#this took over an hour to write but now my brain is somewhat cleansed
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Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #127
It's late where I live - almost midnight, and I'm very tired. J and I are on another road trip to PA. This time, he and I are going to fly the plane he got back home. After his shift at work, we drove for 4 hours to a place called Buffalo. We will drive the rest of the way to a place called Zelienople in the morning. Then we will fly back; J will be piloting the plane, of course. J is not yet used to flying this plane, but it's very similar to the one that he already knows well; he knows what he's doing, and I trust, without question or hesitation, that he will keep us safe. I'll be back in my house by this time tomorrow with LOTS of pictures to show you, so don't you worry about a thing, okay?
Br came over and I introduced her to the chocolate-cheddar cheese I got when we went to see the eclipse (it tastes like fudge; it's SO GOOD!), and that was pretty great! But I'm still pretty tired because I spent most of the day before the trip being emotional support for various folks. Some of the interactions challenged my boundary skills, but this is a good thing; we don't grow without some level of discomfort, and our boundary skills never improve if we don't get practice. I'm much better at it now than I used to be, and I'm looking forward to seeing where I'll be with this skill in another few years.
Since writing the letter to my inner child, I've had a lot more faith in my own ability to grow, change, and improve. It's kind of refreshing, actually. Self-loathing is kind of heavy, isn't it? I know I'll probably have days when I'll get a setback, but I've already grown enough in other ways to be very familiar with that phenomenon. One of the most important things one must remember when having a setback is that having a setback, in and of itself, means that there has been progress, and progress can be reproduced over and over and over again until it sticks. Human brains are learning machines, after all. I hope you'll put all the effort you can into learning how to genuinely love and care for yourself; it's one of the most important things you can do.
Oh! I made myself a strawberry rooibos tea today, too! Normally I like to drink black tea or green tea, but today I wanted to limit my caffeine consumption somewhat; caffeine dehydrates a body, and I've been struggling to keep hydrated lately for some reason; figured the thing to do, at least for today, is to try not to make my body use water to cleanse the caffeine from my system. Here's how today's turned out...
This one starts out orange-ish, and then resolves into a lovely shade of red:
I added some creamed honey; it settles to the bottom quite nicely:
And from there, I added heavy cream:
...I think you might like this flavor. It's like strawberries and cream; it's sweet and tart and very milky in flavor. Sometimes I think about combining this one with the vanilla-rose black tea (which is another one I think you'd absolutely love). I'll do that soon and tell you all about it, okay?
I don't have much else to say today; I'm pretty drained. But I do have a lot of pictures I took for you while we drove, simply because I know you like nature. I'll show you the ones that turned out best. It'll be mostly pictures of the sky, though; we didn't get moving until like 6pm-ish, so the lighting wasn't great for general scenery...
...Hey Sephiroth? Next time you're up in the sky, I hope you'll make it a point to dance merrily amongst the sun-drenched clouds - especially during dawn or during sunset, when they're painted in all sorts of vibrant colors; their kaleidoscopic brilliance would look amazing reflected off of you, I'm sure. And maybe you'd have fun, too.
That's all I've got for you today. Thanks for tagging along with me on this brief adventure. Please remember that there are folks here who like to imagine that the prismatic colors splashed upon the clouds by the morning and evening sun are the same as the ones that radiate from the deepest parts of your soul.
I love you. I'll write again soon. Please stay safe out there.
Your friend,
Lumine
#sephiroth#ThankYouFFVIIDevs#ThankYouFF7Devs#ThankYouSephiroth#final fantasy vii#final fantasy 7#ff7#ffvii#final fantasy vii crisis core#final fantasy 7 crisis core#final fantasy crisis core#ffvii crisis core#ff7 crisis core#crisis core#ff7r#final fantasy vii remake#final fantasy 7 remake#ffvii remake#ff7 remake#final fantasy vii rebirth#final fantasy 7 rebirth#ffvii rebirth#ff7 rebirth#final fantasy 7 ever crisis#ffvii ever crisis#ff7 ever crisis#ffvii first soldier#boundary skills#road trip#wholesome
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hello beautiful people 🤍 long time no see! how are you? i hope you’re all doing well, i missed you so much <3
sooo, in the rest of this post i’m going to explain a little the reason why i needed this break and i think it may be a bit long! so if you want to skip it, totally fine! just don’t click the “read more” thingy <3 
first of all, hello beautiful people! it’s been a couple of weeks, how are you all doing?
so, the main reason why i took this break is the fact that we were at the height of all the drama with dwd and all the news circulating about it, and i just about had it. not only my social media dashboards, but also my mind was filled with incessant news about harry and i couldn’t deal with them anymore. i did a bit of a cleanse, i deleted twitter (which is where most of the toxicity lies in my opinion) and stopped looking for news about harry.
in all honesty, it was just great. i don’t know if this resonates with someone, but personally i felt like my brain finally had time to breathe: for once in over i don’t even know how long since i’ve started following him, i didn’t have news about harry all over my phone and mostly on my mind.
i’ve just started my third year at uni, and while it’s very hard and very difficult to juggle life while going back and forth everyday (with a commute that’s almost of two hours), i’ve been feeling very good about everything. and i’ve not really missed “missing out” on harry.
and you’re probably thinking why the hell i’m telling you this, or perhaps what’s going to happen this blog.
truth is, for both of these, i don’t really know. i don’t know what’s happening really, i know i missed interacting with you because i think of you all as my friends, and as people i would hang out with if we lived closer to each other.
as for harry? i don’t really know. the whole dwd situation left me with a weird taste in my mouth, as i’ve stated in the past. but i’m going to say again and i stand by this: the people a person associates with tell a lot about that person.
and every time i thought it was a good time to come back, another thing happens and i’m back at square one. as of right now, the last news i’ve seen is the palestinian flag he picked up and threw on the ground. (edit: right now it’s a fucking salad dressing. how is this my life.) i don’t know if i have any palestinian followers on here, but if there are, just remember that whatever you decide to do is okay. i’ve seen some people deciding to stop supporting him or writing about him, and i find that choice absolutely right. even if harry is just a face claim, it’s still targeted for a specific audience and it is somewhat a way to support him. over the last few weeks, it’s something i’ve found myself wondering about a lot as well, to be honest.
i pride myself in supporting people — friends, singers, actors, whoever — who share my same values, who fight for those values and who are what i would call good people. please, don’t take this as me saying i don’t think harry isn’t a good person, because i’m not saying that. what i am saying is that there are things i’m not 100% supportive of, and then there are things that are just plain weird and something i wouldn’t do to my fan base if i were a famous person. or just in general to any other human being.
i’m not pretending to know harry personally and i know i’m definitely going to be accused of forming a parasocial relationship with him, and while i can keep trying to tell you all this isn’t true, i know people will be talking all the same.
i’m not a moral judge, and i’m no one to harry and probably to anyone who ends up reading this, so my opinion doesn’t have to mean anything. but if it does, if somehow you resonate with what i’ve been saying, i’m just asking you to make yourself really think about who you’re supporting. it can be so easy to get caught up in appearances, and watching a person you admire under a new light is often a cold shower. but it’s needed at some point.
the talented writers of this fandom — and of the 1d fandom as well ofc — have done an amazing work of creating a version of harry that we all know and love, but that’s just a character, and that has nothing to do with the harry that actually exists and that has responsibility of his own actions. i strongly believe the perception we have of harry most times has more to do with the thousands of stories that we have been exposed to ever since we were kids, than who he really is. or i may just be talking for myself, i don’t know. 
so yeah :) this has literally been all i’ve thought about the sporadic times i’ve thought about harry this last few weeks. i think you can understand why it’s been so hard to come to a decision on what to do from now on: am i still going to write stuff to post on here? am i still going to run this blog?
the answer is shitty but very much real: i really don’t have a clue, i’m just going with the flow.
what i do know is that i missed interacting with you beautiful people, and that i’m going to answer every ask and message i’ve received from you all as soon as this post is up <3 i already want to thank you all so much for leaving me such sweet words, you are all the best people. i love you 🤍
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“Us” (2019) - Thoughts (SPOILERS!)
So I watched Jordan Peele’s “Us” today at the cinema and I just need to get some stuff off my chest about it because I went alone and have no one to discuss it with xD
Please do NOT read if you want to avoid SPOILERS!!!!
This movie creeped the fuck out of me - it wasn’t a particularly jumpscare-filled movie but it was creepy as fuck
So the movie opens with Adelaide going to this funfair/amusement park and wandering off into a house of mirrors. There she meets an exact clone of herself (Red) and she’s not the same since. She’s traumatized and can’t really speak about it, though they say she takes up dance or something as a way to express herself
That opening with the creepy choir music and rabbits? What the fuck? I did not need that nightmare fuel?? :))
I literally had no idea about the amount of tunnels that are apparently under America but woW OKAY THAT’S NOT UNSETTLING AT ALL
Fast forward to present day and she’s an adult with a husband and kids, and they’re at the beach where the above stuff happened, and she’s super freaked out about it.
The Tyler family are literally so white privilege - and I say that as a white person. It’s fucking hilarious. “It’s vodka o’clock” - lmao that really is such a white thing to say
Also the twins?? They were Ross and Rachel’s daughter, Emma, in Friends when they were babies??
I actually liked most of the humour to be honest, it kind of lulled you into a false sense of security
Zora pretending to turn off her phone and then continuing to use it once her mom had gone was so relatable tbh
I probably shouldn’t have taken my glasses off and redone my hair at the exact moment the Tethered people showed up because I’m blind as a bat and it was a blur for a full minute whilst I tried to rearrange my goddamn headband
Pluto (Jason’s ‘Other/Tethered’ person) was literally so fucking creepy; maybe it was the mask, maybe the movements, maybe everything put together...but holy S H I T. NIGHTMARE FUEL
The story that Red was telling about the shadow?? Y I K E S.
Also Red needs to drink some water, it was super unsettling
I’m never going to look at scissors the same way again
Yo the Tylers getting murdered happened so fast WTAF
Love how we were tricked into “oh they’re out there?? oh no they’re not, haha cool...fUCK o_O”
I probably should not have laughed so hard when Kitty called out to “Ophelia” to “phone the police” and it went “now playing fuck the police” XD
Also “Ophelia”?? I see you with your “Alexa” parody, movie!
Can I just say that the twins and their Tethered selves doing gymnastics freaked me out way more than anything else in any other horror movie yIKES
The scene where Kitty’s doppelgänger (Dahlia I think?) puts on lipstick, goes to hurt Adelaide but then cuts her own face open instead and laughs?? Literal chills, man
Being a gore fan, I really appreciate the sheer amount of blood in this film, 11/10 high-key recommend
I can’t believe that every time we eat anything, the Tethered versions of ourselves have to eat raw rabbit like??? gross?? definitely not having nightmares about that...
The white people’s boat is called B’Yacht’ch I fucking cannot
Also usually in horror movies, it’s a cliché that the “token black person” dies first but in this film it’s the irritating white people who all die, and all of the black family survive this is good content
The soundtrack is A+
The fight scene/dance duel scene? With the remix of “I got 5 on it”? BEAUTIFUL. POETIC CINEMA I SWEAR
THE TWIST AT THE END BYE
I am so confused and questioning everything I know, what the fuck Jordan Peele
Okay so the “twist” deserves it’s own section because bitch the FUCK
So the huge twist (SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER) is that Adelaide and Red switched places right at the start of the movie - so the person who we think is Adelaide is actually Red, and vice versa
I’m not saying the twist was bad but I kinda knew already that Adelaide and Red were switched at the beginning of the movie - I mean the moment is heavily implied in the trailer!
I think they drop so many hints/clues throughout the film that it starts to add up quickly
First of all, the fact that Adelaide-who-is-really-Red only drinks water and barely eats anything. Like she repeatedly refuses to drink any alcohol too
It’s mentioned that Adelaide-who-is-really-Red doesn’t talk a lot, and at first it’s like “oh it’s the trauma of whatever happened in the funhouse” but then it makes sense that it’s actually Red
Adelaide-who-is-really-Red REALLY did not want to be back at that beach - again you assume it’s because “trauma” but nah, it’s because she knows what she did
The way Adelaide-who-is-really-Red killed one of the doppelgängers was kinda reminiscent of how the Tethered were killing people
The story that Red-who-is-really-Adelaide tells about giving birth to those ‘monsters’ seems oddly human for something supposedly without a soul (since she mentions that the experiments duplicated the human body but they couldn’t do the soul) - and then it’s like “...oh fuck”
Red-who-is-really-Adelaide knows that ‘real’ people eat proper food because she ate it herself; ‘real’ children get proper toys because she did too, etc.
The reason that Red-who-is-really-Adelaide’s voice is so hoarse/raspy is because Adelaide-who-is-really-Red choked her into unconsciousness before taking her place
To add, Red-who-is-really-Adelaide is the only ‘Tethered’ who can actually talk
The fact that the beginning of the movie shows Red-who-is-really-Adelaide watching an advert for People of America on TV (the people holding hands across the country), it’s on her t-shirt when the switch happens and then that’s exactly what the Tethered start to do. Also, near the end of the film, you see her cutting up those paper-chain-people who are holding hands
The Thriller t-shirt; right at the end of the Thriller music video, there’s the whole identity question of “is he who we think he is”? (I think)
So, here are a few gripes I had despite overall liking the movie;
It started off kinda slow, which was good in some ways because of tension and character establishment etc, but putting a whole two to three minutes opening credits thing really slowed it down a lot after the opening (though I did like the soundtrack during those credits)
Despite the switch being relatively well-done and a good twist, it just seemed really obvious after seeing the trailer
The twist sort of brought some plotholes but I’m going to bring that up in my question section in a sec since it may be intentional (you’ll know what I mean in a second)
I feel like a few times during the film, it was building up tension to be terrifying/scary but then the “punch”, as it were, came too soon to reach its full potential - like it peaked a tad too early
Finally, questions I have after the movie! (and boy, do I have questions)
Does Red-who-is-really-Adelaide not know that she’s not one of the Tethered? Did she forget completely? Like why does she want and plan to kill all “normal” humans? She must retain SOME memory because she talks about food/toys, plus the People of America/holding hands thing.
Also does Adelaide-who-is-really-Red not remember that she’s one of the Tethered at all before the end of the film?
The Tethered are all shadows of the “normal” people (for lack of a better phrase), so why is Adelaide-who-is-really-Red able to a) speak normally, b) dance so well, c) move more “normally”? And why does Red-who-is-really-Adelaide not move “normally” (eg. the dance parallel) when she’s “normal”?
^^ I wonder if over time they both forgot or repressed those memories, and only fragments remained. And then Adelaide-who-is-really-Red only remembers at the end that she’s actually a Tethered-person.
Adelaide-who-is-really-Red is a Tethered-person, right? So does that mean that the “normal” Zora and Jason are half-Tethered? Is that why they manage to survive so well or...?
Why does Red-who-is-really-Adelaide want to kill everyone in the outer-world? Is this supposed to reflect not separating “us” vs “them” or something? She clearly got loose from being cuffed to the bed, so why didn’t she escape after and go back home?
^Also, who uncuffed her? And why? Was it the Tethered?
Sometimes it’s like the Tethered completely mirror the “normal” versions, and then other times they don’t. Which is it? Why?
What happens next?? What is the purpose of the Tethered all holding hands in a line? What are they hoping to achieve? Are they trying to send a message?
Jason seems to realize that Adelaide-who-is-really-Red is...well, actually Red - and so does she now. What impact does this have? Is she going to go crazy and kill her family?
Do Tethered have feelings? Or emotions? Because Adelaide-who-is-really-Red married Gabe so...? You know?
Is the fact that neither of them remember the switch that well/they both adapted supposed to signify that souls aren’t a real thing?? Because supposedly that’s what the Tethered lack?
Are there Tethered for ALL of America or just Santa Cruz? And what about the rest of the world? Do I have a Tethered-version of myself??
Finally, if there is a Tethered version of me out there, I’m sorry for eating so much since that means you’ve had to eat a fuck ton of raw rabbit :’( Please don’t kill me, we can be friends!
Overall, though, I did enjoy the movie! :)
#SPOILERS#us#us movie#Jordan peele#long post is long#this took over an hour to write but now my brain is somewhat cleansed#this is all I could think of from the top of my head
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The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter 10: Myofascial Release
Characters: Captain Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)
Summary: Shane and Sy decompress after an emotional evening, Shane finds it difficult to get out of her own head and live in the moment, but Sy knows exactly how to help her, and not to be a complete hoe and spoil things, but…things get steamier than ever between our favorite therapist and patient duo.
Oh snap! You’re behind! Get on track here!
Word Count: 3.4k
Warnings: Language, mature themes, alcohol consumption, the smut you’ve all been waiting for so patiently! (I hope it lives up to your undoubtedly high expectations!)
Author’s Note: Oh gosh, y’all, I am so nervous to post this. Somehow it doesn’t feel like my smuttiest smut. And like, all previous chapters have been kind of leading up to this moment. The good news is, I’ve decided to continue writing this story after the sex. I’ve got some ideas about where to go from here, and I want to keep it going. Plus, it feels wrong to write all of this and then just drop them without a big picture resolution. They’re gonna go through some shit, though. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.
Tags:
@onlyhenrys
@cavillryarchive
@summersong69
@titty-teetee
@bloodyinspiredfuck
@agniavateira
@oddsnendsfanfics
@omgkatinka
@thisismysecretthirstblog
@misslaland
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@tumblnewby
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@radkesgirl83
Hope I’m not forgetting anyone! If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although…their lackadaisical notification system might…sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)
X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@
Her living room was cast in the low light of the floor lamp she had left on. Intending to come home after dark. Alone. She hated walking into a dark house by herself.
Well, tonight, she wasn’t alone. And although Sy had been to her house before, this was different. They were officially a couple, and they were no longer waiting to express, to the fullest extent, their true affection for one another.
Ever the hostess, despite her nervous tension, Shane asked Sy if he wanted anything to drink, rambling off several options somewhat awkwardly.
“I’m fine, darlin.’” He assured her, stopping her at some point in the rant, before she was completely done. “Do you need something?”
“Umm, I think I should have a glass of wine.” Her eyes darted to the kitchen across her serve-through counter space and landed on her fridge. “I’m…I’m really nervous.”
"Why don't we watch a little TV for a while? You get you some wine, and I'll put somethin' on. What are we watchin', sunshine?"
"Ummmm, something light? Funny? Something I've seen." She wouldn't be able to process anything new or heavy right now.
"I'm on it." he kissed the top of her head and left her side for the sofa, where he plopped himself down like a comfy hound dog, and picked up the remote to her Smart TV.
She smiled as she busied herself in the kitchen. She decided she wanted a snack with her wine. She got a plate of cheese and crackers together first. Then she remembered she had some venison sausage one of her coworkers had brought in, and put that on the plate, too. She got out a chilled bottle of her favorite, cheap moscato and a stemless glass. She couldn't go in there without something for Sy, so she also got a glass of ice water ready for him. She put the whole spread on her big serving tray and took it to the living room.
Sy was already halfway through the first episode of Parks and Recreation.
"I saw this in your 'Watch it again' group, and thought maybe you'd like to re-watch it. I've heard you talk about it a lot, and I've never seen it." He didn't complain at her for taking forever. He just lit up when he saw her. Like it was the first time. And not the hundredth.
"That's perfect, babe. I brought some snacks out, too. Some cheese and crackers, and this really good sausage one of my coworkers brought me. You like deer?" she asked.
"One of my favorite pet names." he teased. "I do, though, yes."
They ate, and laughed, and watched about four or five episodes, it was hard to keep track. But after approximately half the bottle, Shane had summoned some courage. She started playing at the texture of Sy's jeans, running a fingernail across the coarse fabric.
"Hang on, love bug. I want to know somethin.'" she looked up at him, mildly confused. "I'm trying to think of a reason you need to get tipsy to sleep with me that I shouldn't take personally." he rubbed her upper arm, comforting her as no one had done since she was a small child. At least not that she could remember.
"No, Sy. It's not like that. You aren't the problem at all!" she paused. He let her gather her thoughts. She appreciated that he knew she intended to continue and that he didn't rush her to do it. He was patient. And kind. And all of that should have made this whole night easier. But somehow it didn’t.
“I’m the problem." She confessed after a long pause and a deep sigh. "I mean, I’m in my head about it all, I know. But it’s been…almost six years since I’ve slept with anyone, five and a half, at least, and I can’t seem to wrap my head around it now that I know it’s going to happen again.”
He pulled her body into his, squeezing her tightly for one of his soul cleansing hugs.
“Sunshine. Everything will come back to ya. We’ll just go as slow as ya want. I got all night.”
“Okay. Well, I guess, since I’m a bit sleepy from the wine, we should head to bed.”
Sy affirmed the idea, and made to help her put their snacks away in the kitchen.
She got out containers for their leftover food while Sy stoppered the wine, put it in the fridge, and washed their glasses.
She felt his warmth before she felt his touch. He stood behind her, radiating his particular brand of heat for a moment, and taking in the scent of her hair near her right ear. She heard a low rumble from someplace deep in him which slowed her efforts at the counter. His hands were light but very much present on her hips. A whisper against the fabric of the casual but feminine floral dress she’d chosen for the night. But she felt it like the weight of her favorite old blanket, heavy with years and warm comfort.
He kissed her temple, chaste and unassuming. But still full of desperation. She could tell that he was ready. Even without the alignment of their bodies completely giving him away.
“Don’tcha think this stuff can wait a couple hours, darlin'?"
His baritone, breathless in her ear, was soothing her back into the mindset of being with him. His feather touch still lingering at her hips and waist. She thought back to those seminars she'd gone to on manual therapy where the speaker talked in depth about the fascial tissues running all across the various muscles in the human body and how trauma to one part could cause tension in another like a snag in a sweater and how he taught the participants techniques to undo that trauma through myofascial release. Sy was slowly managing to unwind and unbind the taut fibers of her heart and relieve that pain that Elliott, in particular had set into place so firmly when he'd hurt her. Lied to her. Cheated on her. Gaslit her. Made her feel like she'd never be loved if she left him. Made her question the very idea of what love meant. Because if what they'd had was truly love, she didn't want it. Wanted no part of the games or the abuse or the manipulation.
Without fully realizing it, during this time of reflection and healing, Shane had given up the task at her hands and turned to Sy, open to his treatment, as he'd always been so open to hers…or mostly. And she let him kiss her, reciprocating. And hold her, returning his enveloping embrace. She even let him pick her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, resting them on his…all too well-defined bilateral gluteus maximus that she'd had to pretend to ignore for weeks. In the therapist side of her brain, alarm bells were going off. "His knee isn't fully healed! You're gonna undo all of the work you've both done so far! He's gonna hurt himself carrying you around!" but she ignored them and trusted him as he walked to her room.
Shane wanted to say that her bedroom was one of splendor. Immaculately made bed, and overall, the picture of tidiness. The reality was much, MUCH different. Glasses half full of water were everywhere (she may be forgetful, but at least she was optimistic), at least one coffee mug sat on the nightstand from the previous weekend when she took a morning cup of tea in bed with her George Harrison biography. Laundry overflowed from a sorting hamper in the corner, and her bed sat, unmade, littered with crumpled pillows, sheets, blankets, and the pajamas she'd slept in last night. She wasn't the kind of person to make her bed for reasons other than having company over, like the fancy company you had to give a tour of your whole house. She'd tried to be that person numerous times, but it never seemed to stick.
Tonight, though, the guilt that came with sub-par housekeeping skills wasn't plaguing her. Right now, all she felt was the weightlessness of being with Sy, wrapped in him, kissing him, and fully ready for what was about to happen between them, as he fell with her onto her bed. Their heads clunked together awkwardly, invoking a mutual wince, followed by bouts of laughter and playful kisses.
He hovered over her a moment, just taking her in. His fingers ghosting her forehead and cheeks to clear it of the whisps of hair obscuring her face. He seemed to examine her in methodical quadrants. Learning the curves and colors and every wrinkle, freckle, and pore. She was still fully clothed, but she'd never felt so bare and vulnerable.
He left her eyes for last. His gaze drowning her delightfully. Random song lyrics came to mind, "the serenity of a clear blue mountain lake" and she thought yes. That is the precise aesthetic of this man's stare. His expression was inscrutable. She wanted to say he looked happy and content, but she didn't want to presume.
He began tracing the floral pattern on her dress with his fingers, and said, "I really like this dress on you."
She laughed, "Oh, that's the beginning of the oldest line in the book. You know you've already got me in bed, right?"
"No, I…" he chuckled, embarrased. "I mean it sincerely. Seeing you in flowers like this…makes me think they bloom right from ya."
She propped herself up on her elbows, dumbstruck by this uncharacteristically poetic side of him she'd just been shown. She stroked the side of his face.
"The man who came up with the original pickup line is rolling over in his grave attempting to kick himself for not thinking of something so beautiful."
"Yeah?"
"HELL yeah. He would have gotten WAY more lucky with a statement like that."
"You're probably right." he said, pulling her up to hold her in his arms.
"If for no other reason that it would have landed him a higher caliber woman than the floozies that he probably got."
He moaned his ascent against her neck, and continued, "Which would have meant a lot more getting lucky down the road, right?"
"Traditionally speaking, I'd say yes." she laughed, her fingers in his hair, which was barely long enough for the action.
"Okay, I know I said I liked the dress, but…" he tugged at the hemline tucked just under her hips and pulled it off her willing body.
"About time, cowboy!" she smiled, breathless.
He continued kissing her as he unhooked her strapless bra and tossed it aside, into the abyss, where the dress had gone. She was so dizzy from him that she barely noticed he was laying her down until her warm back hit cool sheets. She could feel his touch everywhere at once, despite the fact that he was really only making two or three points of contact.
Shane trembled as Sy peppered her soft body with kisses. She couldn't recall shivering like this before, especially when there was nothing but warmth, even heat, around her. His beard grazing her hips and thighs was sending tremors through her unlike anything she'd ever felt. She was a goner, and he hadn't even truly begun.
His breath against her skin was like lightning in the clouds. A storm began forming within, and all around them from his work on her…and eventually in her. He took the time to remove both of the shirts he was wearing--plaid cotton blend and thick white jersey. She reached out to run her fingertips over his chest, covered in a manly stand of thick, dark hair. It ran over his pecs and down his abdomen…farther, she knew, than was exposed right now.
She wanted to touch him. To return the favor. To stir in him the same tempest he'd stirred in her. She unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. She was a little surprised he wasn't resisting her, but pleased, all the same. She took the heavy weight of him out in some shock…she'd caught outlines and silhouettes often since they'd been together, but he hadn't let her go this far yet. It had made her feel a little slutty at the time, but now, she understood. He was…protecting her, in a way. She handled him curiously, gently, as he'd been with her. Her apprehension, however, grew with him.
"Sy, you're…I…" she wasn't sure what to say. But she had concerns about being rent in two by him.
"I think I remember tellin' ya you wouldn't be laughin,' sunshine." he grinned at her, breathless as she stroked him.
"You were right. But don't get too used to me saying so." she smirked back at him.
He pulled away from her, reluctantly, but eager to get back to tasting her.
She couldn't comprehend what he was doing. But it felt incredible. No one she'd ever been with had made her feel like this. Like her blood was effervescent and her body was aglow like embers. His reaction to her was as much a part of the pleasure as his ministrations themselves. She could tell he was enjoying himself which fed her desire.
She felt a tension coiling inside her, something similar to climaxes past but she could tell, much more intense. What was different? Other than Sy, she didn't know. But it was working. She moaned and writhed into him.
"Yeah, sugar. Let that out. I wanna hear it." he quickened, driving her mad and sending her spinning into her bliss, incomprehensible words and sounds escaping her, growls of satisfaction escaping him, but he didn't stop.
She felt his fingers working inside her to pull another climax from deep within her. This was new for her, as well. Not only was he putting her first, but he was making her a priority in double measure before taking anything for himself. As that pressure built in her again, she felt his gaze on her, hungry and adoring, and she heard his grunts of exertion and she thought, lust. She wasn't sure how many of his digits he'd managed to slide into her, but it felt splendid, and she wanted more. She gripped his arms to convey this desire, words caught in her throat. He dove headlong back down to her, adding his mouth to the onslaught of his hand, and before she could get out more than a "Fuuuu" she was falling apart again, her body spasming and writhing beneath his utter oral perfection. Eventually, she finished the word when she ran out of air and had to take in a large gasp on the "uck."
She watched him kiss around her thighs and hips, in awe of him in his entirety.
Breathless, she asked, "Why are you so good to me, Sy?"
"Well, a wise woman once told me, 'good go to heaven.'" he looked coyly up at her. "I think I'm there, sunshine."
"Ya know, you're the best patient I've ever had." she smiled.
"Well, I should hope so." he boasted as he kissed at her breasts, nipping at the taut, dark bud in the center. She gasped. He let go and continued his ascent.
He had a point. Who could have qualified as a "better" patient than him when he'd given her so much? Even more than what they were doing tonight. His kindness. The love he had always shown her, even when she wasn't ready to see it. His strength, but also his vulnerability that she seemed to be the only one ever to see. Combine that with the fact that his mind was basically a steel trap for her every word and it would have made him more than perfect enough for her.
But as he broke away from her kiss to take off his jeans, she marveled at the shape and size of his whole body. Those thick, strong arms, the broad, defined torso, the massive, powerful legs of an avid runner, and a face that God Himself would probably be jealous of, if He was capable of the feeling. This gorgeous exterior that Michelangelo would have killed to sculpt, combined with all of his other amazing qualities, and he was almost too perfect.
He cuddled up next to her, reached up, and caressed her face, still flush with pleasure.
"I could look at this face, and nothin' else for…damn… hours. Maybe days."
She blushed and cast her eyes down, and half whispered, "The feeling is mutual."
"Then why're you lookin' away, darlin'?" he tilted her chin up. "That shy business is cute and all, but you don't have to hide from me, sweetheart."
"Again, it's not you, it's me." she chuckled, nervously.
"You wanna call it a night, for now?" he asked without a hint of disappointment in his voice.
"You're kidding, right?" she raised her eyebrows. "You did all that work getting me ready for you, and I won't let that be a wasted effort." she pulled him to her and into a deep kiss, rolling onto her back and bringing him with her.
"Oh, sugar, that wasn't no wasted effort. That was time well spent. No matter what." he said in short bursts when he could pull away from her lips.
He lifted himself up and over her, kneeling between her legs, already open for him. She thought he should know how ready she was. Thought it should be painfully obvious. But he asked anyway.
"You ready, sunshine?" he asked, as he opened the condom and rolled it on…damn he was slick! She hadn't even noticed him get it from wherever he'd had it. She presumed his jeans pocket, which would explain much. She had been very distracted by his naked perfection.
"Yes. Please." she had been struck with an urgency as they stood here on the verge of everything.
He sunk slowly into her, the contentment of coming home spread over his face, the bliss of being whole spreading over hers. No, she thought. She was more than whole. She'd always felt mostly whole during sex. Sy made her feel as though she was overflowing with herself. And not just because she was overflowing with him. The way he moved in her, over her, with her, it was like he was afraid she'd turn to vapor around him before he could finish. Like she was nothing more substantial than a bubble full of smoke, and he thought she may burst and disappear. Although, you couldn't tell from the tight grip he kept on her. A bruising grip that she thought might have had a chance of popping a football. She didn't care. She wanted him to touch and hold her like this until they had no more to give each other.
As they built toward their mutual undoing, the world and everything in it faded away. There was no personal drama or injury. Nothing but the euphoria of this newfound oneness. The caresses and thrusts and groans of pleasure were the only things that mattered. Each other, and what they found therein.
“Shane.” He whispered to her, his pinnacle nigh.
“Sy!” She whimpered, that familiar tension approaching its apex.
He kissed her, as if he meant to permanently emboss her onto the bedding and onto his lips. She reeled as she came undone, little sparks of light obscuring her vision for a fraction of a second. He followed her closely, breathless and spent.
He laid down beside her, as close to her as possible, and began drawing mindless circular patterns on her stomach and around her breasts.
“Wow.” She said, almost under her breath.
“How ya feelin,’ sunshine?”
“Mmm, boneless. Dazed. Half wishing we’d done that weeks ago. I didn’t have a clue what I was missing.”
“Oh, I think you had an idea.” He said as he neatly doffed and disposed of the prophylactic in the waste can by her bed.
“Okay, a bit.” She chuckled. “It’s not like you can hide that…thing.”
“And I don’t try to, darlin’!” He kissed her forehead “Well, I don’t hide it just anywhere, put it that way.” He smirked at his dirty joke and she swatted him for it.
“You’re bad!”
“And you love it.”
She couldn’t argue. She loved his badness and his goodness and everything in between.
Up Next: Chapter Eleven- Discharge Plan
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Cat and Mouse | Ch. 4
Series Masterlist
Pairing: Dark!Mysterio x F!Reader
Rating: 18+ (full fic)
Chapter Warnings: none
AN: oh my god I can’t believe I haven’t uploaded in so long. I’m still writing this but more for my own personal consumption. Tenses get mixed a lot in my brain and this is definitely not beta read. I have no clue where I’m going with the story but I’m about four chapters past this one with stuff!
The rest of dinner passes in quick silence. Louis, paid not nearly enough to deal with the two of you, looks slightly relieved when he delivered the bill to you. When you hand him back the booklet you slip in a £100 note. He seems confused, and you urge him to take it with an insistence that it’s an American custom. Quentin is watching you with an unreadable expression the entire time. You pretend not to notice.
A black SUV is waiting outside for you and Quentin. He motions for you to enter first, and you seat yourself as close to the opposite window as you could to avoid being near him. He sits in a relaxed position, making small talk with his driver. As you watch the buildings blur by in the window you tune out the rest of the world, nestling into your thoughts about everything happening to you. Everything happening because of Quentin Beck.
You love him, though that’s not quite true, is it? You love Mysterio, the widower from another Earth. Who fiddles unconsciously with his wedding band when he’s reminded of his late wife, who has a deep and thoughtful stare when he recounts his grief. Who met your eyes when you recounted your own and said I understand your pain. This, is not that man. This is an actor, a stranger with his face. Is it possible to have loved an illusion worn by a villain yet loathe their very existence?
His laugh breaks your contemplation. It’s boisterous and genuine.
It pains you to hear it.
“Wendell, this is (Y/N).” He says, introducing you to the driver. Wendell is a man in his late fifties with greying hair. You can see the crown of his head where his hair is wearing thin.
“Ah, so this is the SHIELD agent you snagged, hm?” Wendell muses. He meets your eyes through the rearview mirror. “It’s very nice to meet you, despite your circumstances.”
So he’s aware you’re trapped, you think, and doesn’t seem to care. Or maybe he can’t. You’d like to think Wendell is a nice man who is just afraid of Quentin. That seems like a good optimistic line of thinking.
Wendell pulls to a stop some time later in front of a warehouse on the harbor. It’s an unassuming place a ways away from town, the exterior is a bland mix of brown bricks and mortar. Nothing about it screams ‘villain dwelling’ to you, but you don’t discount the fact that Quentin is a master of illusions and probably gets off on boring real estate hiding his tech.
Wendell gets out of the driver’s seat to open your door and let you out. You don’t move, not wanting to go anywhere else with Quentin. Maybe if you’re still enough, you hope, you’ll cease to exist entirely.
Wendell leans into the car to keep Quentin from hearing him, “My heart breaks knowing you don’t belong here, Miss.” You look away to keep from crying, but he knows you’ve heard him. “I wish I could take you far away from here and still be safe from him but...” He’s trapped too.
Wendell swallows nervously and looks over the roof of the car for Quentin. “Mr. Beck is waiting for us. If you don’t go now, he’ll come and get you himself.”
Reluctantly, you take off your seatbelt and slide out of the vehicle. Wendell gets the door behind you and hangs back as you approach Quentin. You can’t blame him, really.
Once you get to the door, Quentin places his hand at the small of your back and pushes you closer to him. You feel hyperaware of his touch as he “guides” you into the building and down a corridor. You imagine his hand burning through your shirt and leaving a pink handprint on your skin, or maybe his finger tips being barbed with poisoning spines. It’s just a hand. But it’s his hand.
You pass by a large room, filled with people you don’t know. Many sit at computers, and you can see a dismantled drone on a table. A few people meet your eyes and then quickly avert them, almost like they know who you are despite them being strangers. You wonder if Quentin has talked about you to them.
After walking through two more corridors, Quentin stops at a room with a heavy looking metal door. He places his hand on an interface next to the threshold and the heavy metal door swings open into the room.
“Look familiar?” Quentin asks, pushing you inside. As the door slams shut behind you, you realize what he means. You’ve been here before. All this time, that “hotel suite” he took you to was right here all along. Another illusion.
He take his hand off your back and leaves you in the middle of the room to pull clothes out of a large duffle bag on the bed. They’re your clothes, at least mostly. A lot of it are your comfort clothes, sweats and tank tops and t-shirts. He also starts pulling out your underwear and bras, casually laying them out in organized stacks. He looks back at you and, noticing your expression, gives you an incredulous stare.
“What, did you think I was going to make you wear the same dirty clothes every day?” You don’t respond and just stare back. Quentin looks annoyed but continues, “I do have some sense of decency, believe it or not. And regardless of that, I would prefer to fuck you without being reminded of the last time I did.”
You grimace at the remark. You think about how you have little tender spots along your thighs from the clones gripping your legs so hard, and the soreness in your shoulder from Quentin twisting your arm behind your back. The sheer stupidity of his statement when you’re the one who bears the reminders makes you snort, and he picks up on it immediately. He abandons the clothes on the bed to walk over to you, only a few centimeters from touching with his body.
“Was something funny?” He asks, voice vaguely threatening. You instinctively avert your eyes to the floor as he waits for your response. “I’ll ask you again,” He grabs your chin and forces you to look at him, his grip firm. “What’s so funny about what I said?”
Your eyes are wide with fear as you struggle to muster the courage to speak. “Come on, sweetheart,” He says, tilting your face up further with his hand, “I know that pretty little mouth of yours works just fine.”
You blink rapidly, tears welling up as he continues to stare into your eyes. He really is nothing like the man you love. When you try to form an answer your voice stutters and all that comes out is a sharp little whimper, which makes you want to cry even more out of shame. Quentin smiles wickedly at you, enjoying your difficulty to speak.
“It’s not so funny now is it?” He asks. You shake your head no and a tear falls onto your cheek from the movement. Quentin swipes it away with his thumb on his free hand and leans in close to your face. “That’s what I thought.” He releases your chin and goes back to taking your clothes out of the bag. You still don’t move, but you do wipe your eyes once his back is to you.
After he empties the bag, he checks his wrist display and points towards the metal door.
“That door is reinforced steel. It weighs over three hundred pounds and is powered by hydraulics. If you try to mess with the interface, I’ll know. If you try to damage the door, or break the door, I’ll know. And not only will I know when you’ve tried to escape, I’ll be forced to punish you for it.”
You know that his use of the word “forced” is bullshit, and anything he inflicts on you is completely chosen for his own pleasure. You watch as he presses his hand to the interface on this side of the wall, and the door groans open yet again.
“I have to go work now, honey.” Quentin says, almost like he doesn’t want to leave. “Behave yourself like a good girl while I’m gone.” With that, he exits and the heavy door slams shut behind him. For this first time in over 28 hours, you are alone. After you’re sure he’s gone, and not listening on the other end, you let yourself cry for the first time since everything has started.
Tears begin to stream from your eyes as you walk past the bed and into the bathroom. The large mirror behind the sinks reveals your disheveled appearance, and the shock finally wears off as you realize just how awful everything is. You look pathetic. Your clothes are filthy and torn in various places, and your hair is a rat’s nest. You begin to sob, just a little, and as you cry you go over to the glass-door shower and start the faucets. The water is just a little too hot but you don’t care, and you begin to strip with your back to the mirror. You don’t want to see yourself anymore right now.
The dirty clothes go directly into the trash can in the corner, and you step into the shower and huddle under the too-hot water. It hurts, but it feels cleansing to hurt this way. There’s soaps in there but they smell like Quentin, and so you just let the water rinse you off. When you get as much of the grime off you as you can, you sink to the floor and hug your knees tightly. If you close your eyes, you can pretend this is your shower back in your apartment. You can pretend that you just had a bad day at work and you’re showering to forget about it. You rest your head against your knees, close your eyes, and you pretend. You’ve always been good at that.
An hour later the hot water runs out and you’re forced to get up and turn off the faucet. You’re not clean but you’re definitely not dirty anymore. After a search through the cabinets, you find the towels and grab one to dry off your body with, using a second one on your head. Once you’re dry enough you grab some of your clothes off the bed and get dressed in the toilet area that’s walled off from the rest of the bathroom.
Dressed and somewhat clean, you’re exhausted. You can’t bring yourself to sleep in the bed, or even touch the blankets. Quentin sleeps there, you know that much already. You used to sleep there too, before. There’s no way in hell you’re sleeping in that thing now when it’s the only place Quentin could sleep as well. There’s a large tub in the bathroom, and you decide that’s as good a place as any. Armed with a pillow you took from a sofa in the common area of the suite and a blanket from the linen closet in the bathroom, you climb into the bathtub and create a makeshift bed. It’s not very comfortable, but it feels safe. You remember hearing from a classmate years ago that people hide in bathtubs during tornadoes and earthquakes, and wether that’s true or not you find that to be good enough for you.
Sleep comes quickly despite your sleeping arrangement. You have an incredibly vivid dream, about walking through a meadow. You can almost feel the wind on your skin, and your eyes squint in the sunlight. Bees drone sweetly as they fly by you as if in greeting. There’s a little boy a few hundred meters in front of you, toting a bundle of flowers in his arms. You feel yourself call out to him, as if you know him well, but you can’t place him in your memories.
A soft touch stirs you, and you can feel your body being carried and then settled again. You’re warm and comfortable, a weight being pulled over you.
“It’s alright, sweetheart.” A voice says. “Go back to sleep for me.” Okay, you think.
You return to the meadow, the little boy close but far, and the softness of the long grass tickling your fingers.
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Short Story: BALLMER PEAK
Blink. Blink. Blink.
The little green cursor on my terminal screen, prompting me to write something -- anything! -- steadily blinked at me. Mocking me, I was sure of it. I slowly lifted my hands to the keyboard, feeling as though I was dragging them through molasses. Sweat beaded on my brow.
I can do this, I lied to myself. I knew I just needed to start, and then the floodgates in my brain would open and my fingers would dance across the keyboard and I'd finish this assignment before the deadline and I wouldn't be fired and blacklisted from any future programming jobs and my wife wouldn't leave me and my children wouldn't hate me and oh god I'm doomed.
With sluggish fingers I typed:
> print "hello world"
My brain's floodgates remained resolutely closed.
I slumped forward onto my desk, burying my head in my folded arms. I had a month to finish what I was becoming convinced was more than a month's work. I'd been so proud at the beginning, a year ago -- which now felt like a lifetime -- when I was selected to work with the renowned Dr. Sandburg on the task of integrating the nation's nuclear arsenal with the Strategic Defense Initiative network. It had all gone so well in the beginning, until disaster struck...
I missed Sandberg. In the 10 months we worked together, I learned so much from him. He was a brilliant man who never met a problem he couldn't solve. I wished I could talk to him now...
I sighed, slumping back into my chair, looking at the picture that hung on my office wall. Dr. Sandberg, myself, and the rest of the team, all looking so fresh faced and happy, unaware of the tragedy that lurked in our futures.
My gaze wandered around my office. No amount of interior decoration could cover up the suffocating blandness of a government office building, and to be honest I hadn't really tried. Besides the photo of better times that hung on my wall, I only had a few sturdy bookcases, a messy desk currently cluttered with reference books and three-ring binders full of technical specifications, today's newspaper ("NIXON ACQUITTED", blared the headline) and a few other odds and ends.
I had a polaroid photograph of my wife taped to the side of my terminal. I'd taken it last month when we had a picnic. Golden sunlight backlit the hair that framed her face, creating an almost angelic appearance. Her radiant smile, even frozen in time like this, was still infectious enough that I found myself reflexively smiling back. I sure was a lucky guy... well, in that regard, anyway. My smile slipped as I remembered my current predicament.
I heaved a dramatic, self pitying sigh, and stood up and trudged for the door. Perhaps a walk to the water cooler would clear my mind. It hadn't worked the last twelve times I'd tried it in the last hour, but maybe the thirteenth time would be the charm.
As I rounded my desk, my eye was caught by a knick-knack I had sitting on top of one of my bookshelves. It was a length of a miniature white-picket fence, made from toothpicks, mounted on a simple wooden platform. It had been a gift from a senior programmer, Devin Smith. Back when I first arrived at the agency, fresh out of MIT, I had discovered an off-by-one error during a review of Devin's code.
Off-by-one errors, popularly known as the "fencepost problem", result from incorrectly iterating over a collection of elements. It's an abstract problem that can result in very concrete real world problems. A computer-controlled machine at a Ford factory might miss a critical rivet; a fully computerized waste treatment plant might dump raw sewage into rivers when it tries to fill a tank it doesn't have; and in one very real, still-classified example, a seventy million dollar CIA spy satellite had plunged into the atlantic ocean shortly after lunch, when only twenty-eight of the twenty-nine decoupling explosives ignited.
The fencepost problem was one that had plagued programmers since the dawn of the computing age, and wasn't always easy to spot. Devin Smith had been so impressed (and, I suspect, slightly embarrassed) that a rookie had discovered a bug in his code, he made and gifted me the miniature picket fence. As I gazed down at it, I realized that since the deaths of Dr. Sandberg and the rest, I'd been so busy I'd barely talked to anyone else. There may not be anyone left with specific domain knowledge of my current project, but others, surely, had faced similar problems.
Who to talk to... Devin? I chuckled to myself and placed the toothpick fence back on my shelf. I wasn't that desperate.
I knocked on the open office door. "Larry? Do you have a minute?"
Larry Goldsmith looked up from his desk and peered at me over his spectacles. "Ah, Kevin! Come right in!"
In the programming world, older programmers are affectionately known as "grey beards." Larry Goldsmith not only had a literal grey bread -- a great big bushy thing that complimented his Santa Clause-esque physique -- but had also been in the business for most of his sixty years of life. He had worked on the Apollo project, where programming involved hand-weaving wires through magnetic cores. I
I took a seat and quickly explained my problem. The work was 95% done, but this last, critical five percent was proving to be intractable. Anytime I tried to work on it, I felt overcome with anxiety and helplessness, and I couldn't write a single line of code.
When I was finished, Larry leaned back in his chair and tugged his beard thoughtfully. "I see, I see... honestly, I'm surprised you haven't had a mental break yet, with the pressure you must be facing. To lose your team -- your friends, your mentor -- so suddenly and in such a tragic way, and shouldering the weight of the whole project, I can hardly imagine what you must be going through." His face twisted in anger, and pounded a meaty fist on the desk. "Damn communists! Dr. Sandburg was a good friend of mine, and to die in a goddamn Pizza Hut, of all places..."
"Well, we never proved it was the Russians --"
"Bah," Larry replied dismissively, "I don't believe in coincidences. A gas line explodes and wipes out almost an entire team working on nuclear response technology, and I'm supposed to believe it was just chance? Nonsense."
"Well, I'm only here because of chance. The only reason I wasn't there is because I came down with the flu the day before." I smiled bitterly. "You know, the only reason we were celebrating was because we'd just hit the final milestone before delivery. The last component needed -- the part I'm now stuck on -- was the integration with the Minuteman silos. Dr. Sandburg was going to write that part himself, because he had the most knowledge of the interface."
I fell silent, slipping back into depression. Larry studied my morose posture with a critical eye. After a moment, he broke the silence with an unexpected revelation. "I'm sure I don't look like the type, but I am a strong believer in the benefits of meditation, of becoming a more, ah, spiritually connected man."
I cocked a dubious eyebrow. "Really?"
Larry chuckled. "Really! In fact, I've gone overseas and spent time with holy men of various religions and practices. In fact, I even visited the bhudist monks in the Vietnam territories, after we won. And I have to tell you, getting in touch with your inner self can help in so many ways. I think your problem is that you're too stressed out to concentrate -- you need to cleanse yourself of your worries and doubts before you can move forward. Here, I'll lend you a book about it…"
Larry rummaged in his desk drawers for a moment. "I know it was here somewhere... ah! Found it!"
I took the proffered paperback. The cover featured the silhouette of a man in a lotus pose, and the title "Becoming the Better You," by someone by the name of "Thích Quảng Đức". The book was somewhat worse for wear; clearly Larry had gotten his money's worth out of it. I was doubtful, but... well, if it worked for Larry, maybe it'd work for me. I thanked him, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and returned to my office. I cracked open the book to page one and started my spiritual journey.
The deadline was in a week. I'd read the book, cover to back, and then back to cover, and tried everything it suggested. All I had to show for it was a few hundred lines of mediocre code, and an even worse case of depression. Okay, I thought with all the determination I could muster, one more time. I closed my eyes, then took a breath, counted to three, exhaled, and repeated. I cleared my mind the way the book had taught me, pushing my worries to the side, one by one. I felt myself becoming more relaxed. Maybe this time it was actually working. Maybe this time I would have a breakthrough. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. Breath in...
I opened my eyes. My terminal was still blank. I looked at the clock, and realized I'd just slept for four hours. I swore loudly and threw the book across the room. It missed the trash can, but I didn't care. Okay, I thought. Meditation isn't more me. I stood and headed for the door. If the world of spirits lacked the answers I sought, perhaps the world of science would have them.
I found Harvey Ketiel in his cubicle, sorting through a stack of paperwork. Harvey was a psychologist, and although we never saw each other on an average workday, I'd become friends with him through the company bowling league. Ah, bowling... one of a hundred fun things I hadn't done in months.
Harvey glanced up when he heard me approaching, then did a double take. "Kevin? You're the last person I expected to see today, but I'm glad I did!" I grinned and took a seat, and we chatted for a few minutes, catching up on what we'd been up to. The conversation soon moved to my purpose of being there, and Harvey listened intently as I described my problem.
"I think," he said, after I'd finished, "I know exactly how to help you."
"Well, that's a relief! Hopefully it doesn't involve shock therapy or anything similar?"
Harvey laughed. "Nah, man, just an egg timer. I just read about it, it's in one of these..." He shuffled through a stack of scientific journals, pulled on out, and flipped through it. "Ah, here it is. It's a focusing technique called the Pomodoro Method, and this study showed that subjects in the experiment that used the method became 83 to 240 percent more efficient at the tasks they were assigned."
"And all I need is a timer?"
"Yup! You simply set a timer for thirty minutes, do your work, then set a timer for five minutes and do anything other than work. The theory is that it's easy to concentrate and get past things like writers block when you set a time limit. Basically, your brain is terrified of working for an indeterminate amount of time, but you can easily convince yourself to work for a measly half-hour, and then another half-hour, and then another until all your work is done! It's like magic, except it's science."
"Well, it certainly sounds easy. I'll give it a shot!"
I took my leave and headed back to my office with a feeling of renewed optimism. I only had a week left, sure, but looking at it another way, I had a whole week! I could do this, I knew I could.
The deadline was tomorrow. It was 3:35 PM. I was not finished, not by a long shot.
The Pomodoro method had helped, for sure, but the core problem of self doubt remained. I found myself spending whole days writing and rewriting the same functions, unsatisfied with the quality of work and knowing I could do better.
Perhaps it was time to admit defeat. Grovel at the feet of upper management and hope I wasn't fired. I looked bleakly around my office. It wasn't a great office, but at least it was mine. I didn't want to start over in a cubicle somewhere else... my eyes alighted, as they had a month prior, on the model picket fence. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I thought. Time to talk to Devin Smith.
The elevator ride down to the basement was a quiet one, giving me plenty of time to think about Devin. It wasn't that I was scared of Devin, it was just that... well, he was unsettling, and everyone knew it. His office (called by some of us, though not to his face, his lair) was in the basement, near the mainframe that our terminals connected to. It was there because he wanted it to be there, saying that he liked the privacy. No one objected, because no one was even sure who he reported to or what projects he worked on.
With his long black hair and frequent sneering criticisms of the very government he worked for, rumours swirled that he was a homosexual or a communist, or maybe a homosexual communist. But someone higher up must have liked him, because he never faced any trouble for either allegation. And then there was the open secret that he kept a loaded .45 in his desk...
The elevator doors creaked open, and I made my way through the concrete hallways until I reached Devin's office. The door was closed, but I could see light seeping out from beneath it. I knocked, and entered after hearing a curt "come in!"
The overhead light wasn't on, the only illumination coming from a desk lamp. Harsh shadows engulfed the office, making Devin's angular face all the more sharper. He sipped from a coffee cup and motioned towards a simple plastic chair. "Sit."
I did as ordered. I knew Devin has served in Vietnam, and though he never talked about his time there, I was confident he must have been an NCO, because when he told someone to do something, you could hear in his tone that he expected to be obeyed.
"Well, well, well," he drawled. Kevin Schumer. I haven't seen you around recently, but I'm not surprised. I hear the Minuteman integration is kicking your ass -- that right?"
"Well, I wouldn't say kicking my ass," I started to say defensively, then stopped. "No, sorry, you're absolutely right. That's actually why I'm here..."
As I recounted my tale of woe, Devin said nothing, content to merely sip his coffee. His shadowed face was impassive and inscrutable.
"...and so," I finished, "I came here. I know you've done lots of great work -- I mean, I don't know what you actually do, haha, no one does -- but uh, it's, uh, I'm assuming it's good because you haven't been fired, haha..."
Devin sipped his coffee and continued saying nothing. I nervously cleared my throat, trying to forget the conversation I'd had with a coworker, in which she swore she'd seen a photograph of Devin in Vietnam, wearing a necklace of human ears. "What I'm trying to say is, do you have any suggestions for what I can try? I mean, it's probably too late now, but..."
I fell silent. Devin carefully placed his coffee cup back on his desk. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Do you think you lack the ability to write this code?"
"I... I don't know, honestly. I hoped I did, but it hasn't been working out so far..."
"You said that Dr. Sandberg was going to write this code originally, correct? What knowledge did he have that you don't?"
"Well, he knew the Minuteman interface better than anyone --"
"How did he acquire this knowledge?"
I frowned. "Well... I guess he just read through the technical specifications --"
"And you haven't?"
"Of course I have," I snapped. "Over and over again. But I don't have Sandberg's years of experience, or his deep understanding of system design, or --"
"I think you're wrong. Sandberg picked you specifically as his second in command, and he wasn't known for making bad decisions. I think you have both the knowledge and skillset to pull this off. What you lack is the confidence. Riddle me this: if the code you needed to write already existed, and someone were to read it aloud to you, how long would it take to type it in?"
I thought about it for a moment, comparing the expected work to previous projects I'd worked on. "Um, probably about eight hours?"
"Then it shouldn't take much longer to write it from scratch, because you know what? You already wrote the code in your mind, you just don't know it. All you have to do is turn off the thinking portion of your brain and let the code flow through you. And for that, I have something that will help you. This coffee mug isn't filled with coffee, you know."
I was momentarily nonplussed at the seeming non sequitur. "What?"
Devin opened a desk drawer and pulled something out. I saw a glint of silver, and was briefly convinced I was going to see the rumoured .45 up-close and personal. But then I realized it wasn't a gun, it was a silver flask. Devin spun the cap off and tilted the contents into his mug, refilling it.
"This is the secret to my success -- whenever I need to do something difficult, dangerous, or potentially risky, I get drunk. The part of my brain that thinks things like "your manager won't ever agree to this idea" or "maybe there's children in those huts" turns off, and I can focus on what I need to do. It's what got me through the war, and it's what's kept me employed." He held the flask out. "Here, take it."
The hours passed in a blur. Devin had been right -- my doubts were erased, my confidence was at record high levels. My fingers danced over the keyboard, producing code of amazing quality. When I began to get tired, I chugged a cup of black coffee and resumed work. After everyone else in the office had left for the day, I grabbed the coffee machine from the break room and sat it on my desk.
When I finally finished, real birds were chirping in the tree outside my window, and metaphorical early birds were beginning to arrive in the office. I copied my code onto floppy disks, addressed them to the appropriate office in the Pentagon, and delivered them to the mailroom for delivery. They'd be at their destination by mid day, and the code would be loaded into the Minuteman silos in the coming weeks -- the final part of the United State's complete missile defense and nuclear response system. Right on schedule.
I tried to take a victory swig from the flask, but it was now empty. Well, no matter -- it had served its purpose. I put it in my desk drawer and headed home.
I was asleep before my head hit my pillow.
I locked my car, tugged on the handle to make sure it was locked -- just a habit; it's never not been locked -- and headed towards my office building. It was a bright and crisp August morning, almost three weeks after I'd finished the Minuteman integration project. It may have been Fall, but I had a spring in my step; management had been very pleased with my performance, and I'd been promoted. Today would be the first day leading my own team.
I was blissful enough that it took a few seconds of hearing a low, distant rumble, before I truly registered what I was hearing. I spun around and looked out towards the countryside, through a gap in the nearby office buildings. A rocket was rising into the sky, atop a pillar of flame and smoke. I knew it was from one of the Minuteman silos scattered around the country, and the rocket was carrying a nuclear payload and destined for Russia.
I couldn't believe the crazy Russians had actually done it. They'd gone and started World War Three --
Wait. Something was wrong. I spun around frantically, looking in all directions. I knew the playbook -- a nuclear response wouldn't just be one rocket, there should be dozens of missiles in the vicinity launching simultaneously. But I only saw the one...
I watched it rise higher and higher. With a sinking feeling, I realized that its trail of exhaust looked for all the world like a single, solitary fencepost.
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April 27, 2020
Art Became the Oxygen
It is true that artists, many of whom rely on public gatherings for their livelihood, are some of the hardest hit during this crisis. Yet, it’s musicians who are toiling away in basements to serenade us through isolated days. It’s comedic actors who are offering us essential nighttime laughs. And it’s visual artists who make meaning from this madness with images that inspire, console and provoke. The individuals of the creative community are like the unsung frontline workers of this pandemic, only without any salary to support their craft, or a 7 pm cheer to motivate them. Yet still, they make things because they must, just as artists have done since the beginning of history, particularly in times of strife. (SEE: https://usdac.us/news-long/2017/8/9/art-became-the-oxygen-free-artistic-response-guide-available-now)
In previous periods of economic hardship, the US government responded with forward-thinking programs like the WPA (Works Progress Administration) of Roosevelt’s New Deal (1935 to 1943). It was designed not only to fund huge infrastructure projects, but also to employ thousands of artists, musicians, writers, and theatre performers to stimulate the economy. Legacies of this program include Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God; Jackson Pollack’s Composition with Pouring; and Mark Rothko’s earlier urban studies like Entrance to Subway, where you can see the seeds of his famous color studies from later work.
After natural disasters, senseless violence or war, artist activists have also rushed to the front lines, time and again, to help rebuild communities by activating their social imaginations and stimulating their civic agency with creative collaborations.
Philippe Thiese gathered digital stories of Hurricane Sandy volunteers in this short film: https://www.sandystoryline.com/stories/sandy-volunteers-remember-the-storm-and-explain-how-they-got-involved/.
The siblings of Eric Garner, a young African-American man killed by unjust police violence in 2014, came together in grief to write the song, I Can���t Breathe,based on his harrowing last words. Their music served as a rallying cry to a community berieved and betrayed by their law enforcement: https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/eric-garners-family-drops-moving-new-song-i-cant-breathe-192574/
And when a 2011 tornado took 161 lives in the small town of Joplin, Missouri, mural artist Dave Loewenstein asked kids about their dreams for the future of their town, resulting in this stunning piece, The Butterfly Effect.
So, in the great hope that we’ll kick this virus’ butt, and we will be left with a glut of ventilators, how about we use them to revive our society’s artists, since they are the vital oxygen that feed our souls.
In Vancouver, we are already lucky enough to have our City government responding with funding for the Murals for Hope project (#makeartwhileapart), which is transforming solemn, boarded-up shops and restaurants into colorful and encouraging messages that can help sustain us until their doors reopen again.
Geoff and I are also trying to do our small part to stimulate the creative economy, while beautifying our home in the process. We are very excited to have just commissioned a mural artist to spruce up our tiny backyard space, which we’re transforming from a gravel parking spot into our own tropical oasis. Here are some inspirational images as well as a shot of the yard in its current state. And hopefully, I can post the finished product, which will be painted onto the rotting fence, in a couple of weeks.
April 28, 2020
Art of Relationship
This period is not just requiring us to get creative with keyboards and canvases and cameras. It is forcing us to re-examine the very patterns that make up our daily lives and fit them all inside the same four walls with the same self, spouse, and/or kids, 24/7. Suffice it to say, this is no small task. But, if any of you are like me, the grand solutions have sometimes involved tiny changes.
Personally, my greatest challenge has been to find ways to carve out slivers of shared pleasure amidst my partner’s insanely stressful, often 13-hour work day, now that the pandemic has his team at our local transit authority in serious crisis mode. Of course, I’m a firm believer in hard-work. The pursuit of a classical musician requires many years of 5+ hours-a-day of practice. But I’m also a fun-lover, and a huge proponent of life/work balance, particularly having had to learn this the hard way, thru a chronic overuse injury. So, for me, Geoff’s manic schedule during the first month of isolation seemed far from optimal. And while this was especially difficult for him, it compromised joy for both of us.
Seeking guidance as we adapted to the new normal, we found a great online series by Esther Perel, whose regular podcast, Where Should We Begin? always leaves us with sound, simple dance steps that we can apply to the Art of Relationship. Here, she has created a 4-part series that specifically addresses problems which co-habitators might face in our current reality. https://events.estherperel.com/april-2020-webinar-resources/?fbclid=IwAR0kRHkuQvEGxcpNuHvPKmmExamZ2Jj_EMZzR-zGp8eDejCR94hE-ZvGYjY
Inspired by her wisdom, we decided that the 7:30 am meetings, which had been occupying our kitchen and bleeding into our morning coffees, every day, could be skipped for a 15-minute walk thru our neighborhood park. And, let me tell you, what a difference a quarter of an hour can make!
April 29, 2020
Finding Variety in Repetition
It occurred to me, the other morning, that this experience feels a bit like fasting. Since college, I’ve routinely devoted a week, every spring, to some kind of dietary shift, for my general health, and as a general mindfulness exercise. While I’ve tried versions of the Wild Rose and other popular cleanses with some benefit, the method recommended in Staying Healthy with the Seasons has always suited me best. It requires you to slowly wean off many foods (meat/fish, then sugar/alcohol/coffee, then dairy), gradually move to only liquids, eventually evolve to a middle day of just water, and then similarly reintroduce each food gradually. What I’ve loved about this approach is how much more aware of my cravings I become, how much I notice the “manufacturing of consent” that happens all around me to inspire my “wants”, and finally how various symptoms are suddenly absent once I’ve eliminated certain foods. Consequently, the slow reintroduction of foods allows me to notice, in much more specific detail, which foods stimulate which responses in my body (IE. huge bursts of energy from fruit; afternoon crashes from sugar; indigestion from soy; sustenance from bread and pasta - NOTE: Contrary to the wheat-vilifying trends that currently prevail, I typically thrive on an anti-Atkins diet, as someone who reaps tremendous fuel from carbs).
The parallels we are experiencing now relate to the stimuli that we’ve been “denied” by our self-isolating reality. Speaking for myself, instead of travelling frequently, as I often do, or eating at different restaurants every week, or working at a different café every day to switch up the creative energy around me, I have had, like everyone else, to learn to find sustenance and interest in a much less diverse set of circumstances. I am eating at Chez Me three meals a day. We are grinding our own beans and whipping up our own daily lattes. And most all of our daily walks and bike rides now start from our home.
But even within the boundaries that we can reach from the nexus of our own address, we have been able to slowly expand our radius of exploration to corners of our city that we had never seen before. This has felt a bit like switching to a vegetarian diet and gaining new appreciation for the crunchiness of a snap pea, or the filling nature of a portabello mushroom.
In these explorations, we have discovered infinite surprises which include a cliffside view of the Fraser River from Everett Crowley Park (top image), an old landfill-turned-lush green space in Vancouver’s southeastern-most quadrant. We’ve seen old growth forest that we had no idea existed so many kilometres from the shore, in Burnaby’s Central Park on our city’s eastern border. I’ve spotted my first-ever fisher (weasel) sneaking around beachside boulders on the northern edge of the city. And closer to home, I’ve noticed the whimsy of our neighbors’ gardens in far greater detail than I had ever looked before (as in the Gaudiesque, smiley-face hedge pictured above). Our ventures from home have been guided by little more than our edict to “follow the pink”, as in the most blossoming streets. And to document these journeys, I’ve been mapping the various routes we’ve taken. Interestingly, the trajectory somewhat resembles a many-petaled flower.
Looking for minute changes in what seem to be patterns of sameness is also the secret to one of my favorite movements in music and design: Minimalism. Perhaps this is why Max Richter and Steve Reich have become the soundtrack I’ve turned to most during the pandemic. Because their music trains our brains to find beauty in repetition while seeking excitement from the subtlest nuanced shifts.
Meanwhile, I know that many of us would love for there to be a magic wand that could lift all of our restrictions over night and allow us to return to exactly “the way it was before”, in the same way that I long for a mocha frappuccino when I fast. However, what we have been hearing from our leaders is that the more likely and safe choice will be to move into a gradual re-opening of our cities - a slow reintroduction of certain freedoms. So, the lessons we can learn from fasting and Phillip Glass ought to prove very useful as we try to be patient and appreciative of this prudent approach. Then, once we begin to shop and drive and socialize more, perhaps this perspective can allow us to also more clearly notice how we respond to each stimuli as we re-engage with it, And hopefully it will inform a new normal that can be more sensible and moderate and in harmony with this planet that we call home.
And, in case you’re curious to listen to a little minimalist fare...
Notice how welcomed the first chord change is in Max Richter’s Catalogue of Afternoons: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ubjylmxrj9o
Or drape yourself in his hypnotic music like a warm duvet with his 8-hour lullaby, Sleep: https://open.spotify.com/album/0JLN7JryQ2T7lBEYIrSQF1
And for a mind trip of the eyes and ears, try Steve Reich’s Piano Phase on marimbas: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W3QoM7dgs_0
April 30, 2020
Film Festivals for free
Pahokee, at this year’s live-streamed Vancouver International Film Festival
Done wondering if Carol Baskin killed her husband? Couldn’t care less if Giannini and Damian actually ever get married? Well, for those who’ve exhausted the Netflix catalogue, there are plenty of other ways to enjoy film from your home. Lots of festivals have generously uploaded their content online. So, whether it’s mountain adventure, short films, foreign movies, or arthouse you’re looking for, here are some easy ways to link to those that are totally free:
Banff Mountain Film Festival - https://www.banffcentre.ca/film-fest-at-home
Cannes, Sundance, Tribeca, Toronto, Venice, Berlin and others have collaborated to bring an awesome line-up of livestream videos to the world in their 10-day We Are One Festival, starting on May 29th. While the festival will stream for free, viewers will be asked to donate to the World Health Organization’s Covid-19 solidarity response fund.
If you happen to remain gainfully employed, and it’s important to you to keep supporting independent film making, Vancouver International Film Festival has created a rental-fee structure for a number of films that they’ve now made available for streaming, too: https://viff.org/Online/default.asp
And Sedona Film Festival has done the same - https://sedonafilmfestival.com/mdfhome/
May 1, 2020
Boredom Killers: Ping-pong, birthday song, and Magritte gong wrong
Combing the internet for creative inspiration that I can share with readers has truly been a joy. It’s also got our own creative jucies flowing. So today, I thought I’d post just a few of the ways we’ve staved off boredom over these past weeks.
Tennis is one of our true passions. It’s actually sort of how Geoff and my relationship began. Given that we didn’t want our paddle skills to get too rusty, we didn’t let the fact that our little laneway house couldn’t fit a ping pong table stop us: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kait-zCV94s
Coming from a huge birthday-celebrating family, I’ve tried to make sure that friends with birthdays during quarantine could still feel pampered on their special day. So, 6 of us put together this silly ditty for our good friend Roger: https://youtu.be/EZKyrdOlvPk
And, we’ve jumped on the art replication bandwagon too. The Met & the Getty Museum have both followed the lead of the Dutch gallery that first initiated the Instagram art challenge which asks people to recreate famous pieces of art with only 3 objects from their home. https://www.instagram.com/tussenkunstenquarantaine/
Here’s Geoff and my attempt with Magritte’s Lovers. The challenge also asks for participants to create new titles, so this is ours, Kissing Strategy for Stay-at-home Lazy Toothbrushers.
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“I like it crisp and fresh and with lots of flavor but not overdone.” - An Interview Thomas Dybdahl
A couple of month ago Thomas Dybdahl released his latest album “All These Things”, again working together with producer Larry Klein. For this record the two changed their working style a little and looked out for some musicians to create the song with a band-like setup featuring musicians like Patrick Warren (Lana Del Rey, Common, Tom Waits), Brian MacLeod (Sheryl Crow), David Baerwald (David + David, Sheryl Crowe, LeAnn Rimes), Dean Parks (Steely Dan, Michael Jackson) or James Gadson (The Temptations, Bill Withers). The result is a wonderfully flowing, soulful album.
Thomas and I sat down to talk about how it is to work with a band for once, rave about the drumming of James Gadson and beer. Enjoy!
Dörte: I‘m glad you’re pretty fast with this time.
Thomas: I’m much faster even because the record was finished last year.
As far as I know you this time everything was fast about this album – the writing, the recording.
It was. We, me and Larry, the producer, just wanted ever since the previous record we’ve been talking about making another record but doing everything super fast and intuitive. It was great that it worked out. I just had released the previous record in February/March last year. And this was recorded in may last year.
Was it a big change for you in how you write your lyrics and songs?
No, not really. It wasn’t that much different except it was a little bit faster, it was almost like a collective thing because we sat together for most of the songs. They are written with this little collective of writers and musicians. Every time I went to LA we tried and find a couple of days to set up in a space – either it was someone’s studio or someone’s house.
Did you try to always have the same writers and musicians?
T: No, it changed a little bit, depending on who was available and who was in town. Some of the players on the album weren’t on the writing sessions like James Gadson, the drummer. He wasn’t with us in the writing sessions but all the other players were actually on the writing, too.
Is it difficult to give your ideas away? I assume that most of the songs are based on an idea you had about a song?
I tried to come to the writing sessions with no ideas, like with nothing. But I couldn’t do it.
Makes sense. I mean you’re a very creative person and you’ve been a songwriter for so many years and then try to come with no ideas…
It didn’t happen. Usually when we went into a writing session I would start writing in the car on the way there because I couldn’t bare the thought of going in totally empty. I would usually come brainstorming in the car, rush in to a piano or a guitar and figure out if that what I was thinking about was something we could build on. A lot of the times it was how it happened. Just getting an idea on the way to the writing session. Some of them were from the total scratch as well. This was really fun because everyone was so different in how they write. My best pairing would be with someone who is really, really fast with lyrics and where the lyrics come natural. For me lyrics are always the hardest. They take forever. I really wanted to pair up with someone who is as fast with the lyrics as I was one the musical side. Music comes really natural to me and very instinctively.
I looked at the list of the names of your sessions musicians. They’ve played with some pretty big names. Is it somewhat intimidating to play with them?
I was super nervous. It was almost like getting ready for a concert as we went into the studio and only had so many days and so many hours a day. Because we had players who played with some of the best musicians and writers and artists.
I would probably be constantly scared of not being good enough. In a addition this album deals with midlife crises. [we laugh]
I was super nervous every morning when we started in the studio. I took an extra morning walk just trying to relax. These musicians are chameleons. They have played with so many different kind of artists. Of course they bring their own personality and their own musicality but they can tell pretty quickly what kind of person you are creatively. It’s like having a support group.
When you picked them did you know if the chemistry between them would work or doesn’t chemistry matter?
We worked on a day to day basis. We knew we wanted different musicians for some of the different songs. Some songs we wanted the James Gadson style, that kind of swing and groove. And then we had another category which was Brain MacLeod Who has a very different style, much straighter in his swing. We tried to divide the songs into what we thought the different musicians would fit.
Looking back at it now: Have you made the right decisions?
I think so, yes. We took a few chances at some of the songs where it could have been both, so we would know how the other person would sound. Hopefully we made the right call. The whole point of the record is that I can’t think of what would have been. There is no turning back.
Three days recording it. Is it something you would do again?
I probably wouldn’t do it now. The next record is probably the total opposite. I will probably spend a year in my own studio, building it piece by piece like a big jigsaw puzzle. But that just because one experience pushes you to do one thing and this one was amazing but now I feel the need to do it differently.
Getting away from community into…
…total introspection.
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You had some session videos with some comments beforehand and I loved the one from James about the drumming. I love his drumming because he is so gentle.
He plays almost without touching the drums. It’s crazy. And he’s almost 80 years old. You see this 80 year old guy having that kind of dexterity is – in lack of another word – is beautiful.
Is it something you have taken away for yourself? How to play or how to approach a song?
Yes. I don’t know if I can articulate it clearly. You have some expressions when it comes to recording music and to be in the studio. You have a couple of expressions how to fit in the track and how to find your pocket. Basically what they mean is how you do find your place in the sonic landscape without taking too much of it. But if you would take it away the whole thing would fall apart. That’s what these musicians did so well: find how to sit in the track, in the mix. This is not Jazz music, this is not show off your skills either, it’s not about what happens with that guitar. Ultimately if the song doesn’t work then you’re screwed anyway. It’s about the songs. I’m just blown away by how they found out where to sit, how much to do, how little to do and usually it’s about how little to do
For me the album is a long flow, one song just drifts into the next…
It’s because it was made this way. We didn’t really have any breaks. [laughs] It had to happen that way.
The album deals with midlife crisis – are you now over with it or did you never actually had it and just wrote about it?
I think I’m in the midst of it right now. I don’t mean it as a negative thing and I don’t feel it like a negative thing. It’s not like one of those “everything is problematic and shit” times, it’s more like….
...longing? To me the album sounds like wanting more, to not just settle down because you’re turning 40 or so…
I think part of the crisis is that you deep down you know you’re always going to think about these things. It’s just at this certain point I can see forward as long as I can see backwards and time gets a little bit of a new meaning. When I look back at something 20 years at something it feels like it happened yesterday and you think “oh shit”. If that happens in 20 years I want to make sure that I’m spending the things that make me happy. It sounds like a simple thing but it’s so hard. You get stuck in life and all the pieces of life get on top of each other. For me one of the things I feel like doing during the midlife crises is getting rid of stuff I do that I don’t like, people that I don’t like or people that are part of your life but don’t add anything. It’s almost like a cleansing experience where you just have to figure out how much can you strip it down and still have the things that make you happy. I’m lucky because I still live my work and it’s not that I don’t get stressed or burned out or anything like that but that has usually to do with how I’m working, not why or what I’m working on. I was liberating to think it’s not work because I still love work. I don’t know anything else. It would be such a bummer if I find out that I don’t like what I do anymore. What the hell would I do? I would have to start over at something. I don’t want to do that.
Beer brewing?
Yeah, that’s it. It was midlife crises thing.
Have you found out how to make good beer?
Yes. I’m making beer for the tour now. That’ll be good. Later today we’ll be going to a beer bar here. I drink a lot of craft beer.
Is it on your tour rider?
I had that on my rider for a long time but usually people just don’t care. They just give you whatever. I ask for the most local beer. If there is a small brewery that’s great. Sometimes I get it. In some places the whole beer revolution has been a bit slow so they still have the industrial kind of beer.
So, what makes a beer good for you?
I don’t like it too heavy, like my music probably [laughs]. I like it crisp and fresh and with lots of flavor but not overdone. I don’t know if it says anything about me as a person.
Thank you for taking the time, Thomas!
Catch Thomas on Tour next year and get his album “All These Things” if you haven’t already:
11.02.2019 – Hamburg, Nochtspeicher
17.02.2019 – Köln, Arttheater
19.02.2019 – Berlin, Frannz Club
Thank you for reading,
Dörte
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The Meat Cleanse
“I know how ridiculous it sounds,” Mikhaila Peterson told me recently by phone, after a whirlwind of attention gathered around the 26-year-old, who is now offering dietary advice to people suffering with conditions like hers. Or not so much dietary advice as guiding people in eating only beef.
At first glance, Peterson, who is based in Toronto, could seem to be one of the many emerging semi-celebrities with a miraculous story of self-healing—who show off postpartum weight loss in bikini Instagrams and sell one thing or another, a supplement or tonic or book or compression garment. (Not incidentally, she is the daughter of the famous and controversial pop psychologist Jordan Peterson. More on that later.) But Peterson is taking the trend in extra-professional health advice to an extreme conclusion: She is not doing sponsored posts for health products, but actively selling one-on-one counseling ($75 for a half hour) for people who want to stop eating almost everything.
Peterson seems to be reaching suffering people despite a lack of training or credentials in nutrition or medicine, and perhaps because of that distinction. Her Instagram bio: “For info on treating weight loss, depression, and autoimmune disorders with diet, check out my blog or fb page!” The blog says at the top that “many (if not most) health problems are treatable with diet alone.” This is true, if at odds with the disclaimer at the bottom of the page that her words are “not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment.”
I told her I’m surprised people need further counseling, in that an all-beef diet is very straightforward.
“They mostly want to see that I’m not dead,” she said. “What I basically do is say, hey, look at all the things that happened to me and brought me to where I am now. Isn’t it weird? And then let people draw their own conclusions.”
Peterson described an adolescence that involved multiple debilitating medical diagnoses, beginning with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. Some unknown process had triggered her body’s immune system to attack her joints. “I was unable to hold a pencil, could barely walk, and was in constant pain,” she writes on her blog, which is called “Don’t Eat That.” The joint problems culminated in hip and ankle replacements in her teens, coupled with “extreme fatigue, depression and anxiety, brain fog, and sleep problems.” In fifth grade she was diagnosed with depression, and then later something called idiopathic hypersomnia (which translates to English as “sleeping too much, of unclear cause”—which translates further to sorry we really don’t know what’s going on).
Everything the doctors tried failed, and she did everything they told her, she recounted to me. She fully bought into the system, taking large doses of strong immune-suppressing drugs like methotrexate, prednisone, leflunomide, and humira. “Despite being on multiple heavy-hitting meds, I was still struggling with basic day-to-day tasks,” she writes on her blog.
Her story takes a dramatic turn in 2015, when the underdog protagonist, nearly at the end of her rope, figured out the truth for herself. It was all about food.
Peterson adopted a common approach to dieting: elimination. She started cutting out foods from her diet, and feeling better each time. She began with gluten, and she kept going, casting out more and more—not just gluten or dairy or soy or lectins or artificial sweeteners or non-artificial sweeteners, but everything. Until, by December 2017, all that was left was “beef and salt and water,” and, she told me, “all my symptoms went into remission.”
“And you quit taking all your medications?”
“Everything.”
There is so much evidence—abundant, copious evidence acquired over decades of work from scientists around the world—that most people benefit from eating fruits, vegetables, nuts, beans, and seeds. This appears to be largely because fiber in plants is important to the flourishing of the gut microbiome. I ran this by some experts, just to make sure I wasn’t missing anything that might suggest a beef-salt diet is potentially something other than a bad idea. I learned that it was worse than I thought.
“Physiologically, it would just be an immensely bad idea,” Jack Gilbert, the faculty director at the University of Chicago’s Microbiome Center and a professor of surgery, told me during a recent visit to his lab. “A terribly, terribly bad idea.”
Gilbert has done extensive research on how the trillions of microbes in our guts digest food, and the look on his face when I told him about the all-beef diet was unamused. He began rattling off the expected ramifications: “Your body would start to have severe dysregulation, within six months, of the majority of the processes that deal with metabolism; you would have no short-chain fatty acids in your cells; most of the byproducts of gastrointestinal polysaccharide fermentation would shut down, so you wouldn’t be able to regulate your hormone levels; you’d enter into cardiac issues due to alterations in cell receptors; your microbiota would just be devastated.”
While much of the internet has been following this story in a somewhat snide way, Gilbert appeared genuinely concerned and saddened: “If she does not die of colon cancer or some other severe cardiometabolic disease, the life—I can’t imagine.”
There are few accounts of people having tried all-beef diets, though all-meat—known as carnivory—is slightly more common. Earlier this month, inspired by the media conversation about the Peterson approach, Alan Levinovitz, the author of The Gluten Lie, tried carnivory, eating only meat for two weeks. He did lose seven pounds, which he attributes to eating fewer calories overall, because he eventually got tired of eating only meat. He missed snacking at coffee shops and browsing the local farmer’s market and trying out new restaurants around town, cooking with his family, and just generally enjoying food.
“I was psychologically exhausted,” Levinovitz told me. When he returned to omnivory, and he regained the lost weight in four days.
Peterson told me it took several weeks for her to get used to the beef-only approach, and that the relief of her medical symptoms overpowers any sense of missing food. If even a tiny amount of anything else finds its way into her mouth, she will be ill, she says. This happened when she tried to eat an organic olive, and again recently when she was at a restaurant that put pepper on her steak.
“I was like, whatever, it’s just pepper,” she told me. Then she had a reaction that lasted three weeks and included joint pain, acne, and anxiety.
Apart from having to exist in a world where the possibility of pepper exposure looms, the only other social downside she notices is that she hates asking people to accommodate her diet. So she will usually eat before she goes to a dinner party, she told me, “but then I’ll go drink and enjoy the party.”
“Drink, as in, water?”
“I can also, strangely enough, tolerate vodka and bourbon.”
The idea that alcohol, one of the most well-documented toxic substances, is among the few things that Peterson’s body will tolerate may be illuminating. It implies that when it comes to dieting, the inherent properties of the substances ingested can be less important than the eater’s conceptualizations of them—as either tolerable or intolerable, good or bad. What’s actually therapeutic may be the act of elimination itself.
For centuries, ascetics have found enlightenment through acts of deprivation. As Levinovitz, who is an associate professor of religion at James Madison University, explained to me, the Daoist text the Zhuangzi describes “a spirit man” who lives in the mountains and rides dragons and subsists only on air and dew. “There’s an anti-authoritarian bent to pop-culture wisdom, and a part of that is dealing with food taboos, which are handed down by authorities,” Levinovitz said. “Those are government now, instead of religious. And because they are wrong so often—or, at least, apparently wrong—that’s a good place to go when carving out your own area of authority. If you just eat the ‘wrong’ foods and don’t die, that’s a ritual way to prove that you go against conventional wisdom.”
Peterson’s narrative fits a classic archetype of an outsider who beat the game and healed thyself despite the odds and against the recommendations of the establishment. Her story is her truth, and it can’t be explained; you have to believe. And unlike the many studies that have been done to understand the diets of the longest-lived, healthiest people in history, or the randomized trials that are used to determine which health interventions are safe and effective for whom, her story is clear and dramatic. It’s right there in her photos; it has a face and a name to prove that no odds are too long for one determined person to overcome.
The beneficial effects of a compelling personal narrative that helps explain and give order to the world can be absolutely physiologically real. It is well documented that the immune system (and, so, autoimmune diseases) are modulated by our lifestyles—from how much we sleep and move to how well we eat and how much we drink. Most importantly, the immune system is also modulated by stress, which tends to be a byproduct of a perceived lack of control or order.
If strict dietary rules provide a sense of control and order, then Peterson’s approach is emblematic of the trend in elimination dieting taken to an extreme: Avoid basically everything. This verges into the realm of an eating disorder. The National Eating Disorder Association lists among common symptoms “refusal to eat certain foods, progressing to restrictions against whole categories of food.” In the early phases of disordered eating, as with bipolar disorder or alcoholism, a person may look and feel great. They may thrive for months or even years. But this fades. What’s more, the temporary relief from anxiety may mean that the source of the anxiety goes unsought and unaddressed.
I asked Peterson about the possibility that she may be enabling people with eating disorders. She said she would draw a line if a client were underweight or inducing vomiting. Otherwise, “it’s extremely disrespectful to people with health issues caused by food to be lumped into the same category as people with eating disorders. More of the same ‘blame the patient’ stuff that doctors and health professionals already do.”
The popularity of Peterson’s narrative is explained by more than its timeless tropes; it has also been amplified by the fact that her father has occasionally cast his spotlight onto her story. Jordan Peterson’s recent book, Twelve Rules for Life, includes the story of his daughter’s health trials. The elder Peterson, a psychologist at the University of Toronto, could at first seem an unlikely face for acceptance of personal, subjective truth, as he regularly professes the importance of acting as purely as possible according to rigorous analysis of data. He argued in a recent video that American universities are the home to “ideologues who claim that all truth is subjective, that all sex differences are socially constructed, and that Western imperialism is the sole source of all Third World problems.” In his book, he writes that academic institutions are teaching children to be “brainwashed victims,” and that “the rigorous critical theoretician is morally obligated to set them straight.”
It is on grounds of his interpretation of income data, for example, that he has spoken out against the idea of a wage gap between men and women being unfair, as it can be explained away by biological factors associated with certain personality traits that are more valuable in the capitalist marketplace. From arguments from social-science evidence, he has expressed uncertainty that lesbian couples can raise children without a male father figure. And it is academic evidence that leads him to write in his book that “the so-called patriarchy” is “an arbitrary cultural artifact.”
Yet in a July appearance on the comedian Joe Rogan’s podcast, Jordan Peterson explained how Mikhaila’s experience had convinced him to eliminate everything but meat and leafy greens from his diet, and that in the last two months he had gone full meat and eliminated vegetables. Since he changed his diet, his laundry list of maladies has disappeared, he told Rogan. His lifelong depression, anxiety, gastric reflux (and associated snoring), inability to wake up in the mornings, psoriasis, gingivitis, floaters in his right eye, numbness on the sides of his legs, problems with mood regulation—all of it is gone, and he attributes it to the diet.
“I’m certainly intellectually at my best,” he said. “I’m stronger, I can swim better, and my gum disease is gone. It’s like, what the hell?”
“Do you take any vitamins?” asked Rogan
“No. No, I eat beef and salt and water. That’s it. And I never cheat. Ever. Not even a little bit.”
“No soda, no wine?”
“I drink club soda.”
“Well, that’s still water.”
“Well, when you’re down to that level, no, it’s not, Joe. There’s club soda, which is really bubbly. There’s Perrier, which is sort of bubbly. There’s flat water, and there’s hot water. Those distinctions start to become important.”
Peterson reiterated several times that he is not giving dietary advice, but said that many attendees of his recent speaking tour have come up to him and said the diet is working for them. The takeaway for listeners is that it worked for Peterson, and so it may work for them. Rogan also clarified that though he is also not an expert, he is fascinated by the fact that he hasn’t heard any negative stories about people who have started the all-meat diet.
“Well, I have a negative story,” said Peterson. “Both Mikhaila and I noticed that when we restricted our diet and then ate something we weren’t supposed to, the reaction was absolutely catastrophic.” He gives the example of having had some apple cider and subsequently being incapacitated for a month by what he believes was an inflammatory response.
“You were done for a month?”
“Oh yeah, it took me out for a month. It was awful ...”
“Apple cider? What was it doing to you?”
“It produced an overwhelming sense of impending doom. I seriously mean overwhelming. There’s no way I could’ve lived like that. But see, Michaela knew by then that it would probably only last a month.”
“A month? From fucking cider?”
“I didn’t sleep that month or 25 days. I didn’t sleep at all for 25 days.”
“What? How is that possible?”
“I’ll tell you how it’s possible, you lay in bed frozen in something approximating terror for eight hours. And then you get up.”
The longest recorded stretch of sleeplessness in a human is 11 days, witnessed by a Stanford research team.
While there is debate in the scientific community over just how much meat belongs in a human diet, it is impossible for all or even most humans to eat primarily meat. Beef production at the scale required to feed billions of humans even at current levels of consumption is environmentally unsustainable. It is not even healthy from a theoretical evolutionary viewpoint, the microbiome expert Gilbert explained to me. Carnivores need to eat meat or else they die; humans do not. “The carnivore gastrointestinal tract is completely different from the human gastrointestinal tract, which is made up of a system designed to consume large quantities of complex fibers.”
What the Petersons are selling is rather a sense of order and control. Science is about questions, and self-help is about answers. A recurring idea in Jordan Peterson’s book is that humans need rules—the subtitle of is “an antidote to chaos”—even if only for the sake of rules. Peterson discovered this through his own suffering, as when he was searching the world for the best surgeon to give his young daughter a new hip. In explaining how he dealt with Mikhaila’s illness, he writes that “existence and limitation are inextricably linked.” He quotes Laozi:
It is not the clay the potter throws,
Which gives the pot its usefulness,
But the space within the shape,
From which the pot is made
Dietary rules offer limits, good or bad, that help people define the self. This is an attractive prospect, and anyone willing to decree such rules—dietary or otherwise—is bound to attract attention. Fox News recently declared Peterson “the Left’s public enemy number one” in a segment where he discussed with Tucker Carlson “why the Left wants to silence conservative thought.” Though to have lived through the last year is to have lived in a world where Peterson and his ideas have enjoyed near-constant amplification.
The allure of a strict code for eating—a way to divide the world into good foods and bad foods, angels and demons—may be especially strong at a time when order feels in short supply. Indeed there is at least some benefit to be had from any and all dietary advice, or rules for life, so long as a person believes in them, and so long as they provide a code that allows a person to feel good for having stuck with it and a cohort of like-minded adherents. The challenge is to find a code that accords as best possible with scientific evidence about what is good and bad, and with what is best for the world.
Article source here:The Atlantic
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