreading happiness wherever he goes. He's everything a perfect father and husband should be, and the bestest friend anyone could ever ask for.

Orgins

Héctor Rivera was born to his parents Arlo and Estella Gracía on january 10th in Santa Cartoria (the biggest part of the city El Torres) in Yucatan.

Through his mother's hispanic gipsy orgin, Héctor was brought into a world full of dancing and music. He was loved to pieces by all his family members and discribed as an unusual happy baby, always laughing and hardly ever crying.

The love for guitars especially was planted into Héctor by his father, who was a passionate guitar builder and player himself.

Both his parents, which he was very close with, meant the world to Héctor. Between the age of 3 and 4 Héctor lost his father first to a local civil war whereupon his mother, after seperated from her family, fled with him all the way to Oaxaca, Santa Cecilia by foot. Once in the new city, the exhausted and sick mother and her son were taken in by nuns of the local church. After Estella's death, Héctor was brought to the orphanage, where he subconsciously supressed his memories to cope with the loss.

Early childhood

Despite the great loss of his parents and family, Héctor never lost his optimistic and lively character. Always seeing the good rather than the bad. Though shy and quiet at the other hand.

It didn't take long for Héctor to understand, that he was different from other children his age. Mentally ahead of others, he found joy in reading books, writing poems and exploring the surrounding nature on his own. Since the other kids would call him weird, Héctor didn't even bother to try and fit in, he didn't want to and he didn't care.

If not on and about in the fields and forests of Santa Cecilia, Héctor would find himself at the center plaza to watch and listen to the mariachis. His adoration didn't stay unnoticed for too long. Eventually he was taught how to play the guitar by the leader José Vargas by the age six.

According to Josè, Héctor lived and breathed music, having it in his soul. He also called the guitar Héctors third arm.

Most important Relationships

Ernesto

A/N - I wish I could just tell you their whole story here, that's how eager I am! But, it has its time and place in my book and I certainly don't want to spoil anything. So, here come the basics! Also they're 12 and 8 above ☝️

When Héctor told people he and Ernesto go way back, he meant it. They grew up together, formed a deep brother bond and loved and considered each other family.

Having Ernesto as big brother, Héctor always looked up to him. He couldn't imagine a life without him and tried his best to balance his time after marriage and becoming a father to please everyone.

Noticing Ernesto's behaviour change was painful and confusing. Just as much as getting rejected over and over again in the land of the death. Héctor never understood what made his best friend snap like that but he yearns to understand. Also, in my book, Héctor at one point says this to Álvaro (the doctor)

"As odd as it is, despite everything, I don't hate Ernesto. And don't get me wrong, but I know that he could never hate me either."

Furthermore he says this -

"That man at the sunrise spectacle, that wasn’t Ernesto. That wasn’t my best friend; my brother. He'd totally snapped, gone savage. I … I didn’t recognize him anymore. There was so much anger and fear in his eyes. I can’t make sense of it. I wish I could! I wish I could understand what happened to him. Caused him to become that way."

A/N - writing about their relationship and past was and is still tasking but it's also wonderful and exciting. I cannot wait to share that part of the past!

Imelda

Héctor 15 y. Imelda 16. y 👇

Héctor's one true love, his twin flame and soulmate.

From the moment he first spotted her, he felt that special, unexplainable spark. That deep connection has always been there, and it took a while for Héctor to understand what it meant.

Héctor was well aware that many couldn't really understand how he could manage being with Imelda and handle her fiery temper. But to him, it was never a problem. If asked about it, he would always reply that he even loves her temper tantrums. To him, they are "sexy"

- In my book, I discribe their reunion, their road of recovery and how they get back on track. Also their whole past and future. I'm obsessed with them! 😍 I love love love writing them up and down! *sigh*

Coco

Like father like daughter. Héctor passed down a lot of his characteristics to Coco. He was/is very close to her and despite his young age (becoming a father at 18) he was a remarkable good parent. Surprising everyone around how good he was at handling his baby. Héctor also was what others would call a helicopter Dad. Overprotective and always worried something might hurt his precious daughter.

Next to Imelda, Coco is Héctor's everything. Back when he was still aiming to cross the bridge, he was ready to rather die a second time trying than giving up.

A/N ~ Guh! Did I mention that he's the best Dad? He needs a 'best Dad ever' award!

Character traits

Positive :

Optimistic, humorous, ambitius, caring, altruistic, empathic, spontaneous, honest, protective, creative, easygoing, enthusiastic, gentle, humble, idealistic, innocent, loyal, forgiving, passionate, persistent, bubbly, spunky, supportive, trusting, unselfish ...

Negative/neutral :

Stubborn, melodramatic, reckless, shy, clumsy ...

Man I wish tumblr would allow me to post more than just 10 images 😒 ....

Now, if I haven't already gushed and raved about Héctor enough ... I FREAKING LOVE THAT GUY! Like, man, he's the perfect package of everything! He's incredibly handsome (to me at least) He's got frecklessss, ans those eyelashes! Fluffy hair! He's tall! Full lips, perfect white, straight teeth. And that combined with his personality, Ay Mama!

I enjoy writing Héctor a lot! He's just awesome! Like a hot cup of tea and a cozy blanket after a long walk through a snow covered forest.

His goofyness just cracks me up over and over again. His pure heart just deserves the biggest Aawwwww. I mean, the INNOCENCE! With Imelda behind closed doors, he surely knows the whole rollercoaster menu and while other adults would consider Miguel old enough to know what boobs are (he regulary gets his face shoved into his grandmas chest when she hugs him!) And here comes Héctor cencoring the word!

Back to him being a heli-dad. I bet you, he covered baby Cocos eyes whenever Imelda would walk out of the shower stark naked, trying hard not to drool like a great dane. And Imelda poker faced would just argue why he was covering their daughters eyes.

Or as soon as Coco could walk, Imelda would one day find all pointy furnitures covered with pillows and Héctor would say that he doesn't want Coco to hurt herself.

He would freak out big time when they would be outside and there's the slightest possibility of Coco getting hurt. Bees, birds, cats, dogs, stones, puddles, dirt. Imelda would regulary need to calm Héctor down, convincing him, that a bug bite isn't deadly and no, neither is a little bit of sand that Coco shoved into her mouth. Or that flower she ate.

And I cannot repeat this enough! The 👏 flower 👏 bridge 👏

The freaking thing with El puente ok!

I am over and over again blown that Héctor would stop by nothing to cross the bridge. Get caught? Try again. New disguise blown, try again. Broken bones? Try again. Risking to die a second time? He still tries. He simply doesn't care! He wants, needs, has to get to his one true love and daughter. And even after Imelda has passed over, he keeps going because Coco is still there! If that man's devotion isn't the prime example that perfect father love and the one true love exsists, I don't know what else could be.

Also, again, let me underline his kindness, his altruism! He's too good for the world! He hardly EVER picks a fight, he avoids fights! And even IF there's a situation of conflict, it takes Héctor, what, 5 seconds to backpaddle and be like "ok, you know what, let's not argue!"

We saw that with the police officer. Then with Chich, Ceci, Miguel, Ernesto and Imelda. He constantly takes the blame or gives in for the sake of peace, for the sake of the other ones feelings. He would rather swallow being right, if that means his opposite doesn't get hurt too much.

You really REALLY have to push and force Héctor to the farest edge, to have him snap and really get mad.

Being such a person deserves the highest respect. Being such a person in a word like ours is dangerous. You are bound to get hurt. And if you are STILL standing and still having that pure, kind heart, 👏 applause!

Such souls are rare! Héctor is a full blown jackpot! We need more people like Héctor in the world!

#pixar coco #coco 2017 #coco fan art #coco hector #héctor rivera #ernesto de la cruz #coco characters #coco imelda #imelda rivera #Héctor appreciation

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kanamori-kamper-moved · 6 months

Note

❤️‍🩹 for aztecshipping?

aaaa I love this!! Don’t have any ideas for them in terms of regular Yuma and trey but I have been having more knight trey and prince yuma ideas :333 As always, transfem Trey so she uses the feminine pronoun

enjoy!! (Also there are a few font changes in this so do tell if you need me to reformat anything)

ask game

Yuma sighs longingly. He’s read her letters far too many times. They are always written in flowery, soft cursive and laden with beautifully chosen words straight out of a poem.

When was the last time he saw her? He didn't know. Yuma has forgotten now, but all he knows is that even throughout his business, he deeply misses Trey. He's been swamped in work, far too tired to even write back to her. He felt guilty, eyes moving back-and-forth slowly through the words on the paper.

"I know you've been busy. Just know that if even if you come to be away from me, I'll always be there to protect you, even if in spirit. I long to see you, and to spend time with you. I know you're busy, but I miss when you'd write back to me. But even so, I hope this letter finds you well -Trey, your knight."

Yuma feels guilty, he can't keep ignoring these. He wants to write back, but he's labored, ever so labored.

The piles upon piles of her letters sitting in the corner of his room makes him dizzy. Suddenly, out came a noise; a sigh so soft, suffused with ache.

"Today's sunset was beautiful. It reminds me of you, almost. Even when it came to be nighttime, I did not want to close my curtains just yet. I open the window, and the warm spring air floats in. The pie I left to cool on the downstairs windowsill isn't hot anymore. I hoped you'd come, rushing downstairs to see if you'd taken a piece for yourself, but you hadn't. But it is okay. I wrapped it in parchment, hopefully you'll come over soon, so we can share it before it spoils. I have never more wanted to see you than I do now; just to sit and look at you, at least. But, my eldest brother always taught me that It is shameful to beg. I hope this letter finds you well. -Trey, your knight."

Her words make Yuma's heart skip a beat, he still remembers when they first met. Yuma snuck out of the castle again, opening up his window and running past the guards before they could catch up with him.

He wanted to get dirty, have fun, to run away from all of his responsibilities. Even if he was seen as a disgrace, and exiled without a word, it still would have been worth it. But, there he was, in the middle of a field of berries that he'd become lost in.

It was like Déjà vu. When he was just about 8, he'd gotten lost picking berries with Tori, the girl he'd known since he was in diapers. It was just like this all over again, he didn't know how to navigate himself, and could only pass the time by eating the ripe bushels of blackberries. But, this time, it was like nobody was coming to find him. His dad always told him about the creatures he'd saw during his travels, but Yuma never thought he'd see one himself.

Its claws were digging into his arms, pinning him down as he thrashed and screamed. He thought he was going to die, only to be left as a stray pile of blood and clothes. But the wretched creature screeched, Yuma peering his head over to see a sword stuck in its back.

It's Trey. She's beautiful. Her hair is so short he was sure she at first a man, but he doesn't have time to think about it.

When she's done slaying the beast, she kisses his hand, "Are you alright?", concern fills her pretty, androgynous voice.

No one's done this before, Yuma's blushing and can't even form a coherent sentence. But, he doesn't need to, because Trey puts him back on his feet and escorts him back to the kingdom after treating his wounds.

"I'm fine, I swear!"

"No you're not, just look at how you're bleeding! I'm only doing this in your best interest, your highness."

She's persistent. Trey refuses to leave him alone, insisting a good knight wouldn't leave until they're sure that everything is fine. Yuma can't even sleep that night, he wants to see her again.

There's so much burning in his chest, he rifles through his desk to find a piece of paper to finally write back to her. Sure, he doesn't write in any of those pretty fonts or as flowery, or poetically as her, but he needs too, he HAS TOO.

He has to be honest with her.

"I'm sorry for not getting back to you sooner, it's been a lot lately. But I need to tell you something. It's hard to find the words, I thought of saying that I fell in love with you, but no. Falling is an accident. No, I ran aggressively towards my love for you, and I cannot keep ignoring it. There are so many things I could tell you, but they all just dissolve in my throat. It's dark now, and I'm very tired. I'll love you forever, always. Time is nothing when I'm with you.

-Yuma, your prince."

Yuma gives it to his courier and falls into his bed, he should have done this so log ago, but now it's done.

In the morning, he's given a letter. It's from Trey. Did she manage to respond that quickly? She's always been amazing, Yuma shouldn't be surprised.

"I'm glad you told me, and don't be sorry, your personal affairs come before our letters. But, I need to tell you as well, I feel just the same. I cannot continue to water myself down so you don't catch on. You utterly pierce my soul, there's no other way to describe it. No matter what kind of future it will be, I’ll always find you. Come to the cottage, my brothers won't be there. I'll be waiting for you. -Trey, your knight."

And so Yuma does, opening up the window and sneaking out once more. Trey is waiting for him inside, and he runs in her arms. There are no words, the both of them know what they want. He kisses her softly, Treys lips are ever so soft.

"I have some new recipes I'd like to bake with you."

"That would be lovely."

#anthys asks #Anthys writing #Aztecshipping #michael arclight #yugioh zexal #trey arclight #trey zexal #iii yugioh #zexal iii #iii zexal #Knight trey au

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wheatfieldspoet · 1 year

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the stars, embroidered with your love

after Joy Priest and BTS

when i see stars in the night sky, i think of 7 boys surrounded by cellphone lights in an immense city stadium so far from home, singing in their mother language but speaking a borrowed one. i had been right there with them, through a laptop screen an ocean away.

it is 2018. i am just about to turn 24 and i’m trying to survive my quarter-life crisis. i’d never felt more lost in the world, never felt so disconnected from who i was. i watch kim namjoon, the leader, a boy my age, talk about love with his hand on his chest.

in front of 40 thousand people, and millions more watching around the world, he confesses to a lack of love for the self, something he thought he would need to work on until the day he died. and then came our love: a phenomenon that defined a new era.

it is a gross disservice to think that BTS is merely a cog in the system or fodder for a teenage girl’s blush. what simple pandering would expose the cracks in a mirror of loathing, record the trials and errors of patience, chronicle the mangled stages of recovery?

it is not easy to grow up— what more when you have an audience— but because i had witnessed them heal the inner child that was once buried, bring the young ghosts back to life all through love, i knew that i could, too.

much time has passed since then. the universe has expanded; the stars are farther apart. the fire in me has gone from wild in a forest to a wick in a cozy room. but love transcends distance and goes beyond measure. it keeps things alive.

— jade a.

escapril day 13: blush

@poetryorchard day 13: young ghosts

bonus prompt - pw.org: Inspired by Joy Priest’s poem When I See Stars in the Night Sky, write an ode to your favorite musician placing them in a specific moment in time.

additional footnotes below!

the title is a translated lyric from BTS’ song with coldplay, “my universe”

here is a quote from the moment that inspired the poem, for additional context:

“Through this ‘Love Yourself’ tour, I’m finding how to love myself. I didn’t know anything about loving myself, but you guys taught me—through your eyes, through your love, through your tweets, through your letters, through your everything. You guys taught me and inspired me how to love myself. And loving myself is my whole life goal until my death. And you know, what is loving myself? What is loving yourself? I don’t know. Who can define their own method and way of loving myself? It’s our mission to find our way to love ourselves.

It’s never intended, but it feels like I’m using you guys to love myself. So I want to say one thing: Please use me. Please use BTS to love yourselves. Because you taught me how to love myself every day.”

— Kim Namjoon of BTS Citi Field, New York 6 October 2018

#escapril #escapril 2023 #napowrimo #napowrimo 2023 #glopowrimo #glopowrimo 2023 #poetry #poem #spilled ink #mine #mine: poem #adventurerswrite #bts #army #bts army #bangtan

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dreamypurplesky · 3 months

Text

So I wrote a letter for my ex best friend who doesn't want to talk to me anymore for reasons best known to him. I never post anything I write because that makes me feel vulnerable and I hate it. But this time I figured that if there's even a slightest chance of this letter reaching him, it's through the internet and not in the depths of my notes app. So I'm baring my soul to strangers by putting this out there, please treat it kindly.

A letter to my dearest friend.

Yes, you heard it right. You're my dearest friend even if we don't talk anymore. Actually, that doesn't change anything at all, nothing can. You'll always be my dearest friend. Suck it up. I'm writing this because I'm starting to forget you and it scares the shit out of me. I was laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, reminiscing our time together - like I've done countless nights so far. More specifically, I was trying to piece together a poem about you in which I needed to list a few things that you like. My mind went blank for a brief moment. That's not good. I used to be able to instantly say that you liked music, making music. You also liked playing basketball and training in jiu-jitsu and programming. You liked looking up at the stars. You liked talking about philosophical stuff and you liked photography. That was what brought us closer in the first place. You liked working out and you liked mangoes. This is just me panicking and noting down everything I remember about you so if it ever starts to fade away, I can come back here to retain my memory. You also liked me. Oh, how could I ever forget that? You were probably the first person who ever actually liked me. I never thought I'd have to try so hard not to forget you. Our memories have claw marks on them from me holding on too tight. But I guess it was stupid of me to expect this to last forever. I mean, the world was in lockdown when we met so we were just two kids who had plenty of time to kill. Looking back, it probably didn't mean anything more than that to you. Or did it? I don't know. The way you moved on so easily tells me my guess is correct. However, it was very real for me. It was more than just a friendship developed out of boredom. You showed me who I really am, taught me how to value myself, and left me with so many beautiful moments to cherish. I've always told everyone I've met after you that there can never be another guy like you. I adore you, I really do. And it has got me fucked up. I'm out here stalking your Linkedin, for fuck's sake, like someone who has lost their goddamn mind. You've got a girlfriend and a big boy job and all, why would you bother to engage with a sad girl you met online who wrote poems about you? I understand your decision. I'll always understand. I promised, remember? Nothing you do will ever be looked down upon by me.

Tumhari narazagi bhi hume qubool hai,

kyuki vo tumhari hai.

Or jo tumhara hai,

vo mujhe sabse pyaara hai.

(Even your abandonment is accepted by me, as it is yours. And what's yours, is the dearest to me)

I wake up in the middle of the night and frantically check my discord to see if, perhaps, a miracle occurred that made you text. I always go back to sleep disheartened. But it's okay, I don't blame any of it on you. In fact, I'm grateful that I even got to know you. And I'm so pissed at myself for letting you go that first time. I am sorry for taking you granted. Your birthday's coming up soon and as much as I want to wish you, I don't want you to think I'm some desperate creep, even though I am. So I'll just write a note on The Unsent Project and console myself. If this message ever reaches you av, know that you can always come back to me. Even if it's 50 years later and the world is ending. I'll always wait to hear from you again.

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 2 years

Text

how gently do the clouds and flowers sway

tags: gn!reader, reader has dendro abilities, fluff, pre!relationship

a/n: a new addition to the god!reader cinematic universe. finally felt inspired to write a little more for it and decided to give yun jin some of that love. yun jin is such a lovely character, you can really see how much love went into crafting her. it took a long time for her to finally be released to the game for those who knew about her since the first leaked images, but it was definitely worth it. i maxed out her friendship recently and thought she’d be a great match for god!reader. also don’t mind me making blatant references to the cruel prince at the beginning lmao. the opera she’s creating in this fic is a reference to the poem ‘a spring morning’ by meng haoran

春眠不觉晓，处处闻啼鸟。夜来风雨声，花落知多少。

“I can’t thank you enough for your help.” Yun Jin smiled appreciatively. Red eyes sparkled with a warmth reminiscent of the lanterns at festivals. “Everything was so last minute but you’ve been keeping up with everything. I insist we pay you.”

“I told you already, Ms. Yun.” You took a pleased sip from your tea. Morax, or Zhongli as he went by now, wasn’t exaggerating when he said snow blossom tea was exquisite. You’d certainly have to ask him where to come by some in bulk. “You don’t need to pay me for this. This isn’t really a commission for me, so much as a cultural experience.”

It was honestly.

Liyue Opera was a tradition you had yet to discover in all your times exploring the nation of Geo. It was certainly much different than the instruments of your people, the dances you’d taught them and the rhythms you swayed to. You loved it. Yet you were drawn to the different practices of opera.

“If you’re so taken with it,” your old friend began after you expressed your interest over dinner. “I would recommend a performance by the Yun-Han Opera Troupe. If one truly wishes to experience Liyue’s opera, they should see the performance of Ms. Yun.”

Little did you know that rather than watching it, you’d be taking part of it. Well, to be more exact, you’d be doing work behind the stage. As it would turn out, Ms. Yun herself was in need of assistance.

“The director of the troupe has been wanting to add a little flair to their performance of one of their older operas, A Spring Morning.” Zhongli explained, much to your growing interest. “They wish to incorporate falling flowers into the highlight of their performance. I was told they were simply going to buy flowers and find a way to have them fall onto the stage without being overtly obvious.” A knowing glance was given to your fake Vision you carried on your person, similar to his own. “But I’m sure a wielder of Dendro could make the job easier.”

Now here you were, enjoying a cup of tea with the troupe’s director a few weeks later.

Yun Jin didn’t look happy with your suggestion. Every week she insisted you accept payment and every week you declined in similar fashion. “But this commission is lasting a lot longer than we expected!”

A Spring Morning had risen in popularity with this collaboration of yours, now it was all everyone wanted to see.

First you would use cherry blossoms.

The next time were crocuses.

You’ve also created showers of peonies, primroses and tulips.

Perhaps I should make petals flow to where even the audience sits. You wondered. The next performance was going to be the last one of A Spring Morning for a few months. This one has to be truly exceptional. Her magnum opus!

“You’re honestly doing me a favor.” You insisted after realizing the singer was still waiting for you to say something. You’d pick the flowers you’d conjure next time when you were alone. “Honestly! I’ve seen many things in my time traveling. I’ve seen the acorn before the oak, the egg before the hen.” You couldn’t help smiling as you spotted the one growing on your new companion’s face. “I’ve never come across anything like Liyue Opera before, I’m simply glad to be able to help bring a project to life while learning about the artform.”

“Oh Mx. (Y/N), I think you’ve just developed a flair for the dramatics.” Yun Jin replied with an amused lilt of her voice.

“If I have, it’s only because I learned from the best. I’ve been told your troupe is the best in all of Liyue.” You replied without missing a beat. “But I’m not exaggerating in the slightest. Money isn’t an issue for me, it isn’t why I travel.”

Unlike your friend, you’d been masquerading as a human long enough to understand the concept of Mora. In some ways, that lughead hasn’t changed at all. You wanted to snort, remembering how seamlessly he placed a tab for the meal you shared at a restaurant he recommended. How does the creator of Mora not have any to speak of now that he’s mortal? He’s lucky he’s so well-connected.

Unfortunately, you weren’t a god of such prestige for that sort of command and energy follow you into human form.

To mortals, Amur was simply a God of Festivals. On the other hand, you were also the Soother of the Dead. The one who helped the ailing find peace in their eternal rest, the one who’d leave offerings of lavender and rose on the graves of the forgotten. You were the reason humans learned to find joy in the short lives they did have. At least in the eyes of historians and researchers. To the youth of this era, you were simply a party god.

You didn’t create the peaks of mountains by casting your spears across the land.

You didn’t cut an island in half with a mere swipe of your blade.

You simply loved humans and their mortality so much, you wanted them to appreciate themselves more. Any story about mortals and their lives were much more interesting than another exaggerated tale about Murata or even the Tsaritsa. You wanted to see those experiences (Y/N), not as Amur.

Perhaps that was why you enjoyed Yun Jin’s company. You were like-minded individuals. The tales she wove were about the ordinary doing the extraordinary even without the help of gods. That, in your opinion, was the strength of humanity.

Your non-human brethren could scoff at the mistakes the many humans made. But despite the mistakes and despite the missteps, humans still prospered and survived throughout the generations. Seeing the woman before you dedicate herself to showcasing that beauty with her entire being was enough payment for you.

The makeup, the heavy costumes, and the many, many rehearsals.

She was exceptional, more than exceptional.

Yes, you wanted to be in the company of this human a little while longer.

Yun Jin sighed, “but there has to be something that you’d like.” She began once more. “Since Mora isn’t something you’d like, what if you received something else.”

“Your company alone is enough, Ms. Yun.” You hid your smile behind your tea cup. “What if you take me to one of those rock n roll shows I’ve been hearing about lately? That sounds like the perfect way to unwind.”

#look she's writing #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #yun jin x reader #god!reader au #title comes from one of yun jin's voicelines #og thought of the opera being one about a story of god!reader but decided against it #yun jin wants to make operas about ordinary people after all and that too is valid

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poemsnchai · 4 months

Text

What Could Have Been: A Poem

I write too much about you,

more than I have written about anyone else by far.

How do I stop you from being my muse?

When you were the reason,

I decided to use my words again.

I wish you knew,

that the one in my stories is you.

For I cower behind my poems,

afraid of disrupting what we have now,

even if I crave for something more.

Sometimes I wonder if what I really wanted,

was what could have been.

Yet I swear there were sparks once, twice, I think I lost count.

Is this what falling for someone feels like?

After all, they say eighteen is a bit too young to be in love.

How is it that one can make me feel so good about myself one minute,

and makes me question myself the next?

How is it that I can feel safe to talk about anything with you one minute,

and exchange only silent glances the next?

How is it that I feel like I’m the only one you care about one minute,

and feel like I’m insignificant to you the next?

Or maybe, just maybe, this entire time,

I was hoping for what could have been.

Maybe my mother was right,

that I might still be too young to understand what love is.

But the one thing I know for sure,

is that I never regretted ever getting to know you,

for you taught me a lot about myself.

So, thank you for being that person to me,

even though all that’s left between us,

is what could have been.

— A.L.

#writers on tumblr #poetry #poets on tumblr #original poem #poems on tumblr

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altruistic-meme · 4 months

Note

i realized theyre all in a row eheh

hehehehe nice

12. favorite character to write about this year

ouhhhh honestly i think it's been Nathaniel (from (wit)jitp)!!! i didn't actually write much of him this year, pretty much only what we see in for the hopes, but i loved getting to explore a side of him that Andrew hasn't seen before :D

that said i DID also really enjoy writing from Wymack's POV and getting to experience Nathaniel from his eyes and what assumptions and conclusions he could make from him :)

13. favorite writing song/artist/album of this year

hmm i don't know that i really had one specifically??? i've listened to my (wit)jitp playlist quite a bit this year though, and one of the songs that always gets me in the mood to think about (wit)jitp is Sail Away by Ben Hazlewood! so i guess we'll go with that!

14. a fic you didn't expect to write

LVOE.!!! i wasn't really planning on writing anything when i was reading through the poems that inspired it. but inspiration hits when it feels like hitting i guess. and wow what a work it became, still a story i adore and reread!!!

15. something you learned this year

i want to say that joining in with nanowrimo taught me that i can have and reach a goal if i put in that effort. i haven't really been able to do it this month, but it's something i plan to work towards more in the upcoming year now that i have proved to myself that it's possible.

[ fanfic end of the year asks ]

#i'll still keep accepting these but it's 2am now and im going to sleep #i just wanted to do the ones i had gotten a bit ago while i was at my sisters house <3<3 #also i was tempted to ALSO add laurent to 12 but it says one character #but writing him has ALSO been really fun to explore especially since it's an au version of him #eheheheh #askers #ask game #cozy-fish-crow #shh ac

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holyluvr · 10 months

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I miss writing and editing, but I’m too fucked up over criticism from adults and strict expectations on top of invasions of privacy to start again. Hopefully in the future, I’ll feel safe enough to fall back into the passion.

Tbh, I’ve grown to not be as ashamed as I was before over my thought processes being different, annoying, overly dressed, hard to follow, “poetic”, “inappropriate”, or “interesting”. Those used to always be used as insults and criticism, and they still are.

But people have been using them as compliments, too. I need to remember the good faith use of those words more than I remember adults telling me that I need to be more normal.

I used to be a writer, sincerely invested but not enough so to ever attempt at publishing anything past what was accepted into contests(which isn’t the same at all but the closest to letting anyone read my fiction that I could go). Anything else that I wrote was deleted or thrown out as soon as I finished at a stopping point because I was concerned over privacy after my family read all of my works without permission. And “it didn’t matter” to me since I “didn’t want to publish anything anyway”(lying to self).

While my short stories and poems kept winning, my writing was given constant criticism over my chain of thought and circular or tangential flow. The same for my experiences in English class. The red marks I received were from unnecessary imagery, circular/tangential flow of thought that wasn’t simple enough, and use of too much figurative language.

Basically, the exact same way that I speak and type now except I’m not writing poetry or fiction on here, just thoughts. Yet I’m still too intense, annoying with excess words and symbolism, and difficult to follow half of the time while simultaneously sounding poetic to some people when I’m not trying to be.

It was interesting with school because my History and English teachers specifically were failing me then pulling me aside to tell me that they adored my writing or found it interesting, and my teachers had gotten together and suggested the International Baccalaureate course transfer to the counselors…For me, with a limited amount of middle schoolers to allow to transfer. The same teachers who were failing me admittedly based on strict academic guidelines were saying that I deserved a chance in the district’s highest public academic courses.

I am thankful for that handful of teachers who still threw my name out there and saw potential in me although I was failing their classes since I’m apparently incapable of following the rules they were trying to push for the standardized tests. They knew I wasn’t failing because I didn’t understand but rather because I didn’t think the same way as the syllabus guidance books had written down. Mainly because I had straight A’s on all formal tests but refused to take schoolwork, practice tests, projects, or anything else seriously.

I became such an asinine petty punk brat that I accidentally taught myself what civil disobedience was before knowing that term. I wasn’t breaking any rules with the work when I completed it— but I was in debate and my mother has always been obsessed with law while my father is schizotypal with antisocial tendencies, so they couldn’t really do anything but lecture me on my attitude and future.

If they tried to fail a paper that I knew I hadn’t broken the prompt with and followed every rule, I took my paper up to their desk to ask them why I failed and how to do better, and they would eventually admit that it’s not what the scorers of the standardized tests wanted to see. And that was that. I knew the answer but wanted them to keep saying it because I was frustrated by their half ass justifications and half ass honesty about the system.

#…#never flowing as well and lower marks if stricter prompts were given to me #because it turns out Schizotypy/Autism/Schizophrenia truly affects every aspect of life.#This experience is probably common with other neurodivergent kids at school.#kind of how you see ‘problem kids’ with antisocial tendencies from home environments who are clearly multi-skilled but fail classes.#🎭👸🏻

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sammygender · 9 months

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long post below be warned

i dislike the way in some feminist circles—and in this particular instance, this means a Guardian review of Barbie, so it’s not even a feminist circle, but i see it a lot while hate-stalking radfems and i hear it a lot in conversation—every little fucked up psychological trait people do, if the person talking about it is a woman, is attributed to womanhood. ‘i am a woman and to exist as a woman is horrific under the patriarchy (true!) and therefore i do this messed-up thing (insert statement).’ and when starting to think about this i said this: i do not know if my dislike of this phenomenon is because it’s true, and it makes me feel weird to think about it because i am a trans man, or because it’s not true, and it feels weird that people attribute human things to Women things (or woman-socialised, non-cis-men, anything that woke people use as a buzzword when they mean ‘woman and anyone i see as a woman’) and act like non cis men have some unique capacity for empathy that cis men/men (differing people will have their own opinions on trans men, and obviously the terfs just think it’s afabs, but i’ll go at this from a perspective where i ignore them) don’t have.

or, rather, i said: i’m sure it is true, for some people, that womanhood has been so traumatising for them that they developed defence mechanisms, but i would argue that is a result of trauma that happens to be gendered and not a thing every woman does & not a thing only women do. & i don’t know if i’m being weird and picky and potentially antagonistic in not LOVING this phenomenon, or whether i’m simply aware of gender essentialism. bc it’s not nice to police how people talk about their oppression. but it also just… feels overly simplified.

FOR EXAMPLE. some of this is because i am a trans man, and it’s horrible to think that my intense, cyclical self-awareness of ‘so i’m doing this, but i KNOW i’m doing this, so it’s okay that i’m doing this!’ is because i was raised as a woman. and that starts to feel like it could be true, because i do have experience of being a girl within me, and who am i to say that this complex, a result of constantly feeling Annoying and like the only way to break that cycle of being Annoying is to be Aware of being annoying because somehow that makes it better, ISN’T because of that? when you actually think about it, though, this feels… silly. how in any way is this an experience unique to women? maybe that they are taught to police themselves and their looks and their everything - true. maybe that leads to that experience of needing to be too self aware. and i see how someone could recognise this trait within them and go This must be because i’m a woman but. it’s like very much a trait i can see in men just as much, just as often, and i think we need to hesitate before ascribing experiences precisely to genders and gender roles we inhabit. first time i ever saw this feeling of irony-piled self-awareness properly expressed was in fucking homestuck, the striders, at one point bo burnham’s 2021 special inside articulated it well. when i read homestuck as a transmasculine 13 year old it felt vaguely like a ‘guy experience’, mostly because i wanted it to be. now i often see this voiced as ‘girl-coded’, something every woman experiences, often paired with poems about making sure you’re always aware of how you’re perceived. but it’s the same damn thing, maybe slightly occasionally different, but same thing. gendered socialisation fucks you up, yeah. women get it worse because they’re oppressed, yeah, but the whole concept of gender enforced into a child is traumatic.

anyway one day ill write an essay on this. & fandom reception. stuff like ‘eldest daughter syndrome’, traits that are seen as inherently gendered but just Aren’t always. it’s always a simplified take.

this goes both ways BTW i’m talking about the problem in feminism bc i am a feminist. but it happens everywhere. one of the most glaringly annoying examples is the idea that ‘men can’t express emotions’. like yes, that is true (to an extent) that men are seen often as weak if they cry! it is ALSO true that, historically, women have been legitimately locked in insane asylums for having feelings and wants more complicated than serve husband and make food for child. it is also true that if a woman shows emotion in front of a man, very often she gets easily dismissed as insane or hysterical. arguably this problem is worse for women because women are like actually oppressed.

and it’s interesting because this leads us to a conclusion - that just you can say ‘i repress my emotions because i’m a man and have been punished for expressing them, in a uniquely gendered way’, you can say ‘i repress my emotions because i’m a woman and i have been punished for expressing them, in a uniquely gendered way’. to go with my previous example - you can say ‘i’m ironically self-aware because i’m a guy and not meant to feel emotions genuinely’. true, this is a thing men are taught because they’re men. you can say ‘i’m ironically self-aware because as a woman i’ve always been mocked for being genuine.’ true, this is a thing that happens to women because they’re women.

anyway. until we get past just designating things and experiences as ONLY for certain genders, we will never get free of gendered oppression/misogyny bc it’s innate to this obsession with gender as 2 binary polar opposites. there’s commonalities, yes, but nothing unique about female or male ‘socialisation’ and you don’t necessarily have more in common with someone the same gender as you just as you don’t necessarily have more in common with someone the same race or the same age - you have SOMETHING in common, but not everything. & it’s weird to presume you do

#feminism #oliver talks #incomplete thoughts

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tullyfm · 1 year

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TALLULAH CALLIOPE KIPLING.

guess i’ve never escaped me for too long — guess i’ve only ever been who i was.

[ fingernails stained with hair dye, long leather jackets, the way chaotic moms would get ready for work with a piece of toast hanging from their mouths while hopping into their clothes because they were late getting up, wearing jewelry made by a child, grief like a black hole in the back of your mind, open windows to let in the salt air, a home that always has music in it, a drawer full of kid’s colorfully pattered bandaids, a long bike ride in the middle of the night, a past so dense it’s impossible to unpack, florescent lights, a closet that could be an anthropological study, a costco membership card, a whistle in the dark ]

pinterest / playlist / birth chart (coming soon)

basics.

full name — tallulah calliope kipling

nickname(s) — tully—everyone calls her this except her ex, flynn, and her parents (and your muse, if you think it would be in character for them, but the default is tully).

age — thirty-two

date of birth — 1991

place of birth — bolinas, california

current location — monterey bay, california

religion — agnostic

gender & sexuality — mostly cis woman / bisexual

pronouns — she/her

education level — GED & RN with a MSN (master of science in nursing, 6 year degree)

occupation — newly hired school nurse at otter bay elementary (previously an ER nurse at the local hospital)

connection to otter bay — her job + the fact that her 7-year-old daughter, circe, attends school there as a second grader.

family.

mother — theresa “tempest” hopkins

father — oscar “orion” kipling

romantic — apollo monroe (ex, father of tully’s son) flynn caulfield (ex, father of tully’s daughter)

children — atlas alder kipling (born 2008, deceased 2008), circe artemis kipling-caulfield (born 2016)

physical.

height — 5′1

eyes — hazelly brown-green

hair — naturally dark brown, but she changes it often—she usually switches between blonde and black or a reddish dark brown

distinguishing marks — various tattoos

personality traits.

positive: compassionate, loyal, supportive, good with kids, affable, altruistic, loving, virtuous, creative, kind

negative: intense, unorganized, guilt-ridden, overly protective, dogmatic (when it comes to her daughter), perfervid, reticent

more.

mbti — ESFP

alignment — chaotic good

enneagram — 5w4 (the iconoclast)

temperament — sanguine-phlegmatic

hobbies — bike riding, music, songwriting, playing guitar, playing sodoku, getting angry at the crossword, making plastic jewelry with her daughter, collecting seashells with her daughter, writing poetry, painting murals on the walls of her home

past.

tw: drug use mentions, child death mentions, illness/anti-vax mentions

technically, what tully grew up in wasn’t a cult. it was an intentional community, a hippy commune, a place where kids were raised as a group effort, barefoot and unbathed, wild and free-range. tully didn’t attend school, or watch tv, or get vaccinated, or consume artificial food coloring. she wandered through nature, made art, attended anti-war protests, watched her parents speak to the trees while they were tripping.

for the duration of her childhood, tully had no problem with any of this, partly because she didn’t know anything else. she liked to be creative, she hated the idea of being restrained and forced to ‘live in the rat race’, and she was happy where she was. she dyed her hair, she made art, she started smoking weed at 11, she taught herself to read with the allen ginsberg poem book her parents kept lying around.

for all tully enjoyed her life as it was, there had always been a part of her that did want to know more about the world—she was a voracious reader, curious, full of wonder, and she wanted to know more about the world beyond the commune. she wanted to know more about how the world worked, why things were the way they were, what the science behind nature was, etc., and while her parents were happy to explain the ‘beauty of the earth’ with their spiritual ideas about goddesses and so forth, there was always a part of tully that wanted to know more, or to learn, or to be taught.

still, tully didn’t pursue any of that at first. when she was 17, however, she got pregnant with a boy she’d had a somewhat transient relationship with who lived on the commune with her. they weren’t serious, or anything, but she was delighted to be pregnant—she’d always wanted kids. since some kids on the commune were kind of raised by the community at large at least some of the time, her boyfriend didn’t take a very active role in her pregnancy or motherhood in the way you’d expect a father to, but that wasn’t super unusual, so tully didn’t really mind or give that fact much thought.

her parents were perfectly pleased to be having a grandkid—on the commune, teen pregnancy was not treated with any of the stigma that it is in the rest of american society. generally, nobody thought anything of the mother’s age if she was at least 15, and at 17, everyone was very cool with tully bringing a child into the world.

tully’s son, atlas, was born in 2008. he was her whole world. she adored. she was so happy to be a mother. she wanted nothing but the best for him. but when atlas was a few months old, tully contracted measles—her parents had never vaccinated her, so she was susceptible to it. before she even felt sick, she’d already passed it along to her son, and he started showing symptoms not long after she did. (to tully’s parents chagrin) atlas had to be hospitalized—he was just a baby, and it was a big strain on his body, not to mention the fact that he didn’t get the regular check-ups & medical provisions your average baby might get beforehand.

atlas ended up passing away. tully watched it happen as she stood in his hospital room on her own, sick herself and shaking. needless to say, this was a huge wakeup call for tully. it made her completely reexamine her parents lifestyle, it made her resent them for never getting her vaccinated and generally for raising her the way they had, and it made her feel immense guilt herself, too. tully was just a kid when all this happens, but she’ll never forget that she’s the one who gave atlas the measles—and there’s part of her that still feels like she’s the reason he’s dead. there’s part of her that still feels like she could have done more, should have done more to protect her baby.

her parents didn’t believe that tully being vaccinated would have helped things. they were sad about atlas, of course, but they figured that it was meant to be, and that to have vaccinated tully would have been more damaging. disease is natural, they told her, it happens, some things just happen, they can’t be prevented!

“this could have,” is what tully thought, and she went low-contact with her parents. she got her GED, she got into nursing school, she got vaccinated. she didn’t want to be like her parents. she wanted to learn how science worked, how medicine worked. she wanted to do everything she could to try and prevent what happened to atlas from happening to others, so she became a nurse. she got her masters, graduated with honors, and moved to monterey bay to work at the local hospital.

she never fully recovered from that awful, heart-rending guilt she still feels about atlas. she doesn’t talk about him, and she feels guilty about that, too. it’s something she’s so ashamed of, she can’t tell anyone about him—but that makes her feel ashamed, too, because her baby shouldn’t just be forgotten, not because she won’t spread his memory just because cares too damn much about how people will perceive her once they learned that she’s the reason her son’s dead.

it’s hard for her. god, it’s so fucking hard for her.

that’s not to say there’s no joy in her life, because there is. she loves her friends, her community, and most importantly, she loves her seven-year-old daughter, circe.

when tully was 25, she was working in the ER, and flynn caulfield, an actor (or, a former childhood actor who by this point was sort of a failed adult actor) who was passing through, had been in a bar fight, and he needed a few sutures. tully hadn’t been exposed to much tv growing up, so she didn’t immediately see flynn as flynn caulfield, former child actor; she just saw him as flynn. flynn liked this, and he liked tully, and tully liked flynn, and the two began a whirlwind romance that was full of passion. it was the first true romantic connection tully had made since leaving her family behind, and it was honestly one of the first true connections she’d made at all. the two felt like they were the only ones who really got each other.

flynn wound up flitting back and forth from LA (where he was working as a bad actor) and monterey bay, where tully always had a place in her bed for him. it was the kind of romance only two 25 year olds can have, and tully really loved him.

the details for the next stretch are a little hazy and i’m too lazy to go bug dani about it, but at some point (not all that long after the two had known each other—think a matter of months), tully got pregnant. despite all of her terror about all the ways she could fail her child, and all of her complicated feelings about becoming a mother again after atlas, she was thrilled to be having a child with flynn.

during her pregnancy, though, as her anxiety about their baby grew, she started becoming more and more aware of some of flynn’s flaws—he struggled with addiction which could make him unreliable, he tended to prioritize his work over being around for tully, he cared too much about what his mother thought, he didn’t understand why tully felt the way she did about her own family. tully truly did want to support flynn and help him get sober and get his shit together, but at that point, flynn wasn’t really ready to change, and the strain on their relationship grew. still, they had their daughter, circe, (named after a goddess of magic who turned men into pigs), and tully was instantly in love with her little girl.

their relationship ended when flynn smoked weed while he was watching circe on his own. because of her past, tully is prone to perceiving many behaviors that remind her of her parents as being very intense threats to her daughter’s safety, and thinking about something happening to circe is definitely tully’s biggest trigger that can cause her to get a bit hysterical. she’s protective, a fierce mama bear, and the idea of circe being raised how she was raised made her freak out, so she kicked flynn out.

tully doesn’t want circe to not have a relationship with him, though—she’s continued to encourage flynn to get sober and get it together and be in their daughter’s life, something he’s attempted in the past but been unable to maintain for more extended periods of time. for this reason, and because flynn in the past had spent a lot of time being wrapped up in his career, tully has mostly been doing the full-time parenting stuff on her own, though circe still did have contact with her dad, just not majority custody.

(just recently, flynn has come back into their lives after being incommunicado for a long stretch of time while he got sober, got himself a child bride named tatiana, and opened Center. so, you know—that’s going to be a whole other thing.)

pretty recently, tully decided to leave her job as an ER nurse to start working as a school nurse at otter bay elementary. she wants to be closer to her daughter, and she wants to have a more steady, predictable schedule that aligns with circe’s, instead of working long, odd hours. all in all, baby girl is doing her best. she loves kids, she’s kind, she wants to help people, she has a tendency to babble when she’s nervous. she has some lorelai gilmore energy, for sure. she’s a single mom doing it for herself.

#intro.#mb intro

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