reverdies - Tumblr blog

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I love when people take up obscure muses because they're just that passionate about them

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Today is the (first) big crunch and then I should have a little breathing room. For two seconds, sure, but I'll take it.

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Stuttgarter Straße bei Nacht (Stuttgarter Str. at Night), 1931,

Reinhold Nägele (1884, Murrhardt - 1972, Stuttgart);

Reverse glass painting; 28,5x43 cm (source: veryimportantlot.com).

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From an oblique angle Moritz notes the effect his casually tossed words have had. Like most of what he says it's not serious, instead calculated to draw a reaction. In that he counts it a success, corners of his lips curling in victory. But it also tells him something about Viktor. More than one something, really. About his type (what does that even mean in a hothouse like Berlin? Though Moritz knows well enough about fixed points) and his character.

"Only in Berlin," he comments, the out of place peacock's pride coloring his voice. He can only claim a small part in crafting this city's milieu, yet without those like him, it would be a lifeless skeleton of steel and asphalt. "So, where are you from, Viktor? No one is from Berlin, not even Berliners." Perhaps especially them, but that extreme feels a waste without a city native to throw it at. "I for example am from the middle of nowhere. It calls itself Saxony when it's feeling bold. Otherwise it merely hides away in the mountains."

Kiss it better? Viktor's nose wrinkles. Helga is a sweet girl, only eighteen, which is why he'd jumped to her defence. She's the baby of the group, and the newest of their dancers, still getting accustomed to the place and to the customers. He would have done the same thing for any of them in truth. He's been here long enough to be more than accustomed to every type of customer that walks through their door each night. He's seen them all.

"Not my type. Bobby, on the other hand, absolutely will." A smirk twists his lips a little as he quirks an eyebrow. He and Bobby have been an item for a while now, and his fondness for the other dancer is considerable. The girls are sweet and all, but girls have never been Viktor's area of interest. He'd been beaten and kicked out by his own father for kissing the baker's son when he was fifteen for crying out loud.

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Isabelle Adjani in NOSFERATU THE VAMPYRE (1979) dir. Werner Herzog

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She remained largely a mystery to him as well. Thanks to their early difficulty and his sense that it was far from over, Valjean treated her with cautious deference, in some cases unsure of his sins and all too aware in others. The overall effect was of a man afraid to step forward lest it be unwelcome or ill-timed; it also left him in stasis. Ironic perhaps that the ice should begin to develop cracks, even hairline ones, in winter.

And so he was careful to listen to Fantine now, as he hadn't before, even when it carved a hollowed-out feeling in his chest and threatened to steal his breath. Dividing his gaze between his work and her, he resisted a patronizing nod , letting his attention speak for itself instead. The ending however surprised him, eyes widened to a notable if subtle degree. "So you see, you had more left than you knew." Just how much could kindness heal and regenerate? He was still learning that himself, and from both sides. "No thanks needed. It is reward enough to see you smiling."

Valjean, the truth of him and this reality, was still so very new to her. With every passing day, there grew more trust between them, but some things still felt too personal for him to hear. As much as he would know the simplicity of Cosette's origins, he was not privy to the entire truth. Perhaps one day she'd be able to relay it without anger, but for now she swallowed it.

"I felt as if I was going insane in Montreuil." Her head tilted as she watched Valjean work, the curling of her breath into the air the only evidence she had spoken at all. "Unravelled like a ball of yarn, I wasn't sure how much I had left." Even now, she was continually gathering herself once more. Months had passed and she still felt torn apart. "I feel more like our friend here, now," she continued, pride encouraging a smile, "moulded together once more by kind hands. Thank you."

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Obviously I underestimated the amount of brain suck that my schedule would cause but I'm hoping to remedy that tonight and tomorrow before a big crunch sets back in.

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what’s done is done

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She also classified as a stranger, of course; but given the horror they had both just braved, the vicar was not inclined to consider her in the same category of stranger. One was evil, one was not. (Although he rarely saw the matter in such stark terms, much as he felt he should, it did help in the wake of a killing for which he would otherwise have taken in guilt.) The acute spike in energy that accompanied a hunt faded quickly for him, leaving a dull ache he couldn't place.

Shepherding the victim provided distraction until they were left alone. Ensuring the man, shaken and wearing a souvenir of blood, was accompanied home by a friend, Mr. Hughes felt the unreality slip back into place. He knew all too well what had happened, yet it was so easy to simply deny it, should he want to.

He did not. His was a sacred mission, second only to his other calling; but this one came with an extra layer of fraternal piety to spur him to greater heights. Somehow, despite the theology, it felt more urgent too; perhaps because the creatures preyed upon the innocent but without allowing so much as an illusion of free will as did the devil's temptations.

At last it was just the two of them left. He breathed a bit easier with the pretense set aside, never very comfortable with lies though he'd learned to put up a passable attempt. "Well, I was glad for the help," he told her sincerely, accepting the book back into his grasp. He suspected it might be a lost cause and so said nothing; its sacrifice, if indeed it was one, would have been for a good cause.

Adding another "thank you" as reassurance, his gloved hands rubbed together in an attempt to get warm, proving her point. "Oh, yes. Indeed." Anything not to remain out here; the vicar cast a glance over his shoulder at the alley, apprehensive that he would be unable to sleep that night. "If the wassail is still on offer, my nerves could do with a bit of warm and soothing. But," he added hastily, "don't feel you must join me. I would welcome the company but am quite used to being alone."

The strangers they'd allowed into their ranks tonight had been ... pretty much the equivalent of two opposing gang members. The monster and ... the figurative jury was out on what to call her. Depending on who you asked, she could be a monster, too. Regardless, for the carolers the evening had been ruined, though not quite as much as it could have been.

She didn't intend to steal Mr Hughes' place as a reassuring sound, but he was busy tending the almost-victim and it would have seemed out of place for her to just stand there silent after something awful had obviously occurred; clearly not hysterical, but staying completely quiet would have seemed strange. Like, as it happened, a Vicar carrying holy water and a bloody wooden stake! He hardly looked the sort - but, as she tutted softly at herself, neither did she.

Bidding goodnight to any who who offered her the same, Thera waited until she and the round-faced avenging angel were alone beside the faint shadow of dust on the snow.

"You would have had him by surprise, Vicar, but I couldn't let you go running in alone." And so he might, had she given him the chance, but with the vampire already having hold of his prey there was no time to stand back and hope that Hughes could act quickly enough. "As for me ... I do have a fair bit of experience, yes." Understating, but wasn't modesty a virtue? She spotted something else on the ground and moved to pick it up.

"I hope I didn't damage this ..." Thera brushed snow from the carol book's cover, inspected it in the dim light. "We've not wandered far from the inn at all," She noted, glancing up, "Do you fancy talking about this in the warm?"

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Now abandoned, La Petite Centure is a 19th century railway that loops over 30km around Paris

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That fleeting notion might well come back around and in fact had presented itself to Javert, but moments like this were just as intimate in their way and to him just as novel. He was content whether this ended up as prelude or etude. The moment taken as is felt curiously dreamlike, a drowsy quality though he didn't feel tired; perhaps this was what passed for relaxation.

"In between wars, I assume." Not familiar with every intricacy of human history, certainly not with the insight of firsthand knowledge, he did have some sense of human nature that would serve as well for prediction. "Though scientists are not always so bothered by politics, so that much sounds right." Where did that knowledge come from? He had read newspapers, become informed. Perhaps not in the specifics, but the generality.

Javert, animated by a subject he was knowledgable about— itself notable— did not feel particularly tired; but observant eyes caught hints of Thera's drowsiness and pondered the best course. They had after all had a full day's labor, it was quite natural to be tired and only one effective cure. But to indulge it here would be uncomfortable. He hesitated only a little, the source selfish whichever way interpreted. "That's hardly the hierarchy I would have expected," he admitted. "For most societies these days nationality matters less." Nowhere was entirely immune, but they were less inclined to worry about it.

Meanwhile Javert, mindful of her state, offered, "Would you like to sleep out here or find somewhere more comfortable?" He had his own hopes, suggested by his wording, but also was well-trained not to be choosy. Anything she considered worthy would be fine.

When Thera had first suggested some time on the hillside, stretched out in the sweet grass, seduction had definitely crossed her mind. Not a secondary reason, by far but also not the singular intent. In fact it still wandered, blinked lazily behind the warm content seeping into her bones. But this - quiet companionship, the sharing of interests and knowledge, simple conversation ... she was loathe to disturb any of it as she turned onto her side, head rested on one hand.

"They did each pick up tips from each other ... the Greeks and the Ottomans." She chuckled softly, "Get a few scientists together in the same place and off they go." That was a tradition carried down through the centuries - Thera herself had learned a lot from listening to excited conversations and bragging matches over the years.

The hand supporting her head grew tired and she let it fall, instead tucking both up under her ear like a makeshift pillow - and battening down, partly at least, on a yawn that crept up and pushed past her jaw.

"Sadly, no ..." Her eyelids didn't quite droop, but lowered a little as she spoke, "They weren't so bad about women being educated, but Europeans ... I'm afraid we hadn't made a very good impression over the years. Perhaps if I'd been Greek rather than just having lived there it might have been different."

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It's apparent already but I just want to make an official announcement. Whichever is the chicken or egg, lately I am very busy with work and low on writing motivation.

So, I am formally committing to a queue of two pieces of writing per day. If I feel capable of cranking it up, great, and maybe I'll post some things outside the queue, but this is a nice manageable low bar that will be reassuring for me right now. I hate to concede what feels like defeat but I think it will help stave off guilt, even if total draft count may remain high.

As ever your patience is appreciated and I hope to see you all more often soon!

[reverdies]

It's apparent already but I just want to make an official announcement. Whichever is the chicken or egg, lately I am very busy with work and low on writing motivation.

So, I am formally committing to a queue of two pieces of writing per day. If I feel capable of cranking it up, great, and maybe I'll post some things outside the queue, but this is a nice manageable low bar that will be reassuring for me right now. I hate to concede what feels like defeat but I think it will help stave off guilt, even if total draft count may remain high.

As ever your patience is appreciated and I hope to see you all more often soon!

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Murdoch Mysteries: Why is Everybody Singing? (Official Soundtrack) — Songs written and produced by Paul Aitken, Jono Grant & Robert Carli

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FURTHER EVIDENCE that no one cares about but I need to note somewhere:

To find his birth mother George put an ad in the paper, where we learn the reverend's name (Reverend Lovell) and most significantly, that he was left at St. James Church. There's a St. James Cathedral in Toronto and it's Anglican. It only became a cathedral in 1936 so this could be the St. James mentioned.

The one snag is that the real St. James is listed as high church, which I don't think it fits with a reverend essentially setting up a brothel even if it's with the purest of intentions for the good of the girls only. So maybe the reverend left Toronto due to trying something similar there and the Powers That Be weren't happy; otherwise going so far away— and straight-up out of country, since Newfoundland's not even a part of Canada at this point— is pretty drastic.

Back again to analyzing tiny details in religious nomenclature to mine for headcanons...

George was raised by a reverend, so therefore Catholic is out (and he would have had the same impediment to advancement as Murdoch, which we didn't see)

The house where they all lived (presumably except the reverend?? I don't think that would be very conducive to their particular business) was a rectory, which apart from Catholics seems to be a mainly Anglican thing.

I suspect George's reverend worked closely with the Salvation Army without being an official member, and that he was Anglican (likely low church). This works because even though Newfoundland is heavy to Catholics due to the Irish population, the reverend wasn't originally from there- he was in Toronto of course to acquire baby George and may have been born elsewhere, we really don't get that much about him.

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i’d imagine that if Javert and Valjean (as Madeleine) actually became ‘friends,’ post-Champmathieu trial Javert would probably act like some teenage girl after having a fight with her bestie ykwim

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Some children never bothered to analyze. Not Javert. At that age at least he had been prepared to pick everything apart. It was only later that he had acquired any discretion; the result being that he now kept such analysis to himself unless requested by someone with either authority or trust, but it still manifested.

It was only later that he had acquired any discretion; the result being that he now kept such analysis to himself unless requested by someone with either authority or trust, but it still manifested. This slipped past because it had no lasting import, and because of their newly discovered rapport. "Yes, you're quite right. Rank speculation, unworthy of consideration," he declared with a straight face and a gleam in his eye.

He preferred to assess his own failings, even one as trivial as a rough singing voice, with the yardstick of truth. The crew, knowing this, had eventually disclosed what he should have known himself— that he was tone deaf with no pleasant timbre. "See, I did think you were sensible. Here's the proof." Even in the depths of their previous snarls, he hadn't really thought she was a flighty woman and if he had said so, it was an uncharitable lie.

"Well… thank you, then. I suppose it's just the knowledge that I could do better, rather than being satisfied. But it is enhanced by accompaniment, yours included." That had been a revelation the first time and every instance after; Javert doubted at this point he would ever be entirely used to it. Next he cleared his throat, demeanor shifting as his spine straightened further. "But that's enough of that. I trust you can occupy yourself until supper? Unless you'd like to spend a frustrating few hours with a map. Personally not my favorite, but it's got to be done."

Children were not meant to analyse, to weed through what their parents told them; they were supposed to believe it, absorb it, and behave themselves or the boogeyman would get them. Which, in certain circumstances, wasn't really a lie. And if there was anyone she'd met who absorbed life's lessons, what he was told and what he observed, it was Javert.

But at least this time, as she rattled his mental cage and tipped doubt on his past beliefs, it was in fun. A song that wasn't meant to be analysed either, of little real import (or so she hoped) - but all the same should be left lie soon enough. "I suppose without the authors here to ask, we'll never really know. But I agree, I like the 'never give up' more than the rest."

She wasn't immune to the hope of intervention - how could she possibly be? - or to not so much prayer as the occasional grit-toothed suggestion that maybe Gaia could throw her a bone. But there was a kind of helplessness that went with pleas to a higher power that simply went against her grain. And besides that, most of those higher powers would want something back in return.

Now, though, she simply laughed, bright and genuine, and gave a nod of her head. "I'll take your word for it, then, and not the risk." A sigh, mirth remaining on her lips and a dimple of her cheeks, "I'm glad I did, too, and consider yourself proved. You really are better than you think."