#would you believe me if i said this is inspired by sylvia plath
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i wrote something. it has nothing to do with my existing characters, but i had fun writing it and i need different things to write here and there or else i go insane. i don't think it's coherent but here you go! <3
(no OC named, just used she/her pronouns)
***
Christmas Eve, 1947
She doesn’t understand why people accept invitations if they’re just going to stand in a corner and brood. The purpose of parties is to socialize, to flirt, to have fun. Nothing good comes from avoiding people like the plague. At that point, why even bother showing?
Although, it’s hard to be angry when the man doing the avoiding is someone she's had a crush on for a very long time.
Harry stands close to the window by the Christmas tree in the living room, staring almost angrily at his whisky. He throws his head back to finish it off, and then sighs deeply, turning his head to stare out the window. It’s been steadily snowing for a few hours now. Perhaps he’s regretting ever coming to such a bland party, or perhaps wondering how badly he’d injure himself if he flung his body out onto the white snow. Judging by the look of his face reflecting on the window, she thinks he must be the most miserable person there.
Her friend has gone all out for the party though. Brought out her most expensive gramophone to play delightful Christmas music and passed around drinks. At first, the population of people in the living room were shy. The men on one side, the women on the other. But after one daring man crossed over to speak to one of them, the night officially began.
However, Harry remains far from the mingling people. His eyes are downcast, his index finger running over the rim of the glass. He's in his own dark thoughts.
Apparently her staring has been noticed by several of her friends who have prodded her, urging her to go speak with him. ("Come on. don't be scared." "Don't be a baby." "Maybe he'll kiss even you." "Maybe you can replace his old lover." "Maybe someone will finally show interest in you." -- The last one particularly hurts but it's just friendly banter, isn't it?) They bother her for nearly half an hour before she decides it's a decent opportunity. She gives in.
Stealing a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, she slips into the sea of people and manages to come out unscathed at the other side. Her heart hammers in her chest, but with a few quick breaths, she reminds herself that all she’s doing is pouring the man a drink. There’s absolutely no harm in that.
She stops before him, awkwardly stepping past the tree. His head turns towards her and with a single look, her heart is thundering again.
“Hi,” she says, holding up the bottle. “Can I get you another drink?”
Up close, Harry is devastatingly beautiful. She loves the crease between his eyebrows, the slight pout of his mouth, his strong brows, and his firm jaw. He towers over her by half a foot, standing in his evening suit, one hand in his pocket. Up until this point, she’s only ever seen him from afar. This close, she’s struck by his handsomeness, despite the signs of annoyance.
She recalls the first time she’d seen him a number of years ago. He’d been casually dating another woman, and he’d taken her dancing at the same country club that she’d been at with her own date. They’d snagged eyes only once during the night, but since then, he’s been all she can think about.
When she’s lucky enough to see him in public or at these parties, she tries to convince herself to talk to him. She’s never been able to until now. Her friends ridicule her for it, but she simply does not have the confidence.
Tonight is different, however.
Harry’s attractiveness isn’t visible to only her of course. He’s been known to date often. But now, there’s another reason why people don’t speak with him.
She heard from a friend who heard from another friend who heard from her cousin that Harry’s sudden disdain for people comes after his wife died while they vacationed together in Milan. He’d left London for Italy just six months ago, and they say that all his letters told them how happy he was. How he loved the new country and its weather and how would live there forever with his new bride. She went by the name of Alessia. Or maybe it was Cecilia.
And then she died. Caught a disease of some kind.
Her friends have gossiped extensively about it.
“I wouldn’t ever get involved with a man in mourning,” one friend said.
“It’s absolutely profane,” another said.
"But maybe you'll have some luck," a third said. "You always seem to get the weird ones attached to you."
(This is true given her horrible dating history, but the jab isn't very nice even if it's from a friend.)
Harry looks at the bottle in her hand and then nods, pushing his glass out. She pours in the liquid.
“Are you enjoying the party?” she asks him.
Harry takes a sip and then says, “Yes.”
“I’m sure you know everybody here, right? You’ve lived in London your whole life, I imagine.”
“I know enough of them.”
She tries to pose it as a humorous observation. “And yet I haven’t seen you talk to anyone since you’ve been here. And I haven’t seen you dance with anyone at any party. I find that you and I are invited to similar gatherings. Maybe we have mutual friends?”
Harry looks at her for some time without answering.
“Maybe,” he finally says, and then finishes his whiskey.
His eyes flicker to glance at something behind her. His brows pull together some more.
She tells him her name. “It’s nice to meet you. Do you want to move to another comfortable place? I can give you a tour of the house, if you’d like, or maybe–”
“I’d rather not.”
"Oh. Then another drink?"
"No more," he says icily.
Her heart stops. “Oh. Right, sorry.”
He puts his glass on the window sill and tucks his other hand into his pocket. “Is this amusing to you?”
She blinks, taken aback. “Sorry?”
“Getting me to talk to you. Don’t be coy. It must be so fun to mess with me.”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I can see all your girlfriends behind you. From the look on their faces, they’re having more fun than you right about now.” He shrugs a shoulder. His eyes are suddenly darker, the twist of his mouth making her hands clammy. “You got a laugh out of them. Are you proud of yourself?"
She whips her head to look at her friends who are indeed laughing. To her horror, it seems like they’re laughing at him.
“No,” she says, turning back to Harry. “They didn’t send me here. We’re not–”
“Just leave.” He says her name, but it’s so cold, she feels it stabbing into her ribs.
“No! No, it wasn’t– I didn’t tell them I was coming to talk to you.”
“It must be hilarious.”
“They didn’t put me up to it. I wanted to talk to you!”
Harry raises a mocking eyebrow. “And what could you have to say to me?”
She feels flushed, suddenly put on the spot. All she was prepared for was pouring him a drink. But now he looks at her like he really dislikes her and it’s all too much. And so she blurts, “I’m sorry about your wife.”
Harry’s gaze instantly hardens. “My wife?”
“I thought that you weren’t feeling well because of it so I wanted to make you feel more welcomed. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable and nobody put me up to it, I swear. I wanted to offer my condolences and I say that I didn’t think it was fair for people to treat you weird, okay? That’s all.”
She holds the bottle of whiskey close to her chest, mentally swearing at herself. With a final apology, she goes to leave, but Harry suddenly holds his arm out to block her from leaving.
He has a funny look on his face. “Condolences? For what?”
Her dress is way too tight right now. Her head is spinning.
“For your wife passing away, of course.”
Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm. “My wife is alive and well.”
And that’s supposed to make her feel better, but now she feels even more foolish. She squeezes her eyes shut and swears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, it must have been a rumor. I’ll– I need to leave, I’m sorry. I'm so so--”
He doesn’t move his arm though. “Is that what’s happening? All these people don’t know how to talk to a man with an, apparently, dead wife?”
And then he does the strangest thing. He laughs. It’s a bitter laugh, but it’s soft and there.
“Why do people think my wife is dead?” he asks.
“I didn't know. I should really go. I’m sorry–”
“No,” he says, holding her elbow now. It’s gentle, but firm. “Do you know who started this rumor?”
“Er, no.”
“I don’t think it's me that your friends are playing a joke on.”
Tears burn in her eyes. “Yes, I realize that now.”
He releases her elbow then, and runs a hand through his hair. “My wife is not dead. She didn’t return with me from Italy, but that doesn’t mean she’s no longer alive.”
“Right, of course.” She ducks under his arm. “Goodbye now.” And then rushes away. Her ears burn with anger and embarrassment. She thinks she hears him calling her name, but she continues to leave the scene. She most definitely hears the rest of her friends laughing.
***
It turns out that hiding in a room for the duration of a party is a lot harder than it seems. Two hours later, she calmed down enough to want to leave the party. She fixes her dress, the bow at the collar, and the gold pins in her hair. She can't do anything about her red rimmed eyes though.
She’ll have to run out of the house because there are still too many people there. She swings her door open and starts to move, but crashes into something hard instead. She nearly falls onto the floor, rubbing her head with a soft swear.
Harry stands before her, looking down with a frown on his face. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
She hastily fixes her hair. “I'm fine.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“I was looking for you. I thought you left earlier.”
“I’m leaving now.”
She goes to move around him, but he grabs her hand. “Wait. I need to apologize. I didn’t handle that well at all.”
“Nothing you need to apologize for.” She tugs at her hand in his grasp. “I really need to go home.”
“I shouldn’t have just accused you of being part of something you weren’t. That was very wrong of me.”
“It’s fine. I’m just going to–”
“They’re not your friends. You should never trust–”
She doesn't need that reminder. A sudden spike of laughter from downstairs rings in her ears. “I get it. I do. Now please move.”
He blocks her way again.
“My wife isn’t dead. She’s not here and we’re no longer together, but she’s not dead and I’m sorry your friends did that to you. Listen, hey. I think it’s very nice of you to have come up to me to make me feel better. Really. It’s very kind. And if you’re leaving, I’d love it if you let me walk you home.”
She frowns deeply, looking up at him. “That’s not necessary.”
“I feel terribly guilty for adding onto the torture unknowingly.”
“You didn’t put them up to it.”
“No, but the way I spoke to you was wrong. Please let me walk you home.”
His eyes are earnest, his hair unraveling and falling into his eyes. He releases her hand and waits patiently for her answer.
She wasn’t planning on going home tonight. She’d asked her friend if she could stay over in case the blizzard worsened, but since she’d rather not stay, she doesn’t really have a choice but to leave. The cabs won’t even be running at this time.
“I live far,” she says. “You don’t have to do this, Harry.”
“But I want to. Also,” he shrugs and offers her a sudden charming smile. “I’m a gentleman, though I didn't act like one and I need to make it up to you. I don’t want you to walk home alone.” He turns and holds his arm out. “Come. You can wear my coat.”
She looks at him for a moment, and, afterwards, his arm.
Then, she steps forward and takes it, nodding once. “Okay.”
“Good.”
***
Outside, the snow is almost up to their calves. She’s shivering despite Harry’s coat around her shoulders and his arm around her waist. The only thing that keeps her from falling onto her face on the asphalt is their conversation.
Currently, Harry’s talking about how he was exempt from war as a medical assistant. Now, he’s opening up his own practice in London with his brothers. Family medicine in every way, he calls it. When asked what else he would do if he weren’t a doctor, he says he’d be a professor.
Harry is impressed by her own resume. A published writer. His eyes are bright when she tells him she’ll give him a copy of her book free of charge next time she sees him.
Through chattering teeth, she asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, you said you are no longer with your wife?”
The weird twist of his mouth suddenly returns. She regrets asking.
“We’re in the process of separation.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.”
“But still.”
They don’t say anything else about that matter.
By the time they’re home, Harry’s holding her hand and she’s all but running to her front porch.
“Would you like to come inside?” she whispers, her fingers trembling as she unlocks the door. “I could make you a hot cider before you leave?”
“I believe your family would mind."
“They’re not home. Off at their own Christmas party.”
"So you'll be home alone?"
The question excites her, but his concerned look tells her he's actually worried about her safety, not the possibility of them being alone together.
"Yes. For the night." It can't hurt to tempt him.
Harry looks conflicted. Under the grey sky and falling snowflakes, he looks near angelic. With a swipe of his hand, he removes the from his face. “No, I don’t think that would be right. But.” He steps closer. “If it’s all right. I’d like to see you again.”
Her heart jumps to life. “Would you?”
“Yes. Can we make it happen?”
Her fingers tremble for a different reason now. “Yes. I'd like that.”
“Good. This Saturday?”
“Okay,” she breathes.
“How’s dinner sound?”
“Wonderful.”
He laughs. “Good. I look forward to it. And bring me that book, yeah?"
"And you don't mind that it's a boring old romance?"
Harry smiles. "I've been looking to expand my tastes, miss." He then ducks his head in a small bow. "Goodnight, then.”
He waits a beat longer and then then turns, carefully walking back down the steps. He lingers by the sidewalk until she’s safely in her home and then puts his jacket back on.
She locks the door, slides down onto the floor and screeches excitedly into her frozen hands.
#would you believe me if i said this is inspired by sylvia plath#harry styles fic#harry styles writing#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles one shot#harry styles fluff#harry styles angst
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I love you I love you
Thank you thank you
It’s a long story of circle of abuse, I used to save her from my father hitting her and few years later I had to save myself from both of them hitting me
I truly believe she’s evil, not what she does to me but to others also, she beats and humiliates not only me but the maids too, the other siblings are not beaten, the brother sometimes rarely but he’s her worshipper so i don’t think he minds.
I will get a job soon but I don’t think I can move out, it’s not very common here you know, and my father is like a influential guy, but hopefully when I earn my own money and cut her off I’ll be happy, we have a big house so living separately is possible.
I found out something today and it made me sick to my stomach, I have my whole life faced disgusting men, but turns out my brother is also one of them, he is after all my fathers and mothers son. he is an Andrew tate fanboy btw so you can guess his entire personality by that lolllllll.
I am so sorry this is alot of stuff to hear on a site where you are supposed to have fun, I am sending you apology hugs, take care 🫂❤️
Btw have you read the bell jar by Sylvia plath? It’s so depressing it’s taking me months to finish HAHAHAH
that is fucking awful and yes, i dont even believe in the whole concept of evil (i was raised without religion in a completely secular country + im very into psychology so good vs evil is not part of my worldview lol) but some behaviors even i just have to describe as evil and ur mom fits that pretty well like abusing ur own children is fucking evil. i have empathy for her to some extent since her behavior is clearly the result of her being abused herself like u said but it gets clouded by the absolute disgust and hatred and rage i feel for her for letting herself become the abuser herself and keeping the circle of abuse going by passing it on to her children. its one thing to not have the strength or power to stop ur husband from abusing ur kids, but straight up joining in on the abuse is a whole other level of disgusting and im so sorry u have to experience this.
but i do have to say that u seem like a genuinely good person like i really feel like u have so much kindness and love in ur heart and u seem like a very strong, sensible and intelligent girl and i get a strong feeling that the cycle of abuse is gonna end with u (as in, u wont be carrying it on and u will break free from it and if u have kids in the future u will be a good and loving mom to them) and i just wanna acknowledge that bc thats amazing and inspiring and i admire u so much like i just have so much admiration for u right now like u are everything u are the moment u are the vibe
anyway, glad to hear that u at least live in a big house so that u can at the very least have some space from her even tho u live together. i get that its not as easy or simple as some ppl think to ”just move out” especially if u live in a very family oriented culture where its not the norm to do so on top of it all so i think the best thing to do currently is to just kind of try to stay out of her way and honestly just not even listen to the bullshit she says bc her insults are kinda meaningless tbh bc lets be real, if u were skinny she would just use something else to criticize u for. she just wants to put u down in any way she can no matter what u look like. u could probably look like a damn supermodel or movie star and she would still find something to pick on and put u down for, bc she has issues. shes disturbed. her words are empty and her opinions on u are just completely irrelevant. why should u care if a deranged abusive sadist doesnt ”approve” of ur body and size? this woman thinks its ok to mentally torment everyone around her, even HER OWN CHILDREN that she just so happens to not just verbally and emotionally abuse but straight up physically abuse. shes a child abuser. actual scum of the earth. like honestly next time she says something about ur body or calls u fat or whatever this psychopath likes to call u just remind urself that this woman is actually disturbed and sick in the head like shes literally a terrible human being lol who the fuck is she to criticize anyone like ok so u got a little extra meat on ur bones meanwhile she is a deranged sadistic child abuser. like girl whatever flaw u may have is nothing compared to the flaws she has like u are so far above her in every way that actually matters like ur literally so much better than her in every way like shes actually pathetic.
sorry about ur brother btw. seems like us women can never catch a break from these male parasites that are crawling around everywhere these days. they just keep getting worse and worse now with all the andrew tate shit brainwashing them. thank god we women have each others backs in this vile current climate. sisterhood is so important, especially now with all this crazy shit going around.
and yes ofc ive read the bell jar! read it for the first time when i was 16 and have reread it a few times since then. its one of those books that deeply resonates with nearly every woman who reads it even now generations later like its truly timeless in that way thats why its so good
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Pernice Brothers Interview: Writing to Live
Joe Pernice; Photo by Colleen Nicholson
BY JORDAN MAINZER
The album cover for Who Will You Believe (New West), the first album in 5 years from Pernice Brothers, features a close-up photo of a man who doesn't "care about being seen." That man, of course, is Joe Pernice, who formed Pernice Brothers over 25 years ago after the breakup of his beloved alt country institution Scud Mountain Boys. But while Pernice may be indifferent-to-averse to the idea of celebrity or even public persona, he's not trying to remain hidden, per se. The photo that graces the cover doesn't attempt to be flattering, nor a clean-cut design: It asymmetrically cuts off the brim and top of his hat, his right glasses lens frame, the bottom of his chin, and the back of his head. (Of course, the band name and album title is superimposed on his face.) It makes you pay more attention to Pernice than you otherwise would. What is he looking at? Why? In a way, it really fits Who Will You Believe, a record that exists on a separate plane from today's singer-songwriter albums that tend to be straight diary entries combined with biography or filled with Easter eggs and callbacks. Instead, Pernice, an accomplished writer in many different mediums, shows that he can write about almost anything. The possibilities are infinite.
When I spoke to Pernice over the phone earlier this month, he let me know that he was in the middle of a particularly fruitful period. "I've been writing more songs than I ever have in my life," he said. "I go through these periods where I have a manic blast." Indeed, whether or not Who Will You Believe was born from one of these spurts, the album gives you a sense for how he works. Neko Case duet "I Don't Need That Anymore" started with an off-hand remark his mom made about having a good figure when she "needed it;" Pernice took the line and turned it into a devastating country track about a dying love, replete with twangy, chiming guitars, string swells and steady mallet percussion. He processes the deaths of three important people--his cousin, Rhino executive Gary Stewart, and David Berman--in stunning strummer "The Purple Rain", referencing the last one not with cutesy lyrical winks and nods but ones that even casual Silver Jews/Purple Mountains listeners will pick up, respectfully showing his intentions to pay tribute. Of course, Pernice still finds room for ambiguity, clever wordplay, and fun atop it all, a true songwriter's songwriter. His penchant for cultural allusions remains strong, even in conversation. Referring to a recent day where he wrote 5 songs in a day, 3 of them keepers, Pernice said, " I felt like Sylvia Plath at the end of her life when he was in a manic state of making shit," before clarifying, deadpan, "That was before she put her head in the oven."
Sure, there are some tracks on Who Will You Believe that are purely sad or strange. Pernice croons on the slow "What We Had", atop acoustic guitars, tremolo electric plucking, and tambourine, "It's a comedy of errors, but it's sad / I think of what we had / It's hard to watch good love go bad." Instrumental waltz "A Song for Sir Robert Helpmann", meanwhile, juxtaposes strings, keys, drum rolls, and wordless vocalization, creepy and lurking. Its mood is inspired by Pernice's fear of Helpmann's role as The Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. "That movie scared the shit out of me when I was a kid," he said. "[Helpmann's] absolutely terrifying." Though these tunes occupy a singular mood, though, for the most part, Who Will You Believe is a fun album, Pernice's brightest and loosest sounding in years. "I always play with people who are good people. I've never made a record with an asshole," Pernice said. "When you get really good players who aren't just phoning it in, it's really cool." Past collaborators pervade the album, such as Joe's brother Bob and wife Laura Stein (formerly of Halifax indie pop band Jale). Toronto-based choral group Choir! Choir! Choir! help Pernice give his eulogies on "The Purple Rain", ending the album on an uplifting note. And his pop sensibilities, Beatles, Bowie, and Bacharach influences shine on "Not This Pig" and "A Man of Means", songs with baroque breakdowns and bouncy drum fills.
Ultimately, Pernice is one of those songwriters who views music as a satisfying puzzle. Though he writes all of his songs on acoustic guitar, theoretically making them easy to play solo live, the tunes undoubtedly shapeshift as he records them. He describes a song like "Hey, Guitar" as "a balls-out, heavy tune"--it's got massive electric licks layered atop jangly strumming and shiny keys, and ripping distorted squalling between verses, fading in and out at the end like an AM radio hit. "I don't think [it] will translate [live]," he said. "[But] you don't know whether [it's gonna be a train wreck] until you do it. Every song was a new song the first time." You can bet he's looking forward to figuring it out, one of the most thrilling parts of music to him. After all, it's only now he's just beginning to dive into an almost 20-year-old song, "Say Goodnight to the Lady" from 2005's Discover A Lovelier You. "I've been working on it lately, and it's started to feel like my song."
Pernice; Photo by Colleen Nicholson
I knew that Pernice had written at least "The Purple Rain" as part of a mourning process, but reading about the context behind Who Will You Believe, I tried to see if I could construct something more broad. Before writing the record, his son retired from playing high-level youth baseball, which Pernice coached, and Pernice went from being on a baseball diamond most of the week for over half of the year, to not being on one at all. As such, I asked him whether songwriting is a way for him to generally process any sort of life change. As it turns out, it's much more. "I write songs so I can manage to function," he said. "It's just a necessary thing for my well-being. It could be anything. The act of doing it is the thing that makes me feel good and not crazy. A lot of times, the subject might not even be all that important in that regard." And so I thought back about the album cover, wondering what Pernice was gazing at during the photoshoot, realizing that, too, doesn't matter. What he feels about songwriting is the way I feel about listening. Both of us--all of us--are just trying to take in the world as best as we can.
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#interviews#pernice brothers#new west#daveed goldman#nobu adilman#choir! choir! choir!#who will you believe#joe pernice#colleen nicholson#new west records#scud mountain boys#neko case#rhino#gary stewart#david berman#silver jews#purple mountains#sylvia plath#robert helpmann#the child catcher#chitty chitty bang bang#bob pernice#laura stein#jale#new radiant storm king#the beatles#david bowie#burt bacharach#discover a lovelier you
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Anyone can create
Is being creative innate to one's self, or do we evolve along with the environment we grow up in?
Bear with my long life story as I want to prove a point.
When I was four, I became fond of writing short stories that would later become cover-to-cover-long narrations. My mother gave me a notebook and a pen so I could write whenever I wanted to. Most of the time I wrote fictional stories that were inspired by everyday people in my life, and sometimes I just wrote my opinions on certain events or people that I encountered. It went on until I turned 11.
I was eleven when our school had a big newspaper writing contest for sixth graders. The speaker tackled different parts of the newspaper, and in every part, they asked us to create our piece, and those who would get picked as the best piece would be included in the school paper committee. I was surprised to be the top writer in the feature article section. I was so elated that I got picked for the newspaper section that I actually liked and that I got acknowledgement of my writing from competent people who had every right to judge our work. I felt good until I didn't.
I wasn't always the favorite pupil because I was a boyish girl and opinionated. But the day after the writing contest, I experienced my first heartbreak.
We were told during the session that those who won should come over to our adviser's house, and we will have a workshop to hasten our talents. I was excited to come over along with some of my friends who made the cut as well. To my dismay, I was called out by my adviser, and she asked the whole group why I was there. Everyone was telling her that I won the feature writing part, but she dismissed it and gave my part to our class's top pupil. The whole day, she ignored me and pretended that I wasn't there at all. So I left, along with my hope and enthusiasm to write. I left not only my spot but also my writing confidence, which I am still recovering from.
When Ms. Rosanne Araneta told us in the class that you can be creative as long as you believe that you are It left a question in my mind. Why did I stop believing in myself? It wasn't only because people did not believe in me. I stopped writing because I also stopped believing in me. I was so struck by her words that it left me contemplating the whole night through.
She also shared 12 things we can do to be more creative and explained how creativity can come from within. She gave us an exercise that stimulated our minds to be creative in our own way. She also showed us how creative we can be if we put our minds to it. She made me believe once again that I can have a creative mind and do whatever I believe that I can do.
As Sylvia Plath once said, "The worst enemy of creativity is self-doubt."
Self-doubt is a common problem for those who have creative minds. Self-doubt is so common that even the most accomplished people experience it; thus, it doesn't have to be an obstacle to your creative process if you accept the fact that it's part of being human. However, putting oneself out there is still the most crucial thing you can do. You are aware that you need to cultivate a healthy relationship with uncertainty, right? Recognize that it is there, don't be hard on yourself about it, and keep cranking out the work.
The words that my writing instructor from sixth grade said to me are still very much present in my memory, and as a result, I continue to struggle with writing. I simply make an effort to shrug them off and get on with what it is that I have to accomplish. Writing may no longer be my passion. But I'll make a pact with myself that no matter what creative ideas come my way, I will not restrict myself in any way and instead pursue them. If I think I can, then I know I can, and I will do it.
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This Ernest Hemingway Thing
PART FORTY OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES
Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)
Warnings: major discussions of parent death/death in general, plentiful pop culture references
Word Count: 5.4K
Summary: Ella struggles in the wake of her father's death.
“If you don’t shut up about this bar...” Jess warned, shooting daggers at Chris over the top of his book.
It was a slow day, and the three of them sat in the common area of Truncheon. Jess read his Sylvia Plath novel as he sat atop the welcome table in the front of the store. Chris was on a rant about why they should buy up the vacant space down the road and open a bar, while Matthew rolled his eyes. Snow fell in thick blankets, the coldest of the winter so far. Jess had opted to drive to work, rather than trudge through the crunchy, icy layer caking the sidewalks. The storm had blown in the night before as a bit of a surprise, leaving the city little time to salt the roads. The lack of customers at the book press was no shock. The large, ornate clock ticked slowly over the door. Only a few more minutes, and it would be time to close up for the day. Jess was glad; he’d be home to Ella soon enough. No matter how much she insisted she was fine, he couldn’t help feeling antsy when he’d left her home alone in the morning. His bottom lip was beginning to feel chapped from how much he had been gnawing on it.
Chris sighed heavily, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He was wearing a maroon cardigan over a pullover sweater, and Jess wondered how he wasn’t suffocating underneath all the wool. Chris took another sip of his disgusting chai latte before he continued.
“But it wouldn’t be just any bar! It would be Cedar Bar Redux!” he exclaimed.
Matthew rolled his eyes, not bothering to look up from the inventory sheet he was reviewing. “Just saying the name over and over isn’t gonna convince us.”
“Listen, we’ve already got this Ernest Hemingway thing going here,” Chris said emphatically, gesturing to the room around them. “Now, we can have a Charlie Parker thing down the road. We’ll play only jazz music there, and only serve drinks with whiskey. It’ll be super classy. Super hip.”
“Please don’t ever say ‘hip’ again,” Jess deadpanned, his eyes back on his reading.
Chris grinned confidently. “One day you’ll stop and think, ‘Wow, Chris has been a genius all along. Why did I ever doubt him?’”
Jess scoffed doubtfully.
“Sure, man,” Matthew said with a mocking nod.
“Hey, you’ll see, guys. Just you wait,” Chris said, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting at their dismissal of his idea. “If Ella was here, she’d agree with me.”
Shaking his head a bit, Jess snorted a laugh. “No, she wouldn’t.”
“I think she’s just pretentious enough to get behind it,” Chris argued, shrugging flippantly.
“Actually, I think she’s just pretentious enough to call you out for being a poser,” Matthew countered, his voice dejected as ever as he continued scouring the inventory sheets for any mistakes he might have made on them earlier in the day.
Chris narrowed his eyes at Matthew, getting ready to rebut. However, Jess spoke up first. He rose from his seat, stuffing the Plath book in the back pocket of his jeans and going to grab his coat and scarf.
“Speaking of Eleanor,” he said, “I’m going home. It’s closing time, boys. Have fun with the marketing pitch, Matthew.”
“Thanks, Jess,” Matthew replied sarcastically, still not looking up. On inventory day, he was basically a robot, glued to his paperwork. Not like Jess could blame Matthew, though, considering Jess would have run the business into the ground during the first week had Matthew not been there to deal with the numbers.
“What do you mean ‘speaking of Ella’?” Chris asked, his interest piqued.
She hadn’t been around much recently, and he missed her, despite their occasional bickering. It had been over a month since her father died, and she had hardly let them know how she was doing once she got back. He could count on one hand the number of times they’d seen her. It wasn’t as though he didn’t understand; she could take as much time as he needed. But Jess wasn’t exactly helping to ease his (and Matthew’s) concern, offering little more than an assurance that she was fine and just needed time for herself. It was hard for Chris to imagine Ella coping by isolation, but he had never known her in tragedy.
Jess shrugged on his coat, and began tying his scarf around his neck. “She stayed home sick today. I wanna make sure she at least eats dinner,” he explained shortly. They were all familiar with Ella’s bad habit of skipping, or forgetting, meals when she was stressed or upset.
“She okay?” Chris asked.
Finally, Matthew looked up from his sheet, patiently awaiting an answer. Chis wasn’t the only one who had noticed Ella’s recent absence. She had quite a presence, after all. He and Mabel were beginning to worry. Leo, too.
Jess shrugged, evasive. “Yeah. She’s fine. Just a winter bug or something.”
Chris nodded skeptically. “Okay.”
“Tell her we hope she feels better,” Matthew cut in diplomatically, hoping Chris got the hint that he should let sleeping dogs lie.
“Just call me a carrier pigeon,” Jess quipped, smiling thinly, before he excited the shop into the frigid evening air.
. . .
Eyelids heavy, Ella focused on her breathing. The falling snow twinkled in the soft light of the cloudy evening, and she watched it. Flakes floated down haphazardly, sometimes tossed along the wind. Watching it made her feel mindless, but almost in a good way, as she laid on her side. The pain in her head had numbed, though an ache still throbbed dully in her skull. She was just too tired. The kind of fatigue which comes with a fever, though she knew she didn’t have one. She just needed to sleep. Sleep and sleep, she told herself, until the pain went away. After a good rest, she hoped, she would awake renewed and inspired. Her sketchbook sat closed on her nightstand, not used since the night before her father died, the night of Jess’s publishing party.
In her worst moments, that night came back to her in flashes. Not because it was bad, but because she had been just so happy. Tipsy and in love and hopeful. The naivety almost made her want to laugh out loud. How could she possibly have thought she would have the chance to patch things up with her father? Life didn’t work that way. It never did. She didn’t know when she had lost sight of her realist views, but she was reminded why they were important. Always planning for the worst meant no disappointments and no ugly surprises. She drifted in and out of vague dreams, almost unsure of when and if she was awake. She felt sweaty and stale beneath the blue quilt, but she still snuggled into it deeper. It made her feel safe in some innocent, childish way she wished she could hold onto. She knew when she got up again, she would feel cold. And she would have to continue on as normal with a new, unwelcome tightness in her chest.
At the sound of the doorknob to the bedroom turning, she shut her eyes completely. She pretended to be asleep, breathing deeply and making her expression go slack, as Jess came in. Better to have him believe she was actually resting, rather than staring off into the middle distance feeling sorry for herself. Ella didn’t know quite what time it was, but she thought he was early, judging by the light outside. She knew he was worried about her; she could see it, even if he never said it out loud. But she was just so tired. She simply lacked the energy to reassure him, or to reassure herself. She could hear him quietly take off his shoes, his watch.
Then, he exited the room again. She heard him put on an album by The Cure at a low volume. It made her want to smile, almost. The apartment felt better when he was in it. She felt less claustrophobic. Maybe since he was finally there, she would actually get some sleep. But sleep never came, and she knew why. She’d been lying in bed all day, in a zombie-like state. In the two weeks since returning to work, she’d come home every day exhausted. And, worse yet, angry. Not in a yelling and punching the walls kind of way, though. Instead, she would cry hot, frustrated tears at the smallest mistake in her work. She would feel the urge to go smoke or drink, though she hadn’t given in. She felt like she was crawling out of her skin, but she couldn’t do anything about it. She could only sit back and watch as she struggled tiredly through her lectures and bit her nails ragged.
But the worst part was not the anger. The worst part was the inability to truly feel it. She knew she was angry, and she knew why, but she couldn’t get it to sink it. She couldn’t work through it or make it better, she could only feel it in the moment. When it passed, she would go back to her sleepy, sluggish state. And the storm of emotion would sit dormant in her belly. She tried to think about her father, and tried to cry for him. She couldn’t. She could only wait for the random bursts of emotion at meaningless moments. When she thought of her father’s death, or even her mother’s, it was like she could feel the key turning in the lock on her heart, and the switch flipping off. Not since the night Jess had held her on the Gilmore porch had she been able to shed a tear about any of it.
Staying home had been both a necessity because of the migraine she’d woken up with, and an attempt to wake herself up. Maybe if she could sleep off the constant fatigue she had been feeling, she could sleep off the hazy fog in her brain as well. But, as the day began to come to a close, she could only lie in her bed feeling defeated. In a way which was familiar, but still so new. When her mother had died, it had been such a shock. It had been more cut and dry. She had loved her mother, and her mother died. But her father was a different story. And he had been her only parent left.
After a few minutes, the bedroom door creaked open again, and she heard Jess’s soft footfalls on the carpet. The other side of the bed dipped down as he sat, and placed a gentle hand on her back, beginning to rub circles there.
“Elle?” he asked. “Hey, honey, wake up.”
Ella took a deep breath in, feigning slight surprise as she opened her eyes and rolled over, away from the window to face Jess. He had a small smirk on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes as he looked down at her. With a light touch, he brushed the stray strands of hair away from her forehead.
“Hey,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse and groggy.
“Hi,” he replied.
She was pale and exhausted. It was as though her face had drained of all color the moment her father had died, and it had yet to come back. He couldn’t make her blush like he used to. Some sort of elemental lightness had left her, one which he hadn’t noticed she had until it was gone. And he was more or less at a loss about what to do. She was going about her day, going through the motions, but she was still somewhere far off in her mind. Unable to deal with anything that didn’t lack all emotion. He was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to snap out of it, or if a part of her was missing that could never be replaced. But, he was trying for her. He was taking care of her in a way he had never gotten a chance to before. Not from sickness, but from sadness. She had always been the one to patch him up emotionally, when things fell through with his father or he had a panic attack or he couldn’t get the dark clouds to lift from above his head. She was not exactly a ray of sunshine, but she wasn’t one to wallow either. She was an expert at getting through, attacking life the way it attacked her, picking herself back up. This time, he thought, maybe she just needed a hand.
“How’s your head?” he asked quietly, his thumb caressing her skin.
In the morning, she’d barely been able to open her eyes, her migraine was so bad. He wasn’t surprised though. She hadn’t taken a day off since going back to work. Everything was bound to catch up with her eventually. She was trying to hold it all back again, but he didn’t know why. Maybe because she’d had a bit of time; she wasn’t in shock anymore. She had more control over her emotions, maybe too much.
She shrugged. “A little better.”
“Good,” he said, leaning down and pressing a long kiss on her forehead.
When he pulled away, Ella took in a deep breath through her nose. She let her muscles release tension she didn’t know they’d been holding. She was glad he was home, even if she was embarrassed at his seeing her lying around.
“I made some green tea. You wanna watch a Stephen King movie with dinner? Or do your eyes still hurt?” he asked.
She felt her stomach do a flip. She didn’t deserve him. And his tenderness made her feel squirmy, like at some point he would realize how lazy she was being, how pathetic. Even one day off of work was making her feel so useless. She cleared her throat, averting her eyes from him.
“I’m actually not that hungry,” she said sheepishly. She hadn’t eaten all day, but she just couldn’t bring herself to want anything.
Jess sighed. “Elle-”
“No, I know,” she cut him off. “I promise I’ll eat later, really. Just not right now.”
Biting at his lip, Jess seemed lost in thought for a moment before he finally nodded. “Okay.”
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. “Did you finish that Sylvia Plath?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“You wanna come lay down and read me what you have left, James Dean?” she asked, tone lighter than it had been.
He let a smile ghost over his lips. “Always, Daria.”
Swallowing thickly, Ella muttered a thanks to him as he left the room again. She rolled over and stared at the ceiling, so blank and dull white. Like a canvas she wanted to paint. But just thinking of the empty pages in her sketchbook made dread rise up in her throat. She shook the thought away as Jess came back into the room with two mugs of tea and a book under his arm. As they drank their tea, he told her about his day, about Chris and Matthew, how slow it had been. She laughed at the right moments, nodded at the right moments, smiled when she should have. But her heart wasn’t in it. She didn’t add anything, she barely even looked at him. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, and he almost did. But she looked so tired. He decided to wait until at least the morning. She needed rest more than she needed an interrogation, he figured. When they were done, cups on nightstands, he laid down next to her, warm under the covers as the snow kept falling in sheets outside, the light of the streetlamps making the flakes sparkle. The approaching darkness was almost gloomy, though, and he wasn’t particularly sure why. She laid her head on his chest, as she often did when he read to her. She liked to hear the vibrations of his words against her ear.
As he began at the page where he stopped, she felt warmer. His voice and the feeling of his body against her made it easier to breathe, easier to get her mind to shut up for a moment. But it lasted not for long, as a quiet thought whispered in the back of her mind. Then, it was louder and louder, until it became a shout, a scream. Someday, she would end up like her father, like Fiona. Losing the person you loved most in the world destroyed you. Ella didn’t know why, but all of a sudden she felt certain she would lose Jess. He would die, and he would die suddenly. As soon as she let her guard down again, she would lose him. She would lose the person she belonged to, the person who belonged to her.
The love she felt for Jess was unlike what she had felt for anyone else before, and some part of her knew she would never feel that love for anyone else again. And she felt like she understood her father better than she ever had before. He’d lost her mother in the middle of the night; the person he belonged to. Ella had been able to move on, but she thought that maybe her father’s life had been over the moment her mother died. And it would happen to her, unless she did something about it. The thought was so jarring and terrifying, for a moment, she felt like her throat was closing up. But she tried to handle the pit in her stomach as it formed and sat coldly in her core.
Jess was so sweet to her, always had been. Even when he was an angry tenager who was lost and acted like he didn’t need anybody. When she’d thought she couldn’t love anyone. He was smart and thoughtful and he knew her better than anyone else ever had. She could smell his familiar scent of pine and must, which had never worn off even long after he moved out of Luke’s. She listened to his voice lilt over the words of a book she owned, which she’d given him in high school. He was rereading the copy which contained their notes to each other, back when they were still falling in love without knowing it. A glance up at his face, and tears stung her eyes. Jess with his kind brown eyes and the dark shadow on his jaw. Jess with the faded scar on his left palm, which she’d watched get stitched up. Jess with the strong arms that held her in the ocean in California. The person she’d been in love with since she was sixteen. He was beautiful, in every sense of the word. A deep, awful regret filled her. She’d let herself fall so completely in love with him. She never should have. What was she going to do when he was gone?
Before she could stop herself, she began to cry silently. Jess furrowed his brows, feeling her tears wet his t-shirt. It was Plath, after all. A pretty sad novel, but he’d never known her to cry at a book. Or at much of anything, for that matter. He stopped reading immediately, lowering the book and bringing one hand to touch her freckled arm gingerly.
“What’s wrong?”
She sniffed and cleared her throat, wiping beneath her eyes. “Nothing, Jess. Just keep reading.”
“Eleanor-”
“Jess, please just keep reading,” she said, voice shaking and broken.
His breath caught in his throat, the words dying before he spoke them. She sounded helpless. He couldn't ignore her pleas, no matter how much he wanted to. Not when she sounded like that. He kept reading.
. . .
Gnawing on her nails, Ella sat alone in the cold morning light. The world outside was sparkling with snow in the sunlight. But soon, the grime city would corrupt it. The soft mountains of white would grow dull and gray, caked on the side of the road. She could only think about the melty gray slush as she looked outside, at the beauty the storm the day before had left in its wake. Her hands were slightly shaky, her elbows on her knees. She couldn’t remember the last time she had woken up so early, unable to fight wakefulness anymore as she packed a bag in the early darkness. The day had since brightened, from a deep blue to a warm orange and then finally, a bright yellow. But Ella still couldn’t bring herself to wake Jess up.
Instead, she waited. And she didn’t have to wait as long as she thought she would have. Jess emerged from the bedroom in his pajamas, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, at around half past six. His brows were furrowed at her empty spot in bed before he even saw her in the living room, sitting on the couch fully dressed with a packed suitcase on the floor next to her.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?” he asked, stopping in his tracks in surprise.
Ella ran an anxious hand through her hair before she looked up to meet his eyes. “I think...I think we should take a break for a little while.”
“What?” he said incredulously.
She sighed through her nose, looking down into her lap. “Jess, I just don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be together right now.”
“Eleanor, what are you talking about?” he continued, as though he simply couldn’t get her words to make sense in his head.
Again, she sighed in frustration. Without thinking about it, she rose and began to pace. Jess watched her with a worried gaze. She wasn’t behaving like herself at all, and just looking at her suitcase packed and ready to go made him feel sick to his stomach.
“Look, Jess, I just...I think we need to take a step back from each other for a while. Get to know ourselves when we’re not with each other, you know?” she said, her excuse flimsy and her voice uncertain. But she told herself this would be the hard part. Rip the bandaid off and leave, to get rid of the constant dread inside her. Without Jess, without anyone, it would simply be safer. More practical. And hadn’t being practical always worked out for her in the end?
Jess shook his head slowly, trying to get a handle on his thoughts. “That’s bullshit. We’ve already been apart from each other, and you and I both know that doesn’t work. What’s this actually about?”
“I just need a break, okay? I’ll call in sick again today. Fiona said last time I called that she needs me to clean out my room before she puts the house on the market. I’ll get back to town on Sunday,” Ella said, speaking quickly, flatly, wanting to get the words out and get them over with.
“And on Sunday?” Jess asked, eyebrows raised askance.
After a moment of tense silence, Ella could only shrug. “I don’t know. On Sunday...we regroup. Think about things.”
Jess ran a hand over his mouth. “You can’t be serious, Eleanor.”
“I am,” she replied simply.
“You honestly wanna break up? After everything?” he asked, sounding as though he still hadn’t quite been able to process what was going on. He’d known something was wrong, of course. Especially after she’d wept her way through his reading of Sylvia Plath, eventually falling asleep with her face still pressed against his t-shirt, her cheeks damp.
“Not break up!” Ella said immediately, raising her voice. “Not...forever.”
Again, Jess shook his head, voice matching her volume when he spoke again. “This isn’t like you, Eleanor. You don’t just run away like this. That’s my move, and it’s a fucking bad one. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I told you, Jess, I just-”
“Need a break?” Jess interrupted finishing for her, with hints of both anger and fear in his tone.
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. He looked so crestfallen, so quickly. She wanted to throw her arms around him, cry into his shoulder, let out the tears she hadn’t been able to release. To tell him what she’d been feeling, the constant pain rivaled only by the strange, unexplainable numbness. But she bit at the inside of her cheek, hard, to snap herself out of it. She had made her choice. And she had to stick to it.
“Yes.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “Please. Just tell me what’s going on. Whatever it is, we can figure it out.”
“Nothing’s going on,” she repeated, finding it hard to keep her voice from cracking.
“Is this about your dad?” he asked. They’d been dancing around the conversation for weeks, as he watched her retreat within herself. Finally, he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t tell himself she needed space, couldn’t just tell himself she was grieving the way she needed to. The truth was, she wasn’t grieving. Not really.
She heaved a sigh. “Jesus, Jess. It’s not about my dad, okay? Can’t I just need a break from us? From all this?” she asked as she gestured around them to the apartment, to the life they had started to build together. She sounded angry. But anger was better than nothing. Jess kept going.
“No, not when you started crying last night and wouldn’t tell me why, not when you keep forgetting to eat, not when you’re tired all day, even after like twelve hours of sleep, not when you don’t even want to draw anymore,” he said, in vehement disagreement. “I can talk to my therapist and see if she knows someone who’s covered by the University insurance. I bet she knows a lot of grief counselors.”
“Jess, stop,” she said, refusing to make eye contact with him as she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Trust me, Eleanor,” he continued, almost pleading. “You’ll feel so much better if you talk to someone about all this. About your dad, your mom, your brothers, Fiona. I’m sure you could think of a few choice words to say about me too.”
She shook her head at his attempt to joke. She wasn’t having it. More tears stung her eyes, and they only made her angrier. She was so sick of needing to cry and not being able to, of dealing with her family’s bullshit, of everything. Of being afraid of everything.
“Van Gogh must have had hundreds of hours of therapy in his life, and you’ve seen his paintings. I really think it’s all gonna be okay if-”
“Stop it, Jess!” she shouted, reaching for a necklace she hadn’t worn in years. An old tic Jess hadn’t seen since high school. Seeing her fingers go instinctively to grab at a small key pendant made his heart ache in such a deep way, so fundamentally, he almost wanted to cry. “Stop being so fucking nice to me! Stop trying to take care of me! Every time I tell you that, you never fucking listen!”
“Elle, what-” he began, eyes widening at her outburst. But she was on a roll, and hardly noticed when he spoke.
“I mean, it’s like you can’t even hear me sometimes,” she continued, pacing furiously and gesturing around again with her hands. For a moment, she was worried the neighbors would complain about her yelling at such an early hour. But she forgot about them as the emotions bubbled up in her throat, words spilling from her mouth. “You just keep doing whatever the fuck you want! Reminding me to eat, and reading to me, and kissing me, telling me you love me, and I just can’t fucking do it anymore, Jess! Not when you’re just gonna be gone someday!”
“Eleanor, I’m not-”
“Yes, you are!” she interrupted, finally facing him again. A fire burned in her eyes, cold and green and devastated. “Whether you like it or not, you’re gonna have a heart attack or crash your shitty fucking car or get struck by lightning! And I can’t keep doing this when one day it’s all just gonna be gone! It hurts bad enough calling it quits right now!”
Taken aback, Jess sighed. His face softened. He wanted to take a step forward, to go to her, but he fought the urge. Instead, he spoke in a calm, soothing voice. “Honey-”
She let out an infuriated scoff at the affectionate nickname.
“I know you’re scared,” he began, but she cut him off again.
“No, you don’t!” she countered, voice more venomous by the second. “You don’t know! Jess, I know your parents aren’t exactly perfect, but guess what? They’re alive. You didn’t wake up one day and figure out they were fucking dead! You can still talk to them whenever you want. You didn’t have to watch-”
She paused as her voice broke, clearing her throat before she went on. “You didn’t have to watch your dad fucking destroy himself because he missed your mom so much. And you don’t have to watch your stepmom go through the same thing!”
“Eleanor-”
“Don’t ‘Eleanor’ me, Jess! Please don’t. I...I love you. But I just...I just wish I didn’t.”
She was crying now, big, childish tears rolling down her skin as she spoke. Jess felt his heart drop into his stomach. Of course, he’d known she was in pain. Her father had died, after all. But he didn’t know she was scared. He didn’t know she was absolutely terrified. Not when she’d always seemed fearless. Before he could stop himself, he went over and embraced her. His hug was tight and warm, one arm encircling around her waist and one hand in her hair, cradling her head. And for a second, she relaxed into him. She let his touch soothe her and heal her. But then she snapped out of it again. Back to reality. She remembered how badly it hurt when she lost good things. She disentangled herself from his hold.
“No,” she said. “Please...don’t touch me right now.”
Her words sounded so defeated and final that for the first time it occurred to Jess she might actually be serious about leaving, about breaking up. The thought was so heartbreaking, a lump instantly formed in his throat.
“Just wait a second, Elle. Can we...can we talk about this more? Please?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. His own eyes began to grow shiny.
She shook her head, grabbing her suitcase and making for the coat rack. “I have to go, Jess.”
“But you don’t! You can stay and we can figure this out!” Jess said, following her to the doorway.
Her face was stoic and guarded again as she donned her coat, hat, and scarf. “I need...I just need to be alone. I’ll be back on Sunday.”
He ran a hand over his mouth again. “Do you promise you’ll be back on Sunday?”
“Yes,” she said after a moment, opening the door. She stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure whether to say goodbye, if it was a goodbye at all.
Jess sighed heavily, relenting to her leaving, as begrudgingly as possible. “Just…please be safe driving up there.”
“I will.”
“I love you,” he said, not being able to help himself.
A tiny, sad smile passed over her lips. “Right back at ya.”
On any other morning, he would have laughed at her response, a joke at the expense of his own shyness. But instead he stood motionless as she went out the door and shut it softly behind her. He was unsure if she would ever truly come back, if she was already gone, if she had been for weeks. Jess was crying before she made it out the front door of the building.
#gilmore girls#gilmore girls fanfiction#gilmore girls au#jess mariano#jess mariano fanfiction#jess mariano au#jess mariano x oc#gilmore girls xoc#original character fanfiction#fanfiction
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Short But Inspiring Quotes from Books
Here are some inspirational quotes with a minimal number of words from some really great books.
“Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”
—The Minpins by Roald Dahl
“Be yourself and people will like you.”
—Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney
“Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human.”
—Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi
“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it.”
—Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie
“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”
—Phrynette Married by Marthe Troly-Curtin
“When you can’t find someone to follow, you have to find a way to lead by example.”
—Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay
“She decided long ago that life was a long journey. She would be strong, and she would be weak, and both would be okay.”
—Furthermore by Tahereh Mafi
“One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”
—The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
“The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
—The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath by Sylvia Plath
“Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between.”
—I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
“It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them.”
—An Autobiography by Agatha Christie
“And, now that you don’t have to be perfect you can be good.”
—East of Eden by John Steinbeck
“A friend may be waiting behind a stranger’s face.”
—Letter to My Daughter by Maya Angelou
“We all require devotion to something more than ourselves for our lives to be endurable.”
—Being Mortal by Atul Gawande
“There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.”
—The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen
“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”
—Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
“Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”
—Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson
“It was all very well to be ambitious, but ambition should not kill the nice qualities in you.”
—Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfeild
“Just because your version of normal isn’t the same as someone else’s version doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with you.”
—The Terrible Thing That Happened to Barnaby Brocket by John Boyne
“You are your best thing.”
—Beloved by Toni Morrison
“There is some good in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.”
—The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien
“There is nothing sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name.”
—The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo
“I don’t understand it any more than you do, but one thing I’ve learned is that you don’t have to understand things for them to be.”
—A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
“Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”
—Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
“It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.”
—The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
“‘What day is it?’, asked Winnie the Pooh.
‘It’s today,’ squeaked Piglet.
‘My favorite day,’ said Pooh.”
—The Adventures of Winnie the Pooh by A. A. Milne
“I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.”
—Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
“So many things are possible just as long as you don’t know they’re impossible.”
—The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster
“Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.”
—The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. Le Guin
For plenty more inspiration, check out www.mediazide.com.
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Short Inspirational Quotes from Books
A quote shorter than a tweet? It’s possible. Here are some of the best inspiratonal quotes ever, and boy are they short!
“Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”
—The Minpins by Roald Dahl
“Be yourself and people will like you.”
—Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney
“It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.”
—Autumn Leaves by André Gide
“Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human.”
—Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi
“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it.”
—Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie
“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”
—Phrynette Married by Marthe Troly-Curtin
“When you can’t find someone to follow, you have to find a way to lead by example.”
—Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay
“She decided long ago that life was a long journey. She would be strong, and she would be weak, and both would be okay.”
—Furthermore by Tahereh Mafi
“One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”
—The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
“The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
—The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath by Sylvia Plath
“Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between.”
—I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
“It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them.”
—An Autobiography by Agatha Christie
“And, now that you don’t have to be perfect you can be good.”
—East of Eden by John Steinbeck
“A friend may be waiting behind a stranger’s face.”
—Letter to My Daughter by Maya Angelou
“We all require devotion to something more than ourselves for our lives to be endurable.”
—Being Mortal by Atul Gawande
“There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.”
—The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen
“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”
—Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
“Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”
—Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson
“It was all very well to be ambitious, but ambition should not kill the nice qualities in you.”
—Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfeild
“Just because your version of normal isn’t the same as someone else’s version doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with you.
—The Terrible Thing That Happened to Barnaby Brocket by John Boyne
“You are your best thing.”
—Beloved by Toni Morrison
“There is some good in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.”
—The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien
“There is nothing sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name.”
—The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo
“I don’t understand it any more than you do, but one thing I’ve learned is that you don’t have to understand things for them to be.”
—A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
“Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”
—Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
“It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.”
—The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
“‘What day is it?’, asked Winnie the Pooh.
‘It’s today,’ squeaked Piglet.
‘My favorite day,’ said Pooh.”
—The Adventures of Winnie the Pooh by A. A. Milne
“I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.”
—Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
“So many things are possible just as long as you don’t know they’re impossible.”
—The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster
“Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.”
—The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. Le Guin
For more of the classics, check out www.lassmedia.com today.
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favorite books of 2018
yes I know we’re halfway through January but time isn’t real
goals: read 30 books
don’t read white men/read everyone but white men
at this point I naturally gravitate towards books that aren’t about or by white men so this wasn’t a big issue for me, plus I didn’t have any strict restrictions about Not Allowing Myself to read white men at all or anything, because if a book is good then it’s good and if an author is good then they’re good! I don’t want to willfully rob myself of a good experience, my main objective was just to broaden my horizons and focus overwhelmingly on people who aren’t white men so GOAL ACCOMPLISHED
data ripped from my Goodreads page because I think it’s fun:
69 books
20,879 pages
shortest book: letters to a young poet (52 pages)
longest books: the unabridged journals of sylvia plath (732 pages)
top 10
I Can’t Believe You Just Said That by Danny Wallace
this book was great. Danny Wallace basically meets a Rude Man and it upsets him so much he just starts investigating the history of rudeness. so fun and smart and tender and amazing. I read this book while continuously failing my driving test because the guy who was doing the test was a notorious sadist and I was really just Going Thru It on all fronts and this book was actually such a breath of fresh air right in that period of my life. like yes some people are very terrible and there’s nothing for you to do about that and some people are very good, and you will probably meet an equal mix of both in your life and that’s pretty fascinating, all things considered. great stuff written by a great man.
white man?: yes but Danny Wallace is one of my all-time favorite writers and also human beings so!!! I can’t believe I have less than a year until I go to the same school he went to and move to the city where he lives!!!! what the fuck (please Danny Wallace if you’re reading this don’t get a restraining order I’m actually a quite normal and stable person I swear)
How to Murder Your Life by Cat Marnell
are you an opium memoir, alcohol memoir, or amphetamine memoir type of person? personally I love them all but I used to be an amphetamine person and now I can’t be an amphetamine person so I’m an amphetamine memoir person. I wish people would take this book (and all books like this) more seriously. I took it seriously and it was painful. very fast read, very fun, very sad. can’t ever watch Catfish ever again.
white man?: no
The Idiot by Elif Batuman
WOWWWWWWW this book. this book right here! this fucking book. it ripped out my heart and then fed it to me again. what is it about seeing your own home described so carefully & tenderly & lovingly & with such surgical precision by someone who’s an outsider there? idk but it makes life worth living for me. I’m still 100% convinced that Elif Batuman wrote this book for me, specifically. you guys get to read it and that’s cool because it’s a great book but it was written for me. thank you Elif!!! so generous.
this book punched me in the mouth then kissed me on the forehead then baked me a cake then got me drunk.
white man?: no
Call Me by Your Name by André Aciman
I still haven’t seen the movie, and that should tell you how much this book hurt my heart. it didn’t even hurt it as much as it moved inside it & lived there & probably will for the rest of my life. I read it while trekking through the Alps and also so deeply in love I felt like it would never go away (and it didn’t) and this book just Got It. it didn’t get me as much as it got the concept of love & desire & knowing yourself vs knowing someone else vs knowing the two of you together. the whole book is one long, breathless sentence. there’s a quote I sometimes use on my blog to tag stuff and it’s “desire is always leaving the door open” and that’s what this book is about.
white man?: yes
Changing My Mind by Zadie Smith
this is the book I’ll always read when I want to remind myself how much smarter I can be.
white man?: no
Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher
perfect book to read on a rocky beach on the Côte d'Azur in late August. equal parts glossy fun & thought-provoking. all in all I’m really thankful that Carrie Fisher found the strength to write as much as she did throughout her life, and I’m thankful that I found her books this year
white man?: no
The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry
perfect Christmas break-read. this book is so different from what I usually read (I pretty much never read historical fiction & whenever I try I just can’t get into it) but something just drew me to it & I needed something to read while sprawled out on the couch post-Christmas dinner, so I bought it on a whim and I’m so glad I did! the prose was great, the characterization fantastic, and the whole premise of the book was just cool as fuck tbh. unnerving & sad & tender & so so so lovely. the ending was strange and perfect just like the whole book. makes you Think and Feel.
white man?: no
Conversations with Friends by Sally Rooney
perfect plane-read. perfect read for the end of a week when you’ve visited your extended family back home & you've interacted with so many people & they’re all so complicated in their own way & it’s all been a lot and you just want someone to look inside your head and go, look, I understand, here, have some spiked lemonade. this book did exactly that! everything in it is relatable. it’s like you do all these small things throughout the day, and then it turns out that someone has noticed them all and they have been writing notes on them and one day they finally show you, but in a non-creepy way. very smart book, very entertaining, makes you ponder stuff that you maybe used to think was insignificant.
white man?: no
Reborn by Susan Sontag
reading this while feeling manic and hopped up on like five cups of green tea and black coffee was an Experience. smart. sad. hopeful. intimidating. mostly, what this book did was make me feel a lot less alone. like there was a woman out there whose brain was also going 200 mp/h all the time and she was also constantly in search of intellectual simulation and nothing was enough and she knew she had things to say but she had no one to say it to, and she was afraid of the future just as much as she fetishized it, and she didn’t always feel the right things in the right situations but she somehow managed. and in the end she found ways to fulfill herself and she found ways in which she could excel and she found work that was satisfying (and I say this with zero intent of romanticizing anything about Sontag’s life). so maybe there’s hope for all of us who are constantly bouncing off the walls and always feel like we’re living behind a glass wall.
white man?: no
Secondhand Time by Svetlana Alexievich
definitely the hardest book to read of 2018. it’s so scary to imagine not just how much work Svetlana Alexavitch put into this book, but also how much it must have hurt her, emotionally, and how many times she must have wanted to abandon it all and lie down and just take a really long nap, because it was all so painful (or maybe she’s a much better and more productive person than I am and she never had those thoughts) anyways this was 100% a book where I was like, I hate all of this but I need to know these things so I’ll push through. everything my parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles have ever told me was in this book, except it was all jammed up on steroids. but I know I need to learn about and understand their history better, even if it’s super painful, especially because it’s super painful! and especially because it’s not my history. I’m so glad this book won the Nobel Prize & I’ll never listen to anyone who thinks otherwise.
white man?: no
comments:
I’m satisfied with myself, I read more than twice the amount I originally set out to read, I read a wide variety of genres and subjects, I read a lot of books I liked, I read a lot of books that have been sitting on my TBR for a very long time, I didn’t read too many white men!!! I originally made it my goal to read 30 books because I was balls deep in a horrible depressive episode in late 2017/early 2018 and I just fully couldn’t even read a chapter of anything without getting a panic attack, so 30 books was an ambitious but still achievable goal. it’s nothing compared to how much I read when I’m doing better, but I was really struggling back then and frankly I wasn’t even sure I’d accomplish this much, so I’m very happy with my progress. I also pushed myself to read books that were difficult to read for different reasons and powered through many of them, which I’m also proud of. the second half of 2019 is going to be insane, but I still want to set myself the goal of reading 40 books, which I think I can realistically accomplish in the first half of the year, if things really do get so crazy hectic that I won’t have the time to read AT ALL later in the year, which it hopefully won’t. but I think 40 is a nice and realistic goal. we’ll see!!!
ultimately, this was the year I explicitly decided that I wanted to be a well-read person, that reading a lot was an important priority in my life, and it’s important to me that I push myself to continue to read a lot, because 1) it makes me a better person and 2) it makes me happy. so deciding to challenge myself to read as much as possible and actually set myself reading goals and challenges and then invest time and energy in accomplishing them has been an important consequence of this year’s reading challenge and it’s definitely something that’s going to affect how I read in the future. OKAY NERD EPISODE OVER BYE
(big thanks to Muffy @whitegirlblog for the inspiration 🤓)
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The Town and The City Festival
Lowell, MA
October 19 & 20, 2018 – Day 1 – The Poets
by Kathy Murray for Live Music News and Review
An interview with Scarlett Sabet
I had first heard about the innaugural run of The Town and The City Festival on Instagram from the acclaimed poetess, Scarlett Sabet. The festival had been created surrounding the life and works of Jack Kerouac, a Lowell resident for most of his life. Scarlett herself was an avid fan of Kerouac, and she was traveling from England to perform a reading for the festival. I was absolutely thrilled. I had been waiting for her to come back to the States, more specifically to the Northeast, so that I could go see her read. I had been a fan of her poetry for quite some time, but had only seen snippets of her incredibly moving readings online and I could not wait to experience it firsthand.
I reached out to her soon after getting my press credentials for the show, to find out if she would like to sit down for an interview. I was pleasantly surprised when she agreed, and doubly so when she asked if I would like to also include the poet Janaka Stucky, who was on the bill with her that night. I, of course, was more than happy to agree!
We had discussed meeting at the venue just after they did their soundcheck at about 6:00pm, to allow enough time before the readings began. When I arrived, I entered the Parish Hall, and waited while one of the staff went to get Scarlett and Janaka. When they came out, Scarlett greeted me like an old friend, giving me a big hug, and I presented her with a small token of appreciation for agreeing to do our interview, a painting I had done for her. Janaka suggested we go into the room that had been set up as the ‘Green Room’ for the event, so we made our way in there.
Kathy: With ‘Zoreh’, I noticed that with ‘Elegy’, well first, it’s like the longest piece in the book, and I was wondering, what was your inspiration for it?
Scarlett: So with ‘Elegy’, whenever I read it, I always say this is a poem I didn’t want to write; but I knew I’d have to. It was, I mean, it was personal grief across death, and also kind of old grief, reliving childhood stuff. I’m sure there are more layers to come, but when you’re an adult, you kind of think okay, I’ve already dealt with anything that upset me as a kid. But it’s events that happen that kind of brought it up again, and I was like, I’m going to give myself one poem for this and that’s it. I was abroad this January, and it was like the pressure, with just the physical moving, and I just sat down and just wrote it all. Pretty much that’s just how it came out. And it is a long one, and it’s interesting performing it.
Kathy: Very raw. Very emotional. I know I definitely connected with it having lost numerous people in my life, not just as an adult, but at a very young age, and experiencing grief at very different emotional levels. You can definitely feel the emotion of the piece and connect with it through that.
Scarlett: That’s good. That’s good, because I think something like that personal grief, you don’t want it to be – and this is the other thing of being an adult, being like well everyone goes through this. I think there’s a line in the poem like, ‘but what about this is special, that which has happened to you?’ because part of it’s like pull yourself together, you know, getting sick of yourself. And it just becomes the wait, and that thing of ‘it’s going to take time’ and then the question ‘well how long does time take?’. People are like, ‘time takes time, give time time’. Like, no one wants to hear that, I want to be better now. And looking back, I learned so much and I’m a stronger person getting on the other side of it. But it was uncomfortable, but I also think that it’s uncomfortable, awkward things, restriction or difficulties, you know, good things come out of it sometimes.
Kathy: There’s an element of rediscovery of yourself. I know in some ways it was for me. One of the parts I was curious of; you spoke of the ‘wet isle of Lavender in bloom’. What isle were you talking about?
Scarlett: It’s a place called the Isle of Bute in Scotland. So my mom is French-Scottish, and it was where her burial was taking place. And I’ve got generations of family buried there. And it was just going over on the ferry, and I know I say in the poem that it was ‘small and unrelenting’ cause it was just like, ‘Why am I in London? I should just move here,’ you know what I mean? And I was just reassessing stuff, and it just made a mockery of city life; it was all the stuff of it, like it was this tiny small place, but it was making a pilgrimage back to it. I hadn’t been there with someone, I hadn’t been there since I was seventeen, so a hell of a lot had happened. So it had been, like, ten years, and it was very interesting, just the gap of what had changed personally and professionally. What is also interesting, the Marquess of Bute, the nobleman that lived there – and his descendants still live there – in the Victorian times, commissioned William Burges to build The Tower House (in Kensington), where he was Burges’ patron. So that was kind of an interesting thing. And Mount Stuart is also very similar to the Tower Houses design.
Kathy: So I know that we talked online about this, but there’s a common astrological theme that moves throughout ‘Zoreh’, and I know that you’re very into astrology, as am I, being Pagan. I wondered how you got into it initially and how you choose to incorporate it into your work.
Scarlett: That’s a good question. It was actually when Jimmy and I got together. We’d been together a couple of months, and he was like, ‘Let’s get your chart done.’ I knew my Sun sign but I didn’t know anything beyond that. So we got it done. And he opened it and was like hmmm, and I was like what does that mean? And I was like wait he’s got the blueprint to me and I don’t want to see this; let’s put it away. So I got really superstitious, and I put it away for a year. And then I read it, and it was actually really good, it was really accurate. And just kind of delving into it, and studying it; I think good astrology is very mathematical, it’s, you know, physics and math and it’s an ancient science. I think it is just, with bad astrology, I always say especially referencing ‘Lilith in the Midheaven’ from ‘Zoreh’, I always say that bad astrology gives good astrology a bad name. And when you mention it [astrology], people are like, oh you believe in that; it’s like yeah, I do believe in the coordinates, and the position of where I was born.
I think Ted Hughes was very into astrology and he was very connected to nature, the kind of bloodiness of nature, and he wrote a letter of his daughter’s birth chart when she was born (Frieda Hughes). Every President up until JFK had an astrologer and, it’s just, it’s not something new, it’s something old that’s kind of been lost touch with. I don’t know, looking back, it’s certain astrological points denote my life. Going back to ‘Elegy’, Neptune and Sagittarius, those 2 years from 2015 to 2017, were pretty intense for me. I’m Sagittarius rising, and obviously now I’ve got a Saturn return, which is really interesting. So there’s a new poem I’ll be reading tonight as well where I mention Kerouacs astrology. It’s something that is there, that I use in the imagery, and people can delve more into it if they want to. And people, like yourself, that already get the references. But, like with ‘Lilith in the Midheaven’, I like the structure of the Synastry [chart], and just discovering it and being like like ‘oh so that’s why its like that’.
Kathy: So it’s funny that you had mentioned ‘Lillith’, because that was actually going to be my next question for you. People interpret all art differently, and the way that I was experiencing it, was that love kind of renews your life every day. And how you can find somebody that is your signs mate and the connections that you share across those intricate ties. Like, within myself, finding someone who can feed my creative fire, and reciprocate it, which I feel is very important to a strong relationship. Now, I was going to ask your thoughts on that, but you already answered that in my last question to you. Who would you consider, other than Kerouac, your poetic infulences to be?
Scarlett: Influences? That’s really interesting. I think I always say Ted Hughes and a lot of people are like, ‘but Sylvia Plath, don’t you like her?’. And I do, but there’s something about Ted Hughes. He’s so fairly, or unfairly, targeted after the very tragic circumstances of both of his wives [Sylvia Plath and Assia Wevill] suicides, and I kind of admire the way he carried on regardless. And also, just the kind of bloodiness, just…the intensity of his work, the bloodiness of nature, his whole energy and focus, and just how prolific he was. I think he’s an influence, not necessarily in style but in just [that raw emotion] yeah and I think it’s continuing on in the face of adversity. I also think it’s really interesting that he’d written all these love poems for Sylvia Plath that he didn’t publish until nine months before he died, and if he’d done that earlier, the public perception of him might have been a bit more sympathetic, and he kind of kept it to himself. And when his daughter – he won an award for it after his death, collected it on his behalf, she quoted him, I’m just paraphrasing, she said, ‘it’s a shame we have to give away our secrets’, which was just really interesting, him referring to the fact, that he released this massive volume of love poems for Sylvia Plath, which kind of proved that he did care.
But intense influence, obviously my partner [Jimmy Page] is very influential, just in terms of how hard working he is and still is. And really, if I have an editor, it’s him. Like, and it’s funny, with ‘Lilith and the Midheaven’, the night before I sent it to the publisher, I was like, “Oh, I’m not sure, I don’t know, I was going to cut some stuff out”, and he was like, “Why are you doing that? That’s good, keep that in.” And he actually read [aloud] ‘Lillith in the Midheaven’. I was really questioning it. And he read it and in his voice I think, just the separation, it not being in my voice, I was like, ‘Oh okay, you know, I’m good with it.’ And he was like, “Yeah, you see, let’s keep that in, yeah?” So I did. And obviously talent is good and essential, but it’s just also working really hard and letting go of stuff. So I think he’s a great example for me, on a day to day basis.
Kathy: I want to ask both of you this next question – do you have any reading’s coming up?
Scarlett: Yeah, so I’ve got in November in London I’m doing actually a kind of reading at the Troubador, and I’m doing it with Reel Art Press, because they put out a beat book earlier this year, so we’re kind of going to be exhibiting some beat paraphernalia, some of Ginsberg’s letters, and photos from the beat book. I’m going to be performing with this amazing poet called, Oakley, and I saw him perform, well we performed together at the Byline Festival [August 2018]. That’s real exciting.
Kathy: Will either of you be performing any of Jack Kerouacs works tonight?
Scarlett: I’m performing tonight a poem I wrote kind of as soon as it was confirmed I was doing this event; so what is interesting is, Janaka and I, this is only the second time we’ve met. But we’ve got a friendship spanning years now, and its through correspondence because obviously we live in different countries. But the common thread that brought us together is the Beats. So we met at the 50th anniversary of the Holy Communion, and the Holy Communion was a four hour poetry reading in London at the Royal Albert Hall in 1965 that Jimmy went to. So we went to the 50th anniversary of that, and Janaka was this stand out poet and I was just like, ‘fuck, who is this guy??’ We connected through social media, and then when I was bringing out Zoreh and set to perform at City Lights, they were like okay we’ll find a poet for you to read with. I said, no, I know who I want to read with. And I said to him, okay we’ve never met, and I don’t know you, but if you’re able to fly to San Francisco in March? and Janaka was like yeah, I can do it. So we met for the first time, a half an hour before. And it was at that reading that we met Chris Porter and he came up to us at the end and was like, hey I’m doing this thing in Lowell, and my eyes like lit up, because when I read at Wellesley College, I visited and paid my respects in Lowell at Kerouacs grave, so coming here feels like everything aligned. When this was confirmed I wrote a poem for Jack Kerouac, just kind of it had so much beauty and purity to it as well but obviously kind of the tragedy, of his demise kind of drinking himself to death, and just being ridiculed as well being because he was new, he was popular. People said he was not a real writer. Kapote said he’s not writing, he’s just typing. So anyway, I’m performing a poem that’s still a work in progress, but it just felt right to share and infuse it with the energy of this evening. So I’m looking forward to doing that.
Kathy: They [Jimmy Page, Robert Plant and John Paul Jones] just put out a new book, ‘Led Zeppelin by Led Zeppelin’, it features never before seen photos and correspondences. Can you respond to that? What is your take on it, like what do you think of it?
Scarlett: Can you believe that there are still never been seen images? I think the book is really important because it’s from the people that were actually there and lived it. And obviously it’s Jimmy’s band, and he created it and his notes you know he’s got a great memory. He was there and he was creating it and everything he did was intentional. And I think people always assume he’s so mysterious but even like on his website, that changes ever day, if you just look he’s giving you the answers. But I feel like so often there are books or interviews people do with him and they’ll ask him questions about an alleged story that may or may not have happened that keeps getting repeated and they want an updated quote on something that may not even be true. And I think it’s really, if you want to know anything about him, just read his own words and the music and that’s where kind of the motivation and the fact that he’s still working like 12 hour days, like insane work ethic, 50 years later, is why he is where he is and who he is. So I never have an excuse, no matter, you know my day job or whatever else I’ve been doing, I can never like slack because he’s there like, I can’t complain about being tired. And he has children and is a great dad so it’s like God I can’t complain about it. So I say get it because he really respects and loves people like you, and his fans, who love his music and get it and I think a lot of what he does it out of respect for that.
Scarlett came up next, performing pieces from Zoreh, The Lock and The Key and Rocking Underground, as well as her work-in-progress poem to Jack Kerouac. I can honestly say that reading her poetry is amazing, but hearing her read her poetry is an experience unto itself. The power and emotion that she conveys when she speaks her written word is cathartic.
#scarlett sabet#jimmy page#jimmy page girlfriend#led zeppelin#poet#poetry#the town and the city#the town and the city festival#zoreh#The lock and the key#Rocking Underground
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large black coffee (part 3)
A Carry On Coffeeshop - AU/ College - AU inspired by this beautiful art.
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7
“I hear his breath catch when he finally sees me. His breath. He literally gasped. I’m so beautiful and regal I took his fucking breath away.”
Baz
Holy shit, he’s here.
He’s standing in the doorway, shaking rain out of his hair and staring around at the room in wonder, like he’s never seen a bookstore before. Like it’s a delight.
I can’t believe I almost didn’t see him. I didn’t even look up when the door opened, I just kept working on my essay, and then I glanced up on a whim, and there he is.
I look down. He hasn’t noticed me. I don’t want him to catch me staring, so I force myself back into the exact position I was in when he entered. Distracted, absorbed, absolutely not entirely tuned in to him.
I hear his breath catch when he finally sees me. His breath. He literally gasped. I’m so beautiful and regal I took his fucking breath away.
Or, more likely, I scared the shit out of him.
(I’m honestly fine with either scenario.)
I keep my face completely blank when I look up again. I don’t know what expression he would expect to find there (surprise? Anger? Disbelief? Happiness?) but I don’t want him to find any.
He’s still standing in the doorway like a moron.
“Can I help you?”
My tone is forcibly cool and clipped, and he nods awkwardly and shuffles over to the counter where I’m sitting. He’s still staring around at the room.
“I didn’t know you worked,” he says. There’s a long silence and then he adds, “here.”
He didn’t think I worked because I’m rich. That’s cute.
“Well, I do,” I answer. He’s stopped staring around the room and is now staring at the counter that my laptop and I are currently leaning on. I follow the direction of his eyes, attempting to work out what’s caught his attention, and—
Fuck. He’s seen them.
It never occurred to me that Snow would walk into a fucking bookstore of all places, so I never thought about what would happen if he caught me. It was never even a dim possibility in my mind, but here he is, at my work, staring at my fucking coffee cup collection.
Today’s is here — there’s still coffee in it, and it says “fuck face”. He’s used it before but I don’t mind. It’s one of my favourites. Partly because of the alliteration, and partly because I love the mental image.
But just next to it is the cup that says “goblin.” It’s my absolute favourite cup because it was so unexpected. I actually laughed when I saw it, I didn’t even have a cutting remark for him that day. I’ve got some pens shoved into it so that no one will mistake it for rubbish, and next to it is another cup reading “creepy vampire” which holds some paper clips. I suppose I just like the idea of Simon Snow thinking of me as some mythical beast.
“What brings you in?” I ask, attempting to pull his attention from the cups. My voice is actually nice. Shit.
Simon
I was not expecting him to be here.
I’m not used to seeing him outside of the cafe or class much. In the cafe he’s all snarling and sneering, and in class he’s always either complete tuned in to the lecture or off in his own world.
I see him on campus sometimes, but he’s always got headphones in and walks like he’s off to kill a man. I saw him walking back from football practice once though, and that was weird, because he was all kitted out and sweaty and I’d never seen him look that relaxed before.
It makes sense that he’s a footballer, I guess. He’s got that kind of build, you know? I was on the phone, just loitreing in the parking lot waiting for Penny to meet me when I saw him, and I kind of ducked behind a tree, which makes me sound sort of creepy I suppose. But he had his hair up and he was walking slowly and he looked so calm that I just didn’t believe it was actually him for a bit.
He looks calm now, but it’s different, it’s like a controlled calm. He was leaning against the counter typing something into his laptop and that stupid long hair of his was in his face when I came in, before he looked up, nonplussed. And he’s wearing a T-shirt. Literally just a black T-shirt, the same kind I’m wearing under my jumper, but he’s one of those assholes who makes a plain T-shirt look fucking good, because he’s so tall and fit. The edge of one of the sleeves is curled up a bit, and it’s outlining one of the muscles on his upper arm, which is flexed a little because that’s the arm he’s leaning on and—
Yeah anyway, like I said, it’s weird.
As if he can read my mind I watch him reach to the desk behind him, the one where some of his old coffee cups are being used for office supplies, with my embarrassing fucking insults displayed for all the world to see, and he grabs a cardigan. He pulls it on, covering up his arms and I’m almost panicking because I seriously think he was reading my mind, but then I notice the small space heater that’s chugging away next to his laptop, and I realise he’s just cold. Baz is cold. How fucking mundane.
“I’m looking for a book for my friend’s birthday,” I spit out finally. “Penny. Bunce. Penny Bunce.”
“What kind of books does she like?” he asks slowly. I can’t believe I’m asking him for a book recommendation. What kind of books does a guy like him even read?
“Uh, well, everything. She reads loads, she likes nonfiction,” I start to babble, then I stop and sigh. “Honestly, no idea. She hates every book I recommend to her.”
I swear I see the corners of his mouth tick up. I can’t believe I’m having a civil conversation with him.
“What are Bunce‘s interests, then? In general.”
“Uh,” I say. I can’t tell him that Penny likes everything, because that’s not true. But she’s interested in everything, to some degree. “She’s into feminism. Science. Cannibalism.”
I regret saying that last one, that one’s weird. But it’s true. She is into cannibalism. This week at least. Reading about it, that is. Not, you know, doing it.
Baz doesn’t seem too surprised by this list at all though, and he just nods.
“Follow me,” he says, pushing back from the counter and coming around to stand next to me. I’m not sure if he’s ever actually stood next to me before, and I don’t know why I’m thinking that, but I follow him as he walks up the short stairs at the edge of the room that lead to the nonfiction section. He walks through the shelves without even looking, pulling books out of their carefully arranged places, and returns to me with four.
“This is a nonfiction memoir about feminism,” he says, handing me a bright pink book with a fruit on the cover that looks vaguely inappropriate. I try not to flush. “Here is a new biography about Marie Curie.” He places that in my hands as well. “This is by a mortician who looks humourously at how other cultures celebrate and handle death,” he puts a huge black book in my hands, “and if you don’t like those, here is a special edition cover of Sylvia Plath.”
I stare at the books in my hands. Literally all of them are perfect for Penny. How did he do this so fast?
“Oh, thanks, these are...perfect,” I stutter. “Have you read any of them?”
He nods.
“Just the Plath and the one about death.”
“That’s kind of redundant, don’t you think?” I say. The joke slips out before I realise it, and I glance at him to see his reaction. He doesn’t laugh. His face hasn’t even moved.
“Let’s go with the death one, then,” I say quickly, holding up the large black book.
“Good choice. There’s cannibalism in it,” he says dryly, taking the books from my hands. He quickly replaces three of them, then heads directly to the counter. He doesn’t even look back to see if I’m following.
Baz
Simon fucking Snow just made a Sylvia Plath joke.
Simon Snow reads.
This information has disturbed me in a way I didn’t think was possible. If he told me he had killed a dragon I would probably process that more easily than I am currently processing the idea of Simon Snow reading Sylvia Plath.
He trails me back to the counter and looks around impatiently while I fill in the receipt slip and start to import it into our ancient system. I glance back down as he taps a freckled hand on my school book.
“What are you studying for?” he asks. He’s actually serious. What the fuck is this day?
“Economics,” I say shortly. He nods.
“Ah, yeah, that makes sense.”
Does it? Do I seem like the kind of guy who becomes an economist? I guess that’s kind of a compliment, of sorts.
“You?” I ask, because it’s polite, and also because I actually do want to know what concentration someone as ridiculous as him would choose.
“Oh, er, English,” he says.
English. The boy who can’t fucking speak properly is studying English. Of course.
“Why did you choose that?” My question comes out a bit harsh, which I’m relieved for, because this interaction has been entirely too cordial.
My tone seems to have helped Snow find steady footing again though, because suddenly he grins at me, and it’s stunning. It’s the same smile I got the day my cup read “world’s tallest twat”. I could tell he was truly proud of that one. His smile takes up his whole face, pushing his ruddy cheeks up and his teeth show and it’s like drowning in the sun.
“I dunno. It’s funny, right? I guess it just seems like the best option, which is mad considering I’m a bit shit with words.”
Suddenly the smile is gone, and a cloud passes over his face, like he’s gone too far and said something he didn’t intend to.
I don’t answer, and instead focus on running his card through the machine and fill in the receipt. This interaction has been revolutionary; I don’t want to spook him with too much kindness.
Simon
He puts the receipt in the book and slides it toward me without even looking at me. He’s completely checked out of this conversation. Is that what this is? It has to be. We’ve exchanged multiple words, and there have been no insults. It’s making me itch.
I’m actually happy that he sounds so disinterested when he tells me he hopes Bunce enjoys the book. It’s normal. It’s nasty. I cling to it.
I grab the book and give him a quick nod before I leave the store. It’s huge. I wish I had been able to wander around it a bit. Penny doesn’t have patience with me when we go book shopping, I never just get to meander through, so I was actually looking forward to doing that today. I’m not sure I would have though, once I saw Baz. I can’t imagine just knocking around the store, knowing that he’s there and can see me.
I’m three streets away when I look back at the book and see the receipt sticking out of it. I can see the top of his handwriting. It’s fucking perfect. No wonder he’s such a dick about mine.
I pull out the receipt to glare at his handwriting some more when I notice the “customer name” section. I’ve never seen it filled out on a handwritten receipt before, but there it is, in perfect, elegant letters, filled out.
“Illiterate pissant.”
#snowbaz#snowbaz fanfic#carry on#carry on fanfic#carry on fanfiction#simon snow#baz pitch#tyrannus basilton grimm pitch#basilton pitch#college au#coffeeshopau#coffee shop au#chaptered#large black coffee
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Policing Love as a Political Tactic: The Thought Crime of Women Loving Women
I remember the impact of realizing I was not straight had on me as a little girl. I was around eight years old. I fell in love with powerful women that I saw on TV and in the movies, most notably Storm from the X-Men films and some female detectives and doctors on TV dramas. I loved them and I knew in my heart that it was a love that transcended anything I had previously felt, though the feelings did confuse me. Did I want to *be* them, or did I want to *do* them? That confusion followed me well into my adulthood. My point for bringing that up is because I suffered from years of repression. I would feel revulsion at my love for women, at my deep sexual attraction to the strong, amazing women I saw. The representation of lesbians and bisexual women was minimal, and whenever it came up, whether in songs, film, or television shows, my parents would immediately change the channel, turn the station, shut off the television, and make awful comments. "Who do they think they are, adding that in there? It's disgusting. They're just trying to be PC." "You know she's singing about a WOMAN right?? This singer is a d**e. Don't listen to this song, I don't want you getting any ideas." "No, you can't go see that, I heard it has lesbian shit in it." Soon that repression and those comments bled into my personal life. Everything was under surveillance, from my clothes and behaviors to my personal friendships. "You're wearing that? You look like a fucking man. Take that off. You look like a d**e." "Hmmm...aren't those shoes a little d**ey? Go with the heels instead." Even my healthy friendships came under fire: "You're sleeping over at X's AGAIN this weekend? I mean I know she's your friend but she's a little...well, you know, gay, right? I mean I'm just saying, I don't want her to try and force you to do anything or experiment or shit like that." The celebration of women was suspect to my peers and parents. "Oh, you're into that band? They're, like, SUPER popular with the lesbians." "Oh my god, I can't believe you picked that movie, there were SOOOO many lesbians in there." "What is this shit on your wall? Where did you get this d**e shit? This is the kinda shit a lesbian would put up, you don't want people to think that about you, do you? Good. Take it down. I don't want to see that shit in my house." None of these things that I enjoyed were explicit. I hung up pictures of women whose music I loved, who I had been introduced to by my parents: Indigo Girls, Joni Mitchell, pictures of feminists that I had read and felt inspired by, poets like Anne Sexton, Emily Dickinson, and Sylvia Plath. They decorated my wall because I loved their descriptions of women. I applied those poems to myself. Maybe some part of me subconsciously realized they were a celebration of woman-love, something more than heterosexual, platonic female friendship, but I didn't know that. I wasn't trying to challenge my parents. I had just found voices that echoed my own. Growing up in the new millennium gave me a perspective of openness. There were other gay and bisexual people around me. I was beyond delighted! I couldn't believe it! I wasn't alone! No one was disgusted by my love of women. No one tried to hide me, no one was ashamed of me, and I wasn't ashamed of them. I finally found like I had found a space, a LIFE, where I could live as myself without shame. But now that's changed. I posted something on another social media profile of mine that was simply pictures of women, and someone commented with that now-common accusation: "lol, what is this terf shit?" And I stared at it with a mixture of annoyance and disappointment. I responded, it's just pictures of women. How is that trans-exclusionary? And they said, well what's the source? I said I didn't know. They gave me a flighty response: "oh lol, sorry, just wanted to make sure!" Make sure of what? That I wasn't committing some heinous crime that would dare celebrate women? That I wasn't supporting something they hated? Women who are deemed terfs are reviled, and we are often on the receiving end of horrifically detailed rape and death threats. Lesbians cannot even post about their love lives on their personal blogs without receiving an influx of violent and degrading comments, questioning their sexuality and being bullied to the point that it becomes abundantly clear that if they don't include transgender women (males) in their relationships, then they're not ~REALLY~ LESBIANS, they're just "gyno-sexuals" and "genital fetishists." The only reason to police these women, to make sure the celebration of women, by women, accepts males, is the oldest reason: misogyny. The only reason any lesbian receives hate for her sexuality, for her HOMOSEXUALITY, is misogyny. The current political ideology of pomo idpol is just brand new, socially accepted fodder to hate women. When you see a woman posting anything that doesn't include men, and celebrates the love a woman feels for another, and you decide to question, harass, and punish her for it, YOU ARE A HOMOPHOBIC MISOGYNIST. You are putting women back in the closet when we've recently been able to take steps outside. Women celebrating women, women LOVING and being attracted to other women should not be a threat, but it is, and I won't pretend I don't know why. To try and psychologically bully a lesbian into accepting male genitalia under the guise of wanting to ~broaden~ her horizons and asking her to ~examine~ her sexuality is exactly what they did to lesbians in the 50's and 60's: conversion therapy under a post-modern label. It's a violent tactic to try and turn a HOMOsexual person HETEROsexual, purely because YOU cannot accept a woman who will not be with a man, because YOU are uncomfortable at a sexuality that does not involve a penis.
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Mental Health
Mental health, it’s something that surely someone we know deals with. By definition, it’s, “the state of complete physical, mental and social well being and not merely the absence of the disease” (Rafique). There are also many examples of mental health problems such as depression, dementia etc., In fact, “5 percent of adults (18 or older) experience a mental illness in any one year, equivalent to 43.8 million people” (Kapil). However, there are ways in which this can be a source of inspiration in terms of writing. Such examples include “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath or “Blue with Collapse” by Thomas lux. Another such poet is Naomi Shihab Nye whose works are, “Known for poetry that lends a fresh perspective to ordinary events, people, and objects” (Poetry Foundation). One such example includes, “The Rider” by Naomi Shihab Nye in which she talks about a boy who believes he can escape his loneliness, “A boy told me if he roller-skated fast enough his loneliness couldn't catch up to him” (Nye, lines 1-3). This would inspire her to follow suit, “What I wonder tonight pedaling hard down King William Street is if it translates to bicycles. A victory” (Nye, lines 6-9). In this poem, Nye is using one form of mental health, loneliness and is flipping it on its head by not only using it as a positive, but also as a source of overcoming an obstacle. For example, “To leave your loneliness panting behind you on some street corner while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas, pink petals that have never felt loneliness, no matter how slowly they fell” (Nye, lines 9-12). What she means by this is, to leave your trouble behind while you enjoy the success of overcoming your troubles with the success being the “Cloud of sudden azaleas” (Nye, line 7), and the success has never had to deal with trouble given it that success is the opposite of trouble. Now that mental health is finally being brought into the light with thing such as mental health awareness week occurring recently, there are finally steps being taken to address this problem such as social workers. According to the United States department of labor, social workers, “help people solve and cope with problems in their everyday lives” ("Social Workers: Occupational Outlook Handbook: U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics”). In that same source, they also mention that, “Social workers work in a variety of settings, including mental health clinics” ("Social Workers: Occupational Outlook Handbook: : U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics"). ). However, it’s not just regular people who have mental troubles but also college students.
In a study done by the American Psychological Association, “Anxiety is the top presenting concern among college students (41.6 percent), followed by depression (36.4 percent) and relationship problems (35.8 percent)” (American Psychological Association) and that is if you’re just a regular student what about if you’re an athlete as well? Having to deal with (According to the NCAA), “Daily practices, competitions that may involve travel (some across time zones), a full academic course load, strength and conditioning programs, and sports medicine/rehab appointments” (NCAA) that is a lot on one plate. There is however hope for those who are involved with such activities as those. One great example is the Clemson University’s football team, the Tigers. You may know who they are given that they have won two of the last three national championships but in a recent video by The Athletic, head coach Dabo Swinney discussed about how he addresses mental health with Armen Keteyian. When asked regarding where mental health ranks among the other activities such as recruiting, academics, etc., Swinney said, “It’s as important as strength and conditioning Young People don’t have coping mechanisms Even though they look like they’re these big, strong, good looking, athletic guys, on the inside, they’re kids” (Olian and Keteyian). Some of the various ways that Clemson approaches mental health include, “a psychologist on staff, a slide, bowling alley, and most important Swinney says, a place to take a nap” (Olian and Keteyian). One story that Swinney mentioned was, “In our old building, sometimes I would walk into the old team room and they’re just grabbing a nap and I was like, let’s build them a place for them to sleep” (Olian and Keteyian). These efforts to address mental health might have been the result from a prior experience that Swinney had with one of his own players when, “Jay Guillermo, a stud center from Tennessee joined the team” (Olian and Keteyian). It was during his “Sophomore year, Guillermo broke his foot” (Olian and Keteyian) and gradually things got so bad, “He decided to go home” (Olian and Keteyian). However, after recuperating at home, Guillermo recovered and returned, “To the school and the game he loved” (Olian and Keteyian).
This example of beating mental health brings me back to “The Rider”. In some ways Guillermo is like the boy who told (I presume Nye) that, “If he roller-skated fast enough, his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him” (Nye, lines 1-3) but instead of roller skating, it was playing football well enough for Guillermo and he was able to assist Clemson when they defeated the University of Alabama Crimson Tide in the 2016 National Championship game 35-31 which like the poem was , “A victory” not only for Guillermo but Clemson as well. In a similar fashion to “The Rider” it helped out Dabo Swinney. For example, when Nye says, “What I wonder tonight pedaling hard down King William Street is if it translates to bicycles” (Nye, lines 6-9), it means in Swinney’s case, can the impact that he made with Guillermo not only help others but to also win? That was the case when last year, Clemson would win it’s second National Championship by defeating Alabama again 44-16 in addition to providing options to other players coping with mental health.
Mental health is a major topic and not just in the overall culture that we live in. Many great authors or poets have used mental health as a topic in their writing. Examples include “The Soul has Bandaged moments” by Emily Dickinson or “Fear” by Ciaran Carson and countless others and even songs such as “Lithium” by Nirvana (which is one of their more popular songs), addresses the subject mental health. Gradually, mental health has become a huge topic and even though it’s taking some time, steps are being taken.
Works Cited
American Psychological Association. "College students’ mental health is a growing concern, survey finds." Monitor on Psychology, vol. 44, no. 6, June 2013, p. 13, www.apa.org/monitor/2013/06/college-students.
Kapil, Rubina. "5 Surprising Mental Health Statistics." Mental Health First Aid, 6 Feb. 2019, www.mentalhealthfirstaid.org/2019/02/5-surprising-mental-health-statistics/#targetText=In%20the%20United%20States%2C%20almost,equivalent%20to%2043.8%20million%20people.
NCAA. "Mind, Body and Sport: The Psychologist Perspective." NCAA.org - The Official Site of the NCAA, 18 July 2017, www.ncaa.org/sport-science-institute/mind-body-and-sport-psychologist-perspective.
Nye, Naomi S. "The Rider." Poets.org | Academy of American Poets, 1998, poets.org/poem/rider.
Olian, Cathy, and Armen Keteyian. "Over the Edge: College Sports' Mental Health Crisis (Act 1)." YouTube, The Athletic, 9 Sept. 2019, www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3O1qCuK1OU.
Poetry Foundation. "Naomi Shihab Nye." Poetry Foundation, www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/naomi-shihab-nye.
Rafique, Ibrar. "Mental Health." Pakistan Journal of Medical Research, vol. 52, no. 4, 1 Oct. 2013, pp. 95-96, J. Sargeant Reynolds Community College. web.a.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail/detail?vid=0&sid=db3c30ca-84a8-46a6-b265-08a01c89d059%40sessionmgr4008&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc3QtbGl2ZSZzY29wZT1zaXRl#AN=102095999&db=a9h.
Social Workers : Occupational Outlook Handbook: U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. United States Department of Labor, 4 Sept. 2019. www.bls.gov/ooh/community-and-social-service/social-workers.htm.
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On the Warsaw Comic Con I met Nadia Hilker and gave her a letter in which you are mentioned. I don’t know if you two were talking since then (3.06). But the thing is, you need to know why I’m so moved because of your gesture.
There is no other way but to tell this in public, I wish I could talk to you about this privately, but it is how it is.
You know what the letter was about?
For a quite long time I was dealing with bullying-- and I still am. But in the worst moment I had a depression. Yeah, someone would say, what a bullshit, you don’t look like one.
But I say: I was. And somethimes, sometimes I’m feeling down but I try to remember the fight I battled to be free, the fight I’m still fighting.
And my story? During the worst moments I started watching The 100 (which is quite depressing but I didn’t know that at first, haha). Psychologist told me that I need to find something that I wil be interested in doing- so I chosed watching TV (nothing original, I know). Then I decided to be like any other teenage girl and find something about the actors. And then... Positive speeches from Eliza and Lindsey. Nadia’s history, which inspired me to fight the problems. In all this creaziness I started folowing you, I saw your activity in foundations, I saw a life wisdom spoken by you on Twitter. And then I found a video- What Men Really Think About... Their body. And you may believe it or not, on the worst days (which was quite everyday actually) before I went to sleep I was listetning to the words you said in this video.
When I saw the main topic of the newest campaign... Supporting the mental health of teenagers and young adults. Wow. My heart grew up a little. This is too much. I was crying for about an hour after I saw that. Nothing, absolutely nothing makes you more moved than you favorite actor who support people with a problem.
You were the one who kept me alive.
Letter was about that.
I am shy but I decided to speak.
Thanks to you.
I hope you will contact Nadia and ask her about the letter from a girl named Marcelina, who she met in Poland, who talked with her about the problems and cried in front of many people. I hope you will be able to read it. And I hope that someday you will learn how much you, Lindsey, Eliza and Nadia did for me.
Thank you, Bob.
Okay, guys.
This is the truth about me.
Now I hope that you can help me deliever this message to Bob.
Tumblr is powerful, so is Twitter.
This is my dream.
Link to the tweet: https://twitter.com/avirra_r/status/885245229162528769
Please, reblog, retweet, use whatever hashtag you want to use to make sure Bob will see that. Please, I’m begging.
Tonight is the BFSN, make it special.
@starboybellamy @morleybell @the-princess-and-the-king @bellarke
@bell-clarke @bel-ami-blake @bellsqueen @fen-ha-fuck-you @frecklessbellamy @deadshotbellamy @sweetheartsandsweetdreams @bellamyblake @bellaarke @ravensluna @fyeahbellarke @the-ships-to-rule-them-all @merdok1993 @bellarkelifestyle @bellsgirl @bellsprincess @spacexualkids @head-and-heart @bellarkekomlovekru @sylvias-plath @bellarke-stydia @mellamymake @morleybob @grumpybell @kingbobbymorley @infobellarke @moonaskingtostay @bellarkss @chancellor-reyes @royalblakes @bellamynochillblake
#bob morley#jed foundation#mental awareness#mental health#depression#what men really think about... their body#nadia hilker#lindsey morgan#eliza taylor#the 100#the 100 cast#help#bellarke fam selfie night#bellarke fam#bfsn
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ok I'm gonna answer @basiilhallward‘s questions for the tag thing bc I need a Break from reading crime and punishment and there’s nothing nicer than an excuse to talk about myself
1. 5 songs you like, and what do you like about them?
brand new- soco amaretto lime. Youth! I don't know, it makes my heart swell a little, the lyrics could almost be a happy song, we’re young and it reminds me of walking in the dark when I'm tipsy after a party
The front bottoms- the plan. its a nice little fuck you society song that its easy to jump around in your room to, also weirdly inspirational
the world is a beautiful place and I am no longer afraid to die- Wendover. a good song, a bit Sad
John lennon- imagine because you know, I'm That champaign socialist. but this was also the first song I learnt on the guitar (also the green day cover version bc that one makes me wanna start a revolution)
vampire weekend- unbelievers - its fun And makes me think about god and shit
2. favourite bit of theatre you’ve seen/read/heard
you Know I love Bourne’s swan lake. The opera I saw in Verona was an Experence. In terms of straight theatre? Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead is always a fave
3. if you could get any job, no questions asked, no qualifications needed, what would you chose?
ah I don't know, you mean right now at this point in my life or in the future. I guess I feel like if I couldn't deal with the questions and qualifications side of a job I wouldn't be ready to actually.... do it. idk, I guess id love to go into research.
4. someone you want to talk to again?
i never want to talk to anyone lol. idk a few months ago i had a rather difficult conversation with one of my friends and we’ve grown apart since and i think I'm almost at the stage where ill want to reach out and talk to them again. but idk, if i want to talk to someone i message them, and i have a tendency to... not want to push reaching out again to people i used to be close to- the memories are there. when i was in yr 9 i remember wanting that friendship group to meet up again at the end of yr 13 to see how we’d all done but now I'm here i don't feel that desire at all really.
5. something good that happened recently!
i passed my driving test the other day which is... neat
6. pick up the nearest book and type out the 1st (few if needed) lines! do you like the book?
I'm sitting right next to my e m forster short stories so
‘My pedometer told me that I was twenty-five; and, though it is a shocking thing to stop walking, I was so tired that I sat down on a milestone to rest. People outstripped me, jeering as they did so, and even when Miss Eliza Dimbleby, the great educationalist, swept past, exhorting me to persevere, I only smiled and raised my hat’ (that's the start of The Other Side of the Hedge)
yeah I like this book! ive only read three of the stories but they've been good so far, I'm keeping the rest for uni bc I find it better to read short stories than novels when I'm busy.
i actually wrote half of the answers to these questions yesterday including the above one and i thought id check out the book beside me today which is my Sylvia Plath journals. it begins ‘july 1950- i may never be happy, but tonight i am content’ and i thought that was worth writing here. i tried to read all the jounals a number of years ago but gave up half way. putting aside the weirdness of reading someone’s diary, its an incredible read. she was fascinating.
7. do you believe in a higher power or a God?
no. Well, sometimes but not really. I am fully ready to accept the possibility that there is a God, I'm a bit of a classic agnostic in that I think its absurd to think anyone can Know either way. And sometimes I do rather fall back on the idea, and I Do have an affiliation with the Christian god. But in terms of true belief, in terms of faith, no.
8. a choice you wish you could have done differently
I don't have any specific regrets, there are some things ive done or said at various points (or not done or said) where life would be better if I had acted differently. But I’ve recently succumbed to the belief that the way we act is the only way we could have acted. I’ve acted the way I thought best at the time at any given point. I also think ive learned from every mistake ive made, if I avoided making it at one point I'm sure I would have made it again later. and I'm happy with where I am right now, its my choices that lead me here.
9. what brought you to tumblr in the beginning?
idk, i looked on my old blog and my first post was a reblog of that tyler josep tweet telling people to stay alive or smth. i was emo and sad and questioning my sexuality and from what i heard tumblr was the best place for being all of those things
10. somewhere you’ve never been and want to see?
Up to a month ago I would have said Florence but ive been there now :’) so next on my holiday pining list is probably st pertersburg, might take a few years.
11. what are you most proud of?
how far ive come in the last 2 years in terms of my self confidence. less abstractly, i independently researched and wrote an essay and presentation last year on art history and art theory and i put a lot of effort in and it was good
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INTERVIEW WITH LEVIN WESTERMANN, OUR CURRENT WRITER-IN-RESIDENCE AT DEUTSCHES HAUS AT NYU
Levin Westermann was born in 1980 in Meerbusch and studied at the Goethe-Universität in Frankfurt am Main as well as at the Hochschule der Künste in Bern. He has published two poetry collections, »unbekannt verzogen« (tr. address unknown) in 2012 and »3511 Zwetajewa« (tr: 3511 Tsvetaeva) in 2017. Westermann’s texts have appeared in anthologies and journals like »EDIT«, »manuskripte« and »Sprache im technischen Zeitalter«.
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When did you realize you wanted to become a poet? What inspired you to write your first poetry collection “unbekannt verzogen”?
I’ve read about writers who said at a very early age, „I’m going to be a poet!“, but I never had such a moment as a child. I just always loved to read. I didn’t start showing my poems to other people until I was in my late 20s. All of my texts up to that point went straight into 1) the Schublade (drawer) or 2) the trash can. I started writing the poems of my first poetry collection when I was an undergraduate at the Bern University of the Arts. At that point in my life I finally felt ready to tackle the issues of grief and loss that I had been dealing with for over a decade.
Please tell us a little bit about your writing process: how do you collect ideas, thoughts and inspirations and how do you bring them to paper?
I read a lot. I’m a firm believer in the idea that literature begets literature. I also believe that you need to be alone for long stretches in order to concentrate and to think about what you have read (in books) and experienced (in the world). Because all of that „stuff“ accumulates inside yourself, and you have to pay close attention to it. At least that’s how it works for me: I need to shut up and listen. That’s where my poems begin. It’s a slow process, and I’m a slow writer. Other than that, I’m always carrying a notebook with me to write down whatever I find interesting. Whether that’s an excerpt from an article in the New Yorker, or a poem by CAConrad, or Cardi B asking on Twitter, „What color should I wrap my car?“ It all goes into the notebook.
Reflecting on your trajectory as an artist, which kind of themes, motives and styles always inspired you? Have they changed over the years?
The form of my poems has changed with every book, but all of them come from the same place, they’re all powered by the same source. I don’t really believe that a person can simply pick and choose a different theme once he or she has fully committed to being a writer and jumped into the deep end of the pool. You’re stuck with your theme, that’s why it’s your theme. That’s not a bad thing though. Not at all. Figure out what to do with it, how to make it new. Work, work, work. An acquaintance once said to me that writers have the easiest job in the world: they can write about anything they want! That’s a false assumption.
You’ve spoken at length about the influence of the Austrian writer Ilse Aichinger had on you. The concept of silence and “speaking through silence” was essential to her literary work. How would you relate this silence to your own writing process? And to working in a city like New York, where silence is hard (if not impossible) to come by?
Ilse Aichinger was of the opinion that every word that you write has to be backed by silence, like a currency backed by gold. I fully concur. It is important to weigh every single word, and there are long stretches of time when I don’t write any poems at all, even though I’m constantly scribbling in my notebook. Those weeks or months have to be endured. They are not pleasant. But just writing random stuff in order to feel „useful“ and „not lazy“ is almost always a bad idea. At least in my opinion.
New York City is actually a great place to work in. I’m in the Bobst Library every day, and lately I’ve started spending my mornings in the fantastic Poets House overlooking the Hudson. Lots of silence to be had there. But if I just want to read and take some notes, a crowded café will do just fine. I always work in cafés back home in Switzerland and don’t really mind the noise.
Which poets (and authors) have inspired you the most and in which way? With which poet would you love to speak about his/her work if that were possible?
Emily Dickinson, Marina Tsvetaeva, Sylvia Plath, Ilse Aichinger, and Anne Carson. That’s my starting five. George Oppen is my 6th man off the bench. These are the authors that have changed me, have changed how I look at literature and thus at the world.
You are the new writer-in-residence at Deutsches Haus at NYU. If we may ask, are you currently working on any specific projects?
I’m currently working on the manuscript for my next poetry collection. It will be published later this year.
Is this your first time in New York City? What were your first impressions of this city? And has anything about New York come as a surprise?
Yes, I’m here for the first time. I expected the city to be packed with people and cars, but I did not expect to feel at home so quickly. I like to walk a lot and New York is perfect for long walks. Just pick a street and go. There are so many people from all over the world, you simply blend in and drift along. It really is a melting pot, and melting pots are great. Also, I’ve discovered the joys of strawberry licorice. Thanks, Trader Joe’s.
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Post Four
I wrote the story / poem ‘Things’ and I liked it, although at the time I felt it lacked narrative; after reading Sendak and Thompson I was wrapped up in the idea of having a strong narrative in a small book; something that is very hard to do and takes a lot of time. But, after reading The Bed Book by Sylvia Plath, illustrated by Quentin Blake, I realised that the poem did have narrative, was interesting and still created a vivid world that was worth exploring. I also wrote the poem with a strong sense of the visual elements that could enhance it as a children’s book that I am excited to explore.
I think that because it is short and snappy, it has a quick reading and fast paced rhythm that I believe children would enjoy and be able to learn to read from. I also think that I was successful in acquiring a voice that is relatable to a child and included themes that are universally relatable as well. I as a child and now as a grown up am obsessed with my little things and they hold great importance to be; it has always been crucial to my identity, especially growing up in a home that couldn’t afford fancy things or all the new and exciting toys that I wanted; I gathered my own little objects that were important to me by myself, and I gained the awareness that having the things that everybody else had didn’t actually enhance my life – picking up things that I found beautiful, no matter what anybody else though, was much more exciting and better at expressing who I was and who I wanted to be.
I also made sure to explore a sense of imagination and magic in the story; kids believe they can do anything! And this is such a fun thing to include. I believed that there was a part of me that I could unlock at any moment that would make me able to fly or breathe underwater or move things with my mind, and that hope was so fun and is an important thing to remember as an adult; there are so many strengths inside of you that you can pick out and experience – its important not to put yourself into a box.
I tried to include a good rhythm and lyricality in the story to make it sing-songy and have a good flow for easy reading, and easy reading out loud. I made an effort to rhyme; “Sometimes I lose my things,
In fact I do it a lot…
Usually it’s those silly Grimbles
This is a Grimble hot spot.”
which adds to the entertainment and poetic element, and I tried to use repetition like Thompson does so well; “This pile of things is very heavy
And very dusty
Because they stay very still
And I watch them intently.”
I also wanted to include the theme of diversity and inclusivity that originally inspired me to do this project; “These are my jewels.
I collect them on my walks.
I give them to friends
Who come in all sorts.”
For this verse, I imagine illustrating friends who come from diverse backgrounds, as well as things I used to consider to be my friends when I felt lonely as a child; teddy bears and pets.
I knew I wanted an ending to tie the poem up nicely and liked the idea of a parent reading it to their child before they go to sleep. This is why I ended the story with the child going to sleep; it felt like a nice way to make a child feel comfortable with going to sleep; to be excited by their cosy bed made for them by their family.
Although I do think I’m on the right track with this story, I am still not sure if it needs more narrative to make it more of a journey that could have a lasting effect on the reader. I’m not looking to write the next Harry Potter – I’m not even looking to make a story that is publishable, as obviously this would take months to years with an editor, but I do want to make something that I am proud of and that I believe is the most effective story that I can form at this time.
My insecurities with this story are that its point isn’t strong enough; I want children to be excited about having or collecting things that express who they are and find value in things that are unique and not expensive, or don’t cost anything at all, but I’m unsure if this story hits the spot because I have used a less traditional narrative structure. I think to gain more perspective and get some good critical feedback I will ask some trusted people to read ‘Things’ and give me constructive criticism that I can use to better the story.
Revisions:
I added more rhymes to the second stanza because I wanted to add a little more humour and more imagination in the form of listing even more places that you can find your special things, and also to add a little mini narrative of the child finding the things in odd places so the reader can see the collection being acted out.
I also wondered if the first stanza was a little unclear or confusing, but then realised that the abstract nature of the first stanza was exactly what I liked about Where The Wild Things Are; the sense of not having to over explain, trusting the reader to understand what is being said.
In my third draft I swapped some sentences around as I was illustrating, because some made more sense as whole page illustrations, while others looked better grouped together.
Things Version Three:
I have a million things.
They are all me,
And I am all them.
This one I found
In the middle of a tree!
This one cost two whole dollars!
This one came from a beach,
This one came from a bench,
This one is French,
This one was DRENCHED.
These are my jewels.
I collect them on my walks.
I give them to friends
Who come in all sorts.
Sometimes I lose my things,
In fact I do it a lot…
Usually it’s those silly Grimbles
This is a Grimble hot spot.
Flowers are my favourites.
Its ok if they get dry,
I stick them between a book
Or paint them with my dye.
This one I made
It hangs on my wall,
If I focus and point,
I can make it fall.
This one is expensive,
My mum got it for me.
I get under the covers,
And I go off to sleep.
Things Version Two:
I have a million things.
They are all me,
And I am all them.
This one cost two whole dollars!
This one I found
In the middle of a tree!
This one came from a beach,
This one came from a bench,
This one was DRENCHED,
This one is French.
This pile of things is very heavy
And very dusty
Because they stay very still
And I watch them intently.
These are my jewels.
I collect them on my walks.
I give them to friends
Who come in all sorts.
Sometimes I lose my things,
In fact I do it a lot…
Usually it’s those silly Grimbles
This is a Grimble hot spot.
Flowers are my favourites.
Its ok if they get dry,
I stick them between a book
Or paint them with my dye.
This one I made
It hangs on my wall,
If I focus and point,
I can make it fall.
This one is expensive,
My mum got it for me.
I get under the covers,
And I go off to sleep.
Things Version One
I have a million things.
They are all me,
And I am all of them.
This one cost two whole dollars!
This one I found
In the middle of a tree!
This pile of things is very heavy
And very dusty
Because they stay very still
And I watch them intently.
These are my jewels.
I collect them on my walks.
I give them to my friends
Who come in all sorts.
Sometimes I lose my things,
In fact I do it a lot…
Usually it’s those silly Grimbles
This is a Grimble hot spot.
Flowers are my favourites.
Its ok if they get dry,
I stick them between a book
Or just paint them with my dye.
This one I made
It hangs on my wall,
If I focus and point,
I can make it fall.
This one is expensive,
My mum got it for me.
I get under the covers,
And I go off to sleep.
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