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oisaaac · 4 years

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“ Six feet under ”

Pairing: Crowley x Reader

Summary: Crowley decides to pay a little visit to his one and only love.

Warnings: angst, character death, sad boi crowley

Notes: English isn't my native language, so sorry for any mistakes this hasn't been proofread either.

This is very out of the blue and maybe a little cliché idk, but i hope some of you enjoy it nonetheless <3

kinda off from the original show plot but try to bare with me uwu

inspired from billie eilish's song 'six feet under'

Help, I lost myself again

But I remember you

Thick heavy grey clouds shrouded above the cemetery as if it read Crowley's mood. It was the same heavy weight he felt everyime he decides to pay you a visit. The same weight that seems to get heavier as time ticks by.

It had been a year since you died. A year that seems to be dreadfully longer than the time Crowley stayed above earth.

It was always a reminder for him how different his celestial form is from a human being like you. You always joked around that he had to see you die at some point—with grey hair and wrinkling skin while he didn't age even a bit, yet look where he is now.

He didn't expect it to come too soon, too fast, too sudden and too painful. It made him think what was really God's ineffable plan? He couldn't even ask it himself. Besides it was ineffable after all.

He should've seen this coming though. A demon falling in love with a human? Both of you knew things can't get normal. For one he was an immortal under a lot of circumstances and you on the other hand was—fragile. The moment you saw the bright light when you were brought to this world you were already hanging on a thin thread. Surviving for only a small barrowed time. Crowley always thought it was some kind of inside joke made by God, a very cruel joke.

Small droplets started to fall down from the sky as Crowley stood looking at the flowers he have in his hands.

You would've loved this. He thought to himself kneeling down on the moist grass, not bothered by the uncomfortable feeling of the contact with his jeans before staring at your grave stone.

It still feels unreal for him, seeing your name precisely carved on the stone which made his heart wrenched.

Retrace my lips

Erase your touch

It's all too much for me

But Crowley knew he would rather feel the pain in his chest over and over again rather than forget about you even if he could never be the same when he was with you.

His closest friend Aziraphale felt pity for the demon, but loving someone always has a cost to pay and he could only give much reassurance to his dear friend. Besides, he was somehow at fault considering you died in his shop trying to help him. Crowley didn't blame the angel though, knowingly you wouldn't either, but that didn't stop him from blaming himself and giving the silent treatment to the angel (which Aziraphale understood where he was coming from) for months. You would have opposed to if you knew, knowing their friendship was one of the strongest bonds you had ever seen. Luckily they were good now yet Crowley still needed more time to mourn.

You were always so kind and gentle, one of the traits Crowley loved about you. Good or bad you seem to look surpass every label knowing it was more than just what they perceive. To you Crowley isn't just the demon who had fallen to spread evil, he was your Crowley; your sassy kind hearted loving demon. He never wanted to have such vulnerability, but he let himself otherwise.

Of course he didn't regret any of it. He would need to die first before he ever regrets choosing a path with you in it. Even if he knew the moment you walked in Aziraphale's bookshop clumsily waltzing in his life only to bring this kind of pain he was currently feeling he would never choose of you not being a part of him. If only he could have had more time just one more second to see you smile, to feel your soft touch, to look directly into your loving eyes that made him feel like he was home. It sometimes brought Crowley anxiety with the thought that he didn't deserve what he was feeling with you—the joy, appreciation and love, yet you always said that he did, he did deserve happiness but the tragedy that comes with it had come unforeseen.

Blow away

Like smoke in air

How can you die carelessly?

Why did you have to go inside? Why didn't you just wait for me. You were human afterall. You weren't built to withstand heavy flames and thick smokes. You've always been so reckless for the sake of others. You knew it was dangerous, but you risked your life nonetheless.

Crowley laid the flowers near your headstone before he caressed the letters of your name closing his eyes trying to remember every detail of your face.

"Just for a second. If you're really listening to everyone's prayer then bid mine. Just for a second. Look at me you've foresaken me and let me fall into the pit yet here I am calling out for you." He looked up calling out to somebody, something or someone who was listening to his mantra. "Please!" He choked through the verge of tears. "I love her. I'll always will. If this is my sin then punish me for eternity, but let me see her just for a second." The only response a low rumble of thunder and finally the heavy clouds opened its gates letting the rain freely fall from the heavens camouflaging Crowley's tears.

They're playin' our sound

Layin' us down tonight

And all of these clouds

Crying us back to life

But you're cold as a night

It was no use. You're gone. The pain settled in his chest eating his insides. It was his punishment after all.

Crowley was soaked by the time he was snapped out of his small trance. He fixed the flowers on your grave before putting the individual red rose in the middle remembering how much you loved that red flower then grabbing the old ones to dispose them before standing up and taking one last glance of you until his next visit.

He whispered his promise that he would come back over and over for the rest of his eternity, he had all the time in his hands anyways.

Six feet under

I can't help but wonder

If our grave was watered by the rain

Bloom

Again

Crowley turned around to head over his bentley only to be met by your e/c eyes. He didn't even realized his grip on the flowers loosened as he blinked once, twice, more than enough to make sure he wasn't seeing things while raining and there you were like an epiphany standing on your red dress drenched in rain smiling like an idiot at him. You took deliberate steps closing in the gap between the two of you while you kept your eyes locked on his yellow serpent eyes that you grew to love.

"Y/n," Crowley whispered still trying to figure out how.

"Crowley," You put your hand on his cheeks caressing his wet skin with your thumb. You didn't even understood how, but you were happy. You missed him so much that you didn't say another word and just leaned in connecting your lips with his he didn't respond at first, but slowly he recognized you. It was really you, his beloved y/n. He had so many questions hanging on the back of his head, but he didn't dare to utter any of them. He didn't want to let you go and waste whatever miracle it was that brought you here.

All the muscles in each of your bodies molded into one. You and Crowley were in sync like a melody that you both practiced over and over again. Your hands made its way on the back of his neck tangling your fingers on his wet ginger locks, Crowley's hands gripped you tight yet at the same time gently trying not to break you under his touch. The intensity of yearning and all the other emotions that comes with it all swirled into one.

Out of breath you both parted staring at eachothers eyes. "I love you too." You softly spoke your truth.

Maybe whatever was up there was really listening. Either way Crowley held on you to the very last second of your borrowed time.

"We'll be together again someday." You reassured him while you smiled. Crowley just studied your face and for the first time in a while genuinely smiled and was happy. And it was enough as goodbye for the both of you... for now.

Help, I lost myself again

But I remember you

Kinda long A/N: honestly idk what to feel about this if its good or not in my 19 years of existence i always wrote fanfics imagines and stuffs but usually i usually put it up then delete it later because i dont have any confidence of my work but im trying again. this is my first time posting in tumblr though.i hope this is good, like it gave you feels because it did when i wrote it. please don't kill me that i made crowley straight oof 🥺 sorry for any mistakes again! thank you for taking time on reading this and if you reblog and press the heart thingy thank you so much i will love you forever 💕

#crowley x reader #crowley #anthony j crowley #good omens #david tennant #aziraphale #crowley imagine

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rixxy8173571m3w1p3 · 4 years

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The Truths Found On Petram Viridios IV (4/?)

A/N: Not only is this a long chapter, but I found a way to incorporate a prompt given to me by @hoodoo12 almost two years ago I think. Also, @twenties-sweetheart I incorporated what led the reader and Zeta-7 dating. This fic is almost done. I think there's only one or two chapters left. Hope you guys enjoy!

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

_________

Chapter 4 : Your Answer

You remembered when you didn't love him; a time when you had hoped he'd be a father figure and a friend who you could play card games with on Tuesdays. You used to not know him; though once you did there was no turning back. You used to not need him, but you didn't know how you couldn't. It used to be a simple crush, but he already loved you from the start.

Perhaps, you had always known, but you didn't want to see it; you had wanted to know, but your brain at times didn't want to believe it. You thought words like his were meant for fairy princesses who lived in high towers above the heavens, for royals and the knights who attended to them; for anyone else….except you. It just didn't seem possible that this man could want you, but he did and explained for the last half hour as to why.

“That’s...that’s amazing!” you exclaimed despite yourself. “You really feel that way about me?”

He nodded, his face still flushed. “I do...I-I-I love you. Do you,” he gulped. “do y-you love me?”

Of course you did, you had said so a few times already, but he was going to need a better explanation; to be reminded continually. You screwed your mouth to the side, wondering how you could put it delicately. “Well…there's too much to say, and I know it would never be enough, but I can try. Oh, and if I start to wax poetic, then let's just say it's the writer in me trying to get out. Ricardo,” you paused, encouraging him to sit down because the poor man looked ready to shake out of his skin. “what I feel is beyond love; it's our souls dancing and singing in the night, moonlit kisses, and disappearing during daybreak. Why it's not even serendipitous, but a luxurious splendor you shower me in, day in and day out, with breaks which threaten to tear me into bits and madden me. It's an adventure," he perked up at this; it was familiar territory. "with discoveries and revelations that nip at my inward parts, and pains me with equal parts desperation, fear, and gladness." Caressing his lips with your fingertips, he sighed happily." You fill my mouth with bliss, working peace along the curve of my cheek, and color my world with mystical, intelligent sayings. Ineffable creature, your veracity; how you express yourself so honestly, I'm surprised the whole world hasn't fallen in love with you. Though, I'm glad you reserved yourself just for me.”

Placing a kiss behind his ear, he made a funny noise, but you continued. “To say I love you my dear Zeta-7 isn't enough, for you are as much of myself as I am of you. Like I've said before, I'll remind you as much as you need me to.”

“H-h-h-h-how do you know? When - when was it that y-y-you started to see me differently?”

The question really struck you as odd considering it wasn't in any of his usual tones; he had seemed so sure of himself earlier, and now self-doubt peaked it's little head out. It was solemn, in a faraway voice, followed by a frown, and the deepening of the lines in his forehead. You stood up, seeing as he seemed upset, and he took this opportunity to go and make some tea; it was one of his coping mechanisms. Soon the scent of lavender filled the house; he returned and set down the cups carefully so as not to spill it.

“Oh,” he frowned; a bit tired from the emotional rollercoaster he had been in for most of the day. “I'm s-s-so sorry. If only I-I kept things simple, then it wouldn't have gotten so complicated.”

“It's okay,” you whispered. “we're both a little flustered. It….it really took a lot of courage to say what you had said earlier. So you shouldn't apologize for being human.”

“But I'm - I'm still so sorry.”

You moved your chair as close as you could, stretching out to work your fingers through his soft hair, and managed to find the beginnings of silver strands, but you said nothing of it. “You should have seen how you looked when you told me you loved me. You were so earnest and charming."

He reached out to take your hand and place it upon his heart. It was beating wildly, almost dangerously you thought. You waited until he calmed a little, and when the heavy blush and the redness of his ears softened, you knew that it was time. He really was too much, too good for you, too lovely, and you sincerely hoped you wouldn't offend him. “I hope you're ready, cause this really is going to be a long story. I think by telling it, it'll make my answer to your proposal more believable.”

________________

For years, you two had lived in the same town, in the same neighborhood, only houses away from each other. It was funny how you two hadn't met before, though Rick would later tell you it was because of his job. At the time, you would say you were old enough to know what heartbreak felt like, as well as what warmth and kindness should be; though you hadn't been in any sort of serious relationship. Like any woman your age, you had dreams of meeting someone, but for the most part, your love life wasn't first and foremost on your mind; you were busy trying to get through everyday.

So when you met Zeta-7, it never occurred to you how much he would someday come to mean to you; let alone how much your life would change. Now, it had taken a while, a little longer then you'd care to admit. It certainly wasn't love at first sight, for under the set of circumstances in which you two had met, Rick had come off as a friendly old man. But of course, after helping you carry groceries, a cup of tea, and a ukulele song, you warmed to him and became fast friends.

At first, you were hesitant in allowing him into your home; you'd seen enough Dateline to make you cautious. So, you two would meet on your porch on a regular basis, though it was not long before you felt safe enough to let him come over and repair small appliances; it was fascinating watching him tinker. And when he wasn't too busy, you'd go and see what he was doing in the garage. Perhaps you should have known then that he was different, but you had no point of comparison, and just went with it.

Sometimes, you two would just watch TV or have an occasional dinner at Shoney’s, or a late-night ice cream on your front porch. And you'd listen to his laughter; how his happy noises seemed to fill up the house. You were delighted by the nuances of his gentle voice, and at night, he'd tell about the stars, going into detailed explanations of constellations and about other heavenly bodies. It made you wonder what was out there, and it only fed your curiosity. You were comforted by his warm presence, thinking it was nice to have a father like figure around again, to fill up the time, and carry on long, meaningful conversations with. His eye for detail and selective word choice made most of your conversations laid back but stimulating.

Whether it was in your house, in his kitchen, or a quick cup of tea in the garage, he enjoyed sharing his homemade brews and you enjoyed drinking them. While at first glance he seemed simple, you took quick notice of his genteel manners, in the way he talked, in his general presence which you found was pleasing. It did not take long to notice that he was a learned man, with various degrees which hung in the left corner of his living room; he was actually a doctor in several meanings of the word. Perhaps in all meanings of the word.

Watching him mutter to himself, blissful, carefully piecing together a device that did who-knows-what filled him with joy. And you had always assumed that anyone above thirty-five - at least from what sense and sensibility told you - could not have any passion left, but you saw it every time he showed you a new invention; you saw him as he should be. As though he were this character who stepped off a page, you found yourself growing ever so curious about his thoughts, feelings, and machinations of his wonderful mind. You wanted to get close, to know him better, and he took this positively as you wanting to be best friends. And when he held you in his arms for the first time, you knew that he had ruined men for you. He wasn't supposed to feel so strong, and his arms weren't supposed to be sure, and hold you warmly, and most of all, there wasn't supposed to be a flutter.

Now having it formed in your mind that he was indeed a man, you could not smother your curiosity, though still, you tried to conceal it. It felt good to feel cared for again, and you didn't want to threaten it. Still, the affection you held for him was not the kind one felt for a parent. And your hopes and dreams were shattered, with this sudden, intense awareness of him, conscious of every breath he took, of his mobile features, recognized every nuance in his reflections.

All those times when you'd watch him dance in the kitchen, swaying about, more spritely than others your own age, you'd laugh, and he’d ask you to join him. And when your hands touched, it was like a current passed through you, and that giddiness would last all day. Those hands, which could create worlds, whisk a cream, or trace pictures in the sand, you could hold them in yours for eternity. Even longer, if what he spoke of at times was true.

If he had weeks where work kept him busy, he would call you, and you'd drop what you were doing to listen; he was always so excited to hear your voice; it lightened up your day. Or when he finally saw you after a few days, he'd greet you with a warm hug, and you'd return with equal enthusiasm. At times, you felt as though neither wanted to let go and held on to each other longer than what was platonically acceptable, but you'd pretend as though nothing happened, even if your heart was screaming. Why you'd almost lose yourself in his grasp.

As a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, you never felt as though there were any hidden agendas, or that he had a pervy attraction to you. On the contrary, you felt like the pervert for feeling all giddy and excited whenever he spoke with enthusiastic intelligence or showed you his experiments. There were times when you'd reach out and pat him on the back, telling him he had done such a good job, and he'd gift you with his winning smile, which caused unusual thoughts to cross your mind, and it messed you up. What was he to you?

Whether you were at home, or you sat in his home for a tea party, you knew something was the matter with you. You were a mess of feelings, of messy, happy, effervescent feelings, which you expressed in your work, in your writing. Harmless thoughts, which lingered and filled the contents of a novel. It was the story of a young woman who had fallen in love with her older, mute neighbor. In your head, you reasoned that your character was nothing like him, that the older man, as brilliant as he was in mathematics, science, and botany, who expressed himself through his actions, and kindness was made up. Perhaps your readers thought the same, but the modest ebook sales only reinforced that maybe there was something to it.

Missed glances, brief moments where you touched, awkward laughs, and a heart heavy feeling sitting on your chest; he was always on your mind. In between your issues, when you were doubtful, he'd reassure you of your capabilities, and when he felt lacking, you'd remind him of his genius. And while there were many moments which had been lovable, which were dear to you, you replayed the times that were nearest to your ideals; of what fits into your daydreams. You're not sure when, but it had been you who started to flirt regularly, and watch him blush, stammer, and get flustered; it gave you an odd thrill knowing it had been you who had caused him to feel as such, but then it would trouble you all the more. It wasn't fair to him, and you weren't helping your cause.

What were you doing, trying to toy with the feelings of an old, lonely man, who had little in the world, but your friendship and a few possessions; it filled your heart with grief. You didn't want to hurt him, you just wanted him to think you were beautiful, smart, funny, and well everything you'd want your crush to feel. If you were unhappy, he'd cheer you up with gifts, desserts, and his generous affection. For the most part, you knew his intentions were honorable, but in your head, you'd hope differently.

It could not work, he was so much older than yourself; not that you cared. For all you knew you were like the daughter he never had. In your heart, you tried to resolve that all you felt was friendship, but then he'd smile, laugh, or be kind to you and you were falling apart. You weren't a kitten, you had always liked men your own age, but you didn't just like him, you were intoxicated by him.

He wasn't even handsome. Well…at first, you didn't think so. You did however find him strangely adorable, and lovely. He was tall and slender, so he wore clothes well. Very gentle and nice, clean-shaven, with abundant blue hair, with the exception of the few strands which choose to be rebellious, prominent buck teeth which gave him a childish innocence, but straightforward, electric blue eyes which reminded you otherwise.

Your eyes would follow him as he moved about the room. Rick had long lashes for a man and was just as impressive overall, and intelligence was even more so. Could anything possibly stop him? Death perhaps, though Zeta-7 didn't care to admit how age played a big role in his energy levels at times, but you knew it was to be expected. You knew what you were getting yourself into when it came to dating someone so much older than yourself; if he'd consider it that is. For hours, he somehow kept up with your foolishness, and you barely managed to follow his genius.

You'd follow if he asked you to come, and in time you knew you were his. You felt loyalty to him, the kind which you knew you'd never revoke. You thought at first that it was his personable nature which had endeared you to him, but it was everything. He was everything.

Zeta-7 had always been affectionate, but not in the way which made you worry. You craved it, his attention, his affection, and wished to be closer than woven gossamer, and took everything he was willing to give you. You were not in love, you would tell yourself, it was merely infatuation. He was simply a cheerful grandpa kind of man, whose arms you would melt in, whose gentle, and generous affection you were greedy for. You were selfish, that was simply it.

Then came the defining moment, which happened one night while you two were cooking together. You needed a few cloves of garlic to chop for the eggplant lasagna, and he just kept handing you cloves. You told him you had enough, and he smiled warmly, telling you there could never be enough garlic and you stopped. You two stared at each other for what seemed like hours even though only seconds passed. It was as though you had come to an understanding.

His winning smile had been the most beautiful thing you had ever seen, his eyes captured you, and you knew for a fact that what you felt was something greater than friendship. The rest of the evening you found yourself in a daze, and hesitant to be near him. In your heart, your feelings felt as though it were almost forbidden, as though you shouldn't feel this way for someone who was a great friend. You blamed these feelings on your own impatience, inexperienced like the man before you. Yeah, you wanted his attention, and he had been attentive. Everyday he made sure your emotional needs were met, he'd probably do just about anything if you asked him to, but you were scared, perhaps just as afraid as he was. Still, the words themselves were an enigma, they burned, they toiled, begging to be said, but you were afraid. Yet, you searched his face, and found the answer; you were falling in love with him.

His sing-song voice twisting and curling about you. You wouldn't risk it you told yourself, but before you went to bed that night he called you and apologized if he had offended you. “No”, you had said, “I'm just not feeling well, but I'll be fine. I promise, I'm going to be okay, so you don't have to worry about me.”

“I-I-I can't help it, I care about you.” was his sincere reply.

Those dizzying warm feelings of affection bubbled and boiled, and you did your best to try to repress them. As usual, he wanted to help you feel better, but you were afraid it would ruin things; you'd rather hurt yourself, then hurt him, and never see him again. For the next week, you thought long and hard, and the next time you two met, you were sitting in his home for afternoon tea, and you told him of how you felt right out of the blue. “Rick, I like you.”

Being the dear man he was, he thought you were talking in platonic terms. “Gosh, really? Well, that's why I'm - why I'm glad we're best friends.”

“No,” you sighed. “that's not what I meant.” You watched as his smile turned to fear, but you continued. “I know you're much older then I am, and you probably see me as some kid, but I'm a grown woman, with adult feelings. And for a while, I thought it was nothing, but I can't ignore it anymore. I care about you as my friend and I understand if you don't want that to change, but I see you as a man, and I hope you realize that I like you so much. There's nothing you can say which will change it because I don't want to change these feelings of mine. I'm not saying this to make fun of you, or because I'm lonely, but to let you know that I like you and that I'm not ashamed.”

So what if you were a kitten, you cared about him, and you knew that if he were to let you down, he would be gentle about it. The sweet, kind man that he was, gently, and carefully placed a shaky hand upon yours and gave it a squeeze. And he cried, “Gosh, you - you don't know how relieved I am. I-I-I thought I was a pervert for-for feeling the way I had.”

“Wait, you….you like me too?”

He groaned, as though he were in pain, and studied you before he continued. “I-I-I don't understand, I'm - I'm so old and gross, and y-you are like a freshly bloomed rose. H-h-h-h-how…..w-w-why?”

You reassured him, taking his hand in yours, rubbing your face into his shaky palm. “Because I just do.”

When he calmed, he looked at you with such affection, and the soft look he gave you made your breath caught. He was in love with you. Even back then, his feelings had been greater, but you dared not believe it. How could you believe it?

Your kind, gentle friend had won you over with such kindness and attracted you with a tender heart. When did you know? In moments when you saw him, not the old man, but of the softness, the beauty of an intriguing mind, and of winsome determination to be happy and to help you be happy too. You held each other so tight, you felt as though you were bound together.

He held you with a strength you did not realize one his age even still had. This was a time before kisses, before great declarations. It was a time to feel, to learn, to hold one another in a soul-crushing embrace. His heartbeat was alarmingly fast, and there had been something almost boyish in the way he placed a tress of hair behind your ear. You were the first to admit your feelings, but he had been the first to ask. A nervous chuckle escaped him, and a little lip-bite followed. “I-I am quite fond of you, and seeing that we - that our feelings are mutual, would - will you…will y-y-you go steady with me?”

As archaic as the terms might have been, it was still charming, and being the kind of man he was, you knew he meant it, and that there was only one way to answer. “Yes, I'd love to.”

Of course, you would go out with him. And forever, that memory would be etched upon your soul.

________

With wide eyes, he remembered how ashamed he had felt. He sat up, ready to shield his face, but you held your arms open. Like back then, you held each other in a soul-crushing embrace. “Do you understand now, my dear, dear friend? There was no way it could have been anyone else. Like a tree planted by streams of water, I've flourished under your attentions. You see me…. you see what I am, as I am. We make each other happy, every day, all the time.”

You two were not wary strangers; passersbys in one another's narratives; not in this instance at least. Neither were you two butterflies emerging from cocoons; descendants of lovers found in a field of barley; discovering and reveling in springtime gusts and gales. No, you were not beautiful like alabaster apples on a ledge; nor figments of one's imagination. You were, however, on the cusp of change; this was the rest of it; the continuation of what had been attempted two years ago; it was nothing like how you thought it would be, but the expectancy of the moment was palpable nonetheless. For your part, you admired the lovely scarlet coloring which crept up his neck and tinged the top of his ears; how becoming it was as well as boyish. And if it weren't already obvious, you didn't need time to think of a reply, and with clear purpose, you answered. "And dear, well, we are still friends. We're best friends. The sweetest, dearest friends that anyone could ever have, except that we love one another. Oh, I do want to. I will marry you."

Oh, whatever future there might've been destined for him, you altered its course by your acceptance of his proposal. Unlike the nihilistic view where no one had a choice, and what had been written was set in stone and that nothing mattered, you decided would not be so. In partaking in this agreement, you had taken on the consequences of what might occur in connection with Rick's work life. You had also taken on the responsibility of what you'd have to do once Rick surpassed the ability to mechanize himself any further than he already had. Still, you could live with this new burden because you were no stranger to heartache and had to make the best of what you two had; love made you do it; unbidden joy was your reward.

Tbc

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the-end-of-art · 3 years

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Sewn into his jacket an incoherent note

How to Make Love, Write Poetry, & Believe in God by Nin Andrews

A few weeks ago, I was part of a Hamilton-Kirkland College alumnae poetry reading, and after the reading a woman asked a simple question: “How do you write a poem?” I didn’t have an answer so I suggested a few books by poets like John Hollander, Mary Oliver, and Billy Collins. The woman said she had read books like that, but they didn’t help. She wanted something else, like a genuine operating manual—a step by step explanation.

I, too, love instruction manuals, especially those manuals on how to perform magic: write a poem or know God or make love, if only love were something that could be made. Manuals offer such promise. Yes, you, too, can enter the bee-loud glade and the Promised Land and have an orgasm.

I love the idea that my mind could be programmed like a computer to spit out poems on demand—poems with just the right number of lines, syllables, metaphors, meanings, similes, images . . . And with no clichés, no matter how much I love those Tom, Dick and Harry’s with their lovely wives, as fresh as daisies. I can set them in any novel or town in America, and they will have sex twice a week, always before ten at night, never at the eleventh hour, and it will not take long,time being of the essence.

I love sex manuals, too: those books that suggest our bodies are like cars. If only we could learn to drive them properly, bliss would be a simple matter of inserting a key, mastering the steering wheel, signaling our next moves, knowing the difference between the brakes and the gas pedal, and of course, following the speed limit.

A depressive person by nature, I am also a fan of how-to books on God, faith, happiness, the soul, books that suggest a divine presence is always here. I just need to find it, or wake up to it, or turn off my doubting brain. That even now, my soul is like a bird in a cage. If I could sit still long enough and listen closely, it might rest on my open palm and sing me a song.

God, poetry, sex, they offer brief moments of bliss, glimpses of the ineffable, and occasional insights into that which does not translate easily into daily experience, or loses its magic when explained.

In college, I took classes in religion, philosophy and poetry, and I studied sex in my spare time—my first roommate and I staying up late, pondering the pages of The Joy of Sex. As a freshman, I auditioned my way into an advanced poetry writing class by composing the single decent poem I wrote in my college years. The poem, an ode to cottage cheese, came to me in a flash as a vision nestled on a crisp bed of iceberg lettuce. Does cottage cheese nestle? I don’t know, but the professor kept admiring that poem. He said all my other poems paled by comparison.

This was in the era of the sexual revolution,long before political correctness and the Me-Too movement. My roommate, obsessed with getting laid, said we women should have been given a compass to navigate the sexual landscape. She liked to complain that she’d had only one orgasm in her entire life, and she wanted another. “What if I am a one-orgasm wonder?” she worried. The subject of orgasms kept us awake, night after night.

In religion class, my professor told the famous story about Blaise Pascal who had a vision of God that was so profound, his life seemed dull and meaningless forever afterwards. He never had another vision. But he had sewn into his jacket an incoherent note to remind him of the singular luminous experience.

The next day in religion class, a student stood up and announced that the professor was wrong—about Pascal, God, everything. The student knew this because he was God’s friend. He even knew His first name, and what God was thinking. The professor smiled sadly, put his arm around the student, and led him out of the classroom, down the steps and into the counselor’s office. When the professor returned, he warned us that if we ever thought we knew God, we should check ourselves into a mental institution. Lots of insane people know God intimately.

But, I wondered, what would God (or the transcendent—or whatever word you might choose for it: the muse, love, the orgasm, the soul, the higher self) think of us? For example, what would a muse think of a writer trying, begging, praying to enter the creative flow? All writers know it—that moment when inspiration happens. The incredible high. And the opposite, when words cling to the wall of the mind like sticky notes but never make it onto your tongue or the page.

What would an orgasm think of all the people seeking it so fervently yet considering it dirty, embarrassing, unmentionable? And then lying about it. “Did you have one?” a man might ask. “Yes,” his lover nods. But every orgasm knows it cannot be had. Or possessed. Or sewn into the lining of a coat. No one “has” an orgasm. At least not for long.

What did God think of Martin Luther, calling out to him in terror when a lightning bolt struck near his horse, “Help! I’ll become a monk!” And later, when he sought relief from his chronic constipation and gave birth to the Protestant Reformation on the lavatory—a lavatory you can visit today in Wittenberg, Germany.

I don’t want to evaluate Luther’s source of inspiration. But I do want to ponder the question: How do you write a poem? Is there a way to begin?

I think John Ashbery gave away one secret in his poem, “The Instruction Manual:” that it begins with daydreaming. Imagination. And the revelation that the mind contains its own magical city, its own Guadalajara, complete with a public square and bands and parading couples that you can visit this enchanted town for a limited time before you must turn your gaze back to the humdrum world.

But a student of Ashbery’s might cringe at the suggestion that poetry is merely an act of the imagination. In order to master the dance, one must know the steps. And Ashbery was a master. So many of his poems follow a kind of Hegelian progression, traveling from the concrete to the abstract to the absolute. Or what Fichte described as a dialectical movement from thesis to antithesis to synthesis. Fichte also wrote that consciousness itself has no basis in reality. I wonder if Ashbery would have agreed.

In college I wrote an inane paper, comparing Ashbery’s poetry to a form of philosophical gardening in which the poet arranges the concrete, meaning the plants or words, in such an appealing order that they create the abstract, or the beauty, desired. Thus, the reader experiences the absolute, or a sense of wonder at the creation as the whole thing sways in the wind of her mind.

Is there a basis in reality for wonder? Or poetry? I asked. Or are we only admiring illusions, the beautiful illusions the poet has created? How I loved questions like that. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of Fichte and Hegel and Ashbery and write mystical and incomprehensible books. I complained to my mother that no matter how hard I tried, I could not compose an actual poem or philosophical treatise—I was trying to write treatises, too. “That’s good,” she said. “Poets and philosophers are too much in their heads, and not enough in the world.”

I didn’t argue with her and tell her that not all poets are like Emily Dickinson. Or say that Socrates was put to death for being too much in the world, for angering the public with his Socratic method of challenging social mores, and earning himself the title, “the gadfly of Athens.”

Instead, I thought, That’s it! If I want to be a poet, I just need to separate my head from the world. Or at least turn off the noise of the world. And seek solitude, as Wordsworth suggested, in order to recollect in tranquility. I imagined myself going on a retreat or living in a cave, studying the shadows on the wall. Letting them speak to me or seduce me or dance with me.

The shadows, I discovered, are not nice guests. Sometimes they kept me awake all night, talking loudly, making rude comments, using all the words I never said aloud. “Hush,” I told them. “No one wants to hear that.” Sometimes they took on the voices of the dead and complained I hadn’t told their stories yet or right. Sometimes they sulked and bossed me about like a maid, asking for a cup of tea, a biscuit, a little brandy, a nap. One nap was never enough. When I obeyed and closed my eyes, they recited the poems I wanted to write down. “You can’t open your eyes until we’re done,” they said, as if poetry were a game of memory, or hide and seek in the mind. Other times they wandered away and down the dirt road of my past, or lay down in the orchard and counted the peaches overhead. Whatever they did or said, I watched and listened.

That’s how I began writing my first real poems. I knew not to disobey the shadows. I knew not toturn my back on them and look towards the light as Plato suggested—Plato who wanted to banish the poets and poetry from his Republic.I knew to not answer the door if the man from Porlock came knocking.

To this day I am grateful for the darkness. For the shadows it creates in my mind. It is thanks to them I have written another book, The Last Orgasm, a book whose title might make people cringe. But isn’t that what shadows do? And much of poetry, too? Dwell on topics we are afraid to look at in the light?

(https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2020/09/how-to-make-love-write-poetry-believe-in-god-by-nin-andrews.html)

Five prose poems by Nin Andrews (formatting better at http://newflashfiction.com/5-prose-poems-by-nin-andrews/)

Duplicity

after Henri Michaux “Simplicity”

When I was just a young thing, my life was as simple as a sunrise. And as predictable. Day after day I went about doing exactly as I pleased. If I saw a lovely man or women, or beauty in any of its shapes and forms and flavors, well, I simply had to have it. So I did. Just like that. Boom! I didn’t even need a room.

Slowly, I matured. I learned a bit of etiquette. Manners, I discovered can have promising side effects. I even began carrying a bottle of champagne wherever I went, and a bed. Not that the beds lasted long. I wasn’t the kind to go easy on the alcohol or the furnishings, nor was I interested in sleep. It never ceased to amaze me how quickly men drift off. Women, many of them, kept me going night after night. You know how inspiring women are.

But then, alas, I grew tired of them as well. I began to envy those folks who curl up into balls each night, their bodies as heavy as tombstones. I tried curling up with them, slowing my breath, entering into their dreams. What dreams! To think I had been missing out all along! That’s when I became a Zen master, at one with the night. Now I teach classes on peace, love, abstinence. At last I have found bliss, I tell my followers. The young, they don’t believe it. But really, I ask you. Would I lie?

The Broken Promise

after Heberto Padilla, “The Promise”

There was a time when I promised to write you a thousand love poems. When I said every day is a poem, and every poem is in love with you. But then the poems rebelled. They became a junta of angry women, impossible to calm or translate, each more vivid, sultry, seductive than the next. Some stayed inside and sulked for weeks, demanding chocolates, separate rooms, maid service. Others wanted to be carted around like queens. Still others took lovers and kept the neighbors up, moaning at all hours of the day and night. One skinny girl (remember her? the one with flame-colored hair?) moved away. She went back to that shack down the road where we first met. At night she lay down in the orchard behind the house and let the dark crawl over her arms and legs. In the end even her dreams turned to ash and blew away in a sudden gust of wind.

Little Big Man

after Russell Edson “Sleep”

There was once an orgasm that could not stop shrinking. Little big man, his friend called him, watching as he grew smaller and smaller with each passing night, first before making love, then before even the mention of making love, then before even the mention of the mention of making love. Oh, what a pathetic little thing he was.

One night he tried reading, Think and Grow Big, but it only caused him to shrink further inside himself. Oh, to grow large and tall as I once was, he sighed. What he needed, he knew, was a trainer with a whip and chains. Someone to teach him to jump through hoops and swing from a trapeze and swallow fire until he blazed ever higher into the night. Yes, he shuddered. Yes! as he imagined it. A tiny wisp of smoke escaped his lips.

Questions to Determine if You Are Washed Up

after Charles Baudelaire, “Get Drunk!”

Do you feel washed up lost, all alone? Do you fear that time is passing you by like a train for which you have no ticket, no seat? That you have lived too long in the solitude of your room and empty mind, that now you are but a slave of sorrow? Or is it regret? Do you no longer taste the wine of life on your lips, tongue, throat? Is there not even even a chance of intoxication? Bliss? No poetry or song above or below the hips? No love in the wind, the waves, in every or any fleeting and floating thing? No castles in your air? No pearls in your oysters? Are you wearing a pair of drawstring pants?

Remembering Her

after Herberto Padilla

This is the house where she first met you. This is the room where she first said your name as if it were a song. This is the table where she undressed you, stripping away your petals, leaves, your filmy white roots and sorrows. And there on the floor is the stone you picked up each morning, the stone you clung to night after night. Sometimes she kicked it aside. Sometimes she placed in on the sill and blew it out the window as her presence filled you like a glow, and you thought for an instant, I, too, can fly.

#Nin Andrews #poem #poet #poetry

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xueyangapologist · 5 years

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oh here’s the Good Omens fic rec i conned two people into asking me for so i could feel like the absurd amount of fic reading i do is useful somehow. sectioned off by how i think about them in mine own brain.

there’s a section for fics written pre-show but i haven’t separated all of them. i’ve also included warnings where i thought it was necessary but mostly i’m trusting that everyone knows how to check ratings and tags.

section: favourites

A Backwards Proposal

But then, suddenly, the sun would shine on the angel’s hair, or a certain smell would remind Crowley of this or that sunset in Rome with a flagon of wine, or maybe they would just look each other in the eye, and Crowley’s chest would constrict, and he would wish he could die young like a tragic romantic poet or a young woman who had happened to be caught in a rainstorm once, and whose delicate condition just wouldn’t let her live.

After

After all that, after the apocalypse that wasn’t, after everything, could Crowley stutter through saying anything other than best friend? What was the point, when Aziraphale would never respond in kind?

The Temptation of Aziraphale, or How to Lose a Flaming Sword Without Really Trying

He was Here. The Source of his Agony. And surely something was really dotty in his head because he was starting to think in all capitals.

Different (and its sequels)

“Do you like me?” he wanted to ask. “No, I know you don’t like me, at least, I don’t think you do, except that maybe— But everybody likes me, why don’t you like me? What should I do differently? D’you ever feel, Aziraphale, like you’re one of the only guys around that really gets what this whole love thing is about? Everybody talks about it so bluntly, but surely there’s feeling in it, right? You have feelings, like I do? My feelings, do they sound real to you? Because I don’t know if they are.”

crowley/aziraphale is happening, just in the background at first, don’t worry. i need someone else to read this with me so desperately

the rest is under a read more because it got Too Bloody Long

section: toothrot

An Artless Proposal

“Every dame appreciates a ring.”

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

"Oh yeah," said Crowley quickly. "Loads. All the time."

some new beginning

The back rooms and the first-floor bedroom were cluttered with vases, and the green bastards seemed to like it better here than they had at Crowley’s flat. He didn’t count a single wilted leaf between the lot of them. Traitors.

section: halfway between the above and below sections, or: big dumb demon has praise kink make me cry

The One in Which Crowley Discovers Wanking

“Oh! They’re still doing the rumpty-tumpty wrong!”

section: are we still calling it pwp?

Really Weird Things

Blow jobs were often the easiest way to fulfill his Lust quota and had the effect of causing huge political scandals when Crowley got caught hard at work, which, considering that the results were very funny, was quite often.

based on a quote from the book, which makes this one terry and neil’s fault

section: sort of has a plot

An Invitation To Ruin

"That's fucking weird, that is," Crowley muttered, then cleared his throat and repeated in a more angelic voice, "My goodness, this is ever so odd."

technically a sequel to I Got You To Help Me Forgive, which is good, but i like this one slightly better

you smiled (and it broke my heart)

It was quite some time later, after Crowley realised he was somewhere along the A82 in Scotland and still not feeling any better, that he decided he did not want to clear his head of Aziraphale anyway.

section: actually has a plot

Mirror, Mirror

The angel of the Western Gate’s wings rustled behind her as she turned her gaze from the sunset on the still-clear horizon to the serpent behind her.

canon universe collides with a universe where crawly talked to the wrong angel. only explaining that because I thought at first it would be set entirely in the alternate universe, and that made me so sad I nearly didn’t read it.

section: in the beginning there were only 12 good fics in this fandom and i’ve read all of them

Heaven Has No Taste

"It is not given to us to know the Ineffable Plan," the Metatron sing-songed.

please note that a homophobic slur is used in this one and it kinda comes out of nowhere

Strange Flesh and All That

“I always imagined that kind of talk would get you sort all manner of flustered.”

Aziraphale smirks. “Doesn’t sound like there’s much to get flustered over.”

TwoFish

It wasn't so much a kiss. It was lips finding their proper places.

also has a homophobic slur! what is it with these early fics! very very sweet fic though

Will You Do The Fandango

“I’ll thank you kindly to get out,” Aziraphale said, and he’d changed into his smiting clothes and all.

section: it’s about the YEARNING

and, so on

“Are you content?” Aziraphale asks.

“No,” Crowley says immediately. “I never will be.”

Things That Will Never Happen

"No. I mean I want to bring you back to my flat. I have a king-sized bed. Egyptian cotton sheets. I want to pull you under the covers and hold you as tight as demonically possible. I want to fall asleep in your arms."

considered making a section just for this one titled “MORON4MORON”

section: yeah we gay keep scrolling

You Bloody Snake

Hastur dug his fingers deep in Ligur’s ashes and thought, I promise.

Best Not To Mention It

As Ligur recalled, Crowley went in for time-wasting annoyances on a large scale. Or at least that's how Hastur had explained it.

section: i just think they (lesbians) are neat!

help me to say

In 456BC Crowley patted Aziraphale on the hand after a long airborne fight over Crete and Aziraphale still lay awake some nights wondering what it all meant.

parable of shepherds

‘But the apple just keeps being there,’ Aziraphale mutters contemplatively. ‘Doesn’t it.’

radiation?!

“A what?” Anathema asked suspiciously.

“A killer queen,” the demon said with a perfectly straight face. “Gunpowder, gelatin. Dynamite with a laser beam.”

your apple-eating heathen

“Try doing me the service of thinking with your brain, instead of whatever claptrap people are saying about me this century.”

section: a tiny bit meta

What Would God Say

“It’s like the way it is when you stare out into the ocean,” Aziraphale said. “When you’re a little drunk, you know, and you suddenly feel very…tiny?”

we follow our own steps (while our shadows keep watching us)

Anathema may have been more than a little bit psychic but she was only human, really. She’d already settled comfortably into middle age, and soon she’d slip into old age and one day she would die, and Crowley would have to remember what she’d done about advice before befriending her. Most of the time, that was okay.

i put this here but it also has lesbians!!!! neat!!!!!

#fic rec #good omens #please at least hit like on this i hate how much work i did on it dfkjsfkjdskjf

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tiredandineffable · 5 years

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The (Rule Breaking) Kiss

Still behind on fictober (this is entry #6), but I am hoping to catch up after my exam this Thursday. Wish me luck! Also, with regards to texting styles, I am somehow both Crowley and Aziraphale in this.

This is a continuation of the past two entries (part 1 and part 2). As of right now, I’m planning for this thing to have a total of 5 parts.

Thank you to my amazing beta, @eunyisadoran!

Rated G

Summary for the whole work: Aziraphale just wanted to get her parents off her back about her love life. She did not plan on falling in love with her best friend and fake girlfriend along the way. Nor did she plan on getting fake engaged. But such is life, she supposes. Ineffable wives, fake dating au that Escalates to fake engagement au. All around, a good time to be had.

...................................

Aziraphale sits in the kitchen, ignorant to the happenings of world and her breakfast in favour of reading through the same page over and over, hoping to spot something new. Her dissertation is nearly in flames and all she can do is hope that there’s something, anything she might have missed. Is this a metaphor? Is it an autobiographical tidbit? What does Wilde want of me? Long fingers brush along her cheek and she just barely begins to process her surroundings when she feels a soft kiss against her forehead.

“Going out for the day?” Aziraphale has no idea how to handle these endearments so early in the morning. Does my voice sound as tight as it feels? Am I blushing? Can Crowley tell how much these dumb little acts of not-love affect me?

“Got a grocery list to run through, stockpile our fridge before the real holiday celebrations kick up and your mom gets mad at me for skipping chores,” Crowley says, throwing a tea bag into a travel mug of water and shoving it into the microwave before leaning in for a kiss.

It should have been sweet and short like the multitude of other kisses they’d shared just that week. They had done this for three years because that’s what respectable suburban couples did when attempting to remind everyone that they were together. But Aziraphale’s hand comes up to her cheek and Crowley presses a tinge more firmly and before either of them can really process what’s happening, it’s a kiss. Crowley’s lips part and Aziraphale’s hand tangles into those unfairly perfect curls to pull her in closer. It’s easy to ignore the world, to ignore the fact that her mom is literally one door away in the living room, to ignore the fact that none of this is real. This isn’t a kiss anymore, it’s bordering on a make out session. A make out session they cannot, should not be having because this relationship isn’t real.

Shit.

Her hand detangles itself from Crowley’s hair to push her slightly back, to keep her at arm’s length. The way Crowley looks now is utterly unfair, like a muse made up of mussed curls, slightly parted lips, and utter confusion. But then something clicks in Crowley. She grabs the long forgotten, likely oversteeped tea and turns on her heel.

“Gotta get those groceries!”

……………….

Crowley is an idiot. She is an absolute idiot and she is acutely aware of it as she sits in her car, noticeably not shopping for groceries. The groceries were not a lie so much as they were a volunteer excursion used to get out of the house. She could pick up the things Aziraphale’s mother wanted, Aziraphale’s breakfast ingredients, and late snacks to cover the last of their grading. Most importantly, she could take some time to herself to examine what the hell she is actually doing.

Good question. What the hell happened back there?

It's all over, she’s sure of it. There’s no chance in hell Aziraphale will let this keep going after Crowley so obviously overstepped a boundary. They had rules around these things, around what they were willing to do. These rules were in place for a reason, protecting their friendship from the inevitable weirdness of pretending to date. Crowley had even contributed to a good chunk of them herself.

“Fuck,” she groans, letting her head fall to the steering wheel. She had one job. All she had to do was be relatively normal. She had to ride out this weird wave of pretending to date someone she loves and then maybe get to a point where she could tell Aziraphale the truth. If there was any chance whatsoever with Aziraphale, it’s definitely gone now. She’s pissed probably. That wasn’t overstepping a boundary, that was literally somersaulting over the fucking line like no problem. She runs a hand through her hair in frustration and just tries not to cry. Seems she’s been doing that a lot lately.

A short blip of the X-Files theme song interrupts her self-pity 80’s playlist, signalling the arrival of a much feared text from Aziraphale. She takes a breath, closes her eyes. She’ll deal with it. Whatever is in that text, she can handle it. Most definitely. Absolutely. She is a grad student, for fucks sake. She had done one of her best conference presentations while hungover, hungry, and jet lagged. She has handled flaky supervisors and demanding undergrads. She can handle one basic text from her best friend.

From: <3 Aziraphale <3

“Crowley, can we talk?”

Sent at: 11:45 AM

Nope. Crowley cannot handle this text. She can handle lots of things, including grad school, but she cannot handle this text. This is it. Oh fuck this is it. Aziraphale is going to kick her out of her life and Crowley is going to have to finish this dissertation and grade terrible undergrad papers alone.

To: <3 Aziraphale <3

“yh sure man. gonna be home in 30”

Sent at: 11:45 AM

No more post-grading drunk movies. No more making crepes just because Aziraphale likes them. No more thoughtful notes from Aziraphale tucked in between the pages of Crowley’s books. No more Aziraphale talking her out of pre-presentation, conference-induced panic attacks. No more ordering ice cream through delivery services when either of them gets a publication rejected.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She grabs the list from the dashboard and all but slams the car door, ready for the fastest supermarket shop of her life.

……………….

“So, this morning…” Aziraphale doesn’t know how to phrase this. So this morning I kissed you and got so lost in it that I let myself go too far and now I’m just desperate to keep one of the best relationships I’ve ever had the privilege to have. Please don’t hate me.

“I apologize for this morning,” she says. “When we kissed.”

“Don’t need to apologize.” Crowley sets blueberries into the fridge, pancake mix into the pantry. “And yeah, I’m aware of what happened. Your point?”

Crowley is trying and failing to act normally. Aziraphale has known her long enough to know the meaning of too-high shoulders and tight-lipped smiles. She picks up on the way Crowley’s hands shake just slightly as she puts the milk in the fridge. When Crowley stands again to look at her, there’s the trademark anxiety stance: hands in her pockets and hips hyperextending. To the untrained eye, she is as aloof and nonchalant as always. But to Aziraphale, one of the only people to have seen Crowley break down in all of her 25 years of life, she’s not handling this well.

Of course she’s not. You’ve overstepped a huge boundary and she is more than permitted to respond in any way. Any consequences are a direct result of your own actions.

Now say something. Just go. Like ripping off a bandaid.

“I hope this won’t come to affect our relationship permanently.”

Because I don’t know what I’d do if it did.

Crowley goes back to putting away groceries but Aziraphale swears that she sees her sort-of-partner’s shoulders relax. Aziraphale sips on what is now her third mug of camomile tea since that morning.

“I’m good with forgetting it ever happened, if you are,” Crowley finally responds.

Thank you to whatever supernatural power is out there.

“Thank you, I would appreciate that.”

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turniptitaness · 4 years

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Ineffable Advent Day 10: Who Can Say?

Oof, I wrote this one for @drawlight 's challenge suuuper late last night, and it shows!

Crowley had been fidgetting for the past fifteen minutes, and it was beginning to set Aziraphale's teeth on edge. "Is something wrong, Crowley?" he asked finally.

The demon sighed. "Just feeling restless, that's all. Think I might go for a walk."

"A walk?" Aziraphale took off his spectacles and looked at Crowley in surprise. "But it's nighttime."

"So?" Crowley stood up and stretched. "There's a moon out. Want to come along?"

"Well, I..." Aziraphale clasped his hands and glanced about the room, debating with himself.

"Ah, come on," Crowley urged him. "Live a little, angel."

Aziraphale rose to the challenge. "All right, then. Why not?"

"That's the spirit." Crowley grinned, and the two of them went and pulled on the boots and puffy jackets Aziraphale had bought for them both as soon as the weather had gotten nippy. Normally, Crowley wouldn't dream of donning an outfit such as this, but tonight, with no one else likely to be out and about, he decided to humor his friend. Besides, he had to admit that the coat was comfortable.

Outside, the full moon reflected off the snow, casting a bright light over the landscape and washing everything of color. It shone off Aziraphale's hair, turning it to pale silver as he looked around, breathing in deep lungfuls of the sharp air and exhaling clouds of white steam which stood out against the dark sky.

Crowley watched, his golden eyes glittering and unguarded, as the angel's face filled with delight.

"How lovely," Aziraphale whispered. "How perfectly lovely this is."

"Glad you decided to come?" Crowley smiled at him.

Aziraphale smiled back. "Very glad."

They wandered down the lane together in silence, both of them lost in their separate thoughts. After a while, Aziraphale frowned and said hesitantly, "Crowley, do you ever... well, do you ever think about the day we met? The day that... that the two humans were banished from Eden?"

Crowley glanced over at him. "Occasionally, why?"

Aziraphale sighed. "I've found myself thinking about it quite a lot, lately."

"What do you mean?" Crowley's forehead wrinkled.

"The whole flaming sword affair." Aziraphale laughed sheepishly. "I'm not sure why I'm talking about it now. It must be something about the moonlight."

"Still wondering if you did the right thing?" Crowley asked him.

"Wondering what the world might have been like if I hadn't given it away," Aziraphale clarified. "If I hadn't given humankind a weapon."

"Yeah, well, things might have been different, all right," Crowley said. "We might have been out of our jobs, just for a start. The humans were attacked by a lion almost as soon as they set foot in the desert, if you'll remember."

"Well, yes, there is that," Aziraphale admitted. "But should I simply have talen better miraculous care of them, rather than making them fend for themselves?"

"There were other gates, other guardians," Crowley reminded him. "You did more for the humans than any of the rest did."

"But was it the right thing?" Aziraphale persisted.

"As for that," Crowley said, "as for doing the right thing, that all depends on who you ask, doesn't it? Your boss would have said absolutely not, you should have left them alone. Which is enough of a reason to have gone ahead and done it, if you ask me. And, by the way, if you had asked me, at the time, I mean, I would have told you to give them the sword, by all means. And you can draw your own conclusions from there. I wouldn't worry about it, angel. They'd have found some other way of messing things up, anyway. Humans are good at that. In the end, there's only one person who can say whether anything we do is right or wrong." Crowley stopped and turned toward Aziraphale, his face shadowed. "And that's God. And they're... like you always say, they're ineffable. We can't know what they're aiming for, not really."

Crowley hesitated, wishing there was more he could say, wanting to hold Aziraphale and comfort him. But there was still a part of him that worried, a part of him that was shy about initiating affection. A bit of Hell that still hung on.

Fortunately, Aziraphale interpreted his hesitance correctly, and stepped forward into Crowley's embrace. "Thank you, my dear," he said softly, wrapping his arms around the demon's bony back. Then he laughed. "I expect we've both made quite a few bad decisions in the course of history, haven't we?"

"I expect so," Crowley said. "And I expect we'll go on making them in the future. Still, everything always seems to turn out all right."

He felt Aziraphale smile against his shoulder, and warmth poured into his heart. They had made bad decisions. Many of them. But this wasn't one of them. Never this. Crowley propped his chin on Aziraphale's silver-bright hair, his golden eyes gazing up into the stars he had made.

...

I was totally influenced by this song/video:

https://youtu.be/fd8s3Ve6_dI

youtube

#good omens holiday challenge #ineffable advent #ineffable husbands #fanfic #thea made a thing

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notallpotatoesarefrenchfries · 5 years

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FOURTEEN PEOPLE I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW BETTER

I got tagged by my amazing and wonderful and smart and im running out of things to say- @thuriweaver

name/alias - Taylor

birthday - June 18th

zodiac sign - Gemini

height - 6′

hobbies - loving my friends, drawing, reading, letting obsessions consume my soul, saying I’ll fight those who are mean to my friends, and puns

favorite colors - give me any form of blue, as well as black, gray, white, and purple ((see what I did there lol))

favorite books - FANFICTION ((thank you guys for your blessed content)), Secret for the Mad, Fault in Our Stars, and The Hobbit

last song i listened to - Defying Gravity

last film i watched - RV and Dead Poets Society ((currently watching Critical Role if that can count as a movie lol))

inspiration for muse - tea time discord, fanfiction, other peoples art, media i love

dream job - to be honest, i dont know if I have one. I find it hard to dream up a perfect job. I really want to help those who fall through the cracks in the public school system, and I also love doing art, but idk how to do both cause it feels impossible to help everyone in school with how overcrowded they can make classes. So I guess I’m really still trying to figure out life first.

meaning behind your url - This isn’t my first tumblr. I had one that was more superwholock ((wow what a time lol)). I decided that I had been managing my blog to be more for others than myself. So, I decided to make a new name for myself, and this was around the time not all men memes were popular. On the flip side, I have a friend who used to always call herself a potato. I always just knew her to be the perfect height to hug, but I would make potato jokes. So, I combined a favorite joke subject with a current meme. Plus its always a reminder of my friend which I think is fitting for me cause I love my friends.

top 3 ships - D: D: D: HOW TO CHOOSE?!?!?!? but rn its my friends and self love, ineffable husbands, Taakitz, and moxiety or prinxiety.

lipstick or chapstick - TBH I dont wear either of those ((cause Im horrible at self care)) but chapstick.

currently reading - I literally just have Good Omens ao3 tab open and I refresh it every so often and read through the fanfic that catches my eye. This is basically how I read fanfic whenever I get a new obsession. I also have The Aventure Zone’s second graphic novel and am reading that.

You are loved! Be kind to yourself!!!

Idk who to tag since a lot of people were already tagged but I will at least tag @samthekoalabear98 and @princelogical

#me #idk how to tag this #hi yes im a tol dork #i have so many fandoms

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cowardcouch · 5 years

Text

The Eccedentesiast’s Trouvaille

Genre: Fluff, angst

Characters: Baekhyunxoc

Inhaling the subtle fragrance of the flower , the boy closed his eyes in bliss . It was ineffable , the effect nature had on him . He remembers the countless hours he had spent among the lush greenery . It was like a horcrux for him ; a part of soul that he had given to nature . With glittering eyes , he observed the flower , its every nook and cranny . The beauty of the flower had enthralled him . Memorizing all the details , he took out his sketchbook .While measuring the flower from a distance with his left eye closed for a better view , his tongue stuck out a bit . The boy started working on his sketch . Not even forgetting any one detail , he drew all the curves and lines perfectly . Finally after a lots of erasing and drawing , he was satisfied . Though it still didn't impress him , his skills needed to be acknowledged . There was the perfect count of petals and the leaves , the dew drops complemented it . The butterfly he drew was the icing on the cake .

"Wow son ! It looks so realistic." The 21 year old looked up to meet a pair of crinkled eyes . Hearing the old lady's voice , the boy couldn't help but smile . Even though she had been acquainted with this smile for a long time , she couldn't help but beam every time he smiled . All her pain eased when all his teeth showed up . "Thanks grandma but it's still not complete." The boy shyly scratched his nape . "Oh , I almost forgot ." Fishing out his phone from the pocket of his ripped jeans , he clicked the photo of the flower . He liked , rather , it had become his habit of clicking picture of beautiful scenes before him , precisely , the scenes that enthralled him . Though not his field , he had excelled in it . He had been majoring in music and it was pleasing as he loved it . It was wonderful , how he felt connected to the rhythms and beats .

"Grandma I'm taking Komo for a stroll by the river . Since I have nothing to do today , I am taking my sketchbook and guitar with me . Don't get worried , I'll be back before night ." He assured his granny and lifted his cute and adorable Bichon Frise to his lap. The latter rubbed its nose affectionately against its master's arms making the owner giggle . He grabbed his guitar which was in its cover and placed his pet in the basket of his cycle . " Be careful Baekhyun . Also , don't get yourself into fights ."

"I know , I know ." With his rosy lips , he kissed his grandma's forehead and flashed a million dollar smile before pedaling to the park . The old florist watched his back till he disappeared from her sight and shook her head grinning while thinking about the cute and innocent gestures of her grandson . God couldn't have given her more . Though she had lost her son and her daughter-in-law , the ancient flower shop and Baekhyun were enough to compensate for the loss . Also Komo , why should she leave the little one out , not forgetting that many a times , with its antics it had entertained them . She had looked after Baekhyun after he had lost his parents in a plane crash . The boy too never looked down on his grandma . Being in the last stage of her life , Baekhyun looked after her with utter care , reminding her to take her medications time to time and cooking supper on alternate days . A sneeze in that house meant running to the doctor . She couldn't believe her eyes whenever she saw Baekhyun . She knows that he is always in pain though he never wishes to show it . She had watched him almost half of his life . Though he had matured and had become responsible , he was the same Baekhyun , the 12 yr old Baekhyun for her .

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Parking the bicycle , he advanced towards his perfect haunt . Spoting his favorite spot , he sat down and took out his sketchbook . "What shall I draw today ? A bird , nah , a squirrel perhaps ! Nah . What if I-" He left his sentence unfinished when a euphonious voice filled the air . He closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree .He decided to record the song in his phone. Goosebumps were all over his skin , as if the voice was taking control over his senses . He had given into its effect . It had gained authority and successfully Baekhyun had become its marionette . His eyes shot open as disappointment hit him when the voice halted . He peeked from behind the tree and in his view , came a girl who looked about his age . "Cute." Baekhyun mumbled as he observed her jotting down something in her notebook while her tongue was sticking out a bit and her eyes were twinkling . She kept her notebook aside and seemed to be absorbed in a battle with her thoughts . Baekhyun impatiently waited for her to continue and sing another masterpiece , for never a voice seemed to please him as much as hers did . After her long contemplation , she grabbed her guitar and strummed a chord .

"You are so cute my Komo . So sweet , my Komo." Komo . That was his dog's name , he thought . He actually scrutinized her every movement of lips and limbs . She looked so oblivious while singing . She looked deeply connected to the song . At first , the smile from her face never seemed to vanish but slowly and gradually , her face was devoid of expressions . Her lips had started trembling and her hands had started shaking . Finally she released the tears that were at bay . She hugged her knees and continued crying . "It is all unfair . My life is all wrong , all wrong" .Bekhyun's gaze softened , he didn't know why but a pain was clenching his heart . "Why can't I bring her back ? She needed to live ?" He froze . These are the same questions he asked himself on those cold nights. He had come a long way since then and he didn't want to go back .

He knew what it felt like when you didn't find answers to such questions . He quickly wrote a note on a piece of paper and tied it around Komo's leg . "Go Komo." As if on cue , the creature started running towards the girl . It rubbed itself against her leg making the girl jolt in surprise . She wiped the only evidences of her crying and lifted it in her hands and put it in her lap. Watching the scene which was worth-watching , Baekhyun chuckled . The girl's smile was contagious making him smile too . He was satisfied seeing her smile and forgetting the pain . Baekhyun always had a weak spot for those who were in agony . He had went through much that he had understood the real essence of life . "Komo ! That's my name" . So her name is Komo , he thought . He grabbed his sketchbook and started sketching the moment . There were millions of drawing in his sketchbook , all of them containing the happiest moments of other's life . Baekhyun always loved making people happy ; it made him ecstatic . But the question of the hour is : Was he really happy or was he just showing it ?

" What's this ?" He looked up to see the girl reading the note . Oops ! But wait why was he saying oops when he was the one who wrote the note ? Her eyes widened and she quickly started packing up her things . He saw that coming . Whenever sympathy took over him , either people smacked him because he thought him to be a weirdo or ran away , so her reaction was normal to him . Though he didn't expect her to turn back . She locked her gaze with the puppy . She smiled at it and lifted it in her arms . Let's find your owner tomorrow , for now , let's take you home . His eyes widened as he watched your back . "Komo.." It came out as a whisper 'cause he knew if he shouted , he won't be able go home in the right proportions . But he was happy that someone cared for the meek creature .

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

"Where's Komo Baekhyun ?" He expected this question to be asked . "Well , my friend wanted to play with it so he took Komo for a night ." He flashed her his cute smile so that the old lady's heart would melt but to his surprise , she crossed her arms. "But you don't have any friends ...." Though she hated to admit it , her lovely child didn't have any friends . He looked down and fiddled with his fingers . The old lady sighed and asked ," Who was it now ?" The boy's head shot up in confusion . " Who was it ? The person whom you helped ." Soon the perplexed look gave way to a grin and twinkling eyes .

"This time it was a girl . Her name is Komo too . She took the puppy with her ." He confessed . "I want every detail otherwise you'll never get a chance to taste the 'holy supper'."

"HOLY!! I think you pronounced 'GROSS' wrong ."

"Ahh..Sorry , sorry !!! It's delicious ." He winced in pain as she twisted his ear . She laughed at his cuteness while the boy groaned in agony.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

" Her voice is really euphonious . She sings really well , you can't help but give into its effect ." Grandma hummed in response as she caressed his light brown hair . "The ambience completely changed due to her radiant smile . She's cute , and I believe that she doesn't show this side to anyone else . I hope I can meet her again." He sat up and hugged her granny .

"If that's what your fate wants , then you'll surely meet her ." Baekhyun pouted in response and went back to his sleeping position. "Fate is a dangerous thing child . It is indomitable , invincible . Everything revolves around it ; many superior and powerful have submitted to its power . Everything happens according to its whims and fancies . It can side with you or turn the tables . It can compel two people to find each other or to abandon each other . The most dangerous trick played by it is love . In this case , you can't blame it . It's in our hands to attach ourselves to that person or leave them." She turned her head to the side finding Baekhyun asleep . She leaned to kiss his forehead .

"Good night , my son ." She closed the door behind her and left the room .

#baekhyun fanfic #baekhyunxoc #baekhyun fluff

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disorientedblog-archive · 5 years

Text

举杯望明月，低头思故乡。- I Raised My Glass and Look to the Bright Moon, Then Lowered My Head and Think of Home

by EJ Mitchell / photo: Bufan Zhu

He smiles, satisfied.

I watch as Mark rocks the shaker back and forth, the ice, green tea infused gin, passionfruit, and red pepper syrup sloshing around until they are perfectly blended. He takes a straw to taste his concoction. “嗯。”

(“Mmm.”)

He grabs a fizz glass and carefully places three ice cubes inside. He pours the mixture, gently shaking out every last drop. I appreciate such care.

He adds a few splashes of seltzer, and the fruity aroma begins to perfume my nose. I pick up the glass and inhale deeply, taking a generous sip.

“嗯，可以 !”

(“Mmm, pretty good!”)

Mark helps another guest as I enjoy my drink. AirPods in ear, I listen to Amber Mark’s “Love Me Right” for the nth time, letting the layers of Mark’s creation and Mark’s harmonies soothe me. I normally don’t drink by myself. But around this time of year, when Beijing is emptied by 春运 (the Spring Festival travel rush), I am alone and most reflective. The beginning of 2019 begets the transition into a new zodiac year, the anxiety surrounding performance reviews, and my fifth annual winter odyssey back to the US. I also find that people are at their most inquisitive:

What are you doing for New Years?

Where are you going for Spring Festival?

Are you staying for another year?

How much longer do you see yourself in China?

When are you coming home?

These questions assume a lot—that I have funds to do something or go somewhere, or that I am thinking about leaving China, or that one day I will eventually “go back.” The longer I live in Beijing, the more the last question perplexes me.

Beijing is where I have accumulated over six years of formative experiences. I’ve cried because I was in love (or so I thought). As an educator, I’ve experienced my worst nightmare—the loss of a student and the ineffable numbness that follows. I’ve even danced my way into free rounds of tequila shots on my birthday. At least that’s what I was told. If nothing else, Beijing is certainly the only place where I feel confident in my adulting skills. Literally, and I mean literally, every time my Didi arrives, the driver says,

“我还以为你是我们中国人！没想到你是外国友人，打电话听不出来！”

(“I thought you were Chinese! I didn’t think you were a foreign friend. Couldn’t tell over the phone!”)

This is a compliment that I have learned to authentically accept humbly (”我中文还行吧…“ / “My Chinese is okay…”), instead of simply saying thank you. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of my Beijing accent, but I know better than to think that just because I have adopted erhua and say things like “Bu ri dao!” or “Ma qu?” that I can by some amount of sheer effort become or be seen as a true Beijinger. When asked, “你什么时候回家？” I intentionally, and perhaps defensively, reply, “我要去美国,” emphasizing that I am going to America, not returning home. Have I not done enough to demonstrate to others that I am at home when I am in Beijing?

I have the last gulp of my drink and have a feeling that I am going to need another.

“Mark，再来一杯。你随便调吧。“

(Mark, another one. Mix as you see fit.)

As Mark readies a mixture of blackberries, aged sherry, port, and rum he calls “Darker the Berry,” I find myself starting to feel guilty. Here I am, sitting in not just any bar, but my bar. Five Beijing blocks away the streets are lined with H&M, Alexander McQueen, stadium-style night clubs, and the entrance to my gated apartment complex. In a mere few days I will return to Forest Park to sleep on my mother’s living room couch in a Cincinnati suburb of fewer than twenty-thousand people, in contrast to the three and half million that call Chaoyang district their home. If I’m honest with myself, though I love my mom’s cooking and dearly miss my five siblings, I could do without the tear-filled overtures of emotional baggage and petty arguments masked as “discussions.”

“很快就能回家啦，开心了吧？” Mark asks.

(“You’ll be returning home soon. You must be happy?”)

“嗯。” I feign a smile.

(“Mhmm”).

Counting the time in my head, I haven’t gone back to Cincinnati in over a year and a half, choosing instead to visit a friend and former colleague from Beijing in Scotland last summer. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just running away.

“You don’t know…you weren’t there! You’re never around!”

This isn’t the first time my brother’s words have echoed in my mind, but this time I feel different. My ears are warm. I can’t tell if it’s from the stiff drink or because of recalling my adult brother’s emotional eruption the last time we were together. His words, though at the time came as a shock, were true, and to some degree still are. I remember writing in my personal statement for college about how, following the dissolution of my parents’ marriage, I felt that I had outgrown my family and that I, too, needed a divorce. Now 6800 miles away in Beijing, I have my chosen family, a job that I don’t just like but love, memories of vacations to St. Petersburg’s palaces and Almaty’s mountains, a savings account with actual savings…

Haven’t I done enough? Am I not the child my parents raised? Am I not a person that they—no, that any parent or family—would be proud of?

“You’re never around! You’re never around! You’re never around!”

Apparently not.

I have reveled in the freedom that I have discovered in Beijing, a place I did not have or want to share with my family until their first venture out of the US to visit me; I was too hurt by what was behind me and too overwhelmed by what was in store. Yet, in my attempt to free myself from the aftermath of my parents’ divorce, I have created a distance between myself and my family beyond just physical separation—a college degree, language barriers, and inadvertent intellectual elitism, to say the least. But the distance hasn’t been all bad. In fact, in many ways, it has provided the critical space that I have needed to begin metabolizing the guilt that has been left to fester over time.

With a fonder heart, I am learning to patiently explain that Tokyo is neither where I live nor a city in China instead of rolling my eyes, and I strive to get as many hugs and selfies in with my youngest sisters, though I often wonder if they even know who I really am. Acquaintances and strangers alike have a habit of reminding me that I could always “just go back home,” reasoning that I would be closer to, and arguably closer with, my family (and definitely less frequently stared at). But one doesn’t just simply “go back” and expect years of mismanaged expectations and trauma to be fixed. Though well-intentioned, they are missing the point. I choose to stay because of the acceptance and affirmation from my friends. I stay because when I walk the streets and hear or see police I am not afraid for my life. I stay because when I look at a billboard I am not perplexed by the characters’ strokes but still in awe that I understand the language of the future. I stay because the look of ecstasy on my sister’s face after having her first bite of kaoya or my mom’s after her first sip of baijiu at dinner in Haidian with my host family is priceless.

As I empty my glass, my attention turns to the Cocaine 80s song in my ears.

“Or maybe you're just going through shit

And that's a part of your design

Just maybe all your dreams are lucid

Been in control the whole time…”

I used to dream that one day my family’s issues would work themselves out. But dreaming that I’m there for my brother isn’t enough to lift his spirits when he’s down. No amount of dreaming can change the fact that I can only remember celebrating one birthday with my sister who turns ten this year. The distance between me and my family is our reality, but that doesn’t mean I can’t build bridges. I can pick up the phone more—I’m always on it anyway—or offer to help offset the costs of visits. My experiences leading up to and in China have provided access to a life that was previously unimaginable, for me and my family. If I want to continue to do better for us, I have to acknowledge that things don’t work themselves out. I have to put in the work, despite how uncomfortable it may be.

“...Relationship nightmares

Your soul is drained

The demons that you've been dreaming up

Are angels under the pain”

Maybe, just maybe, I’m finally ready to do that.

EJ Mitchell has been working as an educational consultant in Beijing since 2014 and is a co-owner of Sanlitun cocktail bar 50/50.

#China

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smritiverma · 2 years

Text

I posted 465 times in 2021

7 posts created (2%)

458 posts reblogged (98%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 65.4 posts.

I added 10 tags in 2021

#books - 1 posts

#book review - 1 posts

#books & libraries - 1 posts

#bibliophile - 1 posts

#ferrante - 1 posts

#elena ferrante - 1 posts

#important - 1 posts

#resources - 1 posts

#get educated stop spamming me - 1 posts

#photography - 1 posts

Longest Tag: 39 characters

#what a beautiful show ferrante sunlight

My Top Posts in 2021

this is from somewhere in manali, himachal pradesh, india, from my lovely boyfriend's travels. looking at this reminds me of everything beautiful, calming and worth living for.

0 notes • Posted 2021-05-12 12:52:07 GMT

from the television adaptation of Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend, Saverio Costanza

0 notes • Posted 2021-01-20 08:18:41 GMT

a review of Ferrante’s Neapolitan Quartet ~~~

The most ineffable experiences, feelings, moments of being are often haunted by silence. It is a positive haunting, a haunting rooted in the inability to name, to define, to find the center, to find the word. To find the final word would be to clear the fog, but also to lose out on the terrible, brutal, existentially rich instability that exists in ambiguity, in vagueness. I've found this feeling triggerred sometimes as easily as a song, or a moment of standing near the road just before you cross it, the way two voices having a conversation out on 1 am on the road echoes and travels through the walls of your home to you. Ferrante has given me one of these experiences, but deeper, one ridden with truths about female friendships I hadn't dared to examine within myself, about motherhood and the weight its impending reality has carried within my body ever since I was a girl, and how, ultimately, there are no answers to anything, no dreams and no realities, no points to pin to- everything merges, everything is tangled, everything owes itself and is manipulated by the other, even Lila and Lenu, nothing can be freed or should be and we as readers can forever wonder how much of these series is real or false- it's pointless, because either way, it exists. The only thing we can do is look beyond the categories, think of something preceding them, something similar to whatever world Lila is in, wherever Marquez's Macondo ended up, wherever every little thing we ever lost in our lives - a pen, a bracelet, a soft toy, a hairclip - ended up. As a child I would think to myself how something that I've lost - even as little as a pencil - exists out there in the world somewhere, and the fact I couldn't find it brought me a great deal of frustration. I still wonder about the somewheres of where all these things ended up.

2 notes • Posted 2021-01-11 11:07:46 GMT

some days ago, outside my home, in delhi

4 notes • Posted 2021-05-24 11:45:15 GMT

Milan Kundera, in the Unbearable Lightness of Being, wrote "We all need someone to look at us." I find myself gravitating to this though so much these days, going through a second, much worse, wave of the pandemic in Delhi, wondering how much of my life before was part of this - of enjoying the pleasure of "being looked at", of being seen, of sharing my interests with people around me, my friends, university classmates. Suddenly, all of it ended a year ago, not to begin again. Suddenly, the only way to been seen was only through social media, an intentional seeing I always ran away from and felt insecure on. The pain of not being looked at, not being seen, of feeling yourself reduced to nothing as everyone who saw you before are far away is something I never expected. Dissociation earlier made me feel like I wanted to be nothing but that nothing was a revenge, to not being seen, to neglect. And the fact that I can easily share this thought here - where none of my family or friends will see it - space where I can write whatever and send it into the void, expecting no engagement. So much about this, about this freedom makes Tumblr beautiful to me.

5 notes • Posted 2021-05-14 14:04:21 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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nevillelongsbottom · 7 years

Note

you should write something with george and draco after the war and they bond over loss after not seeing one another for years❤❤

aaaaand this somehow ended up with george the private investigator but I TRIED

Draco hasn’t an inkling of what he’s signed himself up tountil the car comes rumbling up to the pavement besides Malfoy Manor; it’s abattered red BMW E30 that looks as if it had seen better days before it hadeven left the factory, and he swallows his crushed pride as he slams into thepassenger seat next to George, sucking a lollipop like there’s something coolabout it, like it’s a cigar and he’s living in the era of The Sopranos –though, Draco thinks with a vague hint of amusement, he hits the same mark ofcool as the novel rather than the series.

“Been a while, Malfoy,” George croons as he presses his footon the gas, the car rolling smoothly out and along the cobbled roads, rumblingunhealthily. “I’m hoping you read up on all the case files?”

“The fuck’s got you working as a PI, Weasley?” Draco asks,folding his arms, the folder of his case files strewn over his lap – of coursehe’s fucking read them; what’s Georgeexpecting, a level of expertise to match his own thick brother Ron? Draco isbetter than that – not enough so as to expect a better job than trailing peoplein ancient boxes that call themselves cars, but he’s better, and that’s clear,to be expected. “I was under the impression you were running a joke shop.”

“You were a fan of our products, or so I’ve heard,” Georgereplies, though he sounds ambivalent about the whole affair, which surprisesDraco – he appears to have mellowed out somewhat, despite the clear aesthetiche runs with, old car and lollipop and thick sunglasses like he’s in a B-movie.He feels vaguely like he ought to check that there’s not a gun in the car door.“Lee runs it on the off-season, so I can do this.”

“Let me repeat the question: why the hell are you wastingyour time with this, when you have a perfectly successful business enterprise?”Draco says, making sure to speak slowly, stressing word after word in caseGeorge doesn’t understand him this time – stupid, really, for a PI. He answersquestions like a politician, another Cornelius Fudge.

“Cause it’s fun,” George says with a shrug. Draco doesn’tbelieve him for a moment, but as he turns off and out of the collection ofstreets surrounding the Manor, George takes a turn in the conversation, too,and chasing it seems pointless. “So, we’re on the Finch-Fletchley case today –the plan is to speak to him, re-evaluate our position and, if he wants us to goforward, we’ll stakeout at Flourish and Blotts tomorrow and see what we cansee. Any objections?”

“Apart from working this job, no,” Draco says, leaning hishead back. George snorts, leaning forward and switching the radio on; The Hindu Times rocks the car, andbecomes the opening symphony for a new day.

Stakeouts are fucking exhausting,Draco finds: sitting up until late into the night in the company of aquip-happy jokester in his shitty, claustrophobic car is a surefire way to keephim cranky, despite George’s habit of sneaking in enough food for a family offive each time, and when George had offered the first time to let him just sleepover instead of taking the hours’ drive remaining, it had seemed perhaps theeasiest option.

George’s flat is above the shop, and still dressed for two:Draco can’t sleep in Fred’s bed, because that’s too disgusting, even for him,and so he takes the sofa, a comfy green affair with patchwork blankets and afortress of pillows. He thinks he might crash the minute his head touches thefabric, but instead, he can’t sleep at all: his eyelids are heavy, but hisbrain stubbornly remains active.

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” George says, stirring sugar intoa cup of tea. “Could never sleep after Fred – not for weeks, anyway. I’d be sobloody tired I couldn’t stand up, but I couldn’t sleep if I tried.” He drinksin comedy mugs stained at the lip and his living room is lit with magic anddusty vintage lamps that remind Draco of the way they were always dressed inhand-me-downs; it’s warm, though, with real central heating that feels like anembrace if he weren’t so acutely aware he feels like he’s taking up a role thatcan never be replaced.

“All this and we still have no fucking clue what Greengrassis up to,” he groans, accepting the tea, still not quite sure he’s capable ofthanking a Weasley; George’s hands have the slightest tremor to them, he’snoticed, and part of him wants to clasp them still – the rest of him isperturbed that he could even think such a thought.

“The work can be slow,” George assures him, “but we’ll getthere. The payoff makes it worth it.”

“You never told me why you took up this kind of work,” Dracosays from across the steam of hot vapour. “It’s been two months. Don’t I atleast deserve that? You know why I’mhere.”

“Oh, yes, I do. You got so bored you decided that nebbing inon other peoples’ lives would be a good time-killer.” George leans on the backof the sofa; he smells of cinnamon rolls and aftershave and days spent in hisBMW thumbing their way through packets of Love Hearts while waiting forinevitably nothing to happen, the radio humming out the songs of the day whileGeorge laughs about something or other – his laugh is hearty, infectious. “Butfine. I will.” He tosses Draco a Hob Nob; it lands in his tea.

“Like everything in life, it’s Fred.” George shifts,uncomfortable, like a dozen invisible weights are pressing him all over hisbody with red-hot surfaces. “He always thought it’d be funny to start our ownprivate investigations company and run it like we were in a bad eighties filmor something – and, after he died, I felt listless, hopeless, directionless:the triad of misery and depression.” George’s jokes are lifeless, like all thesoul they might’ve once had left him with Fred; he stutters over the word‘died’, as though even admitting it to himself is still too hard. Draco wantsto tell him it’s okay; he knows that’s a lie. “So I started doing this. I’m theonly wizarding private investigations firm, so I get a lot of business, but doyou know what the worst fucking part of this is?” His shaking has amplified,and his teeth clench, hands white where they grip the back of the sofa. “Hewould’ve hated this. Sitting in cars doing nothing all day following aroundpeople who probably aren’t cheating on the behalf of their ridiculouslyparanoid spouse for no reward, just some money that isn’t worth the hours youkilled for it.”

“You said the reward was worth it,” Draco reminds himsoftly, the teacup suspended in the air as he turns; George is red with tearsthat steal across his cheeks like they’re running a hundred-meter sprint.

“I just said that because I could tell you were as bored asI was.” George shakes his head, wiping angrily at his eyes with the back of hishand. “What’s in this life, Draco? I’ve lost myself.”

“Flamel be damned, George; Fred’s in this life – don’t you go bloody shouting about what hewould’ve thought and not consider that you’re living for him, now. He never gotthis life that you have, so you better not fucking waste it, and if you reallyhate this job, give someone else the company and to do something else, becausenobody asked you to waste all your time.”Draco’s angry, too; he wants to hold George, to wipe his tears and soothe himand the idea makes him nauseous to the point of backlash. George’s eyes shinewith a feeling that’s ineffable, and because he alone knows the humiliatingtruth that Draco never passed his Apparition test, takes him home Side-Alongand vanishes again, leaving what feels like a black hole, a hush in theatmosphere.

George’s void smells of Capri-Sun and Fizzers.

The BMW is a friend, though a temperamental one: George isripping her apart in the rear, scratching his head in puzzlement as to whyshe’s given out on him, and Draco waits in the front with boots rested by thedashboard, his aviators tinting the world green. Six months into being a PI,and he thinks he might’ve grown to adore the job, the thrill of the chase, theexcitement of beginning to clinch someone in their own web – George might havebeen lying once, but if Draco can read him, he’s engrossed in the same rush.

George comes swinging back into the driver’s seat, and thecar seems to have recovered from her temper tantrum, running with just theslightest splutter. “So,” he says, squinting at the street signs as he tries tonavigate the labyrinth of estate to Bulstrode’s. “You really joined us causeyou were bored?”

“Sitting on your riches in bloody boring,” Draco snorts. “Idon’t know; I think, maybe I wanted to get away from having to deal with myselfas if it were a full-time job.”

“You’re surprisingly pleasant company, you know,” Georgeanswers, pulling up in front of a house that seems to radiate deprivation;Bulstrode’s ambition hasn’t taken her anywhere, he supposes.

“You’re not at the forefront of the self-targeted cynicism,”Draco points out; he can rip down walls with his scathing wit, the only problembeing that he isn’t immune to it, despite having flirted intimately with it foryears.

“And I’ve told you, you can talk to me about it, but younever do. I’ve survived a lifetime of an inferiority complex, you know.”

“Your suggestion of coming to you to feel pathetic as a pairis hardly reassuring.” He approaches the paint-peeling door, waiting for Georgeto flank him; they’re like the world’s shittest comedy double act. Eric and Ernie should be shaking in theirboots, Draco thinks nonchalantly, and though he’d like to make this quip toGeorge, he has a feeling that George has just thought the same thing.

It smells of lollipops and Tetley Extra Strong; Draco’seyelids flutter, and he allows himself the moment of nuzzling into George’sfuzzy chest. He remembers the night before, remembers the salty taste ofGeorge’s bittersweet tears on his tongue because he was so fucking sick ofwatching George fold into himself like origami. Far more importantly, really,he remembers the feel of George’s arms around him clinging to him as if fordear life and the way they had loosened over the night; if he can make adifference, then by Paracelsus, he’s going to take his chance. Fuck the war,and fuck the misery.

“Draco.” George has such a ditsy little grin and Draco catches it in his own.

Fuck misery; Draco hears a siren call, and it’s the sloganof the twenty-first century: choose life.

The first time he sleeps with George is at Malfoy Manor;they have the time to drive all the way back, and he invites George in just fora cup of tea, coffee, something. He’s always felt a swell of pride surroundingthe Manor – it’s aesthetically eloquent, Gothic, a masterpiece; and yet now hefeels like he’s presenting George with a shitty bedsit, because Malfoy Manordoesn’t feel like home – not to him, not to anyone.

“Are your parents not here?” George asks, helping the houseelves gather the coffee grinds, tea bags, and biscuits as Draco switches on thekettle in a routine like a waltz across the cold floors; George looks sonatural, as if he’s lived there for years, and Draco almost catches himselfwanting to sink into George’s back like a lover.

“They’re here and there between the country house in Franceand the Manor,” Draco replies, leaning against the countertop, pristine andwithout George’s habitual stainage. “I stay here. I decided not to run awayfrom people - it’s like an admission of guilt, to run.”

“What are you even guilty of?” George asks, stirring sugarinto a tiny whirlpool; Draco thinks that it possibly represents how he feelsbest of all. “Being scared? Everyone was scared, but you were scared and anarm’s length away from Voldemort. They can’t fucking blame you.”

Draco snorts; George senses he’s being patronised, save forthe fact that he’s become immune – he works retail and has been automaticallygranted his sainthood. “Oh, believe you me, George, they do.”

“I’ve half a mind to tell them to piss off, then,” Georgescoffs, but with rage, as if he’s a boiling kettle and it rumbles just beneaththe surface; he’s a façade, though if he lets it down, he might break andbelong in a scrapyard, or attain the obtainability of helium.

Draco can’t help himself anymore, because he’s been left solong the phrase to stand up for soundsmeaningless bouncing in his eardrum; he bunches his fists into the polyester ofGeorge’s spotted shirt, and their lips are colliding head-on at eighty milesper hour.

He’s never spoken to anyone after sex before; George playswith his hair, and resumes their conversation sprawled naked on Draco’s bed. Heresists the urge to laugh; he resists the urge to tell George his company isecstatically wonderful; he resists the urge to admit he’s fallen like Lucifer,head over heels.

“Ready?”

“Just a tic.”

Draco straightens his tie, runs a tongue over his perfecttop row of teeth, and slams the front door, relaxing into his passenger seat,head tipped backwards; from between his lips hangs a lollipop stick, his eyesadorned with shades; their speaker blasts eye-rollingly modern rap as they rollalong the streets, windows rolled down.

Fuck, thinksDraco, watching the stunned onlookers whip by in a haze neither he nor themwill remember in the hours that follow, clacking the ball of sugar andartificial flavouring between his teeth. He loves this job.

He glances to his left; too, he loves George, who’s like afucking fallacy – but he laughs like a sunny day and holds Draco like he’sworth all the galleons in the world, and he’s somehow glad that he’s here, in afucking BMW E30 like the biggest tosspot a B-movie has ever seen.

#i write shit #i got a bit too into this one #george weasley #draco malfoy #draco x george #this doesn't quuuuite fit the bill but it also kinda does at a big stretch #oh well #i wasn't wasting this idea #hprarepairnet #slytherdornet #george x draco

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pussymagicuniverse · 5 years

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Sappho and the Queer Imagination

Sappho, the infamous Greek poet whose best known for her homoerotic poetry, is a woman shrouded in mystery. Most of her poems and songs were lost throughout the centuries, and all that remains are a small collection of fragments. Historians, scholars, and readers fill in the gaps for her, placing a few pieces in a puzzle that seems to dissolve into obscurity.

Sappho’s legacy is largely in her name, as the word “sapphic” was used to describe love between women at the turn of the 20th century. Prior to that time, however, lesbian was used to described anything derived from the island (i.e. lesbian wine simply meant wine from Lesbos). We don't see the term Lesbianism until around 1870, when it was used in a medical dictionary to pathologize romantic love between women.

Queer figures in history often feel mythological. Even reading about Sappho's fragmented history, what we know about her biography is so limited that it collapses into speculation. As you can see below, Sappho's one-lined poems are numbered and joined together like the lyrical jumble of a found object poem.

The idea of the found object poem, defined as a poem comprised of parts from other texts such as journals, other poems, newspapers, novels, ect, reflects the historical lesbian consciousness. What do we have save scrapes of biography and medicalized journals detailing queer abnormality?

Due to the historical inaccessibility of language and writing (Sappho was an upper-class woman who had access to education), our accounts of queerness are not only far and few but often limited to people of wealth and status.

The new HBO period drama, Gentleman Jack, is inspired by the coded journals of Anne Lister, a wealthy land-owning lesbian who lived in 19th century England. Lister is important in lesbian history because she wrote explicitly about the sexual encounters she had with women, exemplified by the excerpt below.

In Emily Nussbaum's essay "Chick Magnets on “Gentleman Jack” and “Killing Eve,”" she writes: "Lister was a gender-disrupting trailblazer, who recorded experiences that society refused to admit existed. (Male homosexuality was outlawed; the female version was unimaginable.)"

In this context, Anne Lister's explicitness a blessing, as her society's imagination couldn't even fathom her existence. Sally Wrainwright, creator of Gentleman Jack, mentions how Anne Lister is "the first person in history who talked really clearly about gay lesbian sex. Prior to her diaries being decoded, people just didn’t believe that women had sex at this time. They thought women who had close relationships, they were romantic friendships rather than the fact that they were actually getting down and having a good time.”

Lister’s detailed accounts of her sexual encounters are starkly contrasted to Sappho's whimsical and poetic musings of her love for women. Of course, this can be explained by the drastically differing time periods they both lived and wrote in and even reflect their personalities. But both are sacred, as their work exemplifies the various forms that queer expression can and did take.

In an introduction to a book of Sappho's poems, writer and translator John Maxwell Edmonds mentions Sappho's relationship with the girls she allegedly instructed in her school:

"Now these girls were more than pupils to Sappho; they were friends, and, some of them, bosom-friends. And in these cases, as sometimes will happen with highly emotional natures, the friendship could more fitly be described as love."

This was written in 1921, which explains some of the language. But even still, it's cringe-worthy to read (bosom-friends???) because it presents lesbian love as a volatile whim.

Women's desire for one another is still characterized as a girlish and feverish drive thought to wear itself out by adulthood. America's patriarchal and homophobic lens simultaneously hyper-sexualizes the physical connection between lesbians while dismissing their capacity for love.

In an article about Sappho on Ancient History Encyclopedia, the author writes about scholars that advise against seeing her poems as biographical, given the possibility that Sappho could be writing from perspectives not her own. He also suggests: "While it is possible, then, that Sappho was a lesbian, it is equally possible that she wrote on many subjects but that her works expressing lesbian love are the ones that have survived most intact."

So little is actually known about her, and the lost pieces of her work allow for both misunderstanding and the opportunity to insert one's own interpretations.

From a heterosexual perspective, it'd be easy to overlook Sappho's romantic poetry towards women as odes to the goddesses, or even entertain the possibility she was writing from the perspective of a man. Isn't history's ambiguous understanding of Sappho’s work convenient for the status quo?

Sappho's ascent into mythology is mostly because so much about her is unknown. And this ambiguity is the birthplace of the queer imagination.

With so little reflections and representations of queerness, the gays are forced to improvise. We create our own stories, weaving our own narratives alongside heterosexual love stories. As a teenager, I'd write fan-fiction of my favorite movies and books but with characters whose desires resembled my own.

This creative, revisionist approach to history sees facts are unreliable. The logic of documentation is rendered obsolete. Does this make our interpretations any less legitimate? Absolutely not. For centuries, the history of the world has been controlled by the Western man. The off-chance that queerness and gender-deviance appeared in the timeline of the past could have easily been erased.

We see the power dynamics even in Anne Lister's journals. She's rich, white, and English who inherited property from her family. Her wealth was generational. In some ways, her ability to be educated and write about her lesbian experiences is born from wealth disparity and colonialism.

It's such an agonizing contradiction. One that appears again and again throughout history and into the present day. Those in power, those with power are the ones who control the narrative. Or at least, have access to it.

While historical representations of queerness matter, they are hard to come by. Imaginatively inserting our narratives into a timeline that refuses our existence is often our only option to see ourselves in the past. If people want to see Sappho's work as queer, then so be it. The heterosexual world commands the legal, social, and cultural realms of our lives. It tries to manipulate our thoughts, make us doubt our instincts. It threatens to overwhelm our minds with internalized images of the "ideal relationship" and a "normal" way of being.

And yet, queer people inherently aren't and can't be what heteropatriarchy wants us to be. I am reminded of Audre Lorde's exploration of the erotic, a concept she describes as "an assertion of the lifeforce of women; of that creative energy empowered, the knowledge and use of which we are now reclaiming in our language, our history, our dancing, our loving, our work, our lives."

She goes on to explain the many ways heteropatriarchy has abused her interpretation of the erotic in her essay "Uses of the Erotic:"

"The erotic has often been misnamed by men and used against women. It has been made into the confused, the trivial, the psychotic, the plasticized sensation. For this reason, we have often turned away from the exploration and consideration of the erotic as a source of power and information, confusing it with its opposite, the pornographic. But pornography is a direct denial of the power of the erotic, for it represents the suppression of true feeling. Pornography emphasizes sensation without feeling."

To me, imagination is part of erotic power. Creative visualization is a form of witchcraft. If pornography is the erotic's opposite, then hyper-sexual representations of queer connection is the opposite to our imaginative, feeling-orientated understanding of pleasure and love. Queer people inserting their desires and narratives in the gaps throughout history is sorcery.

In Candace's Walsh essay "The Queer Gaze and the Ineffable in THE PRICE OF SALT," she examines the ways Patricia Highsmith describes queer desire in her novel The Price of Salt.

Walsh writes: "The first time Therese sees Carol, she notes, “She was tall and fair, her long figure graceful in the loose fur coat that she held open with a hand on her waist.” Carol’s form is described from head to toe—“tall,” with a “long figure.” She’s both dynamic in the scene, and whole. This contrasts with a style of description that might depict a character in respect to the parts of her body, zooming in on breasts, waist, or legs, descriptions that emphasize parts over whole."

Even if you never read The Price of Salt, it's evident that the sexual tension between Therese and Carol is not pornographic, it’s erotic. As Candace Walsh points out, Highsmith’s description of Carol isn’t stagnant or fragmented, but dynamic and reflective of the various pieces that make up an entire person.

Heterosexuality characterizes queerness as hypersexual because it's seen as a deviance from sex between a woman and a man, the puritanical union which results in reproduction. Queer sex doesn't create a product (although this isn’t always the case). Queerness is therefore, unproductive in capitalist terms and exists solely for the pornographic.

This couldn't be further from the truth. Queerness is productive, but in capitalism’s terms. Being queer is understanding love in its infinite forms, allowing it to manifest through feelings. It breathes life into sexual encounters, but this isn't the only form it takes. Queerness is not simply an action, something we do, but a state of being. Of existing beyond society-imposed limitations.

The first time Therese and Carol have sex, Highsmith uses the metaphor of the arrow to describe an orgasm. It's so subtle that I had to reread the passage, and yet the image is so ripe with eroticism that I'm reminded of another line from Audre Lorde's essay: "To share the power of each other's feelings is different from using another's feelings as we would use a kleenex."

While writing this essay, I've been thinking about the implications of the phrase "Love is love." It's often used to remind the heterosexual institution that love between queer individuals is no different than love between straight people. In some ways, this is true. Love is not gendered, nor does it ascribe to strict binaric guidelines. But to me, queer love is not the same as straight love.

Queer love is love infused with feelings of impossibility. Queer love was first born of the imagination, before it was seen. It began with a feeling, rather than an image. Queer love is eroticism in the sense that it doesn't prioritize sensation over feeling or vice versa. It's a union of tenderness and fear, anxiety and euphoria.

Once Therese and Carol realize their love has consequences, Therese thinks: “How is it possible to be afraid and in love…The two things did not go together." And yet queer individuals are forced to exist between these two opposing emotions.

Queerness is so otherized by heterosexuality that even its essence becomes distant and unfamiliar, too different to synthesize with the straight reality. This is arbitrary. Even my feelings about queer love existing on an opposing plan is arbitrary. It doesn't have to be like this, yet heteropatriarchy insists that it does.

This is why the queer creative revisionist process of history is so important. History shouldn't be so straight, with so many holes and gaps that leave out vital timelines. Yet it is. So I'm going to keep thinking of Sappho as a woman-loving, erotic-weaving poet, no matter if her queerness can never be proven.

Cassidy Scanlon is a Capricorn poet and witch who uses her artistic gifts as a channel for healing herself and others. She writes poetry and CNF about mental health, astrology, queer love, pop culture representation, and how social structures shape our perceptions of history and mythology. When she’s not writing, she can be found petting the local stray cats, exploring the swamps of Florida, reading 5 books at a time, and unwinding with her Leo girlfriend.

You can visit her astrology blog Mercurial Musings and explore more of her publications on her website.

#literature #poetry #sapphic sorcery #cassidy scanlon #sappho #poetry analysis #literary analysis #LGBTQIA

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bodism · 6 years

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The importance of joy in the spiritual life

Bahir was a very old disciple, but in the evening of his life, he was getting a lot of inspiration from visiting disciples and ashrams around the world.

On one occasion, Bahir visited an Ashram in a beautiful town. They had invited disciples from many other countries to come and participate in a weekend of spiritual activities. During the weekend retreat, the disciples had organised meditations, soulful singing, readings of the Master’s writings and a few meetings to talk about how they could spread their Master’s light.

After the final meditation, the main organiser announced.

“Now we are very lucky to have Bahir today. Bahir has been following the spiritual life for 60 years [cheers from the audience!] and he spent considerable time with the Master in the physical. Now Bahir is kindly going to come up and share a few stories.”

Bahir felt a knot in his stomach; nobody had told him this was on the programme. He didn’t mind speaking to groups of five or six people. But, telling stories to 600+ people was something he definitely had not prepared for. But, before he had time to think and run for cover, his old friend Malin was leading him up to the microphone.

Bahir looked out at the 600 expectant faces, and thought ‘O dear.’

Not knowing what to say Bahir began by sincerely appreciating the energy and enthusiasm of the disciples.

“It has really been a marvellous weekend, and I feel re-energised in my own spiritual life to feel such aspiration and feeling of oneness with the Master’s path.”

“I have truly enjoyed this weekend of spiritual activities but – if there is one thing which would add even more to the weekend – it would be to have a few fun games. As you know, I’m a very old man, but I like games because – at least for a short-time – I can pretend to be a seven-year-old boy again! As you know, our Master definitely appreciated when we had these weekend retreats because he saw how much they helped our spiritual life. But also, he often mentioned the value of having games because they are an opportunity to bring to the fore our childlike qualities. No matter how old we are, if we can participate and enter into the spirit of the games – our anxieties and worries disappear. The Master would often say when the disciples had this kind of innocent joy, it was such a weight off his shoulders.”

“It reminded me of a story many years ago. We were with our Master in a foreign country, and after a soulful morning meditation, there was free time in the afternoon. One group of boys began to play football and had an epic two-hour game. Nearby, another group of boys had a meeting on the grass where they talked about future projects to spread the Master’s light. Now it happened that those in the meeting were disturbed by the football game and so one of those disciples complained to the Master that their meeting had been disrupted.”

“However, the Master didn’t react as they expected. The Master said ‘The boys playing football are doing absolutely the right thing. By playing football, so many wrong forces and negative thoughts they are leaving behind on the pitch. I appreciate the intent of those disciples trying to spread my light. But, everything has its time and place. It’s such a beautiful afternoon; we should take the opportunity for sport and relaxation. Also, forgive me for saying, but when I hear the word ‘meeting’ – in no way does it inspire me! Did the great Swami Vivekananda shake up the world by having meetings and talking about his plans? No. Vivekananda simply did. So please don’t worry about planning and discussing – instead throw yourself into a vortex of self-giving service.’”

Bahir was now in full flow, so he felt confident to tell another story.

“It reminds me of another time when I was seeing the Master for the first or second time. Disciples from our country were honouring, in a light-hearted fashion, some achievement of the Master from when he had been visiting New Zealand. I can’t remember why – but someone had the idea to put white socks on our ears so we would look like sheep while performing.

“In all sincerity, I thought this was absolutely the worst idea. I was seeing my Master for the first time, and here I was putting socks on my ears. One or two of the older disciples refused, and I would have joined them but I was a new disciple, so I went along with it. Well, after the performance, the Master smiled, and he gently teased those older disciples who were standing at the end of the line – ‘eh Taruk and Gopal, do you not have any ears, like everyone else!?’ Ironically, they then looked a bit sheepish! Whether the Master genuinely appreciated our costume or not, we will never know. He wouldn’t always say what he really felt about performances! But I felt I did the right thing by joining in with the spirit of the performance – even if my mind didn’t fully agree.”

“On that first trip to meet my Master, I learnt that everything has its time and place. A few days later we were performing some soulful songs at an evening meditation. We dressed in immaculate white clothes and, before going on stage, we meditated in silence for a minute. The short five-minute performance was a most soulful and memorable experience. The Master was in a sublime trance, and I was deeply moved by the atmosphere and ineffable peace emanating from the Master’s presence. After the performance concluded, there was an indescribable hush as we absorbed the Master’s final moments of silence. I felt I had climbed up at least half a step to Heaven and, as I went back to my seat, I sat in silence trying to absorb the experience.”

“So when we play games, we should be in an innocent, childlike frame of mind and simply have joy. When we meditate – that is the time for silence and soulfulness.”

“My good friend Jahangir once told me an illumining story. He was with the Master and a few disciples seated on the curb of a pavement. The Master suddenly said. ‘Please try go into your highest meditation.’ So the boys tried to meditate to their best of their ability. Then after a few minutes, the Master said. ‘Jahangir, please tell us a funny joke.’ Which he did, and then the Master said, ‘now please try go back to your highest meditation.’ Then after a few minutes, he asked for a joke. Like this it went on – high meditation, then humour.

What was the Master trying to achieve with this unique and unusual experience? The way I understand it, the Master wanted to show us that we shouldn’t limit the spiritual life and try put into a neat box. Spirituality is not just sitting at our shrine and meditating for a set number of minutes. We always have to be ready to do what our Master wants. If the Master wants us to meditate, we should put our heart and soul into meditation. If the Master wants us to put on plays or tell jokes, we should put our heart and soul into that. Above all, the Master’s path is not about following our own preconceptions of what we think spirituality should be. The final thing is that everything has its time and place. Serious and soulful meditation is an absolute necessity in the spiritual life, but humour and innocent fun also have their role. If we are always serious, we can become dry and inflexible. If we are always joking – there is no soulfulness or devotion. We shouldn’t neglect either. The spiritual life needs balance.”

“If there is one thing I miss about the Master leaving the body – it is that spontaneity and the variety of divine moods the Master could display. Somedays the Master would come to our meeting place and it would be real seriousness – soulful meditation, lofty, illumining talks and you felt the presence of divine light, divine transformation and your own eager promise to make a renewed commitment to the spiritual life. But, on other days, the Master would come and it would be all sweetness – ‘juicy stories’, humorous skits and innocent fun. Then the Master became like a grandfather figure – all compassion, love and forgiveness.

Sometimes we would get these different aspects all within the same day. You never knew what was coming next – it was impossible to predict. You just entered into the flow of the Master’s divine Lila – his divine play on earth.”

Bahir paused. It could be his imagination but he felt the living presence of his Master in the room, as if the clock had wound back 60 years to one of those functions he was describing. The feeling, light and consciousness of those precious days was coming rushing back. He inwardly offered gratitude to his Master and slipped away from the stage.

Joy Is indispensable In our spirituality-life.

– Sri Chinmoy [1]

The balanced spiritual life

The post The importance of joy in the spiritual life appeared first on Write Spirit.

The importance of joy in the spiritual life published first on https://medium.com/@UnifyCosmos

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albumstorage · 6 years

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Shamir on Tumblr, food vloggers & problematic faves

We speak to the indie auteur about his favourite online obsessions, from queer Tumblr memes to ‘specifically black’ Instagram comedy

3November 2017Text

Grant Rindner

Dazed Faves is the series where we talk all things online – that surreal meme account you’re obsessed with, weird conspiracy theory subreddits, ASMR YouTubes or slime Instagrams.

Shamir’s cathartic new record, Revelations, cements the soon-to-be 23-year-old musician’s metamorphosis from house pop wunderkind to guitar-wielding indie rock auteur. Its predecessor Hope was the result of a weekend-long recording binge during a dark period in which he considered quitting music entirely, and his latest is equally stripped down and deeply personal, focusing both on his own struggles and those of his generation at large.

“I feel like Hope and Revelations are like sister records, and I think they’re both a journey,” he says. “Hope is full of questions, and I think Revelations is full of answers.”

While the album is full of honest, occasionally bleak reflections on his recent personal and professional hardships, it’s thrilling to hear Shamir finally have the chance to channel influences like Courtney Love, Blake Babies, and Velocity Girl into this grunge-inspired project that feels like the young artist fully taking the reins on his career. The singles “90’s Kids” and “Straight Boy” each tackle weighty subjects while showcasing his sparkling knack for melodies and pristine tenor.

The latter is a critique of self-centered tendencies of straight males as well as a send-up of the commodification of allyship. The former is as vivid an account of millennial anxiety as we’ve heard lately; it’s fittingly both droll and dire which fits a generation all too accustomed to making World War III jokes on Twitter. “We talk with vocal fry / We watch our futures die,” he sings in the opening verse.

The “90’s Kids” video is a mesmerizing crash course in meme history with Shamir’s vocals and lips animated into everything from Salt Bae to a yelling Meryl Streep (which he says is his all-time favorite). “I knew what I wanted to do because I’m like, “What’s a universal way that ‘90s kids transfer their anxiety and problems and energy into the world?” he explains. “Memes.”

With memes on the mind, it makes sense for Shamir to take part in our Faves series, where we speak to artists about their online obsessions. A week before the release of Revelations we caught up with Shamir over brunch in Philadelphia, discussing the ineffable appeal of Trisha Paytas, queer comedy, and the Twitter hero who showed him where he could get a gluten-free Philly cheesesteak.

FAVE TUMBLR: MILES JAI

Shamir: Miles Jai grew up in North Las Vegas with me. I was roommates with his best friend. He’s also in my first video (for ‘If It Wasn’t True’). His posts are so funny. A lot of it is very queer and gay-specific too. Pretty much every time I open up my Tumblr app, instead of going through what’s already on my dash I type in ‘Miles Jai’ first, go through his Tumblr, and then go through my dash.

Read Miles Jai’s Tumblr here

FAVE TWITTER: LANAKANE

Shamir: So she became my angel in life. I had been living out here (in Philadelphia) for maybe a year-and-a-half and got strict about not eating gluten, and I just really wanted a cheesesteak. I’m like, ‘It’s not fair, I live in Philadelphia, I can’t eat a cheesesteak.’ She gave me the info that Joe’s in Fishtown has gluten-free rolls. I was like, ‘Girl, you lying?’ And I went there and they had it and I was like, ‘You are an angel.’

So I think she lives in, like, Jersey and after I followed her on Twitter we were DMing. She’s definitely into comedy and is just so funny. She had this one great tweet where I was talking about people who still think gender and sex are the same thing, and how also those people like to bring in science – when obviously they don’t know about science, because they still think gender and sex is the same thing. And she’s like, ‘Everybody’s a scientist when it comes to gender, but nobody’s a scientist when it’s like 80 degrees in the middle of October.’ And I was like, that’s so fucking true! All of her other posts are so funny, I love her Twitter.

that AND the fact they claim to know my good sis science when obviously they don't

everybody's a scientist when it comes to gender but not when it's 85 degrees in the middle of October

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FAVE VLOGGER: TRISHA PAYTAS

Shamir: I’m sorry – I get so emotional when I think about Trisha because like... (pauses) I don’t even know. I just love her. I want to be her best friend. I just see so much of myself in Trisha. She’s definitely like, problematic at times, but she’s definitely a problematic fave. I think that it’s kind of a character that she plays up, but (at the same time) definitely think it’s an extension of her. I just think that she lives in her own little world and it’s refreshing to see.

I don’t know if anyone can really describe – like, anyone who loves her – can really describe why they do. I just think it’s like, she kind of seems like someone that we all know who’s kind of problematic, but not intentionally. The 7-Eleven one is so good, with her pink trunk. I would literally watch her have a mukbang, eat a bunch of shit, for literally an hour. It feels like you’re having dinner with her. I don’t watch other mukbangs except for hers.

FAVE INSTAGRAM: LALASIZAHANDS89

Shamir: She’s just funny as fuck. She’s like, ratchet funny. She’s just great. Her voice is funny, the way she talks is funny – how she just will just openly pull off her wig in the middle of a conversation. Her voiceovers are funny. She’s just fucking funny. Generally I’m good at explaining (things), but when it comes to like Trisha and probably (Lala), that’s a little hard. Trisha, definitely, I just can’t explain – like I just love her – Lala is slightly different because I think that her sense of humor is just so tailor-made to me, the ratchetness of it. It’s kind of just black humor.

One specific post I can think of for LalaSizahands is the one where she’s so hungry and she sings this song behind a, like, New Edition instrumental, which is so specifically black – but it’s just humor that I normally really couldn’t send to my white friends ‘cause they’re like, ‘Who’s New Edition?’ You know, most white kids my age don’t know New Edition. Most black kids do because their parents listened to them – they’re like One Direction before One Direction, but black. I definitely send my LalaSizahands videos to my black friends and we laugh about it.

I think that’s why Lala specifically hits home for me. It’s definitely black humor. I think Miles (Jai)’s humor is a little more universal (than Lala’s) and definitely a little more queer and gay-based.

FAVE WEBSERIES: EIGHTY-SIXED

Shamir: So Eighty-Sixed is a show I found through my friend Owen (Thiele), who plays Owen in the show. And I just saw it on his Instagram and I’m always down to watch a good webseries. That’s how I found Isa Rae (with Awkward Black Girl). It’s so great to see her grow, and I definitely see the same potential with this show… Eighty-Sixed is really funny – I see a lot of myself and my friends with them, like how they communicate.

The birthday episode is the best one, where she goes live and says her name and then goes off live (when Remi’s ex joins) and she’s like, ‘Did you really just say (my) name right now and then go off live?’ We all have friends that are ridiculous like that. That one specifically kind of reminds me of my best friend – we’ve been best friends since eighth grade.

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