#its been an intense year since then though... in terms of discovery... and my journey into this kpop mess...

[wickymicky]

you know, i used to say that Egoist or Hi High were my number one favorite kpop songs (it went back and forth, i think i was most vocal about Egoist being my number one but there were times when i felt like it was Hi High), but like... idk... like aside from So What, i feel like i’ve barely listened to Loona at all so far this year, and honestly it’s been like six or seven months, maybe eight or nine, since i regularly listened to Loona every day (again, aside from So What).... i’ve listened to Egoist, a song that i considered my favorite kpop song hands down for the majority of the time i’ve been into kpop, like ten times this year and that’s it... and some of those times were because i had the thought “oh jeez i havent listened to this song in a long time, i should do that... i’m betraying it...”

i wonder if i only kept saying/thinking that egoist is my favorite kpop song because i said it once and i had to stick to it... i think its pretty clear to any mutuals i have that my actual favorite kpop song is something like picky picky though, a song i actually post about all the time and listen to really frequently...

:/

so yeah, there’s no easy way to say this, but it really feels like i’m hanging on to Loona out of a sense of loyalty more than anything else :( it’s hard to put into words but listening to Loona feels kinda different these days. knowing more about how they decided things on the fly and how rushed the selection of the final members was (and how little the members were told) kinda... like... doesn’t it change how you listen to a song like New or Egoist? it certainly gives a lot more context to Yves being really shy in those first loonatvs she was in... and Olivia’s experience with her debut was such a whirlwind, like, she was just kind of thrust into the group... i have soooo much respect for all the members for being able to handle it, and i think it’s a fuckin miracle that it worked and they ended up with twelve incredible members, all of whom are so talented and any group would be lucky to have them, but even still just... some of the fun is lost a little bit for me. and I can’t listen to Everyday I Love You, one of my favorite Loona songs, without thinking of how much Vivi’s potential has been wasted. it turned a song that i have fun while listening to into one that makes me frustrated or sad. 

for whatever reason, i feel less of that when listening to ot12 stuff, even if some members get shit for lines, tho tbh, and this is a really hot take and i’m sorry... but i’m really mostly just into their three title tracks (and Favorite i guess), i rarely listen to their bsides.. they don’t hit me the same way, i guess. anyway though it’s the predebut stuff that makes me frustrated or sad. i cant help but empathize and think of what they must be feeling in the predebut era... happiness and excitement sure, but also nervousness, anxiety, stress, etc... the one by one debut concept was novel and it ended up working out in a sense, but at what cost? it was able to work out because the yyxy members were brought in at the last minute, Hyeju literally with only like 24 hours before they were gonna reveal the next member, and with all the changes we know about like Vivi probably being intended to be in OEC and things like that, and trainees that BBC had who for whatever reason ended up being rejected also probably at the last minute in favor of the yyxy members who were brought on... sigh... idk

it feels like it’s getting harder and harder to be a fan of this group, too. as they get more popular and more recognition, the fandom is growing, and with that comes a lot more drama, none of which i particularly care about (aside from the stuff relating to the group itself, as i’ve been talking about). they got their first win, and i was happy at the time, but... i’m worried about their future. it’s not that i wish they didnt get their first win, it’s just... i hope this doesnt make BBC feel validated in overworking and over-controlling them, you know? i want to believe that a lot has changed for the better since after Butterfly, especially when Jaden Jeong left, but we just have no way of knowing that for sure. there’s evidence for both sides, so at the end of the day, all we can do is speculate, and that doesnt really help anything. 

it sucks to admit this to myself but i feel like i’m losing interest in this group because of all this. whenever i’ve watched loona content from the So What era, sometimes they do seem happy, but even then there’s this feeling that they’re stressed and tired. are they happy? again, we can only speculate, so it’s best not to, but i cant stop my idiot brain from assuming the worst and picking up on signals that might not even actually be there, it’s just confirmation bias. maybe i only feel like theyre not at 100% because i’m already worried theyre not at 100%, you know? hmmm. also, i just... don’t think i feel the same connection with this group that i used to. maybe i never really did, tbh. they were my first group, my introduction to kpop, and i genuinely love some of their stuff still, but i feel like as i’ve gotten sooooo much more understanding of this whole kpop industry and i can put loona’s discography in context with aaaaaallllllll the other kpop songs i’ve listened to.... i feel like a lot of their stuff hasn’t aged as well as i would want, for me. you know how sometimes you wonder how much of what you like is really stuff you like, and how much is only because other people like it so you subconsciously feel you have to too? well, at first i would have said i genuinely love all of it and i could explain why, but idk i think i was convincing myself of some of it... as ive found more stuff that i genuinely love, it becomes clearer what are my things and what arent, you know? when i only knew 30 kpop songs and had 5 super-favorites, it was easier to overestimate some things, but now that i know hundreds and have a really deep pool of super-favorites, some of that early stuff i found is overshadowed, i guess. maybe egoist isnt as special to me anymore cause like.. at the time, i hadnt heard many kpop songs like it, but now... i have. and some of them do what it does just as well................. if not better............... sigh, i feel like im punching my past self in the gut

if this hurts you to read cause you’re a huge orbit, trust me, i know what you mean, it hurts to admit this. it kinda sucks to realize that you’re slowly losing interest in something you once loved and was incredibly important to you. 

oh and by the way, when i talk about losing interest, i dont mean that i dont care about loona anymore lmao, i just mean theyre going from my number 1 or 2 or 3 spot down to like my number 5 or 6 or 7 spot haha, alongside other groups that i like a lot but don’t follow the same way i follow my ults. so like even if i continue feeling this way about them, theyre still one of my favorite groups lol. like i guess i would kinda place them around where i would place twice or another group like that in my top 10? anyway... i just had to get this all off my chest. it started out being a post just about egoist and kinda hi high too, but then i realized i had a lot more to say haha, sorry. hopefully this doesnt upset anyone, idk, i hope you understand where im coming from :(

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Colin Fisher

Photo by ilyse krivel

Toronto-based multi-instrumentalist Colin Fisher is on a constant quest for the ecstatic through sound. His journey has taken him in many directions, from the math-rock inspired group Sing That Yell That Spell, to the fiery free improvisation duo Not the Wind, Not the Flag. As a band leader, his free jazz quartet released the white-hot Living Midnight for Astral Spirits in 2020, about which Derek Taylor wrote, “Passages of ruminant restraint alternate with excoriating blasts and outbursts, but the means always remains intelligible and momentum driven whether full-steam or incremental.” Solo, Fisher has recently wafted in a more contemplative direction that might see him associated with the new age revival, but this work is as exploratory and engaging as his most spirited improvisational outings. Here, he lists some of the pieces within which he experiences the sublime.

Jean-Pierre Leguay — Chant d’Airain

Some of my first experiences with the sublime in music were in church. I abhorred being in church (and would even attempt to hide to avoid attendance) but at the end of service the organist played as the congregation filed out. The selections were usually secular and I can remember my rapt attention. Not because of some aesthetic taste but because I was having a physical/biological response to the sounds. Being in the resonant chamber of the cathedral provided a fully immersive experience. Rather than suggest whatever music was being played at the time I’m going to fast forward to my mid 20s… While in the same church, I heard the principal organist of Notre Dame improvise with some Messiaen-symmetrical ideas that lifted me out of my corporeal form and left me sobbing in a church pew at the very church I would have done everything in my power not to be present in as a child. The organist was Jean-Pierre Leguay.

Ravi Shankar — At Monterey Pop

An early transmission from what seemed like outer space at the time, as a young child I heard the sounds of Ravi Shankar and Alla Rakha live at Monterey Pop (my parents had this and the record with Yehudi Menuhin.) Ravi is far from my fav Hindustani musician or sitarist, of which I have innumerable favorites now. But I’m particularly enamored with Vilayat Khan after reading his biography, The Sixth String of Vilayat Khan, a couple of years ago. Pandit Pran Nath is also a huge inspiration.

Polvo — Cor-Crane Secret

Without sifting through the rubble of my punk/hardcore teens (which was totally legit inspirational beauty, from Minor Threat and straight edge to grunge, etc.) I want to highlight a band that literally changed my life in my mid to late teens. When I first heard Cor-Crane Secret by Polvo, I didn’t realize that music like this existed. It gave me permission to go on long wonky improvisational explorations — endless melodies and whammied chords that would go on for hours sometimes. I also got to see them on the Today’s Active Lifestyles tour when I was 18, totally life changing.

Ornette Coleman — The Shape of Jazz to Come

The next stage I’ll focus on has a little more girth: my introduction to jazz/free jazz/improv/fusion. I think I first discovered this music by accident. I remember seeing a clip of Monk on the news the day he died. I was much younger, and I thought to myself “this music is like an alien transmission!” But I put that away in the vaults for a couple of decades. I also remember seeing a clip on TV of a soprano player at a jazz fest in Toronto, playing the craziest shit I’d ever heard (once again on a news program,) but had little-to-no context. The clip lasted probably 10 seconds but felt longer and I remember thinking something like “this is more punk rock than punk rock!” hahaha. So, there was a hunger there that I needed to satiate. But I had no access to any recordings where I lived. I remember reading books at the library about jazz history and the only CDs I could borrow were Manteca or big band music. I had to imagine what Song X sounded like for the time being. Ornette’s The Shape of Jazz to Come was one of the first albums I actually bought, and it was more magical than any description could possibly illustrate. As pedestrian as this may seem to everyone now, it was another life changer for me. I can remember late nights sitting by myself, probably super high on good weed, listening to “Lonely Woman” and weeping.

John McLaughlin — Extrapolation

In my early days of discovering jazz, I also came across the music of John Mclaughlin, initially via Mahavishnu Orchestra. His whole profile as a guitarist was incredibly inspiring for me — someone who had an equal footing in jazz, Flamenco, Indian classical music and fusion — a model for what I could become as a player (although I don’t think our styles are really even that comparable.) One of his albums that I think is maybe overlooked in his career is Extrapolation which has an incredible lineup and the compositions are incredible.

John Coltrane — Interstellar Space

In considering this list I’m realizing there’s no way I can touch on all the music that has shaped me. But there is an album that’s shaped a great deal in terms of how I play and in what seems to be my favorite type of collaborative setting — the duo. Interstellar Space is an absolute masterpiece. Everything feels raw — the intensity, the interplay, the emotion. As much as I love so much of John Coltrane’s music, there’s something about this record that was akin to hearing punk music for the first time. There’s an immediacy to expression and interaction. And it was something that felt available to me (certainly not his virtuoso chops, which felt otherworldly — an unscalable monolith.) The direct communication between two people was a revelation and the content of this music felt like something I could mine for the rest of my life.

The Ivo Perelman Trio — “Cantilena”

Fast-forward another few years or more and I had travelled with some good friends to NYC for I think it was the JVC Jazz Fest. We wanted to see MMW play (of whom I still think Friday Afternoon In the Universe is a perfect album.) While we were there though, we saw so much beautiful music that blew me away. The most significant for me though, was catching the last 10 minutes of a set by the Ivo Perelman trio in Tribeca somewhere (the trio was with Jay Rosen on drums and Dominic Duval on bass, who I played with several years later. RIP). It was electrifying. I was moved enough to go and talk to him after and he gave me an unmarked demo tape of Seeds, Vision and Counterpoint. There’s a track on the album called “Cantilena” and it really drops into this heavy space for around 10 minutes that gives me the chills every time I hear it. There is this free lyricism that is still absolutely elating to me. I love his playing and he’s still probably my favorite living saxophonist.

Marilyn Crispell — Vignettes

Masabumi Kikuchi — Out of Bounds

Using lyricism as a segue it brings me to the music of Marilyn Crispell, especially her albums Amaryllis,Nothing Ever Was Anyway, Vignettes and many others. She has a mode of free ballad playing that is absolutely transcendental. I will also mention Masabumi Kikuchi in the same breath. I find the desire more and more to play with a similar intention even though I rarely find myself in the context to do so.

Jute Gyte — Birefringence

A total shift from this narrative of discovery and development is metal music. Something I’d been listening to since my teens and getting hip to some cool thrash music through Canadian band Voivod, particularly the album Dimension Hatröss. I've continued to follow the music and all of its various subgenres and have so many favorite picks, but I’ll choose just one and it’s a total mindbender. Jute Gyte’s Birefringence actually eclipses easy category and you really just need to experience it.

Giacinto Scelsi — “Uaxuctum”

Catherine Christer Hennix — “Blues Alif Lam Mim In The Modes Of Rag Infinity/Rag Cosmosis”

My last pick is another double pick (I know I’m cheating) because it relates to the power of music and ties it into the first selection. Another current, among many, of musical obsessions is “new music.” But when I heard Giacinto Scelsi’s music for the first time it surpassed all of my previous notions about what was possible with composed music — it felt like music from an ecstatic vision. Even as I listen to the track now, it immediately accesses some occult realm of sublimity that feels similar to the music I first heard in church but with an unbridled intensity and depth.

Another more recent selection that fits into this category — but that is different in that it embraces a sort of stasis rather than dynamic movement — is the music of Catherine Christer Hennix. If you don’t know her, she’s a deep well of musical/mathematical/spiritual inspiration for me. Another music without a real equivalent in this day and age — something that echoes ancestral currents as well as the vibration of the cosmos itself. Thanks for reading/listening. Peace be with you. xoxo

[coreymichaelsmithson]

The Lights of Treasure Island

For the past few years, I've been living on a barrier island named Anastasia. A sandy, sleepy, slow place, just off the coast of our nation's oldest city, Anastasia Island features tall palm trees and gorgeous beaches, along with excellent sushi and a surprisingly active arts scene. Its most splendid attraction, though, is an old lighthouse, one striped with a black and white spiral and crowned by a bright red lamphouse. It towers commandingly over the dunes, casting a long beam that can be seen from nearly anywhere in town.

I've always liked lighthouses. In days of old we set these magnificent lanterns on the edge of the sea, to guide sailors through dark and treacherous waters, to show them the way home. Lighthouses represent so many things we need: safety, comfort, reliability, navigation. But in my mind, these structures hold the magic of candles, the magic of illumination itself. When we speak of enlightenment, we may be speaking specifically of rationality and discovery, but we are also conjuring images of light prevailing over darkness. And in this way the lighthouse emerges as a powerful symbol of the spirit.  

This February, for my 47th birthday, I explored the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where I saw several amazing lighthouses. Impressive as they were, I did not think they quite compared with the singular majesty of the structure that stands on Anastasia Island. After a harrowing return journey, one in which I drove with no working alternator (and sometimes without headlights or windshield wipers) through nearly 700 miles of tornadic thunderstorms, I felt the most profound relief when I finally crested the peak of the SR-312 bridge, which connects my island to the mainland, and I saw those familiar black and white stripes in the distance, signaling that I had made it home. Less than half a year later, my feelings about this special lighthouse of mine would be forever changed by a chance encounter.

Just under two months ago, I received a brief and rather unremarkable message from a stranger on Scruff, a queer dating platform that I use. One might charitably call Scruff "a social club for discerning gentlemen" ... it appeals to men who are hirsute, meaty, perpetually horny, and even a few of us freaks who defiantly straddle the line between "butch" and "nancy". Since this man's profile didn't really offer all that much information, and his one available picture wasn't particularly compelling, I promptly tucked his message away and forgot about it, and went for my customary sunset walk on the beach.

I live exactly one mile from the southern boundary of a state park, which offers a four-mile stretch of pristine dune habitat, completely undeveloped and sparsely occupied. The only man-made objects in sight are a few empty lifeguard stands, the city's sightseeing pier, a radio antennae, and our lighthouse. Dolphins gather here, their dorsal fins rising and falling between the breakers. Squadrons of pelicans fly in tight formations, gliding only a few feet above the water's surface. Terns and sea turtles nest in its sands, and I've found many shark teeth among the sea shells and ghost crab burrows. This is a special place, a holy place, and I've made a daily ritual of enjoying its cloudscapes and crepuscular glow as I explore the edge between land and sea.

After a pleasant stroll, maybe an hour or so of blissful meditation, I turned around and started heading back towards my car when I caught sight of a man who had just walked out of the water and was now drying himself off. We locked eyes.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Arrestingly beautiful, the kind of handsome that stops you dead in your tracks. I just kind of gulped for a second, and then walked right up to him, with an audacity that I didn't even know I possessed, turned on every damn bulb in my Christmas tree, and murmured, "Hi!", making the word shimmer like tinsel. In a short amount of time, I learned that he was a Russian artist, born in St. Petersburg but living in Moscow. I had met him during a brief pause on his long drive from Jacksonville to Key West; he had only intended on stopping in St. Augustine long enough to explore our old Spanish fort and take a swim on our nicest beach. He possessed a keen intellect, a quick wit, and a laudable command of English. As we spoke, he kept giving me flashes of the most mischievous smile, and so when I finally asked him what he was grinning about, he revealed that he was the same man who had messaged me earlier. This came as a surprise, for I hadn't recognized him at all ... I had only been drawn in now by his gorgeous movie-star looks, the undeniable sex appeal of his dripping wet body, and some weird sense of destiny.

We talked. We talked some more. We went to dinner. And then he stayed for the better part of three days.

In my bed, we enjoyed the most astonishing kind of communion. Our nights and mornings were filled with such tenderness ... soft eyes, soft caresses, fearlessly sustained gazes, the kind of kisses that tell a hundred little stories. One by one, various secrets were brought to light. We shared toe-curling carnality, thunderous climaxes, an unalloyed and unembarrassed intimacy. We shared joy.

On our second day together, I took him to the top of Anastasia Island's lighthouse. We lingered on each landing to kiss and giggle, and our embraces grew more intense. We felt a stronger and stronger pull towards one another. I knew that this was more than just a simple infatuation. By the time we reached the lantern's round balcony, and stepped out together onto the most spectacular view of St. Augustine, I knew that I was falling in love.

I don't blame you for rolling your eyes at this. You may, in your justifiable cynicism, think it ridiculous for a man to utter such a powerful phrase within such a short time. But if you've ever known me, you've come to recognize by now my considerable capacity for love. My passions and appetites may rise to the surface with little interference, and will I admit some recklessness in how I've invested my energies, but I am no fool. I am neither naïve nor desperate. And I can say in all sincerity that what we felt then was, at least for a short while, genuine love.

From the top of the lighthouse we could see everything. The old downtown, with its mixture of colonial and Spanish Renaissance buildings. The Matanzas River, named for the 1565 massacre of shipwrecked Huguenots, separating my island from the mainland. The harbor of St. Augustine, crowded with sailboats and pleasure craft, a forest of masts. And then the sea, blue and inviting, the sea that would soon separate us. We held each other tightly and looked upon the Atlantic together, casting our dreams towards the horizon, into this vista of seemingly endless possibility and hope.

On our last night together, we took a naked midnight swim in my pool, which is lit from above by a row of blue lights. A light and warm rain fell on our heads as we twined our legs underwater, and our ardor cast a web of rippling refractive patterns on the pool's concrete bottom. He looked me in the eyes, kissed me with the utmost gentleness, and formally invited me to come stay with him in Moscow. I accepted with my new magic word, "Да."

The following morning, our parting was so sweet, and so warm. We solidified our promise to be reunited. He drove down to Key West, enjoying a music playlist I assembled for him, and then he flew up to New York for a week's visit with old friends. After he returned to Moscow, we embarked on a passionate long-distance affair via telephone and social media apps.

I plunged right away into the Russian language, practicing for hours a day, rediscovering my knack for linguistics. I bought books on the cities of Moscow and St. Petersburg, books on Russian verbs, flashcards, a portable dictionary. I subscribed to online learning programs, put apps on my phone, read up on the country's history. I was all in, bringing every available bit of my enthusiasm, work ethic, and inventiveness to the challenge. Every day, I would send him sweet little videos or text messages ... sharing good news, conveying small but significant events of my daily life, showing off my rapidly accelerating grasp of Russian. I sent him notes of encouragement, pictures of me looking my cutest, small but enjoyable details of my life on Anastasia Island. I sent him a short clip of the black skimmers that sliced back and forth across the thin swash of the surf, their beaks dipping into half an inch of water. I sent him pelicans, beach crabs, waves, paintings, difficult words, idioms, cute terms of venery, sunsets, clouds, kisses, evidence of my changing body. I sent him love, every day. "каждый день," I promised him, placing my hand on my heart, "каждый день." Every day.

My love deepened by the hour. I know this is going to sound so gushy and gross, but I really pushed the lighthouse metaphor pretty hard, calling myself "твой смо��ритель маяка" or "your lighthouse keeper". I meant this in all sincerity, without a drop of bathos or schmaltz. Our time atop the lighthouse was sacred to me. I promised him that I would keep its light burning bright.

Over time, however, things shifted. As my interest grew, his began to dwindle. He sent less and less of himself, slowly removing from our conversation his humor, his sexuality, his warmth, his trust. It was like seeing a fully assembled jigsaw puzzle get lifted into the air, and watching all the pieces falling out ... at first only a few at a time, then more and more, until there was only a jagged perimeter where there had once been a lovely picture.

The nadir came when he lost his temper with me over my visa. I was confused about the process, as the Russian consulate and other sources were providing patchy and often conflicting information, and his own explanations changed from day to day. During our last video chat, I asked one too many questions, and he snapped. He rolled his eyes, effectively called me stupid and childish, and hung up on me three times. My many attempts at reconciliation were completely rebuffed. It was both baffling and extraordinarily painful.

Two days after our fight he was in a terrible car accident, one from which he miraculously escaped unharmed. He posted on social media an impassioned paragraph about the event, and how it drew into sharp focus all the love he had in his life, how he felt that he wasn't deserving of such love, how grateful he was for his friends. Yet instead of contacting me, inviting me into this experience, or trying to repair our frayed connection, he spent his evenings logging back into Scruff, the aforementioned dating app. He continued to ignore me, choosing instead to pursue (or perhaps refresh) other opportunities. I tried in vain to reach him, to restore our bond, but was met with only the most chilling silence.

How had I been so wrong? Had my desire devolved into mere obsession, albeit one artfully disguised as love? Had my zeal somehow suffocated him? The irony for me was that this disastrous affair unfolded during a period of rapid and positive transformation. In the space of the last seven months, I'd already changed my diet, fixed my teeth, joined a gym, paid off a chunk of my debt, reorganized my home office, purchased a standing desk, resumed my daily beach walks, started seeing both a psychiatrist and a therapist. My relationship to my body was improving, I was working at a higher level of professional responsibility, gaining new clients, writing my fourth novel, and churning out the finest paintings of my career. A recent experience with ayahuasca had given me valuable insights into my adulthood. It seemed only right that this Russian should be the cherry on my sundae, a prize I had been working so hard to deserve.

And so, after admitting my own disenchantment, I surrendered. Reeling from an overwhelming feeling of loss, I wrote him a heartfelt letter in Russian, one in which I explained the hurt his indifference was causing me. I poured a lot of benevolent energy into this letter. And then I said to him the saddest word I've learned in Russian, "Прощай", which is the type of goodbye you use when you think you are not likely to see someone again. It translates, literally, into "forgive me."

Here is the letter I wrote to him, translated into English:

***

"V_____, beautiful V____:

Okay. I give up.

Your silence gave me a very clear and very painful answer. You have been entrusted with something rare and beautiful, and you have shown that you do not want it. So now it's gone.

I'm sorry my heart bored you so much. I will no longer annoy you with my desires.

The love that I offered you ... pure and strong, given without demands or jealous limitations ... does not come often.

It pains me to realize that you do not appreciate what I have tried to give you. It is even more painful to realize that I may have aggravated the situation with my zeal. But the distance that you put between us is your choice, and I must respect that.

It seems that the epiphany you experienced in the car accident, the moment you thought of all the love in your life, did not include my love for you. Your priorities are yours, and I accept that. But you almost died yesterday, V_____. And instead of choosing to bond with a man who cares about you so much, your focus shifted to Scruff. Your indifference is so obvious now. Please do not say anything ugly or cruel in response. There is already enough sorrow on my island. I feel both grief and embarrassment, but not anger. I've always wanted the best for you, and it's still true.

I sincerely wish you a long and happy journey. I hope you enjoy many successes and find many pleasures. I hope you stay healthy. I hope the man you choose deserves your best gifts. I hope you find a better lighthouse. I must direct my light now to those who are really looking for it. So now I must tell you the saddest word that I have learned in your language.

Goodbye."

***

Please allow me now to rewind a few years, and tell a correlative story.

In the autumn of 2019, during a period of intense sadness and frustration, I fled from Anastasia Island and drove impulsively across the state to the Gulf Coast. I didn't have a clear destination, I didn't pack enough clothes or supplies, and I was so blinded with tears and unexpressed rage that I didn't know where I was, or even care much about where I might land. While getting lost somewhere in the vicinity of St. Petersburg, I glanced at a map, dragged my finger along the squiggly coastline, saw the name Treasure Island, and thought, "That's gotta be the place."

I don't know what I was expecting to find there. Something about the name sounded so exciting, so exotic. And as the evening wore on, my anticipation grew. I thought, in my desperation, that everything would be all right once I got to Treasure Island. Over the next few hours, I convinced myself that I'd finally feel good again in such a place, that my pain and confusion would certainly evaporate once I reached this safe haven. I'd check into a nice hotel room, preferably one with 300 thread-count sheets and a coffee maker, and I'd dream about pirate ships and gold doubloons, and when I opened my eyes and yawned and stretched against the sun-dappled pillows my life would basically feel like a commercial for some bougie brand of almond milk. When I arrived, however, I was deeply disappointed to see another narrow stretch of high-rise hotels, littered beaches, rank seaweed, and greyish-brown water. I found the cheapest hotel room around, one of the few remaining vacancies on the shore, and there I found neither crisp bedsheets nor good coffee. The view from my balcony, however, was utterly amazing: I could see not only a broad curving swath of the beach, but also a glow of distant resort hotels, some of them reflected in the waves. It was strangely romantic, seeing these twinkling lights ... red, gold, green, blue ... and their silent conversation with the stars, a dialogue of jewels above the warm churning waters of the Gulf. But it wasn't the salvation I had been hoping for.

When I got up the next morning, I was still facing the same problems, the same irritations, the same heavy sorrows. Treasure Island would not, could not, rescue me from myself. So I drove back home to my own island, back to my lighthouse, and was relieved to discover that it was in fact even more stirring than I had remembered. During my absence Anastasia Island had become a magical and restorative place, quite different than the one I had left only days before.

What I should have learned back then, but have only come to realize now, was this: I didn't need to travel to a distant island of treasure and twinkling stars, for my own island already had plenty of both. I didn't need to seek the incandescence of a handsome man to light my way, as my own inner flame was at last beginning to shine without the shutters of inhibition or profligacy.

I am now recalling my disappointment with Treasure Island, while concurrently considering my grief over the Russian. At first, I wanted to hate him for his carelessness, for how he squandered my gifts. But I don't hate him. Not really. There's no need to wring my hands any further over his callousness. I don't even mourn his absence anymore. My mood has shifted today, and I no longer choose to see this abortive liaison as being so devastating. For I know, deep down, that the failure here was not really mine. I am not a loser for investing myself unreservedly in someone who could not fully appreciate me, nor I am not the weaker man for feeling injured. I will not be permanently depleted for having offered all that kindness to an undeserving recipient, as my wellspring of love remains inexhaustible.

I tried to share my lighthouse with the Russian. But he did not recognize how special it really was, and he declined to follow its beacon to a rewarding harbor. And thus, our romance was destroyed, and his memory became just another broken boat littering the shallows.

I have seen so many ruins in my years: bad relationships, lousy jobs, soured opportunities. My life story reads like a ledger of dashed hopes. It seems sometimes that both the island I occupy and the more elusive island I am eternally seeking are surrounded by shipwrecks. Yet the lighthouse of my spirit still stands, sturdier and stronger than ever. The waves may batter its bricks, salt may scour its surfaces, it may occasionally groan under its own weight ... but it will not crumble, it will not fail, and even in the darkest of hours this lamp of mine will continue to shine: bright, focused, undiminished.

[liskantope]

A personal look back on my summer 2020

My fall semester has already been going on for a little while, but in the past week the weather has suddenly switched from hot to autumny and now it feels like the summer was a period which is truly over and which I can look back upon as (unsurprisingly) one of the most singular summers of my life.

I consider myself to be excellent at autobiographical memory, probably in the 90th percentile or so, at least when it comes to being able to recall the year or month (or sometimes week) that particular events of my life occurred.  I attribute this to often being able to connect various things that were going on in different areas of my life at the same time (rather like separate arcs in a television episode) in ways that allow me to anchor any particular memory to the time it occurred.  Sometimes there are particular time periods where the "plot arcs" of my life somehow seem to fit together really well in a united larger story or a      single flavor, whereas looking back at other periods I can with some effort remember various arcs but it's hard to hunt them out and put them together, as though they were part of a poorly-written TV episode which doesn't have any particular unity.

Summers for me have always stood apart from the years they were in (with the slight exception of the summers I spent abroad doing my first postdoc which had so little structure that my general routine was the same all year round).  This summer I often looked back at the summer of 2010 (the last divisible-by-ten year), which was an example of the former: somehow all the separate arcs going on in my life at the time -- my studying and research (sadly, this was the most recent summer when I actually felt good about how studying/research was going!), stuff that was going on in my immediate family, progress in my social life, my first forays into doing local gigs as part of a band, the weather, my      apartment/roommate situation, shows I was watching, and personal internal struggles I was facing -- feel like they were all nuances of the same flavor.  (This was back in the days that I had cable and it so happened that Curb Your Enthusiasm was on the TV Guide Channel and I was introduced to it and watched it a lot just that summer; for years afterwards the theme tune immediately brought back the emotions that came with the flavor of summer 2010.  Semi-coincidentally I've been watching a lot of Curb clips on YouTube since I noticed them appearing early this past summer.)

The following summer, summer of 2011, is an example of the latter kind of time period in my memory: I'm able to remember a bunch of separate things that went on, including a visit to Switzerland, some of the research I was trying to do, my living situation (and anticipation of a move and the shift in my social life it would bring), my discovery of the local Unitarian Universalist fellowship and being a regular attendant there the entire summer, some particular online interests, and the unpleasant bike accident I had, but it takes some effort to recall that this was all happening in the same three months.  (One thing I do distinctly remember about my living situation is that my one roommate spent most of the summer out of town and that, in anticipation of my next roommate who I knew traveled less and would be much more social, I was telling myself, "Enjoy this level of privacy now because chances are you'll never have it again." I was absolutely right in my prediction that there would be much less solitude and privacy with the next roommate who I remained living with for several years, but I sort of assumed that after that I would have found some kind of a partner to be with all the time, and... oh the irony as I sit here, still continuously partner-free, after another day of the far more intense privacy and solitude of the past six months!)

This past summer, the summer of 2020, is very, very clearly bound to become a longer-term memory of the former kind: its extreme flavor is unmistakable.  As is probably the case for most of us, my experience of summer 2020 has been shaped almost entirely shaped by the pandemic we're still in the midst of.  For me this has meant constantly being home alone (although I settled pretty soon on into a pattern of going on daily bike rides and weekly supermarket trips plus a number of other types of errands.  Also, a caveat to the rest of this paragraph is that my parents visited one weekend and that provided an exception to some of the otherwise constant conditions below.)  I became uncharacteristically super introverted and very intent on making as much research progress as possible in the absence of teaching duties. None of this has been too unpleasant, but there has been a complete and utter lack of any form of fun, both in traveling (this may hold the record of the only summer where I stayed in the same 6-mile radius the entire time) and in social events.  The one positively pleasant thing in my life this summer was discovering the most beautiful area for cycling in any place I've lived, as well as a handful of late-evening warm-summer-night walks.  The extreme degree of loneliness and the necessity of self-discipline to keep my wheels turning has been smothering, and actually I think I dealt with it much better than I would ever have imagined I could if someone had told me this was coming a year ago.

I'd say my summer was a personal success in that way and in most other ways apart from the main concrete objective of completing a research preprint, which failed quite badly and is putting my career aspirations in a very precarious place (it would have been nice to get some heavier blogging done as well).  One could say that this was a less important goal than that of not letting my mental health spiral, though, and I did succeed quite well at the latter.  (In fact, I was doing much worse in January and February than I was when the pandemic hit.)  I'm upset that my goals seem to take me much longer than I feel they should but am glad that this doesn't seem to be due to an inability to sit down and focus on the work, as was the case with research during some summers of grad school.

Part of the flavor of summer 2020 that will live on in my memory has to do with my being home alone so much of the time, never having to get near other people, in an apartment that I kept hot, that, let's just say it took me a ridiculously long time to accumulate each laundry load and there were often T-shirts draped over my sofa to be reused for an hour or two at a time over multiple days.

While I'm continuing on this gratuitously self-absorbed vein, as I've noted that I love keeping track of personal "endurance" records, I've (again unsurprisingly, because of the situation) made a bunch of them which I'll finish by taking note of here:

Longest time without stepping out of the front door: I actually was careful to make sure I never stayed entirely inside for two days in a row, but it finally happened the weekend before last (after a late Friday night walk in my complex where I may or may not have gotten back inside by midnight).  I believe it was 61 hours, or very nearly 61 hours, without exiting my apartment. This may be a lifelong record; the only other event that compares was a 2-3-day period in March 2011 when I was very feverishly ill in the wake of a snowstorm, and I don't recall how far beyond 48 hours I stayed in.

Longest time without going into my office (or even onto my campus) in over a decade of having an office: from April 2nd to August 11th.  Hardly a unique one here, but I never thought I could have handled only having my home to work in for over four months.

Longest time not going near any public transportation whatsoever, since high school: Sunday March 8th (or just after midnight on March 9th, a bus ride as the final leg of the journey home from my last trip of any sort) to 26 Sundays later on September 6th because of having to leave my bike in the shop.

Longest stretch of time not withdrawing cash or paying for something in cash: since sometime in early March and counting.  The only times I've touched the cash in my wallet at all during all of this time was on two occasions when I gave a bill to someone in need.

Longest time since age 19 not touching a drop of alcohol: since April 11th (at a virtual birthday party of a friend) and continuing.  This smashes a record from last fall of something like 54 days.

Longest time with the thermostat completely off (no use of heat or AC): from one of the last days of March to, I think, June 4th. This was nothing to do with the pandemic (in fact, it makes the pandemic situation slightly more remarkable since I've had to be home for a lot more of the time); the spring where I am was just particularly pleasant.

Longest time not shaving my facial hair: 32 days in the late summer, breaking a record from earlier in the summer of exactly a month.

There are probably other even sillier ones, such as the fact that I’m pretty sure I didn’t put on shoes from sometime at the start of June to a few days ago. You’d also think I’d break an endurance record for not uttering a spoken word to anyone, but I haven’t kept track of that.

Let’s hope future intervals in my life are much less extreme and record-breaking; that’s the gist of what I wish for everyone right now.

[on-the-shelves]

on my shelf: soundtrack to my fourth year of uni - summer

I’m finally done with my Bachelor’s thesis! I might make a separate, more detailed post about it, since the topic is relevant for what this blog is about (of course it is haha), but for now I can say my topic was an analysis of the use of elements from the “Pop-Star-System” in building up a girlgroup career. I looked at the history of Pop-Stars and analysed the album covers of the Supremes’ first two albums, as well as the Spice Girls and Girls’ Generation’s first albums/physical releases. It was a lot of work, but I really enjoyed the topic. Oh and if anyone was wondering, I’m doing a Media Studies degree, which is why I could tackle such a cool topic.

Anyway! So working on my thesis took up my entire summer semester because I luckily didn’t have any classes left to attend, so I was thankfully spared the whole online class ordeal. The music I mentioned in my last post (”Quarantunes”) has mostly stayed on repeat in the past few months. Besides an ever steady stream of BTS, there are a couple of new things to add to the list:

Tomorrow X Together: The Dream Chapter: Eternity (2020)

Now THIS is the release I’ve been waiting for from them. Their previous album had one song that had a co-writing credit for one of the members (Hueningkai on “Rollercoaster”), but this album has more! We’re finally starting to hear their writing talents more. “Maze in the Mirror” was written/demo’ed entirely by one member (Beomgyu) and in the process of preparing it for this release the other members also wrote parts. It’s a beautiful, melancholic, and dynamic song that I can highly recommend for listening to before going to sleep. The lyrics talk about how unsure they felt before debuting. I can’t wait to hear more songs where they talk about their personal experiences, because clearly they’re good at it. In general this album is much darker than their previous two releases and they suit them well. The songs are more varied, too: You have the classic TXT style opening song, but the lead single “Can’t You See Me?” is full of angst, which is new for them. “PUMA” is like dark R&B, while “Fairy of Shampoo”, a reworked cover of a popular 1990s Korean song, is more city-pop. And then you have “Eternally” which reminded me of twenty one pilots’ “Ode to Sleep” in the way it completely changes up its style several times throughout the song. It’s all coherent and flows well from top to bottom though, and I think they’re well on their way to carving their own niche in the saturated and often same-same (k-) pop landscape.

Agust D: D-2 (2020)

He finally came back. SUGA of BTS last released a mixtape under his solo moniker Agust D in 2016. That one was very dark, brazen at times, and incredibly open and honest about his struggles, ending on a note of hoping that things will get better. This follow-up release makes it clear that Agust D has become a slightly different person in the past few years. He’s still brazen at times, but he has good reason to be, looking at how incredibly successful BTS has become since 2016. As always, he makes fun of those who decide to be haters but cleverly never gets too specific - if you feel attacked, that’s on you. There is a lot of introspection on this album too. It’s generally much less defeated or dark than on the 2016 self-titled release, but it’s still not all sunshine and rainbows. His problems have morphed -  he has now achieved his dreams, but it’s not quite what he expected it to be. There are a lot of thoughts about dreams, about what it means to grow up, about what his position in the world means and feels like. That sounds like it’s very focused on himself and might be inaccessible to us non-famous people, but that’s absolutely not the case. A lot of it are quite mundane questions that everyone asks themselves in their 20s, like “what am I doing with my life?” and “what kind of person am I really?”. He makes it clear that he doesn’t have the answers, but he somehow makes you feel comforted in that uncertainty. The musical style is more like current hip-hop, where Agust D was more like harder, older hip-hop, but retains his (especially recent) typical, very melodious style, with him even singing some choruses. There are various styles and interesting production choices that make for a varied, but cohesive listening experience. 

Hayley Williams: Petals for Armor (2020)

I mentioned this album in the “Quarantunes” post as well, but the full album was released after that went up, so it deserves another mention here. This album tells a story of an emotional journey towards healing, without ever getting preachy or feeling insincere. In several interviews Hayley mentions her therapy journey and learning to deal with her trauma and how this album helped with that. Listening to all the songs in order, a journey of self-discovery, -acceptance, and -empowerment is laid out. All these things are typically found in little things and learning to change your perspective. It’s Hayley’s most feminine work yet, in the sense that she’s embracing all of her different aspects: the delicate, the powerful, the rage, the love. Everything is wrapped in sounds inspired by Alternative music, but more, as said before, the Björks, Radioheads, and synth-y 80s artists, instead of loud guitar bands. My favourite songs are “Crystal Clear”, “Roses/Lotus/Violet/Iris”, “Over Yet”, “Cinnamon” and “Simmer”.

IU: Palette (2017)

When it was announced that IU and SUGA from BTS (two of the most popular artists in Korea) would release a collab song, I decided to check out her (IU’s) music more intensely, because I only knew one or two of her songs from the Dalkom Café playlist on Spotify. One of them is on this album, “Palette (ft. G-Dragon)”. This album, to me, best encapsulates IU’s sound: from heartbreaking ballads to satisfying light K-R&B, to slightly darker, groovy K-R&B (I think that’s the right genre term..), this one has them all. I’m not the biggest fan of ballads, but I enjoy IU’s voice so much that I don’t mind listening to them at all. I really love it, however, when she leaves that style behind for the slightly darker, or at least more pop sounds, like on “Palette”, but especially on “Jam Jam” and “Black Out”. She has a certain attitude on those songs that are slightly opposite of the pure, innocent image I previously had of her. It seems very sincere though, most likely because she writes on all of her songs. She has been utilising this style more often in recent years, on songs like “Bbibbi” and “Blueming” (both certified bops). “Eight”, the collab with SUGA, is an uplifting, yet bittersweet feeling pop anthem that almost feels like it could’ve been just a little bit longer. I’ll probably dive deeper into her lyrics soon and I’m excited for what I will find.

Sunmi: Warning (2018)

Last summer, Sunmi released the single “Lalalay” and I immediately loved it. I learned the choreography pretty much the week after I heard it the first time. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to have much other music on her Spotify page though, just a couple of older singles (which I also immediately loved). This year she released “pporappippam” (which is basically the romanization of the Korean title which translates to Purple Night), a bittersweet, nostalgic, summer pop song, like only Sunmi can do. Seriously, no one else in K-Pop is releasing music like hers, and they probably don’t even dare to try. For those who don’t know, she used to be in one of the historically most popular girlgroups Wonder Girls. But besides that, she has been releasing her own style of pop since she started releasing solo music and Warning (which they must’ve only recently put on Spotify in full) is a pretty good encapsulation of that sound. It’s almost like a mix between K-Pop and K-R&B, but more like IU’s moodier songs for example. It’s not flashy and sparkly, but it’s not full-on groove either. It’s a bit of both and it works perfectly for her. 

--

Special mentions for new albums I haven’t listened to that much but do enjoy a lot: HAIM’s Women in Music Part III, Irene&Seulgi’s Monster, Taylor Swift’s folklore (released like a week before this post is published but it’s undeniably good and will get a longer write-up when I’ve had more time with it), Loona’s discography

[storiesofwildfire]

dragon age sentence starters – status; accepting

@bifrostgold​ said: "How do you do that? Make everything better with a smile?" (for Loki ❤)

♔—- Her father didn’t really seem to like Heimdall. Ever since they arrived on Vanaheim, Kratos kept his guard up. Sure, that wasn’t abnormal in the slightest. Her father had a tendency of mistrusting before trusting, never took anyone for their word unless they proved themselves, and despite training her to survive alone, he had a shockingly protective streak. 

She understood the reason, of course, and as she grew older, Kratos’ motivations became more and more clear. He’d hurt a lot of people in his time, but he’d been hurt just as much. So much had been taken from him and Atreus was... well, really one of the only things he’d managed to keep hold of for so long. She believed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her father’s biggest fear was losing her. He didn’t even seem to bat an eye when it came to his own death if it meant she got to live.

Even some of the personal trials she’d gone through that she’d been so fearful of sharing with her father for fear of his judgment or fear of losing his approval had done little to distance them or put a dent in their bond. Kratos and Atreus were rarely apart as they lived together and traveled together. Even now, in her adulthood, her father was always there. She couldn’t have wished for him to be anywhere but by her side, but she now faced an interesting dilemma...

At first, she mistook her father’s wariness as standard procedure. It would take him a while to feel safe on Vanaheim, to trust the Vanir in any way, especially when he did have such a horrible hangup about any type of God that wasn’t his own child. But as the days stretched to weeks and weeks to months, and Kratos saw how beneficial it was for her to be in such a magical place, learning not only control of her ever-growing magic, but how to harness it to its fullest potential, he seemed more confident that they’d made the right choice to come. Mimir hadn’t been wrong and while it could be very difficult to tell when Kratos actually enjoyed himself or approved, Loki knew without a doubt that he did. He was even warming up to Vanaheim and its people.

Everyone but Heimdall, that was.

A unique situation, as it had never really come to fruition before. For all the years that she traveled with her father and went through wave after wave of self-discovery along their journey, she’d never taken so fondly to another person. Sure, brief crushes that never lasted and occasional sneaking off for a date that she would never tell her father about cropped up, but Heimdall was something different entirely. 

Her magic sang with joy when he was near, constantly reaching out to him in hopes of enticing him back to her without her consent to do so. Hung up on everything he had to say and so easily found swooning just from watching him for a brief window of time shouted clear as day that she’d fallen in love for the first time. It hadn’t been planned. She didn’t expect it, not when she’d never felt so intensely for another person, but she could hardly deny it. Unfortunately, it became very obvious to her father as well and Kratos did not seem to take well to it, almost going as far as to try and frighten the young Chief away from his child’s heart.

Kratos meant well, Loki knew. He only wished to spare her as much pain as possible, but his interference in her attempts to get closer to Heimdall grew exasperating to say the very least. They took to sneaking off for private studies or hunting trips that allowed them to be alone and away from the rest of the town, her father and Heimdall’s mums included. 

Sitting with him on one such hunting trip now, she bent over Heimdall’s back to help him readjust his hold on the bow in his hands for more efficient aim and angle for the drawback. With her suggestions, Heimdall’s arrow split through the air quick enough that if you blinked, you missed it entirely, and it stuck its mark. A target, admittedly, rather than an actual animal. They were supposed to be hunting, but they both knew the true nature of sneaking off like this was more to spend time together. Loki would ensure they brought back something sizable so no one could fuss at them, but the real hunting could come later.

After hitting the target, Heimdall sat the bow down and shifted position so he could lean against a large tree trunk. A little frown tugged at the woman’s lips, though she easily slid into his lap and brought surprisingly soft hands to the Vanir’s cheeks to guide his golden eyes to her. Troubled, she could feel it. An unease that covered the stretch of their time together despite the obvious joy at getting to spend time with Loki at all. 

Kratos, she assumed. Heimdall, she quickly learned after meeting Heimdall, could see literally everything within Yggdrasil. Nothing could be hidden from his sight ( though, admittedly, she was determined to find out a way to prove that wrong. Purely for the challenge of seeing if she could more than anything ), including her father’s treatment of him. The disapproving glares, the attempts to literally force Heimdall and Loki apart, the threats Loki saw and no doubt didn’t see... They were getting to Heimdall, and why wouldn’t they? Serious romance seemed to be a relatively new concept to him as well despite how much older he actually was. What they felt for one another was as genuine as could be. Even their magic pinned after one another, but Kratos did not seem to approve. In many ways, it even read negatively on Heimdall’s character, as if Atreus’ father did not believe him good enough or trustworthy enough to court his child.

Before she spoke, she offered her newfound love a soft smile that radiated warmth and understanding while her thumbs caressed his cheeks fondly.

"How do you do that? Make everything better with a smile?" Heimdall asked, returning Loki’s smile with one of his own.

“That would insinuate that something was wrong at all?” Loki murmured. She’d taken to her Norse name, especially in her later years of life. She did not choose Loki over Atreus. Both names belonged to her, but as she interacted with more people from her mother’s dominion, it felt right to use the name that her mother had given her in conjunction to the one her father gifted. Atreus would always be her father’s first choice and a name she carried with pride and honor, but Loki rapidly became popular amongst the Norse. 

Loki’s story existed long before she had been born, after all.

“It’s all right,” she continued, though she did lean up to press a gentle kiss to Heimdall’s lips before she said anything else. Lingering there for a moment, she found herself wrapped in the desire to lose herself in the kiss. Every time she kissed Heimdall, she felt an overwhelming need to press on. That need wasn’t always sexual, it just manifested in a desire to be as close as she possibly could to the man. Surely, the overwhelming sense of desire would die down eventually, once their romance moved past the stages of being new and exciting and, at least as far as Kratos was concerned, still a bit forbidden. 

“I get it,” she whispered, finally pulling back enough so she could look at the man again. “My father has not exactly been kind or welcoming to you or to us. I’ve seen it wear on you. It’s becoming more and more intrusive on our time together and it almost makes us slipping away together feel like we’re doing something we shouldn’t be.” Shared feelings, in truth, ones that she could feel in Heimdall, but ones she felt as well. Kratos meant well, but he hadn’t made falling in love for the first time easy by any stretch of the imagination. 

“But you know I would not be out here with you if I did not wish to be. I have never...” She paused, blinking by her own fear in admitted what she nearly admitted. Mentally debating whether she should finish her thought or not, she finally continued. “I have never been in love before now,” she confessed. “My father has seen a few crushes, endured a few nights of me running off to meet with someone, but he has never had to deal with the idea that I could actually bind myself to another person. He isn’t handling it well, but the way he looks at you is his protective nature canceling out all other forms of logical thought. He wants to find something wrong with you so he has an excuse to pull me away, but he’d been unable to find one for this long because there is no reason to. He knows this, he just hasn’t accepted it yet.

“It must be strange for you, seeing how welcoming and open your mothers are. They’ve all taken to me so well so quickly, having my father act as a polar opposite to that is enough to give anyone whiplash, but he will come around. He’s just stubborn--” She had to get that from somewhere, didn’t she? “--and often struggles to break out of his ways. Eventually, he will come to terms with us, though. He doesn’t exactly have a choice in the matter. You are my choice, not his, and I wouldn’t back down from you for anything. Not even my father. Surely, you must see that?”

She kept his gaze for a long few moments, emerald eyes staring without falter into those bright golden eyes that she knew could see everything and yet, so often focused on her. His eyes were one of the first things that drew her in, both in their unique qualities and beauty, and she loved them all the more now, watching the way conflict faded from them and formed into fierce determination or, perhaps, love?

Swallowing, she let her arms slip around his neck. Her slim frame didn’t look as if it possessed much strength but her appearance no matter her chosen form always had been deceiving. Pulling Heimdall close, she pressed to him and dipped her head enough to bury her nose against his throat, slowly inhaling the scent of him. 

“I love you, Heimdall. Nothing will change that.” Nothing more than a whisper, truly, as her heart thrashed a mile a minute against her sternum. The first time she’d ever admitted aloud that she’d fallen so deeply in love and now it was out there, no longer able to be protectively guarded by her paranoia or fear of rejection. 

“I love you,” she whispered again.

[megashadowdragon]

sanji will end up transforming after getting angry enough

Diable Jambe, although it makes Sanji stronger is more of a technique rather than a traditional power up. It’s more of a Gear 3rd rather than a Gear 2nd/4th. I believe Sanji’s next power-up will play more with the Devil theme that Oda has given Sanji. I believe Sanji will have an emotion based Hakuba like transformation, to where when he gets angry he heats up, his blood “starts boiling” and his facial expression changes. A berserk mode if you will. In my opinion Thriller Bark was a huge playground for Oda to forshadow future abilities and power ups. Nightmare Luffy -> Gear 4th Luffy, Sanji bursting into flames -> Hell Memories, Franky’s docking - Franky Shogun, Robin’ Big Tree -> Mil Fleur: Gigantesco Mano, Zoro burning Ryuma -> Zoro’s future Fire technique (he showed interest in Kinemon’s teqnique) … and finally the scene is similar to sanji reminds me of  this panel):

so  sanji will have  a devil form which he reaches through anger there’s a tokusatsu that we know Oda likes, which would be a much more explicit inspiration for the Germa 66 : Kamen Rider. specifically the villainous organization shocker 

Shocker was a terrorist organization that planned on ruling the world (in the original manga is shown that Shocker had some influences over the governments of the world), with virtually all of its members modified in some way. The founders had mostly Nazi ties so it fits that germa66 not only references the nazis but the shocker organization from kamen rider Shocker’s scientists performed surgical alterations that gave the subject superhuman fighting abilities. Even the most basic Shocker soldier was tougher, stronger and faster than the average human civilian. The most powerful of their forces were the Kaijin, modified humans who were combined with animal DNA and human cybernetics to create living weapons. In an attempt to create the ultimate warriors, they were responsible for the rise of the very first Kamen Riders 1 and 2, whom defected and became the heroes who would ultimately lead to the fall of Shocker. and sanji and his siblings were altered genetically and the kamen riders specialty is the kamen rider KICK

In it Kamen Rider Black RX is a cyborg whose motif is a black grasshopper, which mirrors Sanji’s own epithet as Black Leg. Grasshoppers are known for their incredible spring like leg muscles that allow them to jump incredible heights which allow them to launch themselves in the air to fly. However he also has another motif and that is based on the sun. Kamen Rider Black RX is a photosynthetic warrior who is powered by the sun.

Since Kamen Rider is powered by the sun, he can set his legs and fists on fire to increase the lethality of his kicks and punches, which is basically what Sanji’s Diable Jambe does

and kamen rider black who sanji is partly inspired from had a transformation called the prince of anger which he  transformed when he reached a certain level of anger

I like to add that when Sanji was fighting with Judge and thought about their past, his Dj(Poele A Frire) glowed brighter than than usual.

against judge

Diable Jambe and Poele A Frire against Doflamingo:

and sanjis raid suit is called stealth BLACK

plus on sanji resembling kamen rider black rx  who is solar powered

both sanjis experience as a child  and duval was a reference to the man in the iron mask .

Though based on a real prisoner in the late 1600’s who Louis XIV forced to always wear a velvet mask to hide his identity and who was made to serve other prisoners, one of the most popular versions of the story is that of Alexandre Dumas, translated into a film in 1998. The prisoner, now shown wearing an iron mask, was Louis XIV’s twin brother  

sanji had encountered the same fate as written in Alexandre DUMAS book (The Vicomte of Bragelonne: Ten Years Later). Declared dead for the country but condemned to wear a mask and to spend all his life in an horrible prison

and louis XIV was known as the sun king and kamen rider black rx is solar powered

and sanjis and zoros rivalry parallels inuarashi and nekomamushis rivalry ( and inuarashi is called the ruler of the day and has a group under him that reference the three musketeers by alexander dumas  (a french story ) and sanji was dressed up as a musketeer and oda said in an sbs that sanji in the real world would be french

porche-chan . tumblr . com/post/134501849916/weve-located-zoros-fashion-twinkie-everyone

We’ve located Zoro’s fashion twinkie, everyone!. One Piece, chapters 82 and 809 porche-chan . tumblr . com/post/138118772526/i-made-an-observation-a-while-back-about#notes I made an observation a while back about Nekomamushi and Zoro being fashion twinkies, but now that I think about it, Inuarashi is wearing pinstripes, which is an early Sanji trademark:

And as Wanda explains in chapter 809, Inuarashi and Nekomamushi seem to have a little bit of a volatile relationship, not unlike Sanji and Zoro:

I have no fully formed theories regarding this, really, but there doesseem to be a recent influx (i.e. since Dressrosa) of duos whose dynamics are reminiscent of Zoro and Sanji. They all seem to exhibit a rivalrous and/or combative temperament, but there is either a history or discovery of working well together. And they all share, in some capacity, characteristics relatable to Sanji and Zoro in physical appearance:

What I hope it means, though, is that we’re going to see some next level development in Sanji and Zoro’s relationship. Like, some Thriller Bark level type of stuff. porche-chan . tumblr . com/post…is-an-imposing-figure?is_related_post=1#notes Like Zoro, Nekomamushi is an imposing figure; strong, intimidating and perceptive. And like Zoro (with his naps and sake), Nekomamushi also exhibits hedonistic tendancies:

And most hilariously, they both share a general disregard for their poor, poor medical professional:

both nekomamushi and inuarashi (zoro and sanjis counterparts) losing the precise limb that could incapacitate zoro and sanjis respective fighting styles

about inuarashis similarities to sanji I have to point out that inuarashi has a group that operates under his command called the Inuarashi Musketeer Squad Among them are three minks known as the “Three Inuarashi Musketeers”, The name of the squad is a reference to the novel The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. a french story and oda stated in an sbs that sanji would be french in the real world

and this could make three allusions/connections that sanji has to the sun since inuarashi was the ruler of the day

sanji may  end use white fire

It is a common misconception that the Sun is yellow, or orange or even red. However, the Sun is essentially all colors mixed together, which appear to our eyes as white. This is easy to see in pictures taken from space.

Even though red typically represents hot or danger, in a fire, it depicts cooler temperatures. Blue, on the other hand, while representing cooler colors in society, actually epitomizes the opposite in fires as some of the hottest flames all around. When all flame colors combine, they produce white, the hottest color of them all. (though some say blue fire is the hottest  and it would fit for sanji to use use it since sanji is associated with the color blue )

  sanjis transformation being a physical transformation where he goes into a devil form  ( This has already been hinted at with Hell Memories where he remembers his past two years in order to enter a rage mode and Diable Jambe burns so intense it produces enough fire to cover the rest of his body:)

and “2. The Devil theme, started with Devil’s Leg and continued with Hell Memories could be greatly substantiated by having a mode in which Sanji becomes a Devil in terms of his personality as well. It could also lead to him earning a new moniker in the future, one that could better encompass what Sanji has become through out his journey, compared to the Black Leg that stuck closely to the teachings of Zeff before leaving the floating restaurant.”

zoro is connected to the ruler of the night nekomamushi in contrast to sanji with inuarashi while day = light night is connected to the dark so it fits for zoro to be the next dark king along with the parallels he has to Rayleigh like with the scar they both have on their eye. and there is the possibility that sanji will get the nickname light/sun  king which is fitting since his backstory and duvals character is a reference to the man in the iron mask who was said to be the twin brother of the sun king. so it fits if sanji gets the nickname sun/light king which will be after sanji vs kizaru (or before and it will foreshadow the confrontation ) since kizaru uses light and sanji will probably have conquerors haki ( since any time we see someone with conquerors haki they have a nickname associated with royalty or they have royal blood

given sanjis connections to the sun I think sanji will have powers that connect to fire and light which fits with sanjis theme  being satan the master of fire  who was once lucifer (lightbringer)

megashadowdragon . tumblr . com/post/139186383737/sanji-represents-satan-who-was-once-lucifer-the

or maybe sanji will transform as a result of ussops death megashadowdragon . tumblr . com/post/138764551657/kizaru-will-kill-ussop-and-it-will-lead-to-sanji/embed

after all the scene in thriller bark was zoro telling  usopp  not to rile him up anymore or else he will transform and usopp would inadvertently cause sanji to be riled up enough to transform by his death after all we know how much sanji cares about protecting people and  how angry sanji got in the usopp situation.

“You know what’s more amazing here than the fact that Sanji seriously kicked his captain’s rubbery ass? He almost hurt Nami by kicking Luffy right toward her direction. Nami was threatened enough to actually scream, not just dodge out of Luffy’s way. Sanji doesn’t apologize to Nami - hell, I bet he didn’t even realize that he almost hurt her. This really shows the heat of the moment, as well as how much Sanji was upset over Luffy’s words to Usopp”.

“sunnyul . tumblr . com/post/145669021863/you-know-whats-more-amazing-here-than-the-fact#notes

sanji was always someone who would defend usopp and in some way save him

sanji ended up going  go against people who have harmed usopp two times before but each time the damage  to ussop and the danger to ussops life that the  person provided  grown  the first time with bon clay bon clay had beaten ussop up and stole his goggles when sanji was far away but didnt kill him   and sanji wanted to get them back for ussop   , the second time with jabura he beat ussop up and then tried to land the finishing blow but sanji got there in time and saved  ussops life so the third time  usopp will die by kizarus hands  with sanji not being able to get there in time to save ussop and seeing ussops death (or coming in right after ussop died )    he would lose it  if usopp dies that will be the end for usopp in contrast to nami just getting a bit hurt 

@pernanegra

@sanjiafsincedayone

[bbaba-yagaa]

Imogen and Everett Rourke

A/N: This is a headcanon of mine that I based on what little information we are given about the Rourke family prior to the events of Endless Summer.

Characters: The family Rourke

Summary: Imogen and Everett Rourke come from humble beginnings but an unfortunate event and a world changing discovery lead them down a path of no return.

Rating: PG-PG13? Some language, not much.

Word Count: 3,672

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they belong to Pixelberry.

When Everett and I first met we were very young. We met during our first year of sixth form and became inseparable thereafter. Both of us came from wealthy, well educated families. It seemed that we were destined for greatness, nothing more and nothing less. Upon our completion of sixth form, Everett was gifted a beautiful sailboat by his parents. He was enthralled and immediately announced that he would sail the Caribbean before attending university in the fall. Of course he invited me to go but I opted to stay behind and spend time with my parents. Several weeks later tragedy struck; my dear Everett was listed as overdue. I could hardly contain my grief. It took all of my strength to maintain hope that he would return to me safely. My optimism was rewarded when 27 days later, against all odds he did indeed return; without so much as a scratch. Physically he was fine. He was still the Everett that I knew and loved, but there seemed to be a newfound intensity that had been awakened within him. He would go on and on about the strange island that he had run aground on. Everett insisted that the island was going to be the foundation of our future and that he intended to build upon it as soon as he could. Him being marooned on that island seemed only to have positive repercussions. Just a few  weeks after his miraculous return he asked for my hand in marriage and I happily accepted. A few years after exchanging our vows, we founded Rourke International. A monumental achievement in itself. I, being a leader in the field of genetic replication, would head my own division of R.I. Not only would I continue to lead the charge into a new frontier; I would also co-manage all other divisions that wound up under the corporate umbrella. Everett made good on his promise to secure the island and began to explore and develop it. Almost every day Everett had discovered something new or exciting on his island haven: Or that he had broke ground and begun construction on a new building. The rapid rate of R.I.'s growth and success was astounding; and being at the epicenter of it all emanated the feeling that it all happened over night. We were labeled 'The most powerful couple in the world' by the media. We were truly happy in that moment; and yet something was missing. There was one thing that we had not yet attained. 

It's a cool spring night that I awake with start, my body damp with sweat. A few moments pass before I remember where I am. La Huerta; The Celestial. Everett and I come here when the hustle and bustle of our day to day lives becomes a bit much to bear. More accurately, I would join Everett here whenever i got the chance. He was almost always here. I look to his side of the bed. Empty. I calmly get out of bed, wrap my nightgown around myself, and head downstairs to find my love. I find him below the atrium in his hidden chamber. His childlike obsession with hidden rooms and secret passageways always makes me smile; even though it's getting a bit out of hand. He's sitting at his work bench tinkering with a small metallic sphere: no bigger than a golf ball. The sphere itself has a small cable connecting it to his computer. He notices me and flashes a distracted smile as he enters several commands into the terminal.

"Hey love, what are you working on?"

"This beauty right here; this is IRIS. Intelligent reactive imaging system."

I look to the small sphere. "May I?" He smiles warmly at me: I'll never grow tired of that smile.

"Of course you may." He unplugs the cable and tenderly hands the tiny sphere to me. It's extremely lightweight and sleek in design. Turning it over in my hand I take in every detail of the tiny object.

"She looks incredibly advanced Everett. And knowing you, she's probably got boundless capabilities that one would never suspect. Is she fit to give a brief demonstration?"

An ear to ear smile crosses his face at my inquisition. "I'm glad you asked. Hold her out flat in your palm. Go ahead IRIS, show her."

As requested, the tiny sphere hums to life and hovers off of my outstretched hand. From its lense a hologram flickers to life and suddenly I am face to face with the spitting image of myself: albeit blue and transparent. "Everett..."

The smile on his face has grown unnaturally wide. "Are you flattered? My thinking is this; If I'm going build the perfect personal assistant then why not also bestow upon her the image of perfection."

My face begins to grow hot at this bold statement. He is truly a master with words. "Well it is said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery." Of course he knows I love it; but I won't indulge his ego by telling him so.

His smile fades slightly as he lets out an exasperated sigh. "Unfortunately she will never be precisely what I want her to be. My expectations are far too grand for her. The operating system that she would run on doesn't exist. My musings of human emotion and intellect running in tandem with an A.I. that is worthy of a multimillion dollar supercomputer will never come to fruition without, for lack of a better term, uploading a human mind into the system. Never before has that type of procedure been attempted: all we have is pure speculation and theory. Alright IRIS, that will do thank you." The hologram fades away and the tiny drone lands softly back on the workbench.

"I'm positive that you'll eventually come up with a solution Everett; you've got a knack for making the impossible possible."

A fatigued smile crosses his face. "Only time will tell. Now, did you have something you wanted to discuss? You are usually in bed at this hour."

I contemplate my answer briefly before I respond. "Earlier I dreamt of our journey in life together up to this point. Upon waking, I couldn't help but feel a bit... empty. As if there is something we lack."

He raises his eyebrows in an inquisitive manner. "And are you able to identify what is that we are lacking?"

"Children Everett, our own family." He thoughtfully strokes his goatee while his answer is pondered.

"I am rather abashed to admit this but I have entertained this idea before, only to let it slip from my mind while being engrossed in my countless projects. I agree with this sentiment. When would you propose we begin this endeavor?"

For the life of me I cannot contain myself. My excitement is almost unbearable. As I lean in to kiss him I untie my robe and let it drop slowly around my ankles. My petite frame is dressed only in a light blue silk top and matching, lacy panties. I refrain from making eye contact with him while I twirl about, and begin to make my way back toward the staircase while swinging my hips seductively. "I'm free right now if you're not preoccupied." I respond over my shoulder. Still refraining from looking back at him I begin to ascend the staircase. I've almost given up on him taking the bait when suddenly I hear him rapidly ascending the staircase. Before I can turn around, he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder and begins to carry me upstairs. An excited giggle bursts out of me at this development. "Ooooh how barbaric! Is this role play? I certainly hope so. You're taking me back to your cave so that you can absolutely ravage me?" I am absolutely euphoric in this moment. Soon we will lack nothing at all. Just over a year has passed since Everett and I began to try and conceive our first child. During the first few months our passion was as intense as it ever had been: possibly even more so. Unfortunately, as the months went by and our efforts went unrewarded Everett became disillusioned. Passion began to fade and he elected to envelop himself in his endeavors on La Huerta. The more time he spends there, the more distant he becomes. I can't help but hold myself accountable for these current circumstances. I must be doing something wrong and I sense that Everett also lays the blame at my feet. I miss the way his eyes used to illuminate when he laid them upon me. I decide that seeing a specialist is the best course of action: dispelling my fears or confirming them is the only way to move forward.

The revelation that I am physically incapable of conceiving a child of my own renders me emotionally devastated. And to add insult to injury, Everett grows even more distant when he learns of my imperfection. My work becomes all I can bring myself to focus on: a self imposed exile for my failure as a wife. Time becomes irrelevant as I stumble through my day to day routine in a catatonic state. Eventually, while engrossed in my work, an idea suddenly presents itself to me. Immediately, I contact Everett to share my thoughts: but I am met with an cold harshness in his voice. "Imogen, I'm rather indisposed at the moment. What could possibly be so important?" Will he even entertain this new proposal after I failed to make good on my last one?

"Everett I have a rather interesting proposition for you. It holds great promise for us but I'll need your approval and assistance to move forward. The fine details are better discussed in person."

His silence is deafening, though I've definitely piqued his interest. "Meet me at my facility at midday and I'll give you all the details." There is silence for a few more moments before he responds. "I hope it's worth my trouble, I am rather short on time these days. I'll see you then Imogen." Everett meets me as promised and he accompanies me to a private wing in my facility. During this short walk he's mostly silent and makes simple and irreverent conversation. My mind is aloof but something small catches my attention, a scent. A woman's perfume; not an aroma that I have ever worn; and it's radiating from my husband. Oh Everett, this is all my fault. I've driven you to seek comfort from my inadequacy in other women. With my mind a haze, I swipe my keycard and open a door allowing Everett to proceed through before me. I flip on the lights before I lead him over to set of monitors arranged around a six foot tall, four foot wide cylinder in the center if the room. The cylinder itself is filled with a light green fluid and suspended in said fluid are countless, small, synthetic cables.

"You know what all of this is so I won't waste your time rehashing it Everett. Since I have failed at bearing you a child, I hope you will allow me to clone you. It's not the same thing I know: I'm painfully aware of this fact. All i need is your approval and a few tissue cultures. I'll handle the rest." Everett lays his hand upon the glass cylinder and stares thoughtfully at the contents within.

"As far as I know no one has ever been successful in that type of endeavor. What guarantee can you give?" He was correct, there are no official records of anyone being able to perfectly replicate a human. However, my development of this procedure was not public knowledge. I had spent countless hours gathering all the necessary resources and knowledge to prevail had I gone forward. It was no longer a question of 'could i do it'. The question that replaced the former was 'should I do it'. At this moment in time however, I needed to do it.

"One hundred percent: Failure is not a possibility. Nine months from now we will have our child if you grant your permission." He smiles widely at my confidence: God I miss him smiling at me like that. "You have my full cooperation and my blessing then. I assume we begin immediately?" I nod in affirmation as I motion for him sit so that we may begin taking tissue cultures. The next few months seem to pass at an extraordinary rate. Our little Everett Aleister Rourke the second is growing at a healthy rate. I have taken to calling him Aleister so there won't be any confusion between junior and senior Rourkes in our household. Every spare moment I have is spent with him, making sure all is well. For the first few months Everett comes and visits him as well the distance between us seems to shrink ever so slightly. As Aleister grows close to his due date, an abnormality presents itself. His skin and what little hair he has at the moment appear to be lighter than what would be considered normal. After several tests I reach the conclusion that he is affected by the congenital disorder albinism. It's as though he refuses to be the spitting image of his father; even before he's left the womb, so to speak. During the final month of Aleister's gestation, Everett notices these attributes and his explosive reaction is something that I did not prepare for.

"You told me there was zero percent chance of failure Imogen; you promised perfection. So how exactly do you explain this!?"

I am beside myself, I had not considered Aleister's condition a problem. It would present few if any complications throughout his life.

"I... It's certainly not a life threatening or debilitating condition. I'm sorry Everett but he is your son and his genetic disorder must have come from a recessive gene that you carry."

"You dare imply that your failure is my fault?! Your failings are yours and yours alone Imogen!" At these words he storms out leaving me speechless and heartbroken. There is nothing at all wrong with Aleister and I hope Everett will come to realize this. Everett is absent for Aleister's birth later that month but I hardly even notice. Never before have I felt such joy; I can only imagine what it would have been like to carry him to term myself. What a joy he is: not a fussy child by any means. My dear Aleister, I simply cannot wait to see what the future holds for us. The very next month, Everett has fallen right back into seeking the company of other women. I even catch him in the act during a gala that we are hosting, with a grant prospect of all people. Personally, I feel I handled the matter rather well considering the fact that I all but walked in on them during the act. He becomes more distant and cold with me as more time passes. These issues will eventually come to a head and I honestly have no idea how things between us will turn out. The only thing that keeps me composed is Aleister: as his mother I need to stay strong and weather the storm. Eventually it will pass. The next couple of years bring on a whirlwind of events and developments. Everett has all but vanished from mine and Aleister's lives: His private haven has become his new home and his endeavors there have become the subject of public speculation and controversy. Sadly, I cannot bring myself to fully dismiss the rumors as he is no longer than man I once knew and loved. The time has come for me to face my demons; no longer will I torture myself for circumstances that are out of my control. Leaving Aleister in the care of his nanny and promising a quick return, I board our private jet bound for La Huerta. After landing at the airstrip not far from the Celestial, I take one of the vehicles parked there and drive to the hotel. After arriving at the hotel, I search all of Everett's usual hiding spots but to no avail. Eventually I find a door to a room that I've never seen before. It leads to a massive library and inside I find Everett, hunched over a table, his face in a book. He looks up when I enter and closes his book with an annoyed sigh.

"What brings you here, unannounced nonetheless? You of all people should know I do not like being disturbed."

The audacity of this man is incredible. "Did you forget about your two year old son that you've hardly even seen since his birth? You rarely ever leave this island Everett; I'm not even sure when I saw you last. When will it be enough?"

He rises from his chair, anger flashing across his face. "You have no idea what we've discovered here in the past few years and even if you did, you couldn't comprehend it. As for my 'son', you didn't make good on your promise of perfection so I have very little interest in the matter. It's one disappointment after another with you Imogen; I only wish you could see this situation from my perspective."

At these words, I come completely undone. "You can take your superiority complex and your 'perspective' and sit on it for all I give a damn! You've always acted as though I rejected the gift of being able to conceive a child through natural means and now you reject your own beautiful son based on petty and unreasonable expectations. For years I agreed with you and tormented myself for it, but now I'm done blaming myself for matters that I have no control over. I am no goddess but you are not a god either, no matter how hard you aspire to be. Back in London, the press has been abuzz with rumors of illegal and unethical undertakings on this island and as I stand here and listen to the ramblings of a madman I find them hard to disregard."

The man is furious, he's never had anyone in his life talk to him in the manner that I just have. "Deciphering the secrets of this island will unlock a power that is beyond mankind's wildest imagination and only a god amongst men will be able to wield it. I don't expect you to understand, but I do expect you to know better than to stand in the way of progress!"

"Progress?! I'll tell you what progress is Everett, when I return to London I am immediately contacting my attorney to draw up divorce papers, yes we are finished. Secondly, I'm going to launch my own investigation into your undertakings on this island. If there is anything unethical going on here the proper authorities will be notified."

I wait for him to issue a response but he's gone completely silent. He simply stands there with a deep, burning hatred in his eyes. Since he seems to have no response I turn and make my way out of the library and back toward the atrium. My head is spinning from countless thoughts racing through my head. If he is involved in anything illegal here would I be able to prove it? And if I could prove it, would he attempt to take drastic  action to stop me and preserve his name? Would he try to harm Aleister? He is definitely not the man I once knew and at this moment in time I have no idea what he is truly capable of. I need to leave this horrid place post haste.

Upon my arrival at the stairs leading to the lower level of the atrium I reach out to place my hand on the banister prior to descending. Before my hand touches that sweet, warm wood I am violently pitched forward and I begin to fall face first toward the unforgiving hard wood of the stairs below. I am met with an immense amount of pain when my head hits the first step and my world goes cold and dark as I violently tumble the rest of the way down, coming to a crashing halt at the bottom. I have no idea how long I lie there in a crumpled heap at the bottom of those stairs; the only sensation that I know is coldness. There is no pain and yet I cannot move. Tears begin to well up in my eyes as I hear them; footsteps, descending the same stairs from which I had just tumbled down. Suddenly I am on my back and when my eyes are able to focus I see him; He stands over me, emotionless, with a slight smirk on his face. My eyes filled with tears and rage taking over I scream at the top of my lungs and spit in his face, spurring a genuinely surprised reaction out of him.

"Are you happy now Everett! All these years you've tried to break me and now you've finally succeeded. I hope you're happy with what you've done..."

"What I've done? You have done this to yourself Imogen. It was you who decided to try to impede progress itself. Historically, anyone who has done so has met with a fate far worse than yours. You are lucky, your existence will be restored after a few minor adjustments and you will be on the frontlines of progress alongside me." He bends down and scoops me up over his shoulder just like he did all those years ago.

"Unhand me Everett, let me go! What about Aleister?! I need to get back to my son! He needs me!"

"Aleister will be well cared for, don't you worry about that. I don't expect you to understand now Imogen, but you will… in time.” With these words he carries me down the staircase to his secret room below the atrium.

Tagging the ever faithful Hivemind: @brightpinkpeppercorn @roonarific and @mind-reader1 and tagging @mysteli for ESAPW

[oneweekoneband]

Today’s first guest post is by my friend and fellow The Singles Jukebox contributor Vikram Joseph.

Counting to 15, 20, 30… - Delayed Queer Adolescence and the Songs of Troye Sivan

- Vikram Joseph

On a humid early August evening a few weeks ago, in one of those converted warehouse bars endemic to inner north-east London, I was chatting over drinks with a guy I’d once dated and had last seen in 2014. There was a lot to catch up on, and the conversation ran unexpectedly, rewardingly deep. It became clear that, though we’re both well into our adult lives by any conventional measurement, we’d each changed and grown significantly in the intervening years in a way that films, books and the media seem to suggest happens in your late teens. The idea of delayed adolescence being a common trope for queer people came up, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot since then. Why do those formative years of growth and the exploration of self-identity seem to happen later for us? Is it a delayed phase of development, a prolonged phase, or both? And how is this reflected in the way we interact, the spaces we choose to spend time in, and the art we consume?

***

A recent viral tweet:

“Gay culture is your life being delayed by 10 years because you didn’t start being yourself until your mid-20s.”

At the time of writing, this tweet has 117,000 likes.  Clearly, this is a phenomenon which touches nerves across the spectrum.

To the extent that we can “know” a pop singer through their songs, it seems like Troye Sivan – still just 23, and releasing his second album – has done his growing fairly early on. In just a few years, we’ve heard him go from singing about tentative gay crushes to the fully-realised queer euphoria of his newer songs. And yet, the concept of protracted, stuttering adolescence is crisply, poignantly refracted through his music, and I feel that a lot of his immense appeal to queer people far older than himself can be attributed to this.

***

HEAVEN “The truth runs wild, like kids on concrete.”

“Heaven” deals with the internal struggle for self-acceptance – by no means unique to LGBTQ+ people, but one that everyone who’s grown up on that spectrum will understand intimately, in the form of coming out to yourself. “Without losing a piece of me, how do I get to heaven?” Religion is a useful allegory here, but ultimately a distractor – the duality Sivan is really concerned with here is about happiness. For a lot of us, coming out for the first time feels like a crossroads, where we have to make a choice between one kind of happiness and another, and “Heaven” captures this (false, but very powerful) dichotomy beautifully.

Sivan’s first album, Blue Neighbourhood, hangs heavy with the imagery of suburbia. It’s rich, relatable visual and psychological territory, exemplified in decades’ worth of teen TV dramas and coming-of-age films. Many of us will recognise it as the backdrop to the fraught intensity of that long, tangled conversation with ourselves; the feeling of being on the brink of everything and the precipice of nothing, the intoxicating, paralysing combination of anticipation and dread. Sivan deals with this at 15; for me, I was 20, during university Christmas holidays, back in the dull hum of suburbia. Maybe there’s something about it that gives us the emotional space to plumb the depths of those brave new ideas. “Heaven” conjures this musically as well as lyrically, with a tense two-chord shuffle, close, muffled production, and Betty Who’s guest turn evoking a better angel from the future, reassuring us, beckoning us towards the light. If I’d heard it at 20, or earlier, it would have destroyed me; it might even have accelerated my own journey.

Sivan sings about “counting to 15”, the age at which he came out to his family. There’s something that invariably surprises straight people, when I’ve tried to explain it to them, but will come as no surprise at all to anyone else, and it is this: coming out never stops. Every new environment presents a decision to make and a challenge to face; and while it gets easier (and can often be an incredibly liberating experience), it’s never a formality. The subtler aspect to this is that there is no end-point to coming out to yourself, either. Accepting yourself as a gay person is just the beginning; there follows years and years of figuring out what that means. And I think this lies at the heart of delayed queer adolescence. These are questions of identity that are near-impossible to figure out alone, and many of us aren’t surrounded by other people with the same questions until much later – either due to geography, or opportunity, or not realising how badly we need to be, or maybe all of the above. And so “counting to 15” (or however old we are when we get there) is a countdown to the real start of our lives, rather than to any sort of conclusion.

***

TALK ME DOWN

“You know that I can’t trust myself with my 3 a.m. shadow.”

Queer mental health remains poorly understood and inadequately talked about, both in the mainstream press and in medical circles. Working as a doctor, I’ve witnessed the stigma towards LGBTQ+ patients from other medical professionals – rarely overtly hostile, but often casual, unthinking and pernicious. The mental health charity Mind believe that 42% of gay men, 70% of lesbians and 80% of transgender people experience mental illness; the statistics for gay men are almost certainly an underrepresentation, as men in general are less likely to report symptoms.

Early on in his powerful book “Straight Jacket: Overcoming Society’s Legacy of Gay Shame”, the journalist Matthew Todd runs through an harrowing litany of case studies of young gay people who have lost their lives to suicide, violence and addiction. He then explores the factors behind this, both intrinsic and extrinsic to the gay community, and hones in particularly on the near-universal gay experience of shame (in its many forms) during our formative childhood and adolescent years as a key determinant of depression, anxiety, poor body image, low self-worth, and harmful patterns of behaviour.

On the gorgeous, shimmering ballad “Talk Me Down”, Blue Neighbourhood’s emotional centre of gravity, Sivan sings (possibly from a friend or partner’s perspective) about dark thoughts, struggling for self-acceptance, and, implicitly, ideas of suicide. The accompanying video is high melodrama, but then, so is coming to terms with your sexuality. “I know I like to draw the line when it starts to get too real / but the less time that I spend with you, the less you need to heal” cuts to the heart of the conundrum most young gay people face – desire, and a need to be open and liberated, versus deeply-ingrained feelings of guilt, fear and shame. In his book, Todd argues that these are socially determined but can be overcome, but it’s hardly surprising that it takes a long time to get there – and hence, “normal” emotional development is a protracted experience.

***

YOUTH

“What if we’re speeding through red lights into paradise?”

It’s easy to forget that there are very few conventional pop songs on Blue Neighbourhood. “Youth” (and “Wild”) are probably the closest, but while it might be tempting to read “Youth” purely as a love song, I think its real core lies in escapism, another trope prevalent among (although, clearly, not unique to) young gay people. The imagery is wild and fantastical – “trippin’ on skies, sippin’ waterfalls” – and I distinctly remember writing similar (albeit much worse) songs at 15 or 16, cosmic love songs to no one in particular about things I knew nothing about.

Todd’s “Straight Jacket” has an interesting chapter on how he believes escapism informs archetypal LGBTQ+ tastes in pop, musicals, science fiction, horror and drag. I don’t always agree with the specifics, as I think we’re a broader church than he implies. But it’s hard to argue with the queer impulse for escape, particularly in our years of self-discovery, into spheres where our possibilities are limitless, our own selves freer and more confident, and our fears diminished. It’s maybe a symptom of that delayed development, of more years spent in limbo.  When I listen to “Youth”, it gives me a clean hit of that feeling, particularly in the bridge, with “the lights start flashing like a photobooth” simulated by pulsing, strobe-light synths.

***

MY, MY, MY!

“Let’s stop running from love.”

Bloom, Sivan’s second album, finds him confident, assured and in love. It’s a big step, though not a quantum leap, from much of Blue Neighbourhood, and I’m interested in the in-between.  “Running from love” perhaps gives a little away. It’s hard for us to know how to approach dating, love and sex. Certainly, queer people might feel unconfined by traditional heteronormative conventions or ideals, but equally many of us crave what our straight friends and families have. (It’s important to note that, of course, it’s not one or the other.) I think “running from love” speaks to a queer (and perhaps more universal) anxiety – after what feels like forever waiting for opportunities that feel tantalisingly out of reach, embracing a singular, tangible thing at the expense of all other potential things is terrifying.

Still, this is a dizzy, ecstatic, seductive love song.  The expression “my, my, my” can seem trite in a pop song, but Sivan sells it as breathless disbelief.  Some things are hard-earned.

***

ANIMAL

“No angels could beckon me back.”

And so we come full circle. The religious imagery is no coincidence; on Bloom’s stunning closer, the gorgeous, hazy reverie of “Animal”, we understand the heaven the Troye Sivan managed to reach.

It takes some of us a long time to get there, and the destination is different for all of us. I’m currently reading Michael Cunningham’s classic queer novel “A Home at the End of the World”, in which the character of Jonathan, at 27, tries to navigate the differences between the sort of settled, faintly bleak domesticity of the kind his parents have lived (“the fluorescent aisles of a supermarket at two in the afternoon”) and the often lonely, unfulfilling search for a different kind of home and family in the city (gay literature is fascinatingly fixated on homes and families, albeit often unconventional ones). It resonates with me. As queer people, the usual rules don’t have to apply – the expectations of one milestone and then the next, the pragmatic retreat back into suburbia at 30 – and that presents a different set of challenges.

I believe it’s a double-edged sword. Queer adolescence might be delayed because of our differences in the world, but equally, we are different because of that delayed development.  It informs the way we experience life. Beautiful art is created because of those differences; hell, we might even be lucky enough to create some ourselves. And so, way beyond 15, most of us are still counting, still trying to understand, still discovering ourselves and each other, searching for logical families and people to grow with. No angels could beckon us back.

[artycreative-blog]

Top Films, TV and Games 2018

Films

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (10) My one word review for this film was 'Perfection'. I've never in my life see such a perfectly crafted animation film or... film in general, really. Every single shot looked stunning. This, combined with the excellent story and characters, the incredible voice acting, the way they managed to fit seven (SEVEN!) Spider hero characters into it without it feeling crowded, and the amazing Miles Morales origin story means that it has to be my choice for number one film this year.

Mission Impossible Fallout (10) My second only 10/10 rated film this year, the sixth installment of the series was the best yet, an intense rollercoaster ride that left me barely able to breathe. Of course, the set pieces are the most important factor here; the suspense created by them has never been more thrilling. However, I loved the character moments too, particularly the slow but meaningful development between Ethan and Ilsa. I can't imagine how they're going to top this film next time.

Bohemian Rhapsody (9) Biopics are some of my favourite films and rank highly on my top films list on a regular basis (think The Theory of Everything, my top film of 2014). Bohemian Rhapsody was a powerful window into Freddie Mercury's public and private life. The Live Aid scene in particular had me in tears the whole way through, I couldn't have stopped them if I wanted to. It was the perfect culmination to the film. The cast was also amazing, but particularly Rami Malek at Freddie. The way he embodied every aspect of Freddie's personality was amazing to watch and I hope that he gets recognition past the great reviews about his performance.

A Simple Favor (9) This film was wickedly entertaining and all engrossing. I've never seen a mystery quite like it. The advertising leading up to its release was particularly important, enough to entice you without giving anything away. I wasn't surprised about the ending, hence the nine rather than a ten, but I was satisfied. Anna Kendrick and Blake Lively in particular gave stand out performances, although I fully endorse the use of Henry Golding as the handsome husband/boyfriend at every opportunity -- he's great.

Crazy Rich Asians (8) Considering I don't have much time to get to the cinema these days, the fact that I saw Crazy Rich Asians three times has to say something! It is without a doubt the most fun film I saw this year. I loved the decadence of it all, from the settings to the grand romance. Of course I appreciated that it was a full Asian cast, as it showed Hollywood that making films based solely around a different culture works, even if it has a Westernized skew to it. But what I really adored was the women in this film, they took center stage, each which different personalities, stories and motives. I'd really love to see more of that in the future.

TV

Altered Carbon (9) I've watched Altered Carbon three times. In a year where I've been short on time and have struggled to watch/play things, this alone should explain why it has taken my number one spot. Science fiction is one of my favourite genres, it has been since I was a kid. I've watched a lot of different sci-fi over the years, but when something really commits to it, even if it makes it complicated, I really love that, particularly if it is based on believable science (like in the Star Trek review). Altered Carbon was an amazing blend of intelligent writing, fantastic acting and a compelling story. A must watch for anyone who enjoys this genre like I do.

Star Trek Discovery (9) Star Trek has taken many forms over the years, but this has to be one of my favourites so far. The way it embraces science makes me giddy with excitement, much like the Martian did back in 2015. They then take this science and weave it into an compelling, sometimes heart-rending story which has proven to be a stellar series of the franchise for me. I particularly love the crew and how different they all are, that diversity in terms of personality is what I strive for in my own writing and I'm so happy to see it here.

Final Space (9) Whew. I did not understand what I was getting myself into when I pressed play on this show on Netflix earlier this year. I watched pretty much the whole season in one day. It was the effed up hilarity of it all that drew me in, but it was the characters and the legitimately emotional journey behind it all that made me stay. I was really impressed with this, I can't wait for more. CHOOKITY!

One Day at a Time (9) If a show can make you cry every episode, it automatically gets high marks. The great thing about One Day at a Time is that it also backs up the powerful, emotional issues it deals with each time with some of the most hilarious jokes week in, week out. The family dynamic is brilliant, Schneider included, and the way they handle the aforementioned issues in a balanced, sensitive way is wonderful. It makes it feel like their family is real, despite the sitcom style, which is so hard to do. I really love it and I'm so looking forward to season three!

GLOW S2 (9) I've never been very good at articulating why I love this show. I mow through every episode I'm given with very little thought as to why. It's incredibly watchable; I think a large part of that is down to the characters and cast, but also the quirkiness of it all. I also find the relationship between Ruth and Sam really compelling, whatever form it takes. I'm still very much looking forward to a third season.

Games

Batman: The Enemy Within (10) I originally gave this game a nine, if memory serves, right after my first play through. However, once I played the other storyline to the game, I saw how damn freakin' good it truly is. For the first time in a Telltale game, I witnessed the devastating effects that my choices could have on the characters, particularly John. Some of the end scenes in both versions are utterly heart wrenching and it shows perfectly the twisted dynamic a hero can have with his villains. I can heartily recommend playing both this game and the first series; if you love Batman, it's so worth your time.

Detroit: Become Human (8) This game is exactly what I needed this year, totally story driven and no more than 12 hours long for a play through. It kept making me want to go back and play more whenever I had time, which a lot of games haven't been able to do the last 12 months. The graphics are incredible and the plot itself can be really engrossing, particularly when you get behind the characters. I really loved Connor, I totally understand why Bryan Dechart has such a huge following now. He had the most compelling story line for me (helped by his interaction with Hank, who was also amazing) and acted the role so well. I have played through the game a second time and was able to follow as many different paths as possible, sometimes even forsaking my own conscience, which is hard for me to do! But I have no motivation to complete all the different paths, which is where I think it falls down for me. If you like games like Telltale games, then I would say this is a good choice for you.

Spider-man (8) The thing I loved most about Spider-man was its story. If you can write something that will make grown men cry on stream, without shame, then I think you're onto something. The great thing about games is that they a) have the time to let you delve into the lives of the characters, which is something that movies struggle to do because they simply can't cover everything they want to, and b) really immerse you into the world so you feel like you're actually Peter Parker, soaring through the streets of Manhattan as you thwip your way from Harlem to the Brooklyn Bridge. The web slinging is particularly good and the fighting is fun too, so long as you remember to dodge. There were some things that niggled at me, made the game not as enjoyable to play as it was to watch, but all in all it was a brilliant game and really did Spider-man justice.

Forza Horizon 4 (8) I remember the showcase for this game at E3 and boy, did it look good. Driving games were something I loved as a kid, albeit they were the likes of Mario Kart and Diddy Kong Racing. So far as 'adult' racing games go, this one is pretty great. It looks spectacular on a 4K screen using the XBox One X and the racing itself is exhilarating and challenging enough to make you want to work for those wins. I wish that it covered more of Britain, being limited to the countryside and Edinburgh was a bit of a let down, but I understand why they did. This is definitely a game that has more longevity if you play it with friends, although a quick jaunt down the motorway at 200mph every now and again never hurt anyone.

Destiny 2: Forsaken (7.5) Ah, Destiny. I've been playing the game since Vanilla and I can't explain how good it felt back in the beginning. I could grind for hours by myself without a care in the world. Forsaken hasn't quite recaptured this for me, as I still find it hard to play the game by myself. With friends, though, it's a great experience now. We love picking up all the bounties and working towards long-term quests in the evenings and on the weekends, there's plenty of content now like the players wanted. Personally, I wasn't a fan of the story, but that's a personal thing as revenge has never been a thrilling plot line for me, so I lacked the drive to get behind hunting down Uldren. However, the game is still by far the best shooter I own from the point of view of the way it handles and the characters you encounter. I'm very glad I've been able to get back into it with this expansion.

[sparda3g]

Gintama Chapter 679 Review

I know I was asking for answers, but I think I will be fine if it doesn’t result to a cruel ending. Sorachi somewhat surprised the fans with a new backstory that leads to Gintoki’s discovery. The problem is that it’s clear that we are in for a dark and possibly depressing outcome. This chapter ignited a gripping story of master-disciple bond on a quest with inducing fear. This is not going to be easy...

It’s no wonder that we have plenty of comedy earlier. This chapter leaves nothing to laugh over; maybe with one panel of a kid falling on the ground hard, but outside of that, it’s downright serious. It’s too early to call, but I got to say, this backstory is perhaps the darkest one so far. It’s the culmination of father-son, master-disciple, and a man with a hard hitting temptation to end his heavy burden.

The beginning already starts off with the dark vibe with Gintoki in the flashback left on a journey to find something important. It’s the first time to see him looking extremely determined; it’s quite surreal. He asked the Inugami Maidens, Ane and Mone, to give him the pinpoint locations of every Dragon Holes. I admire Sorachi’s writing for using those two in plenty of significant plot points, even at this point. It goes to show you how his writing works. Whenever the character appears for an arc or so, they will hold a relevant contribution to exploit.

One of the sisters explained a newly informed detail of the Dragon Veins; even the lore gets expanded this late. There is no actual count on how many Dragon Veins are in the world; not even the Maidens can grasp all of them. Not only there are countless of it, but the size can differ from many. It can be the size of golf ball hole and it would be considered as a Dragon Vein. This does explain why Gintoki took a long time to resurface; at least in terms of reconnecting with old friends. There’s another reason why he took 2 years, but we’ll get to that soon.

The Maidens warned him that it can take forever, which already sound impossible because human nature, but without an actual response to them, rather to himself, he was hell bent to find “it;” even if it does take him decades. It’s astonishing how much he has spent his 2 year journey, going across Japan searching for every single one until he hits jackpot. The scary part is he would have left Yorozuya behind possibly forever. Could you imagine if he didn’t find it in 2 years prior? That’s how unbelievable his determination was. Thank God, he found it as early as he can get.

I thought the flashback ends there, but it’s only for momentary to unveil the grand revelation: Utsuro is alive. It’s no surprise for fans to guess, but it is undoubtedly a huge deal for the characters. After going through many hells he brought in, knowing he’s alive only brought the mood down further. Gintoki recovered Utsuro’s heart after 2 years, though it is left to speculate on whether the latter will resume his reign of terror or somehow, a miracle will bring Shouyou back. This is trivial since it can go to many directions with the heart in presence; not yet form a body. It could be a brand new Utsuro for all we know. It’s kind of freaky to even think on what to do if they cannot kill it.

I’m glad Sorachi shed the light on how Gintoki came to his decision to split up Yorozuya, though it came with an enthralling yet disheartening result. Gintoki proves to be smarter than what his image usually portrayed in comedy routine since he recalls Utsuro dropping himself into the vortex of the Dragon Vein. Because of it, he thought the possibility of his body being vaporized by the Altana in which he was originally born from it. In other words, how could he died by what he was originated from, let alone being his source of life. He describes with simple yet good thinking analogy with Utsuro to Altana and water to an ocean.

What grasped his attention were Utsuro’s final words as he was falling down into the vortex. It finally cleared up on why Gintoki went hasty to catch him. While he did want to stop him from escaping in a sense, he was compelled by his words, which is why he was really upset when he failed. It’s why Kagura and Shinpachi picked up his hurtful tone. It’s those words that gave Gintoki a purpose; to reunite with Shouyou somehow, someway. Could it be possible to save him? I was moved by his ambition as a loner. It is no longer for the sake of humanity and he’s not going as a Yorozuya; it’s Shouka Sonjuku’s Sakata Gintoki, going to put an end.

Back to the flashback and once again, it’s intriguing how much Sorachi continues to explore more of its lore at this time. There is one Dragon Hole that is enshrined for generations; even Ryuujin (Dragon God) dwells inside. That basically mean that hole is worthy of attention. The only question was whether Utsuro came out from there. Once the old man began to describe the story of a strange phenomenon, it was clear that Gintoki hit the jackpot. It’s a good thing the image of a mass of meat wasn’t fully displayed because it sounds rather disturbing.  What shocked me is Utsuro was a baby.

It’s not just because the fact he was once a meat and somehow turned into a baby without medical logic. What truly startled me is if Utsuro was a child in the flashback, why the hell was Gintoki carrying his heart now? That gave a serious bad vibe; believing that he would kill a baby to remove the heart. The chapter wasn’t over, but I was freaking out around that point. It felt like it was building up that it was just Utsuro’s organs, but with a newborn baby, the end path was looking very grim.

While the ending is arguably the main spotlight, the page of one night with the baby is up there. It’s probably the grimmest display this series has offered. The protagonist Gintoki has the baby that once led a life of murders and destruction. He had the chance to put an end to the baby’s life, even though he probably could return later on. Even so, the train of thought drove Gintoki to approach the baby with a small sword and had the range to put it end. This was heavy stuff.

I was clinching my teeth. Sorachi got me believing that Gintoki ended it there. The paneling is excellent in this one page; how it shows his temptation to go through with it. His eye roared with anger, inch by inch to the heart, almost ending his suffering. Sorachi will get the protagonist’s hands dirty. It may not paint a bright light for inspiration, but for the sake of deeper storytelling, it should be done.

The next page was a huge sigh of relief that he didn’t do it. It’s crazy to imagine how it would feel if he did do it. Although he’s not doing it for the world, he technically did carry its fate by letting him live. If Utsuro does return, vicious and all, it would be his fault. If he did kill him, it would paint him as a disturbing image. The other risky part is who knows what the baby will grow up to. What if it was going to be Shouyou? It’s amazing how this one scene could have leaded him to many possibilities, but not worth feeling satisfied.

It’s jarring that after raising the baby for a bit, Utsuro has grown into a child, presuming the same age as when Shouyou met Gintoki for the first time. It transpires to a short but really nice father-son/master-disciple bonding scene with those two. To think, the role has been reversed as the two’s journey along the way. I feel like Sorachi is being cruel to have Gintoki experiencing in his master’s shoe and later, harbor another hardship end. That said it does create a very appealing backstory.

It does draw us fans closer to Gintoki’s character. He truly cherished his master more than anyone, so even though he was bothered by his presence, he can’t bring himself to kill. He would rather risk raising a child that could bring horror back than killing with a gamble. As funny as the line, “I feel like I’m raising a final boss” is, it holds many truths behind it. I felt his sincerity when he remembered Shouyou, connecting with how he probably felt as his master. It’s really touching to say the least; the most heartfelt scene of the chapter. That is until the end happened.

The parallel is so striking. Not only it told us how the role has been reversed but it was the trigger for Utsuro to speak for the first time. Every single line from him gave me crazy chills. It’s haunting how he can remember a lot as a child; detailing everything that answered Gintoki’s question. Those words keep on coming and it draws closer to the grand twist. The look on Gintoki’s face is very telling; you know how tensed it is when he’s awestruck by his words alone. It could play off like a horror film; unable to comprehend the scene. The message is clear: Shouyou has returned.

Honestly, it’s early to say if that is really the case, but it would appear that he was at least on the polite side as of that moment. It could be Shouyou, Utsuro lying under a false presence, or someone else entirely. It’s very tricky, but that’s what makes it gripping. It was such a heartfelt scene that unfortunately reminded me that this was all in the flashback. Why does Gintoki now carry the heart? What went wrong? Does it have to do with the request? It still leaves more questions but I am thrilled to learn more.

This was a strikingly emotional chapter that Sorachi has outdone himself once again. Just because the series is ending doesn’t mean he is burnt out of writing. He continues to deliver a rich story with plenty of outcomes that is nothing but dark. The shivering tone of that one night was so intense I thought my eyes were fooling me. I did read it in the early morning, so you could imagine how I reacted. The storytelling has been excellent so far and the ending was touching but possibly alarming. We have a long wait for the next chapter. Damn you and your timing, Gorilla!

[baguettelord]

Hey dudes. This is a post about my personal sort of discovery of sexuality that came to light last night. If you’re sensitive to that sort of thing, don’t read it.

And I’m posting this cause first and foremost I’m a super open person and my sexuality relates to my identity and understanding of myself so I guess sharing it makes sense to for to share something so others can identify and understand me in some way?

So the deal is this. I’ve considered myself heterosexual by default for close to my whole life. I have always been inherently attracted to men.

More recently, that’s expanded from an event where I drunkenly kissed a pansexual girl at a party a couple of times in separate events (I was and still am in a relationship with someone else and didn’t view that as wrong because I considered myself hetero and therefore didn’t view it as cheating. Dumb.)

Since then I started to view myself as bicurious. I’m not SEXUALLY attracted to women, but I am PHYSICALLY attracted to them. In an aesthetic sense. I like boobs and hips and the female figure and generally feminine stuff. I find chicks attractive. I do NOT like their lady parts (or my own, for that matter) and I am in fact somewhat repulsed by them.

Now this is the part that will seem a little weird but it relates to the fact that I am a very imaginative and creative person. Romance in Mass Effect games has furthured this bicuiosity to a point of sexual interest but ONLY where there was emotional attachment beforehand.

So over about the last two years I’ve used the term bicurious but it never felt right and was unspecific. Last night I spent a long time talking to a cousin who has several friends in the USA in the lgbt/queer community and she helped me to find something more suitable. As a super scientific and logical person, I feel an intense need to label and categorise things as part of the process of understanding them, so this discovery is a journey towards that. Its not quite 100% right but its close enough. I feel comfortable and like I have something I belong as a part of. This is mostly based on how I FEEL rather than experience - I’ve had two relationships only; a long distance hetero and my current and long term hetero. I’ve had extremely limited physical interaction with women, none with males outside my relationship, and none with transexual, intersex, nonbinary ETC people.

So basically what we came up with is Demisexual Panromantic Polycurious.

Let me break that down a bit.

The Demisexual is the part that makes this label not 100% perfect but its the closest thing I could find.

Demisexuals usually only feel sexual attraction to people they are emotionally bonded to.

So here’s why its not quite right. I DO have sexual attraction. I am sexually attracted to certain men who are my type. HOWEVER. I do not have any interest in having a sexual experience with anyone I’m not emotionally engaged with.

So the example is I see a man who is sexually attractive - I view them as oh yeah I could bang him. BUT I wouldn’t do it. I’m not INTERESTED sexually, just attracted sexually. Basically it comes down to ‘I like that dick’ VS ‘I want that dick’ I guess?

Apart from the attraction to males, everything else falls squarely within demisexuality. I am not attracted sexually to any other gender or non-gender orientation. I am physically (in an aesthetic sense) attracted to females and femininity. I am not sexually interested, though. That being said if I developed a romantic relationship with a non-male, with the way I think and behave, then exploring sexual experience them is a logical next step. I am 100% sure that would happen if I were in that situation.

So if there’s a more accurate word for this, please hit me up because I’m satisfied with saying I’m demisexual, but its probably not quite right.

Now, Panromantic. Thats romantic attraction to any gender or non-gender allignment.

I do not consider that love is something subjective to someone’s physical characteristics. It’s not a logical thing for me. I haven’t experienced romantic attraction to any EXISTING people outside males, BUT I am open to it and dont doubt that I could potentially fall for someone of another gender or non-gender. I try to treat all people equally and that naturally includes the range of my romantic interest. If I view someone as a potential friend, why not a potential romantic interest?

And finally Polycurious - I’m open to polygamous options.

Probably wouldn’t go for it in my current relationship, for a couple of reasons but basically we’re committed one on one to each other and that’s that. And I probably wouldn’t actively seek out a poly relationship if we weren’t, since so many people that want is are all about sex, and I’m not?

That being said, like the logic that led me to identify as panromantic applies here too. I view monogamy as a social construct and I don’t think it really applies to my natural expression of love. Not to mention the fact that since I’m capable of loving multiple relatives and friends in a platonic way, why can’t I love multiple people in a romantic way?

So basically to break it down.

I am sexually attracted but not sexually INTERESTED in men

I am physically/aesthetically attracted to some women

I am not sexually interested unless I’m in a romantic relationship AS FAR AS I’M AWARE

I align with  love equality so am open and interested in all romantic gender/non-gender options

I accept and feel like polyamory is a logical option for romance for me but I have not been actively seeking it

So that’s it I guess? Like I said before, if anyone has a category more suitable than demisexual, hit me up with a message cause I don’t quite know if demi is a super specific thing or more of a spectrum that might cover what I am. Until then, I’m fairly satisfied with it and everything else is right.

And guys, I just want to say that, for the most part, its the people on here that have helped inspire me towards finding my own sort of place and definition and belonging. The acceptance I’ve seen in this little corner of tumblr is fantastic. :]

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

I was going to ramble about which of my stories is my Own Personal Favorite.

But then, after deleting 4 or 5 different paragraphs of mind-changing pre-write, I realized... I really can’t choose just one? Or even three???

** NOTE that all of these can be found on my fanfic profile!  - Raven’s secret-keeper over there! - Two on AO3: Ravens secret-keeper (pseudonymn: StellarSecretKeeper)

~ Dove’s Dark Discovery is the best-written Actually Published story! It has a sub-plot (re: her struggles with her powers as they grow, AND her relationship with Raven being strained throughout the story), it included the other Titans in Important Scenes (Dove and Raven are by far my favorite characters to write about, but the whole reason I write these stories as TEEN TITANS fanfics is the background of the team!), it EXCELS at “rising action” and “building escalation” (it gets concerning, then anxious, then frantic, then downright devastating), and the DESCRIPTIONS. Holy heavens and hells, the mindscape descriptions!! I absolutely LOVE some of those lines! And the goddamn cLIMAX. That scene alone has literally gone through 6 versions (though the kernel of an idea, “Raven vs. Evil!Dove in the Mindscape”, has always remained the same), and while it’s still not as smooth as I’d like it, some of the rhythmic cadence in that scene is pure stylistic GOLD.

~ The Final Journey is so incredible to write! It has long held an especially special place in my heart, because it’s one of the first stories I ever started writing. I can remember where I wrote almost every single scene in the binder. 

~ Even in Death got some High Quality Additions! Though it’s still not As Great as far as verbiage and pacing and the silky-smooth emotional transitions I’ve been teaching myself to use, the headcanon power it runs on (re: Azarath and Raven’s Abilities and Dove’s PTSD) is GREAT. It discusses something that’s really close to my heart, and also really close to both Raven and Dove’s (mental illness, PTSD, loss and grief and healing). It has a lot of Personal Significance too; let’s just say the revision was inspired by an Actual Astral Adventure and I realized how deeply a revelation like that would affect Dove... And that revelation finally gave that oneshot a reason to exist besides just, “I learned there was this one time...” Dove needed that closure. Desperately. And it’s a big step in her healing from that traumatic day.

~ Heart to Heart was so incredibly sweet, adorable, dramatic, AND satisfying! As far as a self-contained oneshot, it’s definitely the best I’ve ever written. (I daresay it’s among the best scenes ever, and certainly among my favorite flashback-containing scenes!) Dove and Srentha deserve a lot more Emotional Heartfelt Moments that really dive into how much they mean to each other, but I’m an emotionally-stunted aro whose sense of romance is basically “tell her i love her once in awhile”. and I don’t really know how to write those Emotionally Intense Moments with a romantic bend yet. ;; The fact that I wrote that entire scene in like, two weeks, was a complete fluke. 

~ Speaking of oneshot flukes, I’m also really proud of Umbrella? I wrote that sucker in a singular fucking HOUR. I didn’t realize “drabble” had a character limit, but  I’m glad I didn’t know, because it grew into an excellent exploration of Dove’s mindset during her first months on Earth, how she experienced the city, how she experienced strangers, and in the end, human kindness.

Also, my favorite fanfic writer for the animated series (and others!) was inspired to headcanon the random man Dove encounters in the city as his very own protagonist OC. Which I delightfully endorsed. And he wrote it into one of his very own stories. So that absolutely blew my entire mind. It’s still blown to this day! (That writer was also kind enough to review the DDD climax when I desperately needed feedback. It should be “three times as long and nine times the punch”, he said. I took it to heart, took it to the words, and I like to think I KILLED it at long last~)

~ Mystery Sickness is probably my favorite in terms of Total Rewrite Growth^tm? But it’s not Finished Yet, so I can’t show you all the Changes! Its original version (visible on fanfic.net) is heavy on the deus ex machina, and Things Happening without anyone really knowing why. Hell, I didn’t know why when I wrote the damn thing! I kind of treated it like “this is just what I see happening so I gotta write it down”. Raven falls ill, figures it has something to do with Dove, never really explain why Dove is Making Her Unwell, then she kind of just gets better? But now: Oh stars, we have a HUGE Reason! (And it’s Dove’s mother’s spells! It took a good long while for me to really Understand what was going on in Dove’s childhood, what with Alerina constantly and desperately doing everything in her power to hide Dove’s existence, including a slew of spells that kept Dove safe from the rest of Azarath AND Trigon.) And now, when I re-publish it, everything’s going to make sense.

Not to mention, I am having FUN with Mumbo in the rewrite.

~ Something Special About Srentha is probably the first story I wrote with Actual Plot, clear in the story from start to finish. It’s definitely one of my most Cohesive Plots, with the most Consistently Relevant scenes. Granted, in the Mindquest trilogy (Missing: Raven, DDD, and TFJ), every plot point plays into how it progresses, but in Something Special it’s really quite obvious and complete. Intruders are in the mystical forest, they investigate, Dove gets kidnapped, they try to save her, fail a couple times, Dove suffers and learns about her kidnappers, Srentha finds out if they don’t save her they’re going to force her into a ritual to become one of them, and then they try Extra Hard to save her. And then the sequel (Something Strange) is all about the Direct Results of the intruders’ magic having an effect on Dove and Srentha. So, you should all know by now how mystical my ass is, and Srentha’s too come to think of it, so writing these stories touches on a lot of Personal Passions for me AND them. Even the personal struggles, for everyone involved, come as a direct result of everything happening in the plot. And it just naturally turned out that way. I don’t think any story had been so entirely Relevant to one plot before, nor have I managed to captures such contiguous storytelling since.

[alchemisland]

The Antiquarian and the Devil's Dog - I

The week we spent cleaning out Great Grandad's house was an eventful one. More exciting at least than the days previous spent in various offices gathering the correct permissions to enter the old place. In the oldest parts of the house damp rotted the old floorboards until they warped, collapsing under their own weight leaving perilous apertures eager to swallow clumsy steppers. Agencies were reluctant to hand over the keys without first checking everyone's insurance ad nauseum.

The old stone stairs leading to the basement, chipped from a thousand previous descents, looked liable to break if one wasn't selective with their boot placement. It's funny, I thought, if you fell through one of those holes and ended up in the basement, you'd be avoiding the dangerous stairs; the lesser of two evils. Note to inform the insurance company of a possible loophole. Desperate to avoid litigation on our part, the agencies agreed that we could enter under supervision.

The world had changed since this place was last inhabited. When the door finally opened, stubborn in its frame after years of neglect, it seemed a room unstuck in time. Dust particles hung in the air and as they danced I wondered what secrets they were privy to, and whether they had been the component atoms of a larger host previously. Even her ghosts were bent and haggard with age, bones wilting in the oppressive dank. A hundred years ago the servants were so afraid of the myriad spectres said to inhabit the long halls and shadowed staircases that they had refused to enter certain rooms, but no such reports have been filed in nigh on seventy years. If those same ghosts existed now, they languished apathetically in the walls, stirring only occasionally to rattle the pipes or drag their boots. Curios and trinkets plundered at the height of Empire decorated every mantel in the house and although it went unsaid, everyone in the family was petrified of stumbling across something less than savoury. Just to be sure we cross referenced some of the dates in our literature and found the Nazi party came a little after Bryn's time. Spared of that anxiety we set to looking, for what we weren't sure. Something of value, some seemingly insignificant object that might illuminate this murky character.

Bryn, God rest him, was a renaissance man in the style of the natural philosophers of his age; a doctor, an artist, a war hero, an antiquarian and amateur archaeologist all rolled into one. Of course it would be remiss not to mention his more illicit interests like bootlegging alcohol and collecting occult manuscripts, but the more sordid of the two pastimes fell by the wayside when he raised his station in society, becoming an educated and respected member of a prominent archaeological interest group. Selous' Sweat they called themselves, in tribute to the conservationist and African big-game hunter of the same name.

Selous some of these artefacts for mad stacks, I thought with a smirk.

Everything in the house had a double coating of dust. Doing our rounds and cataloguing the cabinets of curiosities meant that doors long undisturbed were opened, both literally and figuratively. Turning the handle of one particular door, I saw it led to an upstairs sitting room on a landing between two flights of stairs, one spiralling down towards the sitting room, although there was scarcely room to sit amidst the Grecian urns and Japanese decorative plates precariously hanging from the walls, and the other up towards the darkroom on the top floor. The sitting room was strangely devoid of clutter except for an enormous table. The rounded surface was a dark mahogany, polished until shining with a protective glass covering placed on top.

I wondered why a table, even one so fine as this, was given a room to itself above the other priceless artefacts in the catalogue, which included a Han dynasty vase, the glasses worn by W.B. Yeats in his twilight years and an enormous set of ornate mirrors purchased at auction when one of the grand manors in Kilkenny was forced to liquidate all non-holdings related assets following the collapse of the family after the war. The mirrors, according to the former owner Mrs. Fitzbannion, were the pride of their manor house. Mrs. Fitzbannion hung the mirrors in the centre of the main hall, ensuring all visitors knew the extent of their wealth. The frames were carved to represent natural wonders, a pinecone here, an antler there, and each coated in burnished gold leaf. Gold had faded to brass in the intervening years, as if the mirror losing its place of prominence in its household stole the last scion of lustre from it altogether, and I wondered had the mirror ever been so ostentatious as described.

Inspecting the table, I ran my finger along the protective glass panel and found no trace of dust. Doubly curious. Bryn was an adventurer and had no shortage of vigour in his old age, but he was still not one for dusting. Attributing his longevity and stamina to a liquid concoction that he called Lightning Wine, part alcoholic cocktail, part vegetable juice with a hint of soda water. In truth I had only agreed to help with this jumped-up Spring cleaning session in the hopes of finding a vat of the naughty sauce hidden in a secret panel, which I would ferry out under my coat and imbibe later on with the lads.

I knelt on my haunches to inspect the legs of the table, wondering if they might shed light on the mystery. Clean as a whistle below too. Ivory. That was it. The legs were made of ivory. Holy shit, was this stuff even legal anymore? I heard a story in school that at one time ivory was so coveted they had to remove the tusks from museum specimens to discourage robbers, low-hanging fruit and all that. My sister volunteered in the Natural History Museum in Dublin while studying zoology and recounted wondrous tales over dinner about their storage rooms in the inner-city; numerous thylacine specimens, gigantic Irish elk antlers and wooden storage crates full of elephant tusks, corridor after corridor of specimen jars like one imagines Noah's Ark appeared at capacity. Into the table legs were carved detailed images of warriors armed with spears facing down ferocious lions. No doubt an artwork of such fine craftsmanship was either manufactured by British labourers merely basing their work on an existing tribal peace, or worse, plundered from a deposed native royalty, like that Malaysian ruby. Something else there too, a piece of paper placed under one of the legs to balance it. I pulled the parchment out slowly, like the highest-stakes game of Jenga you can imagine and saw that it was written in blue ink. Unmistakably the spider-like scrawl of Great Grandad Bryn; prone to eccentricity and hyperbole in his cups though. I doubt any of what was written should be taken as gospel, but damned if it doesn't make for a spooky story. The following are the excerpts from what I assume was a field diary, kept as part of his funding agreement with the local museums. They would fund his expeditions and as long as he provided colourful commentary and witticisms enough to draw a crowd. They proudly patronised his occasional dalliances into the otherworldly in the spirit of derring-do! Bryn mentions early in the text that he keeps a formal and an informal diary, the latter only for his own perusal. If what I read is his own private correspondence, then why hide it?

April 1928.

I, Martin Bryn-Kolkiln, wish to commit to paper the strange events of Friday last, April 9th 1928. For the first time in some weeks I have had time enough to sit down and gather my thoughts, my rest of late being much disturbed by strange fancies and day-time delusions. My postprandial scribblings have long been a stable of my working week and no servant dares to stir past my quarters upon noticing the glow neath the door that signals its occupancy. Lately the notepad remains devoid of ink or flourish and I strain my ears to catch the scratching of a passing servant stepping a mite too hard on the creaky floorboard, hoping to catch some snippet of gossip in the scullery that might rouse my wrist to swiftness. In less fanciful terms I have been much beset by idleness and my usual studious nature replaced by bouts of idleness and procrastination. I do not fear that you will judge me too harshly for my slovenliness though once I recount my adventure in full.

I find the drone of chatter where people gather too distracting to complete any semblance of serious writing. Even the purchase of army-grade ear plugs have not relieved the issue, much to my chagrin. Three pairs for a pound, army surplus. Let me say this; if they cannot stop the sound of idle chatter, they aren't going to do much when a whizzing mills explodes just shy of your nape. The seller, one Mr. Kieran Malleus - 'hearin' Kieran' to his friends - in due course will read my thoughts on his wares, in so many crass words as can be mustered in the shrill silence they offer.

Recently I have been away from kith and kin, pining for home comforts in the scalding desert sun, an enormous white offensiveness radiating omnipresent heat. By night when the flaming orb retreats beneath the dunes, the shifting sands hold much latent heat. Torturous for a Kentish gent like myself. I will keep complaints brief. I am grateful of course for the patronage of my peers, and for the many strange and exotic sights I witnessed, including the discovery of a buried idol in the former fertile crescent which spurred my journey to action. Natural sights of great wonder met my eyes at every turn; clear skies above the dunes like reflected water, the night a matte-painting of stars in every hue; twinkling blues shining intensely for a moment only to disappear against the force of its own vibrancy, white and yellow dazzling celestial bodies too winking in turn, and a fiery red one clearest of all. Fayzad, my loyal manservant and foreman, informs me this was Venus. Brutal aerial bombing raids and fierce close-quarters combat destabilized the region. A land rent asunder yielded treasures hidden since ancient epochs, including our idol. In the charred frame of a ruined mosque, a set of dusty steps led us to the idol, stark and malignant in its shadow-haunted grotto. The discovery provided ample fuel for speculation among my wider uneducated workforce, whispered stories of Templar treasure and forbidden Rosicrucian gospels abounded, spreading like wildfire.

The journey from the train station in London towards Matfield in Kent is punctuated with occasional wondrous natural vignettes. Wild horses cresting grassy knolls against the backdrop of God's own country. White blossoms on trees, ranks of saplings, stunted now but enormous come the vernal bloom. I attempted to conduct my preliminary report of sites I'd visited but, through my rubber stoppers, I made out the voice of an inebriated Scot over the din. A veteran was seated in the opposite carriage, alone. The poor creature must have been exposed to gas in some forgotten melee, of which he was perhaps the surviving witness. Across the British Isles there was a thousand such sad scenes. Pineapple gas by the sound, that consistent hack. Each time he flurried, it knelled the end of my creative spell.

Upon returning I informed colleagues and close friends of my intent to convalesce, retiring to my chambers in solitude for a fortnight to document my trip. It came as a reluctant surprise then when a letter arrived, delivered by hand, requesting my urgent presence at the servants graveyard on the grounds of the Powers Estate. The letter spoke of a strange discovery when work for a proposed pleasure garden began requiring the removal of several headstones. The author of the note, which was neither signed nor written in a hand I recognized, went on to state that he or she supposed that their discovery would be pertinent to my historical interest. This mysterious invitation stoked the embers of my imagination ablaze. I was suddenly keen to reevaluate my proposed 'mental wellbeing day', instead thinking perhaps I took those days on the insistence of a friend, nothing more.

I set off that same balmy spring evening, with only a light jacket tossed overshoulder, a saggging houndstooth peak unsteady on my head like an ill-fitting wig and a whistle on my lips; no rain had been forecast. The note went on to describe the dig, which had concluded. My field tools were not required. The closing statement, worst of all, sent shivers through my body. The scribe, although amateur, was firm in his words. Confident in his assessment, they had uninterred the skeleton of an enormous hellhound, three times larger that the most gargantuan of Siberia.

My mind was aflame with vivid images of a shadowy hyena howling, cackling, pooling stinking saliva in the sharp corners of its mouth. I wondered might their excavation have uncovered Black Shuck or some folkloric descendant; an enormous wolf-like creature that stalked the leafy lanes of Suffolk in the 15th century. Standing a keen seven feet, allowing for an inch either end, 200 pounds at a glance, around the average weight of a heavyweight pugilist, the fearsome beast came fearless. When mist swirled underfoot making each step unsteadier than the last, when the wind carried whispers of movement on the moors, Black Shuck had left his cave. So bulky was he that the thudding sound of his footfalls roused the town from sleep and into panic. He came in the night, terrible and formless, gliding unseen like steam. The panicked citizenry heard that same familiar padding, the warning bell would sound, sending the denizens spilling towards the abbey. Room was made for all to shelter in the house of God. Assembled clergymen bolted shut the door, placing large timbers across in a x. The beast effortlessly barged through as if hurtling through a wall of damp paper. A hulking mass of muscle, rippled and bulging as if cast in alabaster. The archives make no mention of how the beast was slain. The last word on the matter is not even a word but a sketch of a boulder by one Father Nestin Goodfaythe, showing where the beast is supposedly interred on hallowed ground, underneath a weeping willow near the west wall of the piper's rest.

I cycled to the train station within half an hour and caught the evening train. Upon detramming, it was only a short stroll past the hamlet to the Powers Estate, a foreboding stone fortress stark against the pastureland. The sky was flecked with silver dots, like an enormous glowing wisp out of space had poked a hole in the fabric of our world, allowing a sliver of otherworldly pearlescence through.

Clouds gathered ominously above the rounded domes of the main compound. Various follies, fountains and statue-strewn walkways decorated the grounds, paling in comparison to the oppressive majesty of the Grand Lodge. The design was an eclectic mix of Eastern and Western classical art styles, rounded arches and marble pillars dappled with grey, obsidian gargoyles with contorted faces, forked tongues lolling out of their pursed half mouths. Other misshapen oddities perched on the buttresses. French tapestries and Roman marbles hung on every landing, enormous paintings of the glorious hunt in gilt frames on every inch of spare wall. Pictish stones looted from Scotland decorated the fish pond, inscribed with mysterious runes that no doubt held eldritch knowledge.

Casement Power, younger brother of the late Lord Richard, inherited no property or bonds. Instead he was allowed an extremely modest annual wage. He spent the days hunting. No scurrying fox or baited badger could satiate his warrior spirit, so he traveled to Africa, there shooting the largest game.

It was there he spoke with cannibal tribes, saw serpents of enormous size unfurl endlessly and slither away into the brown water and met great heroes. He also had collected many curios and tribal artworks on his expeditions. The remnants of his leaden conquests lined the walls as trophies. Enormous mammoth tusks from Siberia carved with runes framed every double door, spears crossed above every mirror.

Somewhere inside, although I can't recall where, the skeleton of the beast that hunted the denizens of Gevaudan is displayed. I know for a fact that this grizzly exhibit exists, it's listed on the manifesto of items in their portion of Stately Homes of England. I cannot verify as to the validity of the article. I'd vouch many a French peasant eats well selling hundreds of such cryptozoological items. Could the hell hound I am to examine be a relation come to England, or worse, brought?

I have heard tales from reputable sources of large cats loose on the moors. Escapees from circuses and private menagerie. Others, former pets released by their owners after quadrupling in size.

Perhaps these amateurs had merely uncovered the remains of an exotic pet. The grounds were no stranger to beasts from the dark continent; crimson parrots in enormous metal cages, striped fish that glowed when moonlight struck on the pond, peacocks from India striding the grounds, ducks from Canada. Would it be completely out of question for a jungle cat to have made this castle its home? I think not.

On his extensive travels around China and Africa studying prehistoric art Richard Power collected many priceless artworks and looted great tombs of their treasures years before the arrival of Western antiquarians. His horde included petroglyphs, gilded sarcophagi and even a mummified cat from a Witch's Bazaar outside Khartoum. If Richard Powers was alive today, he would sit coiled atop his twinkling doubloons with plumes of smoke trailing from either nostril, content to wait for judgement day in the cavernous treasury rumored to exist beneath his house.

Many of the great houses had fallen to destitution, their custodians gathering dust on gilded thrones. The best of their heirs sent to France among the officer classes. Although the bulk of the BEF was made up of working class men, the aristocratic classes were decimated also. Such was the ways of war. These men playing chess with the lives of the small folk would, to fulfill their end of whatever Faustian pact, give up their own sons. Of course not all elderly Lords were callous in sending their offspring away, perchance to die. Many wrote letters to school chums occupying lofty administrative positions requesting exclusion in exchange monetary reward. All such offers were denied.

Powers lost three son. Two at Mons, another at Ypres. The angels had not seen fit to protect them.

That dread sound of motorcycle tyres across pebbles as it stirs to a halt. The clink of medals as the messenger spans the drive. Measured footfalls, a military gait, approaching the door. Closer now, the parent white-faced knowing what dread news awaits.

Folklore and farm chatter aside; the Powers had deep roots here. A Powers had lived on this land since 1640. Who knew what secrets those whispering old stones might yield to those inclined to listen.

Fortunately the Lord has a nephew, strong, sensible and of age. Lord Nigel Power, Earl of Sookford and 3rd Baron of Westian, current custodian of the Powers Estate was not unkind. Scholarly and stoic like the Greek philosophers he admired and quoted in his cups, but always keen to share a nod and wag in passing. Not to give the impression we are acquainted, for I hardly know the man but to don my hat in passing, occasionally commenting if the weather be note-worthily tempestuous.

Already noting my own apprehension, measured steps, breath slowed and women unless necessary, I proceeded toward the gate. Wintry grass crunched understood. Hypnotised by its granduer, I craned to see the lip of the battlements. A fortress grim and impregnable, fit for a martial family.

Arrows, oil and boulders would have rained from on high to decimate prospective invaders. Just then, a gust swept past violently, lifted my tails and carried with it faint sounds of distant war. A whispered scream. Snippets of intense crackling fire. Rhythmic thwacks of loosed bows in tandem. I shivered. I begged the spirits leave me, confine their unrest to the kirkyard.

The last light faded. I approached the iron gates. Each rail was a jagged black spear rising from the capstone. A black bas relief centred the entryway. I pushed it open. It dragged on its hinges, howling in dull flight. A dread chorus, shrill and how long it lasted - I almost placed my fingers into my ears for relief!

This fright rather knocked my senses. I stirred on the threshold and gathered scattered wits. Every loose stone, dancing leaf and singing spring breeze now whispered portents. I resigned to ignoring whatever gnostic Delphian beckoned. I accepted the languid gate swing as a sign of reluctance to permit my entry on the house's part. Old places do not lightly relinquish their secrets.

I immediately turned sharply right upon entering, moving from the winding gravel drive lined with golden cedars down a snaking path trodden through the grass, towards a distant glow I assumed to be the site. With forearm raised against grabbing branches, I fumbled through the darkness, taking little note of the uneven terrain underfoot. I strode toward a copse copse with a clear vantage of the servant's graveyard. The site was cordoned with rope. Torches jammed into the ground illuminated the site, presumably for my own benefit. A small crowd had gathered, huddled together, gnattering around one of the beacons. A man turned and waved upon seeing my shaded form, evidently the letter writer.

Grass grew greyer, more sickly inside the roped area. Scions of jagged rock tore through the topsoil giving the impression of a golem beneath the firmament. This field was the only spot that didn't yield healthy bloom. Small surprise it was designated such a dark purpose. Its owner had little use for land that didn't yield.

A terrible scream rang out as I took my first ginger step toward him. Shrill, unpleasant, razorlike. The banshee's wail, a chorus of seven trumpets that tolled the opening of the seventh seal, the Howling of the Djinn! Hark! The dread screech of a terrible wyrm, phasing through realities in permanent agony.

A bright spark glowed brightly in the sky above the open grave. Unaccustomed to the light, my eyes began watering heavily. I tried sjtitkng my eyes tight, but like raging floodwaters surmounting an impassable object through the smallest grikes and stony slits, they coarsed unheeded. I turned and a strange thing occurred. I found myself back in the thicket, where the branches like fingers had caressed me only a moment before. The light of the site up ahead in the distance. What vile trickery this?

I stared at my hands, barely able to discern their shape in the darkness. I raised them, cupped my face and messaged my crown. I needed to feel the bone and blood underneath. Something tangible now that I was untethered from the real. I needed to be positive I wasn't dreaming. It was bitterly cold. Was it possible to feel cold while unconscious? Doubtful. Sudden nausea stole my legs. I keeled over, holding my stomach, retching onto the damp grass.

The beacons in the distance began igniting and extinguishing in sequence, strobing and contorting, casting long shadows. I tucked my head to my chest, as a hedgehog does under duress. Then all was dark. The beacons doused simultaneously. The wet grass beneath my head changed to something hard and slick, with many sharp points. I lifted one eyelid and saw the gates. I was outside the compound, as if I had never before entered.

The dark contours of the bas relief were more ominous now. The bulbous shapes made my skin crawl. Brushing rocks in my palms on the thigh of my trousers, I winced to my feet.

Yes, the beings that had at first seemed Grecian effigies of perfect men hunting now altered in the pale moonlight. One idle moonbeam shone directly on the relief, as if a cherubim spotlight was held fast. These hulking icons, although lacking perspective, seemed a forbidden sight. I recoiled in horror but dared myself to investigate further. I stooped closer, focusing on one particular figure. Let me first describe the image whole; pitiful, by compare I can only cite passages from Revelations, even they do not convey the full horror I beheld. Lacking the vocabulary to describe the 'otherness' of its shape, Revelations must serve as an imaginative stimulus. The beings were contorted demons. The bodies and genitals of men but coated every inch with coarse black hair, thick and spidery. Enormous round eyes like that of a fish, but where a fish emits vacancy and the black of their eyes reflects rather than radiates, these implied great wisdom. Enormous descrying orbs, omnipresent to witness all events for all of time, as Mathesula.

Where their mouths should be instead jutted enormous jaws like that of the snapping Nile crocodiles, who since antiquity have smiled menacingly beneath the murk. The figure I was hypnotically drawn to had an enormous stinging tail protruding from the end of his tailbone, hanging low off the ground before looping upwards into the sky. A stinger slick with venom poised at the shoulder to strike, dripping evilly. Alone among his number, he was armed with a this pestilent whip, clad in hard black plate no sword would dent, distinguishing him as a leader of sorts, if rank exists within an anarchy of grotesques.

Even as fantasy this folly was something gratuitous. The metal seemed slick, oozing, though no rain fell that night. No hint of varnish in the air. Perhaps twas merely the combination of moonlight trickery and the all-night reading sessions of yesteryear where I filled my mind with all manner of sidhes, dobhar chus and mushrooms out of space. The relief was a ballroom fancy, no more. A remnant of the freakshow era, like some stately houses with curiosity cabinets intact.

I pushed the gate open as a matter of promptness. Again it swung slowly and screeched, reeeeeeeeeeeeeeee - like a vixens wail. Events were playing out exactly as they had only moments ago. Only now, when I entered the dig site was to my left, and much closer besides.

I was sure I had turned right last time. Did the last time really happen? A trick of my own mind or played by something darker. Some being drawn to bored mischief, interfering with the affairs of mortals. Perhaps twas some fancy I took. A moon dream. Lord knows I had heard tales of drunken farmers roaming around small paddocks unable to find an exit, while the faeries peered through the hawthorn barbs in hysterics.

While we are in the realm of loons, perhaps it was an angel's vision of the future. Warding me away from the toothed darkness inside the grave.

To steady my nerves I decided to voice the skeptic aloud into the night. Gases and wisps in marshes were spirits to feudal farmers, before wise men came and dispelled their ignorance with the torch of logic. Perhaps all I was experiencing now was merely some as of yet unexplained phenomena. An unseen chemical in the air released by the digging causing hallucinations. I had been travelling recently, a surefire way to unsettle oneself. Any excuse that steered my mind from abject terror.

I proceeded to the site, only this time no sliding mud prevented passage; the thicket of thorns where I had surely stooped and spied the distant braziers nowhere to be found.

There was still time to turn for home. Trains wouldn't run until morning, I might safely walk the tracks and upon reaching my station, fetch my bike. If I departed and kept a keen pace, I would be abed before the witching hour.

[alice-evey-blog1]

Presentation: Merce Cunningham

“A man is a two-legged creature – more basically and more intimately than he is anything else."  - Merce Cunningham

A Glance of His Biography

1919 - Was born in Centralia, Washington 

Began to study dance at 12 years of age. 

1939 - Invited by Martha Graham to join her, and became a soloist for her company. 

1943 - Encouraged by Graham, Cunningham began to choreograph.

1945 - left Graham’s company and began to work with John Cage.  

1966 - Collaborated with filmmaker Stan Van Der Beek to produce Variations V, the first of its kind “dance film” -  Choreography created expressly for videotape

1989 – Began to use computer technology to help him devise movement. 

Understanding His Chance and Indeterminacy

Many interviews are available online. 

[Interview] <<< For this one, from 4′30′’ to 7′30′’, he briefly explained his idea on movements and time, and dance and other art form (music especially).

Techniques:  Chance and Indeterminacy

Common Time & Rhythmic Structure: The time lengths that were agreed upon as beginning and ending structure points between the music and the dance – we worked separately on the choreography and the musical composition. This allowed the music and the dance to have an independence between the structure points [2]

Chance Operations: In principle, it involves working out a large number of dance phrases, each separately, then applying chance to discover the continuity – what phrase follows what phrase, how time-wise and rhythmically the particular movement operates, how many and which dancers might be involved with it, and where it is in the space and how divided. It led, and continues to lead, to new discoveries as to how to get from one movement to the next, presenting almost constantly situations in which the imagination is challenged. [2]

Computer Software Lifeforms: Cunningham famously pioneered the use of the choreographic software Lifeforms in the late 1980s, where a computer generates movement possibilities beyond the imagination of the human mind and body. [7]

Philosophy Behind

Movement is expressive in itself, in other words for dance to be meaningful there is no need to refer to anything beyond it. Rather than an authoritarian management of the viewers’ experience, Cunningham created situations that allowed for multiple perspectives.

In a Merce Cunningham work, the position of one dancer on the stage is no more important than that of another.  Moreover, he has displaced the linear, plot-driven narrative of traditional dance with a dynamic, non-hierarchical field in which cause and effect no longer govern the performers’ movements. Since sequences are not rigidly thematized, they can easily sustain a myriad of interpretations, whose sheer variety celebrates the essential “singleness” of the moment in space and time. 

...... 

Chance had also assumed new importance because of a fresh English translation of the I Ching. This Chinese classic relies on the casting of yarrow sticks or the tossing of coins to generate its divinatory hexagrams.  Extrapolating from these developments and also taking cues from Cage and contemporary Fluxus artists, Cunningham used chance methods to decide how to sequence choreographic phrases, how many dancers would perform at any given point, where they would stand on stage, and where they would enter and exit.  The earliest of his works in this mode were performed by his company and others at the Festival of Creative Arts at Brandeis University (1952).  A year later came Suite By Chance (1953), the first piece to be produced entirely by chance operations.  Cunningham described his methodology, which resonates with the premises of the I Ching: 

When I choreograph a piece by tossing pennies—by chance, that is—I am finding my resources in that play, which is not the product of my will, but which is an energy and a law which I too obey.  Some people seem to think that it is inhuman and mechanistic to toss pennies in creating a dance instead of chewing the nails or beating the head against a wall or thumbing through old notebooks for ideas.  But the feeling I have when I compose in this way is that I am in touch with a natural resource far greater than my own personal inventiveness could ever be, much more universally human than the particular habits of my own practice, and organically rising out of common pools of motor impulses. [3]

Lifeforms adds something to our experience in physical terms – we begin to learn about the operation of the body”. Interestingly, the beauty of animal motion has long inspired his imagination beyond the parameters of human anatomy. [7]

However, there are many debates on his methods, as one may argue they are too arbitrary and lack a sense of humanity.

For instance, Tresca Weinstein commented in 1998: ‘What’s most chilling about Cunningham is the absence of emotion. His dancers move like well-assembled collections of body parts, powered by the force of nature or mechanics but without will or desire of their own’.

In 1952, Cunningham affirmed that “(the chance) method might lead one to suspect the result as being possibly geometric and "abstract", unreal and non-human. On the contrary, it is . . . no more abstract than any human being is, and as for reality, it is just that, it is not abstracted from something else, but is the thing itself, and moreover allows each dancer to be just as human as he is” (1997: 87). ......

In line with this reasoning, I shall suggest that Cunningham’s dances in fact philosophize in ways which point to consequences more radical than his intended anchoring in ‘the thing itself’. Allowing the dancer to be ‘just as human as he is’ does not assume a stable category of the ‘human’. Cunningham’s choreography in fact forces us to re-think relations, not only between space and time, but between intentionality and movement, the arbitrary and the purposeful, and even between what we conceive of as human and ‘other’ ways of moving, notably involving interactions with animal and computerized forms of movement. The effect is to destabilize – literally – and displace – literally – our received ideas of the ‘human’. [5]

Two Works in Detail:

Points in Space (1986) 

As with other Cunningham productions, on a first viewing Points in Space may not appear to represent anything beyond movement for its own sake. Clear, uncluttered and airy the 12 dancers enter and exit the stage, pass in front of us, hover or linger for a while and then suddenly set off on a journey as though summoned by an invisible command. The work has both male and female dancers in abstract figure-hugging units which are varied in color and texture. ......  As with other Cunningham productions, on a first viewing Points in Space may not appear to represent anything beyond movement for its own sake. Clear, uncluttered and airy the 12 dancers enter and exit the stage, pass in front of us, hover or linger for a while and then suddenly set off on a journey as though summoned by an invisible command. The work has both male and female dancers in abstract figure-hugging units which are varied in color and texture. ......

According to the linguistic code, the title Points in Space is a symbol or sign proper yet it also provides indexical signification in the way that it is an indicator of the quality of spatiality of Cunningham’s choreography. He has long been preoccupied with the specificities of movement in time and space taking particular inspiration from Albert Einstein’s theory that ‘there are no fixed points in space’ (Cunningham in Jowitt 1988, 289–90). ......

Whilst the spatial signifiers are of major importance, I am more interested in the dancers as signifiers because at first glance they seem to represent nothing other than an elite group of athletes. Yet there is something animalistic in the tendency for them to form themselves into groups only suddenly to break apart and go off on their own or in pairs, eventually coming together again in unison passages of dance. These images are indexes for various aspects of wild life such as herds of animals forming, reforming, or quietly grazing, but each creature is alert to the other and to their environment. At other times, the dancers are iconic indexes because they resemble flocks of birds – suddenly arriving in the space, testing their wing span as one arm stretches endlessly away from the other across a widely extended scapula. ......

In Points in Space, the natural world is indicated through a combination of indexical and iconic signs springing from the often intense, noisy activity of the dancers’ feet pounding against the floor or beating against each other. These sounds and images are almost pure icons of birds noisily swooping and flapping over sudden discoveries of food or settling on a nest. Such flurries of complex footwork are followed by periods of calm when dancers form companionable resting groups, an index of social cohesion, a quality that humans share with some animal species. At other times the dancers become air-borne creatures that soar and hover but make little attempt to land noiselessly. Cunningham dancers do not defy the pull of gravity – they are earthbound human beings perfectly attuned to their environment or habitat and secure in each other’s company. [1]

Pond Way

One of Cunningham’s nature studies, Pond Way evokes the trickling affect of water, as the dancers move in wave like motions across the stage; timing the movements so that one begins just after another. The movement was inspired by Cunningham’s childhood game of skimming stones over a pond. Suzanne Gallo designed the costumes–loose fitting white tops and pants. [6]

In Pond Way, the lighting suggests both naturalistic and artificial effects: ‘the shifts from warm to red side lighting, designed by David Covey . . . subtly suggest the passage of a day . . . the shifting patterns are very like the large and small black circles that form the suggestion of an image in the white canvas behind the dancers’ (Dunning, 1998). For this dance, Cunningham asked Roy Lichtenstein to make a backcloth in the style of the paintings in his recent exhibition of ‘Landscapes in the Chinese Style’ (influenced by Edgar Degas’ landscape monotypes). Lichtenstein died before executing this commission, but his widow allowed Cunningham to select a painting to be used for the dance (Vaughan, 1998: 21). As Tresca Weinstein points out, this backdrop (‘Landscape with Boat’) and the unusual shapes created by the costumes, which can make the dancers’ bodies suggestive of insect-like forms, create interesting tensions and interactions between natural elements and computerized patterns. ‘The play between mechanics and nature is reflected in the costumes and décor for the piece. A dot-matrix Roy Lichtenstein landscape emphasizes the sense of data being endlessly processed, while Suzanne Gallo’s draping costumes suggest wings or extra sets of limbs’ (Weinstein, 1998). [5]

Bannerman, Henrietta. Movement and meaning: an enquiry into the signifying properties of Martha Graham’s Diversion of Angels (1948) and Merce Cunningham’s Points in Space (1986). Research in Dance Education, 2010.

Cunningham, Merce. Four Events That Have Led to Large Discoveries. Merce Cunningham Trust. http://www.mercecunningham.org/merce-cunningham/mc-writing-text/params/textID/9/ 

Kam, Vanessa. Merce Cunningham: In conversation with John Rockwell. Stanford Presidential Lectures in the Humanities and Arts, 2005. https://prelectur.stanford.edu/lecturers/cunningham/ 

Noland, Carrie. The Human Situation on Stage: Merce Cunningham, Theodor Adorno, and the Category of Expression. Dance Research Journal,2010.

Reynolds, Dee. Displacing ‘Humans’: Merce Cunningham’s Crowds. http://people.brunel.ac.uk/bst/vol0101/DEEreynolds.htm 

Pond Way, 1998. Merce Cunningham Trust. http://www.mercecunningham.org/index.cfm/choreography/dancedetail/params/work_ID/164/ 

Feature: Merce Cunningham and Lifeforms. London Dance, 2008. http://londondance.com/articles/features/merce-cunningham-and-lifeforms/