#(but our other partner stayed put up north when we moved last summer)

[kirby-the-gorb]

[readingsrantsrambles]

Road Show: The Journey of Robert Frank’s “The Americans.”

By Anthony Lane for The New Yorker

September 7, 2009

In June, 1955, Robert Frank bought a car. It was a Ford Business Coupe, five years old, sold by Ben Schultz, of New York. From there, Frank drove by himself to Detroit, where he visited the Ford River Rouge plant, in Dearborn, as if taking the coupe home to see its family. Later that summer, he headed south to Savannah, and, with the coming of fall, set off from Miami Beach to St. Petersburg, and then struck out on a long, diversionary loop to New Orleans, and thence to Houston, for a rendezvous with his wife, Mary, and their two children, Pablo and Andrea. Together, they went west, arriving in Los Angeles in the nick of Christmastime. They stayed on the Pacific Coast until May of the following year, when Mary and the children returned to New York. Frank, however, still wasn’t done. Alone again, he made the trip back, going via Reno and Salt Lake City, then pushing north on U.S. 91 to Butte, Montana. From there, it was a deep curve, though a swift one, through Wyoming, Nebraska, and Iowa to Chicago, where he turned south; at last, by early June, Frank and his Ford Business, his partner for ten thousand miles, were back in New York. It had been a year, more or less, since he embarked, and there was much to reflect upon. Luckily, he’d taken a few photographs along the way.

In fact, he took around twenty-seven thousand. There were more than seven hundred and sixty rolls of film to develop: an impressive tally, even to snap-happy profligates of the digital age. Then there were contact sheets to print and mark up; from those, he made a thousand work prints, which were tacked to the walls of his apartment on Third Avenue, near Tenth Street, or laid flat on the floor for closer inspection, before being whittled down to a hundred. The final count, from all those months on the road, was eighty-three pictures: enough for a slim book, which was published in November, 1958, in Paris, as “Les Américains,” and here, in January, 1960, as “The Americans.” For his pains, Frank was paid two hundred dollars in advance, a sum that rose to just over eight hundred and seventeen dollars by the end of the year. By then, the book was out of print.

And now look at it. Back on the walls again, not of his apartment—at eighty-four, he divides his time between New York and Nova Scotia—but of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where “Looking In: Robert Frank’s ‘The Americans’ ” runs from September 22nd through January 3rd. Before that, it showed at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art and, back in January, at the National Gallery of Art, in Washington, where Sarah Greenough, the senior curator of photographs, put together the exhibition and edited the catalogue—a beast of a book, more than five hundred pages long, stacked with a dozen essays, reproductions of letters and contact sheets, early Frank, late Frank, and, most helpfully, a map. Inside every fat volume, of course, a thin one is signalling quietly to get out, and, tucked away inside this hulk, not even starting until page 209, is the source of the fuss: the original pictures, of a burnished black-and-white, in all their roaring silence.

Here, for example, is Butte, which Frank reached in May, 1956. Not a human in sight, though the imprint of human activity could hardly be more pronounced: a row of receding roofs and a line of cars on a cloth-gray street, at the end of which, in softer, pencilled tones, come the disfigured slopes of a copper mine. Drawing the eye, toward the top, is a plume of bright smoke, and, framing the whole design, as translucent as a bridal veil, are two thin patches of drape, left and right: “View from Hotel Window,” the title reads, and we realize that here is our human after all. We are sharing the gaze not just of Robert Frank but of every traveller who has ever woken in an unfamiliar town, moved blearily to the light, and shivered at the depths of his unwelcome. Others have tasted the same bleakness:

Flowered curtains, thin and frayed,

Fall to within five inches of the sill,

Whose window shows a strip of building

land,

Tussocky, littered.

Photograph by Wayne Miller / Magnum Photograph by Wayne Miller / Magnum

That is from “Mr Bleaney,” composed by Philip Larkin in the year before Frank’s stay in Butte, and, with its musings on a man who “lay on the fusty bed / Telling himself that this was home,” it accords with the gloomy, monkish pleasure, as bitter as old marmalade, that Englishmen of a certain bent have always taken in the Spartan deficiencies of their land. But Frank was in America, on the verge of Eisenhower’s second term, when the deficient was not to be relished but redeemed and made good. Just consider the next photograph in the sequence: unpopulated, again, and filled to the brim with the window grid of the Metropolitan Life building, in New York. In front of us, at street level, is a vender’s rack of magazines, their names alight with exhortation and plaudit: See, Whisper, Tan, Amazing, Fantastic. (And is that really one called Gay Love, tucked in below a book of crosswords?) Bottom right is U.S. News & World Report, with its infinitely consoling headline: “ike’s plan to avoid a war.”

The question to be asked of Robert Frank was whether he and his photographs, with their cool and color-free stares, had by design set out to disturb the peace. The cops certainly thought so in McGehee, Arkansas. On November 7, 1955, two patrol cars stopped him on U.S. 65. They checked his registration and his luggage, then drove him to the city jail and locked him up. Frank, writing two days later to his friend and mentor Walker Evans, takes up the story: “That was 12:30 p.m. I did ask, if I could have some coffee (I had nothing to eat since 6 am that day) but the answer was that if I would not be quiet they would teach me how to be quiet.” The patrolmen didn’t like the look of this guy, or the sound of him, or the fifth of Hennessy they found in his glove compartment (“Foreign whiskey,” Frank wrote, mixing his drinks). He was fingerprinted and asked to hand over his rolls of exposed film, which he refused to do. Years later, he recalled the exchange with the authorities:

“What are you doing here?”

“I have a Guggenheim scholarship.”

“Who’s Guggenheim?”

Frank presented a problem, first for the Arkansas police and then, when “The Americans” came out, for the critics. Like his brandy, he was foreign. He was a Swiss Jew, born in Zurich in 1924 to a Swiss mother and a German father, and thus of ever more precarious status as his first twenty years unfolded, even in a middle-class family under the wing of a neutral state. Not long after the war ended, he left. “I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but I sure knew what I didn’t want.” (Another judgment was yet more succinct: “How can one be Swiss?”) His boat docked in New York in the spring of 1947, a time and place that must rank as one of history’s better cures for restlessness. “Coming to America felt like the door opened—you were free,” he told a British television crew in 2004, still buoyed by the liberty more than half a century later. On that maiden trip, he bore with him the fruits of a rigorous apprenticeship with Swiss photographers: a private book entitled “40 Fotos,” not published but spiral-bound, and strong enough to win him a staff job with Alexey Brodovitch, the art director of Harper’s Bazaar and a demigod of energy, equipped with a fearsome eye. Maybe, in retrospect, it wasn’t such a good idea to head south, in 1955, with an admiring reference from a fellow with a Russian name. You didn’t get many Brodovitches in McGehee. As Frank told Evans:

The lieutenant leand back and said: Now we are going to ask you a question: Are you a commie? I said no. He said, Do you know what a commie is? I said yes.

Brodovitch was one of five supporters for an application that Frank submitted to the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation in the autumn of 1954; others included Evans and Edward Steichen. If Frank, not yet thirty, could count on the endorsement of older figures as august as these, it was because he had in the preceding years built up a broad and muscular body of work, not just in New York but on prolonged, irregular trips back to Europe, plus half a year in Central and South America. His Guggenheim project, which was approved in April, 1955, and renewed a year later, was to record “what one naturalized American finds to see in the United States that signifies the kind of civilization born here and spreading elsewhere.” We need to tread carefully here, because most of the wording is by Evans, who redrafted Frank’s submission and smoothed over the cracks in his English. (And preëmpted his naturalization; Frank was not yet a citizen.) But Evans was acute enough, and generous enough, to pinpoint what mattered in Frank: the highly selective prying (“finds to see”); the quizzical angle most likely to be struck by a stranger fresh to the heartland; and, in the putative catalogue of subjects that Evans compiled—“a town at night, a parking lot, a supermarket, a highway, the man who owns three cars and the man who owns none, the farmer and his children, a new house and a warped clapboard house, the dictation of taste, the dream of grandeur”—an uncanny soothsaying of the themes that did indeed roll through “The Americans.”

“Belle Isle, Detroit” (1955). We should not be led by our own conscience to reconstruct Frank’s book as an exercise in raising awareness or stoking the flames. © Robert Frank, from “The Americans”© Robert Frank, from “The Americans”

Thus it is that we find ourselves on the hood of a brand-new car, peering in. The paintwork is no more than a tenebrous gleam, but the interior is creamy with light, sufficient to illuminate the driver’s profile, and the solemnity of the two passengers in the rear. None can be more than twelve years old, for these are kids, playing at being their fathers—or richer, harder versions of their fathers—inside a show car at the Los Angeles Motorama of 1956. One of them looks straight at us, knowing no fear, half of his face concealed in shadow; if you want to know what Michael Corleone was like as a child, here, indelibly, is your answer. Was there ever a book as full of looking as Robert Frank’s? Every kind of eyework is here, from the brief glance to the loaded iron glare and the mask of attentive purpose. A few looks are addressed to us, like that of the Hispanic dandies of New York, with their arching eyebrows, or the coiffed biker swivelling in his saddle to meet the lens head on, but many more are directed offstage, away from the frame, the scariest example being the Hollywood waitress with frozen pupils, vampire lips, and signs above her head for hot dogs and beefburgers (“Absolutely No Fillers Used Whatsoever”). Is she dreaming of distant shores, or is there nothing, no fillers whatsoever, beneath that unbreakable glaze?

To the earliest viewers of the book, there was no doubt. Frank was a hater and an agitator, the enemy within. Sarah Greenough rounds up the more outraged reviews: “A slashing and bitter attack on some U.S. institutions”; “A Degradation of a Nation!”; “a sad poem for sick people.” In short, “The Americans” was un-American. What was the source of that riling? What nerves were being hit by the “Swiss Mister,” as Photo Arts labelled Frank when it printed some of his work? A full answer would have to reach back at least a hundred years—to the first edition of “Leaves of Grass,” and its clarion call of exhilaration. Whitman, like Frank, unrolled a litany of the visages and everyday deeds that would rise up and meet the traveller. The land of opportunity, for the poet, offered the chance not just to make something of yourself but to make common cause with other selves:

Sauntering the pavement or riding the country byroad here then are faces,

Faces of friendship, precision, caution,

suavity, ideality,

The spiritual prescient face, the always

welcome common benevolent face,

The face of the singing of music, the

grand faces of natural lawyers and

judges broad at the backtop,

The faces of hunters and fishers, bulged at

the brows . . . the shaved blanched

faces of orthodox citizens.

Once sounded, that note of brotherly encouragement (“I see them and complain not and am content with all”) never died; watch John Ford’s film of “The Grapes of Wrath,” and you find the title’s fury starting to ease in the gentle framing of the Joads’ resilient expressions, and in the sense that every searcher, even in hours of wretchedness, could take heart from the swell of fellow-feeling. When Frank set off, however, exactly a century after the publication of Whitman’s “psalm of the republic,” he stumbled into solitudes. From them he forged what Evans called the “ungentle poetry” of “The Americans,” and, years later, slipping into the historic present (the most comfortable tense for a photographer), Frank recounted his modus operandi: “I go into post offices, Woolworths, 10 cent shops, bus stations. I sleep in cheap hotels. Around 7 in the morning I go to a nearby bar. I work all the time. I don’t speak much. I try not to be seen.”

If Frank didn’t talk to his subjects, how many of them wanted to talk back? A bunch of high school boys in Port Gibson, Mississippi, told him he looked like a Communist and suggested that he “go to the other side of town and watch the niggers play.” Meanwhile, his camera delved into the spaces between people—even people who were physically jostled, cheek by jowl—and found them riddled with mistrust. Hence the starlets, or the stars-in-waiting, who attend a movie première in Los Angeles: one of them gazing proudly to her left, with the first twinge of desperation, as if praying to be observed by somebody of note; the other no more than a shimmering blur, with Frank’s lens focussed instead on the fans behind, one of whom, a half-bedraggled soul, chews her nails, an autograph pen gripped in her fist. Skip ahead a couple of pages and you land at the lunch counter of a drugstore, in Detroit. Every stool is taken; the customers are waiting for their orders, two of them clasping their hands as if saying grace. Half of them look straight ahead, like drivers in dense traffic; not one seems to be talking to his neighbors. As Greenough suggests, this broken togetherness would have been bewildering to one who grew up amid the café society of Europe, with its binding hubbub.

“City Hall—Reno, Nevada” (1956). No wonder that Frank so despised the heartening photographic layouts in Life—“those god-damned stories with a beginning and an end.” © Robert Frank, from “The Americans” © Robert Frank, from “The Americans”

Mind you, what would the diners say, if quizzed on their silence? Maybe they just came off a noisy shift, and could use a minute’s peace; maybe they’re simply tired and hungry; maybe, with a grilled-cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee inside them, they might warm up, and, if the man with the camera returned in half an hour, he would walk into a perfect storm of yakking. Whenever I see Frank’s photograph, with its citrus slices of cardboard or plastic dangling overhead, I think of “The Blues Brothers,” and John Candy briskly ordering drinks for himself and a couple of cops: “Orange whip? Orange whip? Three orange whips.” For every segment of melancholia that Frank cut from America, in other words, America could dish up a comic response, or at least an upbeat equivalent. When he picked up a pair of hitchhikers and allowed one of them to drive, the sideways image that he took shows the driver—a dead-eyed ringer for Richard Dreyfuss in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”—in determined profile. Check the contact sheet at the back of the catalogue, and you come across the succeeding frame: same angle, same guy, but now with a definite grin—closer in mood, instantly, to the Dreyfuss who gunned his truck in pursuit of the alien craft, his face lit with chirpy wonder. Then there is the heroine of “The Americans,” an elevator girl from Miami Beach, of whom Jack Kerouac asked, in concluding his introduction to the U.S. edition:

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And I say: That little ole lonely elevator girl looking up sighing in an elevator full of blurred demons, what’s her name & address?

Again, it is worth consulting the relevant contact strip: fourteen shots of the same woman, at least half of them catching her in the act of a smile—a polite gesture adopted for those riding beside her, you might say, but then professional courtesy is no less a national trait than the ruefulness on which Frank preferred to focus. For every little ole lonely girl, there will have been a dozen young elevator operators as perky and unslumped as Shirley MacLaine in “The Apartment” (1960), fending off the office demons and fighting down their disappointments. Such is one definition of “The Americans”: a sheaf of stills from a film that was never made—or a film that was made but never released, after the studio heads, examining a rough cut, discovered that every scene had been shot at just the wrong time, when the smiles of the stars and the chatter of the extras had yet to kick in, or had already started to fade. The happiest picture in “The Americans,” entitled “City Hall—Reno, Nevada,” shows a couple, presumably just married, with a water fountain where they might have hoped for an altar. Only at a pinch does their posture seem like celebration; he hugs her as you do when pulling someone back from the brink. Does she look down out of shyness, or into the future’s gulf? No wonder that Frank so despised the heartening photographic layouts in Life—“those god-damned stories with a beginning and an end.”

To a European eye, this insistence on open endings, and on feelings that could at any point fluctuate and sink, was the outcome neither of satire nor of perversity; it was known as realism. “There is only one thing you should not do, criticize anything,” Frank said of America, writing to his parents in Zurich, a week after he had first arrived in New York. I would argue that, despite the rumpus raised by his book, he obeyed his own command, and that “The Americans” is a work not of criticism but of a painful and unblinking honesty. What has happened to it, over half a century, is that its legion of admirers has not essentially displaced the claims of its early detractors; both proceed on the assumption that Frank was severely critical, and the sole difference between the two schools is that the modern fans accept the criticism as thoroughly deserved. The country, in short, was asking for it:

Like the opening stanzas in an epic poem, the first chapter reveals the themes the book will explore: the immense, even ruthless power of the country’s political, military, and business leaders; the lack of power of its poor; the alienation of its youth; the isolation of its wealthy; the boredom of its middle class; and the ineffectiveness and lack of true insight of all.

Yikes. Of all? That is Sarah Greenough, who tellingly refers to “The Americans” as if it were literature, complete with chapters. Those depicted in it, she writes, “often mindlessly obey the dictates of others,” and “hawk their deepest religious beliefs as casually as any other commodity.” Her case is compellingly put, and backed by most of her fellow-contributors; I only wish I could find the evidence. When Frank photographed the factory floor at the Ford River Rouge plant, the outcome, according to Greenough, shows men “enmeshed by machinery and surrounded by a hellish chaos.” But that cannot be so. If it were chaos, no cars would be built. And if it were hell the plant would be closed and the men would be out of a job, with no means of feeding their families. Maybe 1955, in the glory days of auto manufacture, seemed infernal to some in Michigan, but that still leaves you with the deeper devastation of today.

What pulls me into the picture is the fuzz of its focus and the murk of its grain; Frank was using Kodak Tri-X, a famously tolerant film, which only proves how low the light was on the assembly line. Sometimes, to judge by the contacts, he switched to Plus-X, a slower emulsion, but nobody in the catalogue can tell us whether this was a deliberate choice, or a simple matter of loading what came to hand. Again, what lens did he fit to his Leica for the River Rouge shot? Much of “The Americans,” I would guess, was shot on 50-mm. or wider, but the way in which the Ford workers are stacked up tight suggests a short telephoto lens; if museumgoers are informed, by a small plaque, that a painting was executed in egg tempera, or oil on poplar, why should lovers of photographs be left in the dark? These things matter, whenever battle is joined over art. It matters, for instance, that Jasper Johns’s “Flag,” on which he labored from 1954 to 1955, was painted in oil and encaustic, a wax-based medium: first, because it allowed him to embed barely visible scraps of newsprint beneath the pigment, like messages from the journalistic beyond, and, second, because the rough stickiness of the surface—so uncomfortable a contrast to the dry nap of an actual Stars and Stripes—added to people’s genuine unease about whether he was paying due homage or making insubordinate sport.

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Within the year, Frank, too, was weighing the iconography of the same flag; unlike Johns, he was not brought up to honor it, and so, when he elected to open “The Americans” with a shot of the flag, flapping between two women as they watch a parade in Hoboken, and chopping one of them off at the head, was that not a mischievous statement? He then studded the book, at intervals, with other flag pictures; in one of them, two little girls in white party dresses, holding balloons, skip beneath a vertically hung flag—patched and worn, so that we can see through to the trees behind. This strikes me as a crux. If you believe that Frank’s exposures were just that, exposing the threadbare values of a society deluded by its satisfactions, this picture would be Exhibit A; but it will suit your purpose, equally, if you happen to view transparency as a virtue, or take pride in a country’s devotion to the homespun. Those girls in white are having fun.

Johns’s great painting, now at the Museum of Modern Art, was turned down by the moma trustees when it was first considered for purchase, in February, 1958, for fear that it “would offend patriotic sensibilities.” As for the offense caused by “The Americans,” it was short-lived, not enough to sell a complete print run of the first edition, still less to inflame a nation. Jeff Rosenheim, in his catalogue essay on Frank and Walker Evans, reminds us that, as Frank was heading west toward Las Vegas in December, 1955, the breaking news was of Rosa Parks and the start of the Montgomery bus boycott. There is no denying the compassionate vigor with which Frank attended to the experience of black America; once again, though, we should not be led by our own conscience to reconstruct the book as an exercise in raising awareness or stoking the flames. Frank didn’t set out to address an issue; he was just looking, and reporting back. That is what realists do. That is what makes him so clear and incontestable a witness, and he stands by his testimony. “What a lonely time it can be in America, what a tough country it is,” he said in the British documentary five years ago, adding, “I saw for the first time the way blacks were treated. It was surprising to me. But it didn’t make me hate America. It made me understand how people can be.”

Such is the attitude that was given crystalline form in “The Americans,” and that now adorns the walls of the Met: surprise and comprehension. Needless to say, we are at liberty to react with indignation to what the photographer displays, but that is our business, not his. A black waitress, dead on her feet in the Detroit drug store, serving a row of whites; an older black woman, alone on a chair in a meadow, one hand pressed against her stiff back at the close of a working day, and behind her a setting sun and a telephone pole like a cross; an unflinching image of a black nanny in Charleston, South Carolina, her features as starched and dignified as her summer dress, cradling a plump white baby who stares in another direction altogether, as if toward a fate very different from hers: these are magnificent allegories of fortitude and patience, but they are first and foremost portraits of individual souls, and we lean too heavily on hindsight, I think, if we read them as self-evident clues to the moment when the patience expired and a culture exploded onto the streets. Our own prejudices, however benign, continue to lead us astray, as Greenough smartly points out, in a footnote on Frank’s crisply composed picture of three guys in dark suits, two in hats, two leaning against a car: “The African American men in this photograph have often been misunderstood as chauffeurs waiting for their white employers at a funeral. . . . However, as the contact sheet clearly indicates, they are not chauffeurs but are attending an African American funeral.”

All lives, you might say, exist to be enjoyed and mourned, as well as merely endured. That is why Frank could find space not just for the downtrodden but for the four African-American boys in the back of a convertible in Belle Isle, Detroit, one of them standing up with his shirt off, clutching the front seat, the better to revel in the ride. And that is why the first person to get the measure of “The Americans,” and still the best reader of its runes, was Jack Kerouac. Frank had not yet read “On the Road” when, a few days after its publication, he met Kerouac at a party and asked him to write an introduction to his photographs. Joyce Johnson, the novelist’s girlfriend at the time, remembered Frank carrying boxes of pictures:

The first one I saw was of a road somewhere out west—blacktop gleaming under headlights with a white stripe down the middle that went on and on toward an outlying darkness. Jack’s road! I thought immediately.

And so it was. “Long shot of night road arrowing forlorn into immensities and flat of impossible-to-believe America in New Mexico under the prisoner’s moon,” Kerouac wrote. He had followed much the same course as Frank, back and forth across the country, in his own peregrinations of 1947-49. He had even been up to Butte, where “a short walk around the sloping streets (in below-zero weather at night) showed that everybody in Butte was drunk.” And now, at once, he caught a kindred spirit, one who had “sucked a sad poem right out of America onto film.” It took another roamer to fix the abiding strengths of Frank’s achievement: its mystery, its sheer fatigue (notice how many pictures tilt and lurch, as if in the beery wake of a hard day’s drive), and, above all, the ineffable reach of its sadness. Finger on the shutter release, Frank could find himself transported into what he later called “a state of grace”—a long way from rage, for sure, and not too far from a grudging kind of love. Frank never quite surrendered his status as an outsider; no artist does. But at last, and whatever the misgivings of the Arkansas police, he merged his identity with the new world that he had painstakingly explored, and which was, in the long run—as this book and exhibition charitably concede—honored by his illuminations. In 1963, the Swiss Mister was awarded U.S. citizenship, joined in union with those he had photographed. His own comment, on that occasion, remains as beautifully inscrutable as his work: “Ich bin ein Amerikaner.” ♦

https://c2e87e71d291ba1ac947bb1918376b37.safeframe.googlesyndication.com/safeframe/1-0-38/html/container.html

Published in the print edition of the September 14, 2009, issue.

[fire-the-headcanons]

Follow the Beacon Summer—Special Request

[Link to Masterpost]

[Apparently I didn’t post the last few chapters on Tumblr? Use the masterpost to make sure you don’t miss anything]

"Years ago, an unprecedented era of peace began on Remnant. Never before had the kingdoms of the world been so united. The Vytal Festival was created with two goals in mind: first, as a celebration of our peace and unity, sharing in one another's cultures. Second, as a time to contemplate the ongoing struggle to continue that peace.

"Students— …Future protectors of Remnant. As you head out into the world this week to work as Huntsmen-and-Huntresses-in-training, I implore you to remember that peace is in your hands."

"All right, guys, it's go time," Summer said, whirling to face her team. "What kind of mission are we doing?"

"I vote search and destroy," Tai said. "It'll get us out of the Kingdom, at least."

The twins chorused their agreement, and Summer nodded. "All right. Out of the Kingdom it is." She turned toward the mission boards, and stopped short.

Ozpin smiled. "Good morning, Team STRQ."

"…Good morning, Professor," Summer squeaked, painfully aware that the last time she had been this close to the headmaster was the night she broke into his office. The others repeated her greeting just as warily.

"I'm happy to inform you that a Huntsman working just outside of Vale has heard of your prodigious tracking abilities and requested to work with your team specifically." He beamed down at them.

"It's not Professor Mesánychta, is—ow."

Ozpin chuckled. "No, he doesn't teach at this Academy. Would you like to meet with him?"

"Um, yeah!" Summer said. A Huntsman had requested them? A team of first years? Had that ever happened before?!

They followed Ozpin to the small door right of the stage, and Summer spared the twins a quick glance. Qrow looked as excited as she felt, but Raven's eyes burned nervous holes in Ozpin's shoes. After a moment she seemed to sense Summer's gaze and met her eye. Summer returned what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Dad? What are you doing here?!"

Tai's cry of dismay instantly drew her attention back to the door, and the Huntsman standing on the other side of it.

Huang smiled brightly as the rest of them filed into the hall. "Well, your friends were busy over break, so we thought this would be a nice time to meet them." He offered his hand to Qrow. "It's good to finally meet you! Huang Xiao Long."

"Uh, you too," Qrow took it, slightly awed. "I'm Qrow."

"And you must be Raven," he continued, offering his hand again.

Stiffly, she shook it, avoiding eye contact. "Yes, sir."

"No need for sir, just call me Huang." He stepped back again, resting his hands on his hips. "What do you say, kids? Want to come to Patch for the week?"

"Come on, Dad, we've already trained on Patch for years," Tai pleaded. "We wanted to… y'know… try a challenge…"

"It would mean a lot to us, Tai. Particularly if they'll be staying over for the summer! Don't you think it would make everyone more comfortable?"

The unspoken words were easy to hear. The twins need time to get used to us. And he was right, as much as Summer hated to abandon the idea of training in the wilds this week. It had to be why they refused to commit to staying.

Tai sighed, glancing at her, and they both looked at Qrow, who looked at Raven.

"Okay," she squeaked, clearly petrified.

"Great!" Huang said with genuine warmth. "If you're ready to go, Balt's waiting for us at the docks."

Summer bit back a sigh, falling in line behind him. Back to Patch? This wasn't a mission—this was a vacation.

For Qrow and Raven. They need it, we'll make it work.

***

Balt wasn't the only one at the docks.

"…Mom?" Summer faltered. "What are you doing here?"

"Accompanying my partner to pick up our students," she replied, all business for about two seconds before dragging her into a hug, made slightly awkward by the duffel bag. "I'm not putting my feet up all week just because you two are coming home." Releasing Summer, she turned to the twins and offered her hand with exaggerated formality. "Claret Rose."

"Qrow Taupe." He stepped forward to take it, and the smile froze on her face, hesitating a moment. He didn't seem to notice, but then, Summer knew her better.

"You're in luck, kids, because this is the only nonstop flight to Patch," Balt said with an overly elaborate gesture at the airship doors. Raven shrank back, glad for the excuse to avoid getting too close to the strangers.

"It's the only flight to Patch," Tai elaborated. "Balt is the island's only pilot. There's a sea ferry too but it takes more than an hour."

"I'm more than just a ferry pilot." Balt pretended to be hurt as they filed aboard. "I help with high-altitude landing classes at the school. And the odd flying Grimm." The door closed with a hiss and he dropped into his seat.

"He's the best." Summer gave Raven a reassuring smile—she perched next to her brother in the back of the airship, tension coiled in her posture until Balt eased them into the air with barely a wobble. It was hard not to smile as glared at the back of his head with something like begrudging respect.

"So… what are we going to be working on this week?" Tai asked.

"The North cliffs need clearing." Huang ignored their groans of protest, focusing on the twins. "Not all Huntsman work is high-profile targets and glamorous fights. Summer said you got interested because of comics?" Qrow turned scarlet and nodded silently, earning a laugh. "You're not the first, and you won't be the last—but they show an… er… idealized version of the job."

Their bewildered expressions asked everything for them, and he continued. "Most of our time is spent wiping out smaller Grimm before they get big enough to be a problem. It may not be exciting, but routine extermination keeps smaller settlements like Patch habitable." He glanced at Summer and her mother. "…Anything to add, Claret?"

"Uh—" she shook herself slightly. "Small Nevermores roost on the northern cliffs near the school. The terrain is a bit treacherous, so clearing them out generally falls on the teachers and local Huntresses."

"But… you've done it before?" Qrow asked, shifting his gaze to Summer.

"Well, I've always been pretty good at cliffs," Summer said, patting the rifle clipped to her belt. "And we'd usually clear them when it's warm and there's no ice. What gives?"

Her mother didn't respond, and Huang quickly jumped back in. "We won't be doing a deep clean until spring, but they've been getting a bit agitated lately. We'll pick off the largest ones, and anything else within easy reach, and then there's plenty of patrolling to do."

This'll be okay. The twins hung on to every word, Qrow with nervous excitement and Raven with pure, unfiltered anxiety. Summer bit her lip, trying to push down the disappointment. This is how I can help them. The new mission can wait for next year. The feeling wouldn't go away, like a weight glued to her heart. Not too heavy but impossible to budge.

She glanced at her mother—her gaze fixed on the floor, scowling. …Huang had been doing an unusual amount of the talking, too.

"Mom?"

She glanced up, coming back down to Remnant again. "Hmm?"

"What's wrong?"

"Noth—" the lie died halfway out of her mouth, and she sighed. "…I'm just worrying and being overprotective."

"What do you—" Summer nearly missed her mother's half-glance at Huang and the twins. The island lay below now, and he pointed down at the village and the school on the northeast side as he spoke about the natural barriers presented by the island's geography.

She turned back, lowering her voice. Hopefully they'd be distracted enough by Huang's lesson to not notice. "Mom, you said yourself. They're not spies."

"I—I know," she whispered, pained. "Just… promise me you'll be careful."

"They're not bad people, either." Raven and Qrow had done plenty of strange and… maybe a bit threatening things, but… "They're just scared."

Her mother's eyes squeezed shut. "I know, I know. I'm sorry."

"Just be normal," she teased, elbowing her in the ribs.

"—but Azraq had to leave for a mission in a hurry," Huang said. The others were staring. "It was a bit of a rush to get him going before meeting you. We had a long morning."

"Aw, Uncle Az won't get to meet Qrow and Raven?" Tai complained.

"This summer, for sure," Balt said, almost unnoticeably beginning the descent. Raven didn't even flinch. "And he said to tell you he's very sorry."

"Not his fault," Summer mumbled.

The lighthouse swept silently past the window and the bullhead touched down on the landing pad with a small bump.

"Thanks for the lift, Balt." Huang punched him lightly on the arm on his way to open the door.

"Hey, I wanted to meet 'em too." He winked at the twins with a grin. "See you all at dinner."

The rest of them said their goodbyes and gathered up their bags before climbing down to the platform. Everyone's auras glowed faintly for a moment as the chill hit, shielding them from the sea air.

"This is where you went to school?" Qrow asked, staring around at the fort before settling on the clump of little first years huddled in the courtyard. Most of them clutched bits of pipe—gods, learning to handle metal in the cold was the worst—and stared up at the bullhead. A little boy in the middle pointed up at them and screamed, "I WANT A CAPE!"

Summer's hands flew to her mouth, but as soon as she glanced at Raven the laughter was too much to hold back. It only took a second for the boys to join in.

"This is your fault," she complained half-heartedly, glaring at her brother.

Her mother brushed past without stopping. "Come on, kids, if you want to see the island before it gets dark we need to get moving." Summer frowned at her back.

"So why's the school pointy?" Qrow asked, staring at the next arm of the star. Facing out to sea, it had a large gun instead of a landing pad fixed to it.

"It was a fort, before the Great War," Huang said. "This is the only spot where it's deep enough for ships or big Grimm to get into the harbor. Patch has been an important strategic location for hundreds of years. Back when the earthworks were solid, the shape helped deflect cannonballs. They had more than Grimm to worry about in those days."

Tai rolled his eyes. "It's also pretty much the only thing here." His voice echoed off the stone arch of the front gate. "Still too shallow near the island for anything bigger than a fishing boat."

"There's the King of Vale's house," Summer said.

Raven didn't bother to hide her incredulity, eyes darting between the little village buildings. "A king lived here?"

"Not while he was king, after he retired. …And then retired as Beacon Headmaster."

The streets of bustled, the first day of the Vytal Festival well underway. Nothing compared to the fanfare at Beacon or Vale, but it was still the biggest celebration of the year. "The fort was mostly destroyed during the Great War, and was half-rebuilt before the treaty was signed," Huang continued, leading them down the hill away from it. "They dug out the remaining earthworks, added windows, and converted it into a school."

"Then when the communication towers were finished, they just slapped the island's relay onto the lighthouse," Summer added, pointing up at the large communications dishes bolted just below the light.

Claret turned and called over her shoulder. "Let's start at the docks, you should see the defenses there."

"Okay." She returned a small smile, took a deep breath, and raised her voice back to normal. " It shouldn't take more than a day to clear the cliff near the school. We'll stay in the house tonight, and then tomorrow we'll head out to the cabin for the rest of the week. …I suppose we better figure out where everyone's going to sleep. We only have one guest room… Summer could stay with me, Tai and Huang could double up, and the twins could take Summer's room. If that's okay with ev—"

"What? No!" Summer blurted, and everyone turned to stare. Oh. "Uh… I mean, you can use my room if you want. But I'm not sleeping in my mom's room on the first night of my first mission!"

"Oh?" Her mom raised an eyebrow, this time with significantly more sass.

"…I love you. Just, no."

"What she said," Tai agreed.

"All right," Claret said, amused now, "the twins can sleep where they want, and you two can have a slumber party in the living room "

"Mooooooommmm!"

"Would you two like to join them or sleep in her room?"

"…What is a slumber party?" Raven asked.

"Hmm. Mostly staying up too late and eating too many cookies, if I remember correctly."

Summer sighed as the twins' faces lit up with cautious greed. Too normal, Mom.

Next Chapter: Raven—Quiet

[peace-coast-island]

Diary of a Junebug

Off on a nautical adventure!

We're sailing the Stone Glass Seas, exploring uncharted territory and enjoying the breeze. Rocky and Chrissie are here with some friends to go on a sailing adventure where they happened to run into Gulliver. So they made a stop at the camp and invited us campers to tag along because the more, the merrier!

It feels like forever since Rocky went sailing, which seems surprising since that's his thing. But with him and Lex busy with Talia and now Kessa, sailing has taken kind of a backseat. Of course, Rocky showed us pics of baby Kessa - who is adorable - and Talia, who's walking and talking now. As for Rocky and Lex's wedding, they're aiming for next year - preferably before baby number three comes along, they joke.

Now that Rocky and Lex are out of the newborn stage and have fully adjusted to two babies, they finally have some time to themselves. Chrissie's been helping out a lot as well as serving as sort of a peacemaker between Rocky and their uncle. It's not that they don't get along, it's just that McMann's the old fashioned type so the fact that his bisexual nephew's in a relationship with an enby and they have two kids while unmarried is kinda hard for him to wrap his head around. He does like Lex though and is actively making an effort not to misgender them and such, so at least there's that.

Joining them is Emma with her nieces and nephew. Emma just made the move to Cityburg about a month ago to move in with her brother and his kids. Despite working her ass off for six years in college, Emma was down on her luck, forced to live off her parents. When they told her that they were gonna kick her out, Danny stepped in, which they weren't too happy about. The kids are all for it as Emma's the favorite (and only) aunt and Danny could really use the help.

Margie, Rusty, and Linda like having Emma around and she likes being with them. Danny's a nightclub entertainer at the Cocktail Cabana who occasionally travels so he's not home all the time. Things haven't been easy since his husband and eldest daughter passed away last year, forcing Margie to take over as caretaker as well as housekeeper. While Emma and Margie have always gotten along like sisters, there has been some undercurrents as to who runs things around the house.

When the twins invited Emma to go sailing, she suggested bringing the kids along since Danny will be traveling that week and the kids are off from school. Emma also hopes to work things out with Margie, who she thinks has forgotten how to be a teenager. Now that we've been out on the sea for a couple days, I can see what she means. We all feel bad for Margie as she was forced to grow up quickly and as a result, she also became protective of her family.

Rusty and Linda are up to their own mischievous ways as usual, always keeping Emma and Margie on their toes. Sherry's presence is sorely missed - she was more than just Margie's partner in crime, she was also the ringleader of the Amos-Thomas siblings. A part of me had hoped that Sherry would make a miraculous recovery, but as time went on, all hopes of that diminished.

On a side note, Sherry would've turned sixteen last week - and the month before would've been Terry's birthday. So that's another reason why Emma decided to take the kids along - to give them a distraction so they won't be at each other's throats. And it's definitely been helping, especially for Rusty and Linda, who are having a great time right now. I think it's working for Emma and Margie too - or at least Emma can talk to her without feeling like she's walking on eggshells. I hope things work out for them.

While on our way to Wavy Shores, we ran into Gulliver, making his round trips as usual. Along with the usual treats he brings back, he also has some passengers tagging along. Through his travels, Gulliver often runs into villagers - most who I've never met before - and sometimes they join him on his voyage, later joining us at the camp. I'm pretty sure Gulliver talks up about the camp but I'm not complaining - the more, the merrier! So not only we got treats and maps, but also new friends to look forward to when we get back.

Wavy Shores definitely lives up to its name. Dixie first came across this place by accident and became mesmerized by the landscape. Given her stories about the shores, Rocky had to see it for himself. In fact, a good number of the places on the itinerary - aside from uncharted territory we plan on exploring - were places Dixie have been to. Rocky's been living the dream spending a lot of time with Dixie as she's basically a role model for him, the one who taught him how to sail. It's cute seeing his eyes light up whenever he talks about Dixie!

Everything in Wavy Shores is, well, wavy. Even the sky looks like a blend of wavy colors, contrasting with the sand dunes, the rocks, and the deep blue sea. It's so fascinating to look at - nature is amazing!

To the southwest is Polka Dot Leaf, a floating island known for its coral castle ruins. The exact location is a bit tricky to pinpoint because the island tends to shift due to the rough waters. We lucked out as around this time of year the seas are much calmer so it's all smooth sailing from there - I'd hate to get stuck in the middle of a storm.

The reason why it's called Polka Dot Leaf is because from above that's what the island looks like. It's one of those places that nature is slowly reclaiming, overgrown with seaweed brambles and seabloom blossoms. Walking into a coral castle ruin feels surreal, like I'm expecting the room to transform into another world.

What happened to the island's inhabitants remain a mystery, which adds to the appeal and mystique. Bedrooms with unmade beds, a kitchen sink full of chipped dishes, a desk full of yellowed papers covered in scribbles, a basket of laundry waiting to be folded - all of that, frozen in time. So many untold stories left behind.

To the east lies Summer Grove, a rainforest that is home to many rare butterflies. I've never seen so many colorful butterflies at once! All those colors and shapes - it's amazing to witness! Not to mention how majestic the butterflies are, fluttering about against a sea of green. We also enjoyed the tropical fruits and swimming at the lagoon. The weather was incredibly warm, but not overly humid or hot - which I'm grateful for or else I wouldn't have been able to appreciate the scenery as much and that would be a huge shame.

Then north we went through the Pearl Breeze Current to the idyllic mountains of Quill. Sailing through the Pearl Breeze is no easy feat as the current can be quite tricky to navigate, especially if you're not an experienced sailor. We were on the edge of our seats in our life jackets, holding our breaths while Rocky braved the waters. It was rough, but we made it!

A couple hours later we made it to the mountains and checked into a hotel for a well deserved rest. It's a good thing we weren't too far from land because I wasn't sure how much longer I could handle being at sea after the ordeal with the Pearl Breeze. Aside from a bad headache, an early rest did the trick along with some aspirin and a cool wet cloth.

The next day we went hiking in the mountains, where we came across a cave full of paintings and little iridescent crystals. Exploring the cave was a lot of fun, especially for the kids. Margie and Chrissie put their Chickadee Scout skills to use by guiding us through the tunnels, leading us to an old fountain covered in gothic roses. At first we thought the fountain was broken, until Rusty noticed that the overgrown foliage had blocked something. After a lot of tugging and pulling, a huge burst of water came out, soaking all of us. It was like the fountain came to life, showering us with crystal clear water and gothic rose petals.

On the way back to the hotel we stopped by a shop to change into some dry clothes. Everything looked so nice that it was hard to choose what to wear! Lately I've been into muted neutrals and florals and the store just happened to cater to my interests. Eventually I settled on a dusky pink floral dress with a maroon cardigan and then splurged on a lacy white blouse paired with a brown floral skirt. And then after that we browsed some other shops before grabbing dinner and heading back to the hotel.

Westward bound we headed to Greenaway, an archipelago known for its rare and unusual gems. At the center of the island is the famous volcano, a marvelous sight to see according to many adventurers. Rocky and Chrissie's uncle visited there about thirty years ago, witnessing an eruption when the village he was staying at was forced to evacuate. Since then that part of the island has been abandoned, though as of last year part of the outskirts is no longer restricted to the public.

Chrissie was hoping to find the house McMann rented along with some stuff he had to leave behind. It was long shot, especially since most of the area's buried in volcanic ash, but we figured that it wouldn't hurt to take a look - as long as it's safe. So we did, and as expected, we couldn't get too far because the entire village's pretty much gone. But we were able to figure out the area where McMann stayed based on the lamppost that served as a landmark - one of the few things that wasn't entirely buried in ash or destroyed in the eruption. It's eerie, looking at the remains of what was once a busy place.

Now we're sailing north, to Sunstone Caves. According to Dixie, the island's a floating desert in the middle of nowhere. It's a long ride - at least three days - so we have to be prepared for anything. While out on sea, especially with no landmarks to spot or keep us on track, time can stretch and bend in unpredictable ways. Luckily we're well stocked with supplies and good company so that'll make the time go by smoothly.

Being out here surrounded by sea and sky, it makes me feel so small. Compared to the sea, I'm a tiny little speck floating about. There's so much of the world around me, so much that I don't know about - it's something that keeps me going. The fact that there's so much to see, to explore, to experience - sometimes you get lucky and suddenly all these far off places you've never dreamed of seeing are within your grasp.

[panoptiphobia]

Midwest Emo’s obsession with “the backyard” and other lyrical themes.

Given the state of things I want to write something trivial. Something I’ve been thinking a lot about. The lyrical content of a lot of bands making up the resurgence of the Midwest emo (with and/or without twinkly math riffs) sound have some recurring themes that seem to pinpoint a certain experience of suburban upbringing in the 90s-2010s. And that upbringing would not have been complete without a backyard. Sometimes a pool. Definitely not an in-ground pool. 

There is something to be resuscitated in the working class identity of math rock, the spirit of that second story window from American Football’s LP. The lyrical themes and the melancholy sound itself revolve around a Midwestern working class identity most of us fled when we went to university. It lives on in the dreary sound of those descending sketches of notes and solemn-- but somehow sunny-- key changes. 

 If we could construct a sketch of the math rock kid, I imagine he/she works in the gig economy, or tends bar, or serves coffee, working in spaces deemed “hipster” while not quite having the money to enjoy all the frills of the social life that label entails. They wear double denim, carhart, and boots, but mostly because that’s what working people they grew up with wore around them. You can swap in certain items as makes sense with the weather. They drink craft beers but are just as comfortable with the $3 PBRs at the math shows in question. The Math Kid is apolitical but is stoked to vote for Bernie. Come to think of it they were actually quite politically minded while attending a Big Ten state school, but gig economy wore them down into reading political blogs. Maybe they listen to Democracy Now!, but NPR will do. Their book shelves are full of radical literature, but their politics are of the Punknews.org/OrgCore variety: drink brews and go to shows with your buds, cause damn the man. I love Math Kid, in case you were wondering. Math Kid is me, if I hadn’t moved to such an expensive city. Math kid lives in old houses with wood floors, house plants and bicycles. Math Kid will learn around 25 that he should drink sparkling water, run, and do yoga. Wait, that’s Surfgaze Kid.  Math kid is my ideal version of my 20s if I had stayed in the Midwest. But he’s so so sad and hates the snow, doesn’t he? I digress. 

 I want to say that understanding the political messaging buried in the Math/Midwest Emo resurgence means finding the messages of alienation hidden in sappy lyrical content. It means finding the political in the cries of liberation that come with youthful yawps at the changing of the leaves. Most people will eye-roll their way out. But this is for Math Kid: 

What I want to say is that math rock and midwest emo/twinkly math riff indie rock, punk etc. Elides a working class sensibility. Of course the lyrical content circles around the basic punk/emo-inspired themes of failed romances, house parties with friends, and the like--but the frequency of mentions of house parties and backyards reveals a kind of working class sentiment about leisure and the work lives of math rock kids.

Think about this example from American Beauty’s “The Gang Gets Emo” off their self-titled January, 2020 EP: 

I fell asleep in your backyard all alone. I can’t help falling in love with you. 

Now look at this example from Charmer, a band from Michigan who put out this banger of a preview to their upcoming album, “Ivy” (Expected April, 2020). The dudes in Charmer are really fixated on the backyard. The track, “Slumber” contains several of the lyrical themes comprising what I’d put forth as the working-to-middle class ethos of the math-aligned punk sub-genres: 

I've been thinking about grad school Maybe I should talk to you Drowning in your heated pool Somewhere between death and missing you.

Slumber in the summer

Enjoy your Ivy League hell Wonder when I was younger Where I thought I'd be now Will you last the cold? Cherish the raindrops on your window I'll learn to let this go Until I fall.

In this I read our Math Kid hero’s disdain for the one that got away--got away to go off to an Ivy league school. No longer are the days of summer in her comparatively wealthy parents’ heated pool. Math Kid can’t go to Harvard, he’s barely passing his creative writing class in community college. 

 From Charmer’s self-titled 2018 album, the track “Roy’s Our Boy” has some of the same themes regarding 

1) the front/backyard: 

You know where I hide my keys on my front porch to my front door I'm passed out on my trampoline Just wishing things were like they were before.

2) attending or dropping out of higher education: 

Just look at the dead leaves Crumbling beneath our feet And that first semester wasn't good for me I get nervous so I bite the sides of my cheeks I won't notice 'til my mouth begins to bleed

The academic calendar of the North American university system is a frequent topic of emo revival lyrics. Maybe it has something to do with the immense emotional weight of the privilege of going to college: one should go discover exactly what type of interesting person they should become. At least 80% of Charmer songs reference university in some fashion. College is the place to fall in and out of love with other big fish from small ponds. There’s at least one requisite college breakup buoying all middle class sensitive people’s entire personality. “The best four years of your life.” College was great, and twinkly passages definitely send my mind back to walking home from class on Fall days, and walking home (alone) from parties. But sometimes you weren’t alone, and that’s the gist of this midwest emo spirit. 

From American Beauty’s first album, the track “Fake Weddings”:

“In the backseat of your car was the best night of my life I fell in love in a small bed in a New Brunswick dorm.”

 It’s also something to be disdained and endured, apparently. An entire track off the self-titled album is titled “Pretty Over College.” My guess is it’s not the curriculum, housing, or the dining facilities that are bumming him out.  

There also seems to be a problem for Math Kids coping with the loss of love interests coming and going from their respective campuses. There’s a lot of “Turkey Dump” type anxiety and the time spent over Spring Breaks is a time of reflection over that first year and the feasibility of LDR’s.

 From Charmer’s “Nurse Joy”:

Are you having fun? Spending your spring break at home for a month? You never told anyone

The college life is a big emotional hurdle, and people in their early 30s are still writing and twinkling over lyrics about it. This is not to trivialize, but more to celebrate the shared (albeit, privileged) experiences of growing into adults through college life. 

Now let’s talk about transportation: 

American Beauty has a whole host of lines about traveling from one part of the East Coast to another: 

Carolina, are you here for good? Have you given up passing out in subway cars? I've endured your words every night since then. I’m just hoping you’re still in love with me.

There is something so satisfying about hearing Math Kid scream the name of an interstate in anthemic wail. Again from “The Gang Gets Emo,”: 

Long drives down I-95. 200 miles of your favorite songs. Train rides up to Boston, but the ride back is always so long.

From Charmer’s “Nurse Joy” again: 

So I slept the whole ride home To a playlist of high school songs I know you'll leave so what's the use

I’ve driven some people to and from college. Some to airports. Some to international fights. LDR’s, I’ve had one that turned into my happy marriage. But man, some long drives with partners in a shaky situation are brutal. Definitely something to wail a chorus over. 

These are my crazy quarantine ramblings over Midwest emo (with twinkling math riffs) lyrical themes. 

[antman-56]

The Long Night Pt. 16

Team BLAD and STRQ were now in their corners, waiting for the doors to open.

***Red Corner

Summer (covering her face and mumbling fast) : Ohmygodsohmygodsohmygodsohmygods . . .

Raven (smirking) : I think the words you are looking for are ‘thank you’.

Summer (screeching) : NO I DON”T!!!!

Raven : Look it’s just for today and this is revenge for lying to me about the broken comb still being in my hair.

Summer : I SAID I WAS SORRY!!! I . . .

Raven : Doesn't matter anymore. So are we going Rosebird or Flown North?

Summer (calming down) : Rosebird. I’m going to need you in case something happens.

Raven : Wardrobe malfunction?

Summer looked away and tensed up from her answer.

Raven : Alright, boys your on your own and here (she tossed them a small box). We are going to split up and if we get in trouble we’ll go to you and if get in trouble just make a signal.

She looked at Tai at the last part. He in turn smiled and winked at her.

Now it’s show time.

The girls went left and the guys went right.

***The Safe Zone***

Team BLAD ran to the middle, ready to meet their opponents only to find no one. 

Ben (internally) : Where are they?

Lenny : Doesn’t matter, Alvin scream! 

Alvin took a deep breath and let out a high scream.

They looked at the Main Scream to see if anything changed. Nothing.

Ben (internally) : Damian guard Alvin. Me and Lenny will go and find them.

_LAD shook their heads sideways.

Ben (internally) : If we go together they will run hit and run tactics against us. If we separate it the other way around. From what Jaden said, he thinks Qrow’s semblance involves luck, Taiyang’s semblance is turning damage into fire, Raven’s semblance involves teleportation, and Summer’s semblance is still a mystery. We’re at a disadvantage. We might as well split up to cover more ground and now that I think about it Alvin with me, Lenny, Damien go. Scream in your mind for help. I’ll keep everybody updated. Now lets move.

***Cave Biome***

The girls were just now used to the lack of light and the lack of hearing.

They anticipated that if they couldn’t find them right away then they would have Alvin scream. The earplugs that they got work like a charm.

Right now both girls were ‘chatting’

Summer (mouthing) : I hate you.

Raven (mouthing and smiling) : You love me and you know it.

Summer (pouting and looking down) : I don’t like it.

The outfit she was wearing was tight in some places she didn’t like to be tight and they showed off the things she wanted to hide.

She turned her head away not wanting to look at Raven.

Raven finally stopped tormenting the girl and considered what she was feeling.

Raven walked over to Summer and taps her shoulder.

Raven (sincere) : I’m sorry okay. I . . . I just wanted to help.

Summer (confused) : Help? How? 

They see a light.

Both girls looked at one another and knew what to do. The answer will come later.

***Foggy Castle Biome***

The boys found a castle and some chalk in one of the barrels. Right now the both of them were in one of the towers the castle had.

Tai (writing) : Soooooo?

Qrow (writing) : So?

Both men looked uncomfortable on how to start the ‘conversation’.

That was when Tai took his earplugs off and Qrow followed.

Tai : We need to address the elephant in the room!

Qrow : No, we don’t.

Tai : It was obvious!

Qrow : Shut up.

Tai : I saw you! And so did Summer!

Qrow : I will throw you out the window!!

Tai (smirking) : Look it’s perfectly natural to check out a girl, but to make it that obvious.

Qrow (smirking) : How about I tell Raven what YOU were looking at?

Tai put his hands up to mockingly surrender.

Tai : Okay I’ll stop with the teasing, but Summer didn’t seem to mind you looking at her. And that is all I am saying for now. Okay.

Qrow (flustered) : Shut up.

The front gates were heard opening. Both of them put their earplugs back on and took to the shadows.

Damien and Lenny were walking carefully into the courtyard, afraid of setting off traps and watching for an ambush.

Like Tai and Qrow  both Damien and Lenny had earplugs on.

Everyone was at disadvantage. An ideal huntsmen relies on all his senses to destroy the creatures of Grimm, so to have one of them taken away would be a problem.

Lenny and Damien were now in the middle of the court yard.

Lenny turned his head to see Damien being shot.

Lenny (internal) : Contact! Contact! 

Lenny was able to block a punch with the blade of his sword.

The force of the punch knocked him on his back. Lenny looked up to see Tai’s about to kick his teeth in. Lenny dodged and was drawn out his sword. He went to meet Tai’s next punch with his blade. 

Both men looked each other in the eyes and a silent agreement was made. No touching of the hair and face.

***Cave Biome***

Alvin (internally) : That girl . . . good bust, nice ass, those curves, cute face, and those eyes . . .

Ben : Dude jack off later. Focus now.

Ben put his hand up to stop Alvin and to get him ready for another scream. The echo in the cave would add another amplifier to his semblance.

Ben : Lenny and Damien are fighting and  . . . they . . . need . . .our dude what are you doing.

 Alvin (internally) : That . . . voice

Alvin was hearing a siren call out to him. The singing was beautiful and like a moth to a light he followed it. The weakness to his semblance was that his ears become more interested with a soprano singers.

Ben quickly took off his earplugs and was taken aback by how good the singing was, but ignored it and went to drag Alvin back into hiding.

***FLASH***

Both boys went to cover their eyes and scream.

Ben screaming for Alvin to stay near him and Alvin saying “What”.

It wasn’t till Ben felt a boot to his gut that sent him into a different ravine. When he final came to he found that he was alone and the siren song was still playing but now it was playing og every direction instead of one. He twisted the hilt of his zhanamadao and let the short katana guard him. He activated his semblance to get an idea of the situation.

Ben (internally) : Alvin, where are you? Lenny whats your status? Damien?

Ben was panicking no one was answering and he was alone in the dark with someone.

All of a sudden a green light appeared.

***The Castle BIome***

This sucks.

Those were the two words that every combatant here had. They lost ,in their mind, the most important sense to a huntsmen and have made it into a liability.

Lenny’s Aura was at 30% and Tai’s was at 25%.

Lenny was able to use his semblance Counter on Tai after his third try.  Both of them desperately trying to gain an advantage over the other.

For Lenny it was keeping Tai at a distance and whipping him with his blade. For Tai it was to get close to Lenny and give him no reaction time.

Both men were fighting in the courtyard while another pair of fighters were on the highest tower of the castle.

It started with the both of them next to their partners and then changed when Damien threw Qrow into the tower they were now fighting on top of.

Qrow and Damien’s fight was in some sense a beautiful dance. They seemed to switch positions of offense and defense perfectly.

Qrow activated his Sythe and was dancing around Damien. Striking him with grace whenever he was open and dodging whenever he tried to attack.

Damien activated his semblance Harden, it makes his skin harder than diamond at the cost of mobility. It helped lessen Qrow’s attacks by dropping his Aura by 1% or by nothing at all.

Damien (internal) : Ben we need help. Southwest of the safe zone big castle. Lenny is almost out of Aura. This guy is fast and I’m getting tired.

Silence.

Damien realized he needed to take charge of his situation and fast. He pushed Qrow’s last attack away and cocked his gauntlets and slammed them to the ground. The drills retracted themselves back into their respected compartment of the gloves. Leaving him with metal hands.

Qrow went for a strike, just for Damien to catch his Sythe, rip it away from his hands and throw it off the tower.

Damien (cracking his knuckles) : Now lets have some fun!

***Cave Biome***

Alvin finally got back on his feet and found that he was in an area that resembled a dust mine; lights, carts, railings, dust crystals, and support beams. He continued to hear his favorite voice to a higher degree and was able to pinpoint where it was coming from.

He entered a main chamber of the cave and saw dust crystals everywhere and in the middle the source of the beautiful singing.

Summer stood their singing her heart out. Her eyes closed and focusing on making her voice not crack.

Alvin continued to walk towards her. The dust around them lighting up and adding more beauty to the scene around them. Alvin seemed to focus on Summer’s face and started to admire her features.

It wasn’t till he was in arms distance that Summer opened her eyes and that seemed to stop him. He raised his left hand to try and met her check only to feel something sharp hit his head.

Alvin’s Aura dropped to 54% as he fell to the floor. Summer in turn started to run away from him all the while dropping another flashbang. When Alvin recovered he from the initial hit he chased her. Not a few moments after his chase he was again engulfed by a flash.

When Summer was out of the dust mine she activated her trap.

***Higher up in the cave biome***

Ben was hiding from the lights. The first time he saw them he rushed it thinking it was an enemy instead what met him was a sudden flash of the blade’s color and then a kick, punch or slash came after. 

His Aura was now at 45% and he just saw another one being placed. He was in a dark corner  and could see 5 colored blades in front of him and maybe a couple behind. If he was fast enough then he could-

**BOOOOOOOOM**

The cave began to shake violently and seemed to be collapsing. He saw some of the stalactite fall from the ceiling and he ran for it. He closed his eyes and tried to retrace his steps.

Raven on the other hand made a portal to Summer, grabbed her immediately and made a portal to Tai.

Ben found an exit and was running for his life. He could see it, he dropped his weapon thinking it would make him faster. When he was near the exit he jumped for it and made it just in time.

The cave shut behind him. He turned onto his back and started breathing heavily. His legs felt like jello and the artificial wind felt good. He went to rest his eyes not knowing that Alvin was eliminated and that his enemies escaped unharmed.

***Castle Biome***

 Qrow was not doing too good.

It was a one sided fight and Qrow was out of his league. Qrow was an adequate fighter in hand to hand combat, but Damien was on Tai’s level. Qrow’s Aura was at 32% and Damien’s was at 87%.

Whatever Qrow threw at Damien he either blocked or countered it.

Qrow went for a kick to the torso, but Damien caught it effortlessly and elbowed his leg. He tossed Qrow’s leg away making him lose his balance and rushed him with his shoulder to make him fall to the floor. Damien decided that he would get revenge for Blif and Chip and had an idea that would make them both happy.  Step one involved grabbing Qrow’s leg. He found that Qrow still had some fight in him, holding onto whatever he could or trying to kick Damien’s hand. Damien began kicking him back to cease the struggling and began walking towards the edge.

Tai on the other  was having an easier time with Lenny. He was able to predict all of Lenny’s attacks. In the end, he decided to use his semblance and end the fight with Lenny. 

“LENNY McCORMICK ELIMINATED”

Tai let out a held breath when he felt a hand on his shoulder. On instinct he went to punch where it lead only to stop when he saw the love of his life flinch. She reached for his earplugs.

Raven : I’ll let you have that one because you can’t hear. Where’s Qrow.

Tai : He’s up . . .

Tai stopped what he was sawing and looked in horror. Raven and Summer soon followed his gaze and followed his example. Their they saw Qrow being dangled above the tower from his leg.

Tai ran full speed towards the tower to try and catch him. Raven made portal to try and stop him from falling. Summer stayed in place, mouth open and just couldn’t stop looking at him.

Damien let go of Qrow’s leg and Summer screamed. Tai was too far away from the tower to catch him on time and Raven made a portal to the roof where she was now kicked Damien off to follow her baby brother.

“QROW BRANWEN ELIMINATED”

“DAMIEN STEEL ELIMINATED”

Both combatants were out for the count and were lying on the floor Aura broken and both in serious pain. Not life threatening but painful none the less. 

Summer, Tai, and Raven looked in shock for a moment then realized that they were in a simulation. None of this was real and they would be fine.

Raven started to chuckle then laugh, then Tai, and Summer covered her eyes in embarrassment for screaming.

Raven : I can’t believe we thought Qrow was gonna ...  

She continued to laugh and Tai followed her example. 

Summer : Guys we need to focus on where Ben is. He is the only one left and he could be coming at us any moment. And we need to ... stop laughing he could have died.

Raven : No he wouldn’t ... have .. you screamed and Tai’s face was just ...

Raven continued to laugh. Then she stopped slowly, a sharp small pain started growing in her head. She wasn’t the only one. Tai and Summer felt the same thing and it was slowly getting worse.

Summer fell to her knees and clutched her head. Raven fell to the floor and closed here eyes hoping it would lessen the pain. Tai just activated his semblance on full blast and started screaming for it to stop.

Summer felt something come out of her ears. When she put one of her hands to her face she saw blood and soon felt something go out of her nose and eyes.

Tai and Raven were experiencing the same horror and the peanut gallery was in  full panic.

Students were told to evacuate the building, Scarlet was shouting at the emergency phone to bring in medical teams and telling students to leave.

The world started to go black and soon their eyes started to get heavy. The last thing they heard before they subcombed was from the announcement machine. 

**MATCH TERMINATED**

[alarriefantasy]

Hey there! Do you have any punk au recs? Can be either or both boys! I know you have a bad boy Harry rec but I’m hoping for a little Louis mixed in too! Thank you so much 💕

Here you go, darling!!! :) Hope this is enough, but let me know if you want more! :)

                                            Punk H/L Fic Rec

Punk Harry

oops, i like you by say_thanks

Words: 5k

He thrives in the attention, at the knowledge he makes these boys with their tattooed dicks and pierced whatevers, so hot and bothered. These boys with their confident smirks and broad shoulders and hands, touching Louis wherever they can. Louis reduces them all to a wet, moaning, mess, every time.

Usually he doesn’t see those guys again. It’s not generally part of the plan.

But then Harry tightens his grip on the back of Louis’ neck and Louis ducks his head to taste the sweat beading under Harry’s chin, kissing the ink curling up Harry’s neck, then kissing his way down to get his mouth on the god forsaken nipple piercings. He listens to the way Harry breathes his name, and for the first time silently asks, Can I keep him?

Clusters of Stars by Hazzalovescarrots

Words: 5k

Louis doesn’t have the best history with guys. When Harry shows up, totally different and covered in tattoos, things change. Liam and Zayn don’t really approve but it’s none of their business ey?

leave this house and i’ll burn it down along with myself by orphan_account

Words: 6k

“So I’m simply your guest, am I?” Louis asks, before leaning up and kissing Harry.

“Nope. You’re not,” Harry mumbles into his mouth, and he tries to ignore how Louis’ body arches against his, “you’re not even my living partner. You’re the princess I captured and now I’m going to keep you here, in the forest, all for myself.”

Purr Like a Cat by floatingsalad (orphan_account)

Words: 6k

harry wears eyeliner and listens to loud music and lives in a constant mess and sprays his hair with fifty cans of hairspray every morning when zayn interrupts his perfect sleep. this changes when the innocent cat-boy named louis enters into his life, flipping everything upside down.

It’s In The Love. by SS98

Words: 19k

AU in which Harry is sorta punk and never stops staring at Louis.

These Constant Stars by stylinsoncity

Words: 31k

Louis’ career has nowhere to go but up. He’s living at the height of New York City on the precipice of an epic promotion. Life is good and only getting better. And then one day, things turn disastrous.

Can I Make It Any More Obvious? by slashter

Words: 35k

[AU where Louis does ballet and Harry is the epitome of everything Louis’ friends want him to stay away from]

Beauty Behind The Madness. by ZiamsLarry

Words: 59k

Harry doesn’t meet the worlds perspective of looks, causing him to be judged every time he leaves his house. He never lets it get to him, because he knows that when he gets home at the end of the day he has the most beautiful little girl waiting for him.

So with just her and the lovely old lady down the hall who babysits her, Harry thinks his life is good enough for him.

Of course it all changes when the appartment across from him gets new attendants.

A Place To Call Home by Snowy38

Words: 90k

Louis rides a BMX and works in a diner all the hours god sends to keep his little brother Alex with him. Since their parents died, Louis has become mother and father to his sibling but he’s missing out on love.

Harry is a motorcycle gang member with a mysterious past but his vulnerability soon becomes evident as the two men’s worlds collide.

Louis becomes embroiled in a more-dangerous way of living but he helps Harry finds what he’s been missing all along- a place to call home.

Baby Heaven’s in your Eyes by theboyfriendstagram

Words: 120k

Or a sixth form!AU where Harry is the fucked up bad boy with too many problems, Louis is the perfect rich boy with too much money and their schools are right across from each other. They meet at a party and that’s the last (and maybe the only) thing they need.

Punk Louis

Sun-kissed Hurricane, Perfect Storm by iwillpaintasongforlou

Words: 7k

Harry is the quiet kid in the back of his statistics class who writes a lot and dreams about Louis’ cheekbones . Louis needs a statistics tutor ASAP before he flunks and the quiet kid in the back of the class seems like a good choice. Harry wants to help Louis however he can and Louis wants to see how much he can make Harry blush.

Forget Your Ex by PwoperNinjaElf

Words: 9k

When Harry’s boyfriend of two years leaves him for someone else, it’s fair to say he’s rather a bit upset, but his friends have a solution for him. Nick and Niall are hosting a start of term house party at their flat, having invited everyone they know from uni. Who knows, with a bit of luck Harry can find a rebound shag and finally forget his ex…

but he cant be what you need (if he’s eighteen) by lingerielarries

Words: 10k

the one where harry is sick of getting bullied and casts louis as the hot punk boyfriend to scare them away. louis needs harry to return the favor.

Opposites Attract by louisgrindsonharry

Words: 11k

Or, the AU where Harry’s an innocent little preppy kid and Louis has lots of tattoos and piercings and Harry wants wants to know why he cant’ stop thinking about the boy who walked him home.

In All Its Imperfections by BriaMaria

Words: 15k

From: Louis TomlinsonTo: Undisclosed Recipients

Hello!

I’ve asked the front desk and you lovely folks are the ones who are on the same level as me in the car park. I found a to-do list today that looked somewhat important because it has lines of poetry scribbled at the bottom that seemed like they might be for a card project. The stationary has a moose in a canoe at the top of it (and he is quite adorable). Let me know if it’s yours!

Cheers!

“Oh. My. Fucking. God,” Harry whispered, his eyes darting over the sentences again willing them not to make sense. They did, they did make sense. “Oh. My. Bloody. Fucking. God.”

The next thing he knew he was on the floor, staring at the ceiling, with a very concerned Liam hovering over his head.

“What happened, mate?” Liam asked.

Harry just pointed to his computer.

Liam bent over Harry’s desk to read the email. “What? This isn’t bad. Is that your to-do list? Did you finally come up with the inside text for those cards?”

“Leeyum" he groaned. “It’s what’s on the list.”

“Oh,” Liam paused for a beat. “Is it dirty stuff?”

Harry nodded.

There was more silence. And then, “Dirty stuff with Louis?”

You’re So Square (Baby I Don’t Care) by mmaree 

Words: 15k

Or a summer camp au where Louis tries to sort out whether he wants to murder or snog his perky co-counsellor.

Can We Talk for a Moment? by lululawrence

Words: 15k

Or the one where Harry is a shy, nerdy alpha, Louis is a loud omega punk, and there’s more to both of them than their reputations.

Saturday Detention by FallingLikeThis

Words: 15k

Five boys with nothing in common end up together in Saturday detention. Maybe if they can get past their first impressions, they’ll realize they’re not as different as they thought.

Or The Breakfast Club Au that was dying to be written.

the love is ours to make (so we should make it) by lingerielarries

Words: 19k

the one where louis takes some time off from life to return home, only to be met with a strange boy in pink and a flowercrown as the nanny of his siblings.

The Moments When My Good Times Start to Fade by paintsplatteredteardrops

Words: 23k

Where Harry is a flower child who works in a bakery and Louis is a guitarist who has no idea what it is he wants.

In Dreams by dolce_piccante

Words: 23k

AU. When Harry moves to a new city, his new flat come with a number of sweet, anonymous gifts and surprises that brighten his days. Could it be a friendly ghost? Another friendly presence in his new building is his tattooed neighbor, Louis, who seems determined to put a smile back on his face.

i’d burn this city down to show you the light by you_explode

Words: 23k

Harry’s a sheltered rich kid and Louis’s a punk with a heart of gold. They meet when Louis breaks into Harry’s house, Harry obtains an instant and all-encompassing crush, and they spend the summer falling into a whirlwind romance.

Life Saver by objectlesson

Words: 30k

Louis is a sweetheart punk with a theater background and a heart of gold, Harry is an inexperienced nerd who plays by the rules. Classmates, lab partners, and eventually friends, what happens when Louis knows he’s in love, but doesn’t know how tell Harry?

Open Up Your Broken Heart (and Keep on Wanting) by alistoney

Words: 49k

Louis works in a tattoo shop and rides a motorcycle

Harry wears flowers in his hair and does yoga in the morning

Somehow they fit

if my heart was a compass, you’d be north by cheekiestcheeky, heartsoftlouis

Words: 55k

Or the one where punk Louis likes to think he’s not clumsy, but he suspects he’ll have to accept it when he falls face first into a relationship with a head full of curls and his tiny human.

Give Me Truths by iwillpaintasongforlou

Words: 110k

Or, the one in which Louis falls in love with a fragile boy and tells him every beautiful truth in the world, as long as it makes him happy.

Lights Will Guide You Home by Cafelesbian

Words: 137k

Louis Tomlinson is his school’s resident bad boy and easily the most liked person there. He’s loud and confident and popular. He spends most of his time abusing his parent’s money or partying or playing football. He also spends a good deal of it obsessing over the quiet curly boy in his English class, but no one really needs to know that.

Harry Styles is more or less invisible at the same school (unless he’s being harassed). He’s shy and painfully insecure and quiet. He spends most of his time crying on his bedroom floor with a razor pressed against his skin or trying (and failing) to think of reasons to stay alive.

So, of course, it’s inevitable that they fall for each other.

[sunsetstudiesx]

Film Recommendations!

I thought I’d recommend some of my absolute favourite movies, because I love sharing my love of movies and just things in general with people. So, in no particular order, here is my list of recommendations:

1. Tombstone (1993)

So I just watched this movie a couple days ago and absolutely loved it. Yes, it is a western. Do you need to like westerns to watch it? Nope. That’s why it’s great. And, it’s based on real people/real events. I sobbed hysterically at the end, but I’m also a huge sap. Val Kilmer as Doc Holliday is perfection. I love love love him.

Here’s the plot summary: Wyatt Earp (Kurt Russell) and his brothers, Morgan (Bill Paxton) and Virgil (Sam Elliott), have left their gunslinger ways behind them to settle down and start a business in the town of Tombstone, Ariz. While they aren't looking to find trouble, trouble soon finds them when they become targets of the ruthless Cowboy gang. Now, together with Wyatt's best friend, Doc Holliday (Val Kilmer), the brothers pick up their guns once more to restore order to a lawless land.

Quotes:

“I’m your huckleberry.”

“Why, Johnny Ringo, you look like somebody just walked over your grave.”

“You gonna do somethin’ or just stand there and bleed?”

2. Fight Club (1999)

Okay. Okay. I just watched this one, too, and let me tell you. If you haven’t seen it/haven’t been spoiled for it, you have no idea what it’s really about. Honestly. It’s so fuckin’ weird and it blew my mind which is something I thought only M. Night Shyamalan could do. Wow, just. . . wow. Watch it, I implore you. I think everyone essentially knows the basic plot, but here it is if you want it, straight from google:

A depressed man (Edward Norton) suffering from insomnia meets a strange soap salesman named Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt) and soon finds himself living in his squalid house after his perfect apartment is destroyed. The two bored men form an underground club with strict rules and fight other men who are fed up with their mundane lives. Their perfect partnership frays when Marla (Helena Bonham Carter), a fellow support group crasher, attracts Tyler's attention.

Quotes:

“You met me at a very strange time in my life.”

“The things you own end up owning you.”

“It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.”

3. Unbreakable (2000)

Speaking of M. Night Shyamalan. While every one of his movies I’ve seen (Split, Glass, Lady in the Water, The Visit) have all been fantastic and mind-blowing, Unbreakable still has my favourite premise and my favourite Shyamalan twist ending. I love this one, even though I don’t really care for Bruce Willis.

Plot summary: A security guard, having been the sole survivor of a high-fatality train crash, finds himself at the centre of a mysterious theory that explains his consistent physical good fortune. When news of his survival is made public, a man whose own body is excessively weak tracks him down in an attempt to explain his unique unbreakable nature.

Quotes:

“Do you know what the scariest thing is? To not know your place in this world. To not know why you’re here.”

4. This is the End (2013)

Seth Rogen. Jay Baruchel. James Franco. Jonah Hill. Danny McBride. Craig Robinson. Playing themselves. The apocalypse. Hilarity ensues. Cameos from Emma Watson, Kevin Hart, Michael Cera, Rihanna, Paul Rudd, Channing Tatum, Aziz Ansari, Jason Segel, Mindy Kaling, and the Backstreet Boys. It’s so funny, I absolutely love it.

Plot summary: In Hollywood, actor James Franco is throwing a party with a slew of celebrity pals. Among those in attendance are his buddies Jonah Hill, Seth Rogen, Jay Baruchel, Danny McBride and Craig Robinson. Suddenly, an apocalypse of biblical proportions erupts, causing untold carnage among Tinseltown's elite and trapping Franco's party in his home. As the world they knew disintegrates outside, cabin fever and dwindling supplies threaten to tear the six friends apart.

Quotes:

“I don’t want to die at James Franco’s house.”

“Oh, no, no, no. I’m drinking and smoking weed. I’m on a cleanse, I’m not psychotic.”

“Take it easy, Dumbledore.”

5. You’ve Got Mail (1998)

Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. This might be my favourite romantic comedy, and I watch a lot. They’re adorable, and Meg Ryan is everything. This one made me cry twice. Once from sadness, once from happiness. Also it has Dave Chappelle in it, who I absolutely love.

Plot summary: Struggling boutique bookseller Kathleen Kelly (Meg Ryan) hates Joe Fox (Tom Hanks), the owner of a corporate Foxbooks chain store that just moved in across the street. When they meet online, however, they begin an intense and anonymous Internet romance, oblivious of each other's true identity. Eventually Joe learns that the enchanting woman he's involved with is actually his business rival. He must now struggle to reconcile his real-life dislike for her with the cyber love he's come to feel.

Quotes:

“There’s the dream of someone else.”

“But I just wanted to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings.”

“I love daisies. They’re so friendly. Don’t you think daisies are the friendliest flower?”

6. A Hard Day’s Night (1964)

For anyone who loves The Beatles. Here they play themselves, and show what their lives are like. It’s ridiculous and hilarious and god, if I didn’t love them before I loved them dearly after watching. It’s such a fun, easy watch and I adore it.

Plot summary: Over two "typical" days in the life of The Beatles, the boys struggle to keep themselves and Sir Paul McCartney's mischievous grandfather in check while preparing for a live television performance.

Quotes:

“How did you find America?” “Turned left at Greenland.”

“Hey mister can we have our ball back!”

“You’re a swine.”

7. Dazed and Confused (1993)

My favourite movie to watch at the beginning and end of the school year, and let’s be honest, every month in between. I’ve seen this movie more times than I can say. I love the ‘70’s setting, the actors, the plot. Another wonderful, easy watch that just makes me happy. Killer soundtrack, too.

Plot summary: The adventures of high school and junior high students on the last day of school in May 1976.

Quotes:

“You just gotta keep livin’, man. L-i-v-i-n.”

“It’d be a lot cooler if you did.”

“I just wanna look back and say that I did it the best that I could while I was stuck in this place.”

“I’d like to quit thinking of the present, like right now, is some minor, insignificant preamble to somethin’ else.”

8. Dirty Dancing (1987)

Anything with Patrick Swayze is wonderful, and this is no exception. Johnny and Baby are perfect. This movie also has the best soundtrack of any movie I’ve ever watched. Fantastic love story, fantastic movie. Watch it.

Plot summary: Baby (Jennifer Grey) is one listless summer away from the Peace Corps. Hoping to enjoy her youth while it lasts, she's disappointed when her summer plans deposit her at a sleepy resort in the Catskills with her parents. Her luck turns around, however, when the resort's dance instructor, Johnny (Patrick Swayze), enlists Baby as his new partner, and the two fall in love. Baby's father forbids her from seeing Johnny, but she's determined to help him perform the last big dance of the summer.

Quotes:

“Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

“Fight harder, huh? I don’t see you fighting so hard, Baby. I don’t see you running up to daddy telling him I’m your guy.”

“You’re right, Johnny. You can’t win no matter what you do.”

“Go back to your playpen, Baby.”

9. The Sound of Music (1965)

This is such a beautiful movie, and I love it so much. My mom and I try to watch it every Christmas as our little tradition. Julie Andrews as Maria is so wonderful, and all of the songs are so, so good. I love all of the children dearly, and oh, do I love Captain VonTrapp.

Plot summary: A tuneful, heartwarming story, it is based on the real life story of the Von Trapp Family singers, one of the world's best-known concert groups in the era immediately preceding World War II. Julie Andrews plays the role of Maria, the tomboyish postulant at an Austrian abbey who becomes a governess in the home of a widowed naval captain with seven children, and brings a new love of life and music into the home.

Quotes:

“You cry a little, and then you wait for the sun to come out. It always does.”

“God bless Louisa, Brigitta, Marta, and little Gretl. Oh, I forgot the other boy. What’s his name? Well, god bless what’s-his-name.”

“I want you to stay. I ask you to stay.”

10. Gladiator (2000)

“Are you not entertained?” I think everyone has heard that line, from this amazing movie. One of the many that has made me cry, it’s such a beautiful story. Also, gladiators. That immediately sells it for me. All of the performances by the actors are top notch as well.

Plot summary: Set in Roman times, the story of a once-powerful general forced to become a common gladiator. The emperor's son is enraged when he is passed over as heir in favour of his father's favourite general. He kills his father and arranges the murder of the general's family, and the general is sold into slavery to be trained as a gladiator - but his subsequent popularity in the arena threatens the throne.

Quotes:

“My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius. Commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, and loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance. In this life or the next.”

“What we do in life echoes in eternity.”

“Falling down is how we grow. Staying down is how we die.”

[believerindaydreams]

the title is: this thing wot I don’t even

I'd like you all to know that I carefully tracked down a movie theatre that was showing “The Sting” in summer 1974. Chicago, which makes sense given the setting.

also I spoil the film in some fairly comprehensive ways. Including that it's a horrifyingly traumatic thing, if one happens to be a happy POC hustler...

Hard to write, in the cramped, swaying environs of an eighteen-wheeler's trailer. Be a smoother ride if the driver knew they were here; but then, if he did they wouldn't be in here at all.

Dear Angel Eyes.

Blondie glances at his sleeping partner again, carefully tucks away the postcard. Things are tight with them, sure, but not disastrous yet. Their stake's intact and as long as they have that, they're still in the money.

Admittedly there's not much left besides the stake. Tuco's probably going to have to break out the rainy day slush he pretends not to have until a supperless night's on the horizon, but they'll make it. They've come back from worse.

He wonders just where it is they're going. Arkansas has been new territory for them, also slim pickings; they'd both tired of it quickly and concluded to move out. A truck with Louisiana license plates had seemed as good a bet as any. South again, it'll do his partner good; the closer they get to the border, the better Tuco likes it.

Only once he'd asked, whether they ought to cross over to benighted Sonora; and Tuco had flushed and stammered about passports in such incoherent terms he'd got the picture. Afraid of crossing that border and then not being able to get back again, it makes sense. He's not given to asking questions when there's no need.

Less said the better, sometimes. Something he's got to remind himself of about calling Angel. If the man cared to take him back at all, it'd be with a reprimand and a leash; and that'd suffocate him. It'd be putting Tuco in danger too, in a way worse even than what they do already- and that'd hardly be the worst, but it's the reason most suited to his conscience, somehow.

Blondie lifts a bottle of pop from one of the surrounding crates, swigs it comfortably. They're pretty smart, him and his partner. They'll manage.

Wherever they end up.

***********

"....Chicago? Blondie, what the hell are we going to do in Chicago?"

Fair question. They're a little too far north for the usual routine to work; bars aplenty, sure but their hustle's not worth a damn without some local knowledge. "Play some poker, maybe?"

It's something he's been holding on to, the idea of making it straight; just them and the cards and the other players, no jiggery-pokery or tricks to give them an advantage. More honest than what they do- that does make a difference, despite Tuco's rolled eyes and insistence that a hustle is a hustle and cash is cash.

"Not that again. You remember that time in San Antonio? We were drinking rain water for a week."

"You bring that up every time I suggest we give the hustle a miss. It's- it's rough on you, I know that."

"I'd rather rely on that than our cardplay. Hate's never going out of style." Tuco stoops to the sidewalk, picks up a brightly coloured piece of garbage. "Hey. Look at this, it's advertising that Paul Newman picture you wanted to see."

The Sting. They hadn't had time, with it coming out at Christmas; that season's always hectic for them. An easy time of year to score free dinners, win big off men desperate to stay out late and forget about their families, they both always look forward to it. If not for reasons that would have made sense to Father Paul.

"Be nice for a memento, I guess."

"Better than that. They're mounting a special showing, it says- we could hit the matinee! What about it, Blondie, feel like taking the day off?"

He might demur. Probably should. He lights a cigarillo and lets the silence talk for him.

"A soft seat, that'll be nice after spending the night on crates. I didn't sleep so good- air conditioning! That'll be nice. And you never know, maybe we'll learn something useful. Two hustlers like us, right?"

It is, to all accounts. He'd talked up that aspect to Tuco last December, trying to make a case to waste some valuable time seeing it and he's vaguely ashamed of that zeal now. "If it's a special showing, the ushers might be checking tickets. We'd have to pay up instead of sneaking in, and you don't want to have to miss a meal just to see a motion picture."

"Sometimes I get tired of you playing the martyr, you know that? If you want to go, we'll go."

Now that's not fair. Not fair at all- like Tuco's taking something away from him, that's damn selfish almost- "I better not hear you complaining, then."

"Not a word," his partner says cheerfully. "You know me. If it gets dull, I'll just go to sleep."

***********

As it turns out, that doesn't happen.

Partly because if they're going to do this, they might as well do it right. Tuco splashes out on popcorn and soda and spends forever fussing over what candy he wants, while Blondie waits impatiently by the red ropes, not quite tapping his foot. His partner likes putting him through this, lingering and keeping him in suspense until just before the trailers will start, then presenting the ticket with ostentatious flair.

Happens this time, just like every time. Hard not to take it personally, especially with Tuco carrying a bag of Jordan almonds.

"You know I'm allergic to those."

"I forgot."

It's tiring, how unsubtle his partner's greed is sometimes. "Hurry up. We'll be lucky to get a seat."

He's completely wrong about that, as it happens. There's plenty of seats when they walk in the theatre's cool, reassuring dim- and the fact that the place doesn't console him like it ought is too telling. There's something wrong with him that won't accept being comforted by the here and now, the way his partner can always manage- it's him being spoilt, is what.

Hell. Any cinemaphile might get wistful over a film library and a personal projection room, he supposes. It's an unreasonable thing to want, but then it was an unreasonable thing to have have promised in the first place. No reason to complain if it'd slipped away like the dream it was.

"This is nice, isn't it?" Tuco says, chewing lustily on popcorn. "I hope it's a long film, that'll make me happy..."

"Hush." The screen's begun to flicker.

Paul Newman, Robert Redford- god, they'd been so good together in Butch Cassidy, cowboys and a three-way love triangle. That's given him food for thought a few times, has sort of been in the back of his mind for seeing this followup. He's always thought of Newman as a guardian angel of sorts- ever since The Hustler, when he and Tuco had finally picked up the right word for the way they lived. Somebody who always knows all the angles, somebody who knows where it's at. Might go down, but only with style.

And Redford, Redford's young like him. Able to make mistakes. But he pulls through, he always does.

Like he'll have to do now, in fact: this hustle that Redford's running (not so much a con, more straight up theft) is too much too soon. Eleven thousand dollars and the movie's barely started. A lot of money by '30s standards. A lot of money by theirs, even; he and Tuco maybe couldn't retire on that, but they'd be able to...well, take a few months and stop to think about their future. Who knows what that would even look like.

Tuco's frowning at the screen, and actually passes him the popcorn bucket- a sure sign he's preoccupied- and Blondie can guess why. Redford's partner isn't Newman at all but some black man called Luther, who knows who the actor is. But they've got a good camaraderie together.

They've got a home together. Luther's got a wife, a nice place; so cosy it's almost unbearable. He can see why Redford wants to leave that intact, head up to the big time alone, he'd want that himself (wants)- but it's nice just to see that his film alter ego has somewhere worth leaving at all. More than he had.

"Luther's smart," Tuco whispers to him. Almost quivering with excitement.

Just before the picture upends itself, from light comedy to revenge tragedy-

*********

he should have seen it coming, Tuco knows.

Should have known that nowhere's safe, even in pictures. That he's not safe himself, that's a fact of life he became used to long before he and Blondie hit the streets. But he'd let down his guard this time-

and it's stupid of him, stupid to feel like that's what killed Luther (it was a cop, of course it was a cop)- as though a moment more of keen attention could have changed the celluloid, could have made a film that came out six months ago different from what it always was.

About as stupid as the tears dribbling down from his eyes, that won't stop- and he's terrified now. It's far worse than a tell, letting his emotions get the better of him like this- he's not great at poker but he's not bad at it, but what use will he be next game if he gets worked up like this? He plays with this stuff every day, hate and fear; but shunting it all down channels he understands, playing a game whose rules he knows. This has caught him by surprise-

Tuco Ramirez, you get a grip on yourself. Right this minute.

Before Blondie notices.

A soft hand, faintly pink in the theatre twilight, takes his darker one; Blondie leans close to his ear. "You want to go?"

If it'd been an order, he would have obeyed with tired acceptance; but asking the question fills him with a stubborn need to push back.

(Fuck it, Blondie knows that.)

"We paid. We stay."

As much as he can do, to choke out the whisper intelligibly; he shakes his hand out of Blondie's and grabs up his Duluth from the floor. It's a heavy weight against his knees, packed solid with too much junk. Practical things and debris, keepsakes and even a few sweet little incidentals without any purpose.

It's everything he needs. It's all he has; and he's lucky to have that, luckier far than Luther who wanted too much and got cut down for it. At least he's alive.

That's about all he can think, while the film keeps unspooling and a plot plays out details he's vaguely aware he'd delight in, were he capable of paying attention. Redford seems unhappy about Luther being dead, decides to get revenge on the killer.

(As unhappy as Blondie would be, if one of their hustles went wrong and he ended up on a barroom floor with a bullet in his temple?)

No. No, Redford's not half so caring. There's something he can cling to, that poor Luther couldn't- if he died, Blondie would arrange a more permanent revenge than a mere half-million the mark can easily spare. His partner's hinted a few times lately about getting in with hitmen and assassins- too many Fleming paperbacks, probably- but his blood leaking out, that'd push Blondie to real action. To hire an expert, if the would-have-been priest couldn't manage the job himself.

Which is still not all that much consolation. Tuco hugs the pack closer, and keeps a shivery vigilance through salt-rimmed eyes.

Not at the screen. At the darkness-

and yet when it comes for him it's still a surprise-

************

"I've seen that film," Angel Eyes says, his lips quirking. "Or part of it- there was a black-gloved assassin who shoots a waitress. Rose's idea of a good joke."

Tuco breathes out, slowly. Looks around the gatehouse's safe confines. Sofa, potted herbs, fruit bowl, though that's empty. Everything's here.

"We had a chat about that, Blondie and I. The way you thought he might have put in a word about The Godfather. After we went on the run from you...you know, Blondie was so paranoid the hacienda might be bugged, we didn't get in as much conversation there as we should have. I told him no assassin would be stupid enough to keep records after Watergate, and he said maybe you hadn't put the bugs there."

"Ah. You mean, what if Rose had?"

"Right."

"It's a possibility," Angel Eyes agrees, dipping a ladle in the steaming pot. "I did my best, obviously, but there are limits...did you want to help me with this soup?"

"Sure, sure." Soup would be good, he's starving. "What do you want me to do?"

"Oh. Just stand there and look delicious."

That's when the terror hits him.

The awareness he's tried so hard not to examine. That this home that isn't his was bought and sold in blood, that if he stays he's just as guilty-

by the time Angel Eyes actually walks over and calmly starts to knife him, long scrolls of flesh scraped off him like potato peelings, he's long since started screaming-

************

-wakes up gasping for breath, with his partner holding him tight. The one, Tuco suspects, probably has a lot to do with the other. He wriggles loose a little.

"Tell me you're okay," Blondie pleads.

"I'm okay. I'm awake, mostly." It hadn't occurred to him to ask that question before; but he knows what's going on now.

The two of them are crammed into one small but heavily overbuilt bed, sturdy but with none too many blankets. Blondie’s childhood room isn’t made for comfort. "I've been having bad dreams. Angel Eyes...and that hustler movie from Chicago, I know that was mixed up in it somewhere." Fading quick, for which he's just as glad.

"God, I don't blame you for having nightmares about that," his partner says, and it does sound like his partner again instead of a priest. "Or anything. Can't say as I've slept."

That's not true, Tuco's aware. It'd felt like hours he'd spent awake, with Blondie huddled against him, clinging on for comfort even in his sleep. At least his shoulder's stopped throbbing.

"I wanted to be you, you know that?"

"Huh? Blondie, how'd you mean?"

"The way I got out of this place...that was my first hustle. Convincing your brother not just that I needed to convert, but that I had a calling. Somebody fit to preserve in stained glass- so he arranged a scholarship for me. I've often wondered just who it was I cheated out of taking a place at the seminary. Somebody who'd have stuck with it, maybe."

"That was clever of you." Tuco digs around beneath the bed, fishes a lighter out of his shoe. Flicks it repeatedly, just to see the fire- blurred staccato shots of his partner, looking strangely serene. "If it was this house or the priesthood, I'd have prayed a hundred rosaries to get out."

"It was so much better. I had a purpose. Beautiful surroundings, company, three meals a day I could stand to eat. I couldn't imagine ever complaining when I'd been so lucky- and then you came along. Dragging your pack around everywhere, full of all those tantalising possessions."

"Mmm hmm." He wonders whether what Blondie's describing even counts as a hustle. If Pablo had just looked and found a boy far too much like his little brother, begging for escape. Though that wouldn't be a kind thing to say.

"Griping about the meals, breaking rules, sneaking off to town- you just plain didn't care. It was amazing. Awful, but amazing...I fell in love with that before I even knew you, and then I did get to know you, and that made it worse. And then I caught you just before the monastery broke you."

"Yeah. Well, I'm okay now, you know that." He's pretty sure he is. A dream is a dream.

(He sure can't afford to question a truth that keeps him safe.)

"But you were wonderful, Tuco," Blondie murmurs, yawning. "I wanted to protect that. Finally did. If I've managed nothing else in my life..."

Okay. Maybe he can afford to ask, even should; but not right this second. Not with his partner passed out atop of him- that's such a pain. He can't reach his cigarettes now.

Carefully, with painstaking attention, Tuco reaches down to the floor and gropes around for his pack. Remembers belatedly it isn't there, it's resting on a bedside table in Angel's gatehouse-

there's the sound of a key in a lock. He pulls his arm back and freezes just before the door opens. Aunt Huldah coming to gloat over her charge, no doubt-

"Blondie? Tuco?" 

That way Angel's silhouetted in the doorway. It reminds him of something, but he can't quite recall what.

"Oh. It's you," Tuco says. Sits up with relief. "Yeah, we couldn't get out without breaking something, and Blondie didn't want to do that. What kind of woman locks the bedroom door on her own nephew?"

"One I'm not interested in getting to know. Do we leave him here?"

"God no. That'd be terrible," Tuco says, shaking the sleeping figure. "I wouldn't leave him alone in this house for a million dollars."

(The vague shape of an old joke slips through his mind, saying to Blondie that kind of exaggeration is the stupid sort of lie and he only does smart, but it's too late or too early. He can't make sense of it.)

"Help."

It breaks his heart a little, to hear such a moan in that sturdy voice. "It's okay. It's okay, Blondie, we're going home. Angel's here."

Tuco gets a cigarillo lit, passes it over and looks away while Blondie struggles to compose himself. Less decent than nakedness somehow, he doesn't want to see that inchoate vulnerability.

(Angel's still wreathed in shadow; impossible to tell, how much he sees.)

When he looks back again, though, it's his partner- Blondie with smoke in his face and an unreadable expression, tightly wound up again- and it's a sight that could make him cry if they only had the time but they don't. "C'mon. Let's go before your aunt notices, huh?"

No response: but he and Angel know how to read Blondie’s silences, now. 

The dawn light's just breaking when they slip outside. Angel's taken a risk, parking the car in plain sight; but Tuco settles into the backseat and decides to just be grateful.

"And we didn't even get a chicken. After all that."

"In the trunk," Angel calls. "I thought it'd be better to transport it home alive, or else the meat might spoil. Don't worry, I'll take care of butchering it for you."

That's not nearly as reassuring a statement as his lover seems to think it ought to be. Still. A leg and a thigh for him, the same for Angel, and a bed of warm brown lentils to eat with them-

"Christ, I'm looking forward to that," Blondie says. "Some of your comfort cooking, Tuco, I could do with that."

Right. Yes, well, after putting his partner through a hellish night like that it's only fair to give him a full share- only one plus one is two, and if he's making this for Angel and Blondie both that means there won't be any left for him- well, maybe he's not that hungry. After a night of involuntary fasting and crazy tension, he's too knotted up to have any appetite. "You want it for breakfast? Because that'll take a while to cook."

"No, I want to eat out. Something nice and ostentatious, not like those diner truck stops we went to all the time." And that's not directed at him but at Angel, and not a request but a demand. "Then we can have the chicken later on. God above, going back to that hellhole just made me sick. There's no point indulging in self-denial just for the hell of it, is there? Torturing yourself with thinking what you'd like and can't?"

He swipes his hand through Tuco's hair, and the gesture looks fine but Blondie's fingers tremble on his scalp. "Huh. You took your time getting around to my way of thinking. All those times on the road, when you let me think I always wanted too much."

"Don't know that I was wrong. The kind of money we had, you always did. But maybe it's about time I let myself be greedy too."

There's too much light in Blondie's eyes, the way they've caught the sunrise; Tuco looks at them, at him, and swallows down a sudden raging hunger.

But it’s only fair. To let his partner have what he wants, now they're safe and coddled and won't ever have to worry again.

More than fair.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Vacationland

A/N  Written for the 50 States of Sex collaboration so brilliantly thought up by @viceversawrites and @softnow.  I picked Maine, since I just visited this summer.  Set during that vague timeframe that is post-Per Manum flashback, pre-Requiem.  A bit of angst, but hopefully just enough to add some depth to what is otherwise pretty much a fluffy PWP.  Rated NC-17, ‘natch.

It was possible that after many years of miscommunication, frustration and upset plans, it was time for Fox Mulder and Logan Airport to call it quits and go their separate ways.

He stared at the digital terminal display, lit up with row after row of on-time departures.   All except the last remaining flight to Bangor, which had been winking a smug fifty minute delay for the past three hours.   Outside their gate, the New England sky was a tint of robin’s egg blue only witnessed in early September when school was back in session.  He remembered it well.

He paced back to where his partner sat, poised and still, staring out the concourse window at nothing.  Her hands were folded in her lap as though in prayer, and he made a mid-second correction in course.

“I don’t think our plane is ever showing up, Scully.  It’s a regional carrier - maybe they only fly when it’s foggy enough.”

She didn’t react to his stand-up routine, so he took matters into his own hands and lifted the handle on her roller bag.  That got her attention.

“Mulder, what the hell?  This is our gate.  When the plane gets here, they’re not going to wait for us.”

“The plane’s not coming, Scully.  Let’s grab a rental car and drive up.  Bangor’s about four hours’ away on the interstate, and four hours in a moving vehicle will feel like heaven, after an afternoon in purgatory at Logan.”

She didn’t acquiesce, but she didn’t stay staring at the blank canvas of the sky either.  He considered that a win.

***

“This isn’t the interstate, Mulder.”

Scully had dozed off somewhere near the New Hampshire border, and he’d taken the next exit to the coast road.   They’d been averaging thirty miles an hour through one white clapboard hamlet after another since then.

“You’re very observant, Scully.  You should consider a career in law enforcement.”

“Very funny.  But seriously, where are we?  It’s 6pm - we should be nearly in Bangor by now.”   

Scully woke up grumpy.  He had years of experience devising counter-measures; everything from grande cups of her favourite dark roast to humorous observations of local law enforcement.  More recently, he’d developed a technique that included plucking her nipples like a harp and then anchoring his head between her thighs until she levitated, but he couldn’t very well do that and still drive.  He handed her a blueberry fritter, still warm in its brown paper bag.

“We’re not nearly in Bangor,” he ventured after she’d inspected the treat.

“I can see that.”  Her tone mellowed as she licked homemade lemon frosting from the tip of each finger.

“We’re actually closer to Wells.  I decided to take the scenic route.  We can grab a room here and still get to Bangor tomorrow in time for our ten o’clock interview.”  

He glanced in her direction, trying to judge how this change in plans was landing.   Scully could usually be counted on to let her strict professionalism lapse when he was the only witness, but she’d gone far inside herself these past few weeks, and he couldn’t blame her.  This was his first attempt to coax her back out of her shell.

“A room, Mulder?  A room, singular?  We’re on the clock.”   She was still prickly and resistant, however, and he found it endlessly heartening.   A passive Scully was no Scully at all.

“Well, that clock had us landing in Bangor five hours ago.  Right now, Agent Mulder and Agent Scully are sitting in their adjacent hotel rooms, chastely reviewing their case notes before retiring to their separate beds.   You and I are grabbing a room in Wells.  It’s September.  Any one of these little roadside motels will have a vacancy.”

“A roadside motel?  You really know how to treat a girl, Mulder.” 

He made eye contact and gave her his best attempt at a sexy grin.   He might know next to nothing about how to treat girls, plural, but he was the world’s leading expert on how to treat this one.

***

The little efficiency cottage was basic, but clean.  They changed out of their travelling suits and into casual clothes before walking, hand-in-hand, up the main road through town.

“What exactly are you looking for, Mulder?   These places all serve lobster.”

“Spoken like a true non-Yankee, Scully.   There’s lobster, and then there’s lob-stah.   I’ll know it when I see it.”

The restaurant had been there so long its shingle siding had weathered to a nondescript grey.  You ordered at a take-out window, then ate at a collection of ramshackle picnic tables, spread on a sloping lawn overlooking the estuary.

They sat on the same seat bench, facing the marsh that dimmed into darker and darker shadows of green as the setting sun released the day.  The lobster rolls were fresh and buttery, served with coleslaw and house-made pickles, and washed down by pints of pale blond beer.   It was, in his estimation, the perfect meal.

Scully’s left hand crept over and stole his last pickle.   Her hair was molten copper where the last rays of light caught it.   He took a deep breath of salt air, then exhaled.

***

“I would, Mulder, but I don’t have my bathing suit.   The hotel in Bangor - you know, the one where Agent Scully is staying right now - doesn’t have a pool.”

“Just go in your underwear.  It’s dark out, and I doubt there’ll be anyone else swimming at this hour.  This place empties out after Labour Day.”

He saw her struggle with propriety, and decided to stack the deck in his favour.  He stripped off his shirt and jeans.   He heard the little catch in her breath as he briefly bared his naked backside before donning his swim trunks.  

In the three weeks since the last IVF attempt had ended in a whirlpool of blood and tears, they hadn’t made love.  He was a psychologist, and he knew Scully was dealing with a lot of anger and ambivalence over her body’s failure to provide refuge for even one of their offspring.  He doubted she’d even noticed, but she’d ceased to trim her nails, hadn’t gone to the gym, and her roots were growing in: all signs that she was denying her body loving care in the way it had denied her a child.  So her reaction to his nakedness, no matter how minute, was reassuring.

“Oh, alright.  But if I get arrested for public indecency, I’m taking you and those ridiculous board shorts down with me!”

***

The small fenced pool was tucked between the line of cottages and a copse of pine trees.  You couldn’t see the ocean, but you could make out the dull thrum of its eternal give and take.   A single flood light triggered by a motion sensor lit the shallow end, and the water itself glowed aquamarine from a series of underwater lights.

Scully was wrapped in one of the motel’s scrawny bath towels.   She looked furtively towards the curtained windows that overlooked the pool.  Other than their own, none of the cottages showed signs of habitation, so she slowly released the tuck of the towel and draped it over the fence.

She had lost weight.  He could see it in the sharp nip of her waist and the loose fit of her panties.  Still, she was pale and lovely as the moon, and he was struck anew by the juxtaposition of tenderness and lust she brought out in him.  Thinking a tented swimsuit might betray his intentions, he jumped feet first into the deeper end of the pool, appreciating the coolness against his heated skin.

“How is it?”   Cautious as ever, Scully was descending the steps slowly, and he grieved the slow disappearance of her body until he realized the underwater illumination acted like an aqueous spotlight, lighting her up from below.

“Come over here and find out,” he beckoned her towards the deeper water.

She dove fluidly beneath the surface, re-emerging two feet in front of him like a modern-day naiad, cedar-hued hanks of hair and eyes bluer than the sky that afternoon.

“Mmmm, this was a good idea, Mulder.  Thank you.”  She brushed against him, skin polished and warm, and dropped a chlorine kiss on his lips.   He tried to pull her closer, but she pushed hard against the wall and floated away with a laugh.

They paddled languorously as the curious moon rose above the pines.  The floodlight had long subsided into darkness.   Scully drifted easily on her back, nipples and pubic hair umbra signals to his baser self through the opaque cotton covering.  His cock twitched in the loose confines of his trunks, despite the coolish water.  He could feel the tug of something primeval, dark and instinctual, coming from the endless wilderness to the north.  This is your mate, it said.

As she drifted within reach, he pulled her easily into his embrace, kissing the damp from her eyelashes and cheeks.  She settled her arms over his shoulders, light as a feather in the water’s buoyancy.

“I love kissing you, Scully,” he murmured between pecks.  She chuckled at his juvenile admission.

“Yes, I got that impression.   I love kissing you too, Mulder.”  She licked his chin, to emphasize her point.  He growled and initiated a hungrier kiss, holding her  against him in the the ebb and flow of a subtle current, where she could certainly feel the physical proof that he wasn’t exaggerating.

“Is this okay?” he asked as he made his way down her arched neck, one hand now gripping her ass beneath the clinging fabric of her panties.

“Mmm, very okay.  I missed this.  Even when everything else feels wrong, you’re the only thing that still makes sense, Mulder.”  She gasped out his name as he nipped her earlobe.

“That’s how I know you’re my one in five billion.  You’re the only person who’d ever assert that I make sense,” he teased.

“What I don’t understand is why I make sense to you.  Especially now...”

“Oh, Scully.  Are you serious?  You mean besides the fact that you’re the most stunning woman alive, and you put up with all of my shit?  How about this - you’re the only person who already is what I want my future to be.”

She leaned back and observed him, limpid and wet, as though measuring the truth of his statement.  Then, holding his head very still between her ragged fingernails, she kissed him deeper than all the oceans combined.  

By the time they broke for air, they were mindlessly thrusting together, the surrounding water adding an erotic slickness to their movement.

“God, I want you.  Is it too soon?” he gasped.

“No. I don’t think so.  It’s okay.  Let’s go back to the room.”   She was panting like a frightened animal and pawing at the waist of his shorts.

“Mmm, no.  Here.  God, Scully.”  This as her hands finally worked the knot at his waistband loose and dove inside to grab his cock.

“Mul-derrrrrr, we can’t.  Bacteria, lubrication.  C’mon.” She nodded towards the stairs, trying to encourage him into shallower water.

“I know what I’m doing.  You trust me, don’t you Scully?”

Without waiting for her response, he lifted her even higher in the water, so her crotch rubbed his navel.  He shunted his shorts downwards until they dropped to his ankles and he flicked them away.   Tucking her knees beneath his armpits, he lifted the gusset of her panties out of the way, then slid his aching cock into the tight hot space between cotton and skin.

“Like this.  See?  Like this.  Outside.  Oh shit Scully.”  He was frantic already, the head of his cock sliding up the seam of her body, over her clit and then against the elastic membrane of her underwear.  It felt amazing.

“Jesus, Mulder.  Where did you...? Nevermind.  Just keep, yeah.  Ohmygod yeah.”   She had her elbows braced on the pool deck, her torso leaning away from him to create just the right angle for each exquisite slide.   Her head fell limply backwards, chin tipping towards the night sky as she moaned so deeply he felt it inside his body.

“Fuck, Scully.  So good, baby.  So fucking good.”

He wasn’t going to last at this rate.  He looked into the water to see the obscene bulge of the head of his cock advancing and retreating beneath the cotton’s opaque skin.  Shit, that wasn’t helping.   One hand dove down, pushing himself even deeper into her slit with each thrust, letting the ridge stroke over her hood until she let out a sharp yelp and began thrashing against him in ecstasy, stirring up a tiny tempest of waves between them.

“That’s it, Scully.  Fucking come for me.  Come on me.”

He grasped himself through the material, gave two quick tugs, and released what felt like a thousand lifetimes of fervour onto her skin.  His agonized groan tapered off to a whispery chuckle.

“Fuck, I have the best ideas.”

***

Showered and tucked into bed, pink and boneless, he thought Scully was already asleep when she asked,  “Do you really see your future in me, Mulder?  Even now?”

He tightened his hold around her shoulders, tucking the damp crown of her head beneath his chin.

“They say the only thing that can make sense of the past is the future, Scully.  You’re the only answer I want to find.”

[thelazyenvironmentalist]

Why I’m Organizing for a Green New Deal in Canada

When I was little, I spent my summers at my grandma’s house. She lived with my grandpa in a ranch-style bungalow a few hundred meters up from the shores of Lake Huron. The house had an immaculately kept garden, mint shag carpet, and a blue porcelain bathtub. It was perfect. When the weather was good, my grandma would spend hours outside with me, collecting Queen Anne’s Lace in the meadow across the road, walking under the cool green canopy of the forest nearby, or splashing in the waves at the beach for so long that when she brought me inside she would immediately place me in the bathtub to wash the sand off. If I sit quietly I can still hear the sound of the grains of sand settling at the bottom of the blue porcelain as she washed the day out of my hair. It was during this time outside that I first learned what it felt like to feel at home in what we refer to as “nature”. I learned that I could eat apples right off the trees in the woods, scrub myself clean- and then get hopelessly dirty again- at the lake, or sit in our secret spot and nap in the shade of a pine tree with the person I loved the most. On days that were cold and rainy, my grandma and I would stay inside, flipping through a Reader’s Digest encyclopaedia of North American Wildlife, or watching TVO. On those days spent inside, every Saturday or Sunday morning (I can’t remember which) I would park myself in front of the old tube TV to watch the same two mid-nineties infomercials each week. The first, a classic in Canadian Millennial cannon- was from the Humane Society- the one with Sarah McLachlan playing in the background, while sad kittens stared into the camera. The second, slightly more scarring, was produced by the World Wildlife Fund, and this one broke my heart. Every weekend I’d sit on that mint shag carpet and sob watching images of Amazon Rainforest being clear cut, or Bengal Tigers being poached and separated from their cubs. Silly as it might seem, it was these early morning infomercials that taught me the devastation and heartbreak of losing nature. They taught me empathy for creatures I will never see or touch in real life, a sadness and longing for places and times I will never live in. They taught me that if I wanted to see things change, I would have to take action myself. My grandma echoed these lessons in her care of me, and those around her. Her compassion for all creatures-humans and animals alike- sticks with me even now, years after her passing. Anyone in our family could tell you about the time that Grandma nursed an abandoned baby mouse back to health, or when we hand fed a litter of baby bunnies for weeks when the mother was scared away by my Aunt Pauline’s dog, or when she brought our Cat, Mr. Tibb’s back from the brink when he was sick and my parents’ had already booked us a trip to Mexico. What I’m trying to say is my grandmother taught me that even if you can’t immediately relate to someone, or something, even if you’re a different species, when help is needed, you offer it. She taught me that there was beauty in the world and that it was worth saving. I haven’t mentioned my Grandpa yet, but he was the love of my Grandma’s life. They met when she was 17 and living in Florida with her parents. He saw her singing in the church choir when he was on vacation with his family, and three months later she had moved up to Canada, they were married, and soon my Aunt Debbie was on the way. My Grandpa’s brother’s made their way owning car dealerships and racehorses, and lived well into their 80s and 90s- my Grandpa got into the oil industry. First in Sarnia, then Nova Scotia, the United States, Calgary, and, for a short period of time, Saudi Arabia, among numerous other towns and cities. My Grandpa managed oil refineries for decades- and was proud of his work and all it afforded his family. Both he and my Grandma had jackets and hats stitched with the Turbo Canada logo (a now defunct petroleum company) and somewhere in my closet at my parent’s house, I still have one of his old jackets tucked away, with a decades old cigarette hidden in the pocket. My Grandpa was in insanely good health, for his entire life. Due to his health, and love of his job, he didn’t retire until he was in his early 60s. When I was about 11 his health abruptly changed. He got very sick, very quickly, and for the first time in his life, he was admitted to a hospital overnight, and for the next 6 months or so, he didn’t really leave. My Grandpa died of Leukaemia in his early 70s, due to, what the family believed, was from a lifetime of benzene exposure from working in the oil and gas industry. Much of the generational wealth I still benefit from, is due to the Canadian oil industry; this makes me uncomfortable. But this same industry, the one that allowed my grandparents to raise 4 daughters comfortably, and retire on the shores of Lake Huron, in a house that they built, is the same industry that ultimately cost him his life- it’s the reason I no longer have a Grandpa. It’s also why when my grandma had a series of mini-strokes resulting in dementia, she spent the last few really difficult years of her life alone, without the comfort of her lifelong partner by her side. I’m not going to say that my Grandfather dying is the reason I work with other young people for climate justice- that fate was sealed over two decades ago, when I first started crying in front of the TV seeing the harm we have the capacity to inflict. But what my Grandpa’s leukaemia does compel me to do is work for a world where no one else has to leave this world too soon in order to provide for their family. The oil and gas industry in Canada has given so many of us so much, and it has also taken so much away. Not just from those like my family who lost a single loved one too soon, and too painfully, but from the communities like the Aamjiwnaang First Nation in Chemical Valley, downstream from the refineries my Grandfather worked at in Sarnia, where miscarriages are frequent because of exposure to chemicals like cadmium and mercury. The weight of our affluence shouldn’t be borne by those who have had their land stolen from them, or by the workers who risk their health and livelihood working in mines and refineries because our government can’t be bothered to subsidize job training programs for low-carbon work, or support an energy economy that doesn’t make a few influential people exorbitant amounts of wealth. The greed of the Canadian petro-state is devastating. It is so easy to give into the heartbreak, the malaise, to wallow in the understanding that we are already losing, that we have lost so much, and so many to climate change, and the fossil fuel industry. What’s hard is hope. What’s hard is to continue to love, to continue to plough ahead despite the odds, to demand better of our leaders; of ourselves. The Green New Deal is the first thing that has offered me real hope in a very long time. The Green New Deal and it’s “no one left behind” attitude offer us a chance to build the world we want to live in- a world without catastrophic climate change, a world where workers are respected and valued to a higher degree than the resources they’re extracting. A world where having the energy to power our lives doesn’t mean sacrificing entire communities like the Aamjiwnaang, and their children. Where, in order to provide for your family, you don’t first have to sign away your red blood cell count. My heart was first broken in front of that TV when I was little. I’m so ready to put it back together. And I’m going to do that the only way I know how: by working with those I love to try to save my home. We can do that with a Green New Deal, but we need your help, we need your hope, and we need your hands. We need to get to work.

[fierypen37]

The Oasis: Chapter 7

Another chapter up!

Oh gods. Daenerys bit her lower lip, her heartbeat thudding against her ribs. Jon, poised over her, flushed and tousled and sexy . . . oh gods. A scratch and canine whine at the door popped their bubble. Jon froze, dark eyes flying wide.

“Shit. Ghost!” he said. Reddened lips formed a rueful smile. His fingers raked through his mussed black curls in what she realized was an endearing tick.

“We overslept. It’s been an eternity since he’s been out. I got to take care of him really quick. I’m sorry to break the mood.”

Daenerys murmured something consoling, hiding her disappointment. The build-up was getting a little ridiculous. Jon pecked a kiss on the back of her hand, like a courtier, before slipping from bed. He folded the pistol into her hands, all levity gone.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes, tops, but in the off chance there’s a bad guy, just point and shoot. The safety’s off. Be sure to keep your wrist locked for the kick,” Jon said, his face serious and scowling. Daenerys gulped. The bright, vivid feeling she woke up with drained away. The world outside was fanged and hungry, waiting to rend her to pieces. When Jon was close, all else was forgotten. Jon noticed the shift and pecked a kiss on her lips.

“Hey, it’s ok. I’ll be back in a flash.”

Jon wedged open the door, warding off Ghost’s excited circling with a knee.

“Down, you lout! C’mon we’re going!”

The front door slammed shut behind him with a reassuring clonk of the deadbolt. Daenerys rolled over, burying her face in Jon’s pillow. Mm, that deep masculine smell with a tang of woodsy aftershave. It steadied her. The service pistol was heavier than she thought it would be, cold and reassuring in her hands. Rolling out of bed, she hurried to the bathroom. Simple things like combing her hair and brushing her teeth made her feel normal.

The central air hummed, the walls creaked and settled. Warm wedges of sunlight poured in from the windows. Gods, had she ever slept this late in her life? She tiptoed through his apartment, eager to soak up hints about him. Crushing like a teenager. Tidy, almost utilitarian. No wall art or decorations. The kitchen was clean, for a guy’s place, a couple dishes soaking in the sink. Daenerys put the battered kettle on for tea. The tea tin on the counter was a full-bodied variety from the Summer Islands. The living room was sparsely furnished with a comfy suede couch and an older model flatscreen. The end tables, desk, and tea table were made by hand, she noticed the loving detail in the carving and polish. He said he worked construction. But he seemed to have a particular talent as a woodworker.

A framed picture showed Jon with his arm around a slender dark-haired girl. His sister Arya, if she could guess. Both had the same wide, square-toothed smile. Behind them was the windswept coniferous beauty of the North district. Maybe Winterfell, where he grew up. A flat buzz and generic droning startled her. Daenerys blinked at the square flip phone Jory bought her. The only ones who had this number were her security team and her brother. Daenerys flicked it open and stabbed TALK.

“Hello?”

“Daenerys? What happened?” Her joints turned to water at the sound of Vis’s familiar, querulous voice.

“Vis, thank the gods. Barry said he talked--”

“Yes, yes, Selmy filled me in on the attack. Working with undesirables always leads to this. I’ve always told you nothing profitable will come of it, but you insisted. Such disgusting underworld tactics. Brutes. What happened with Daario?” Daenerys took a steadying breath. She paced the length of Jon’s living room, the worn carpet tickling the soles of her feet. Barry’s pistol felt heavy in her hand.

“Um, we broke up.”

“You can’t be serious, Daenerys! Stormcrow is our foremost partner! I’m on the jet right now, flying home. Our stocks dipped three points this morning.” Her stomach plummeted. He went to the press, that spiteful worm! Gods, she could see it already, her face plastered on every tabloid. A CEO dumped, the icy Dragon Queen spurned. All that sexist shit she loathed.

“That’s barely a dip. We’ll be fine. Give it a news cycle, people will get over it,” she said soothingly. Dragon was safe in Tyrion’s hands. His spin team was unrivaled.

“No, you’re going to patch things up with Daario. Now!” The beginnings of anger blew on all those convoluted betrayed embers from the night before. The dragon pin she bought Daario for an anniversary present gleaming on his lapel. Daario’s handsome face slack in bliss. Jeyne’s black pencil skirt rucked up--

“He was cheating on me, Viserys. I caught him, red-handed. I’m not going back.”

“You will or I’ll--” There it was: Vis’s forte of bluster and threats. When that didn’t work, cruel words or blows, when he was drunk enough.

“I. Am. Not. Going. Back,” she hissed. The phone was silent save for Vis’s sawing breathing for a long while. Daenerys humored him because he was her only family and he had sacrificed a great deal to give her an education, but he had nothing to stand on when it came down to it. She was Dragon’s CEO and controlling interest on the board.  

“Where are you? Maybe once we can have a civilized conversation in person, you’ll be more reasonable,” Vis said sulkily.

“I’m staying at a friend’s. Call me at this number when you land,” Daenerys said, snapping the phone shut before he could get another word in. Sweat dewed on her face, her pulse loud in her ears. Vis’s bullying had been played out when she was ten and Mother was dying, but it never failed to get under her skin.

In the kitchen, the kettle warbled. Daenerys moved it off the burner and added the tea in two neat scoops, setting it aside to steep. A breath of tea-scented air calmed her. Motes of dust lazed in a sunbeam. The phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“Hello? May I speak to Daenerys Targaryen?” the voice held a thick Flea Bottom accent, but was cautiously friendly. He stumbled a bit over her impossible Valyrian name.

“Who may I ask is calling?”

“This is Detective Davos Seaworth with the City Watch. I’ve been assigned to your case.” Her shoulders relaxed. Daenerys resumed her pacing, albeit a bit slower. It was a strange tick of hers, but she could never sit still on the phone.

“This is Daenerys, how can I help you, Detective?”

“Yes, m’lady, erm, there is no easy way to say this, but when the goldcoats arrived at the scene of the assault, the suspect had fled.”

“What?” Daenerys asked, clutching the phone tight in one hand, the pistol in the other.

“The suspect fled the scene,” the detective repeated, “The officers recovered your cellphone and wallet. The crime techs found evidence of the suspect’s DNA as well as yours and a third party--”

“Yes, Jon Snow. He’s a friend. How . . . how is possible he fled? The attacker was knocked out cold.” The hand holding the phone shook.

“In your statement, you mentioned the suspect was affiliated with some sort of a group?”

“The Harpy Triumvirate, yes. They’ve been sending me death threats.” Good. Her voice was still steady.

“Are you in safe place, m’lady?” Daenerys cast a glance around Jon’s apartment. Though unfamiliar, it felt warm and sturdy, much like Jon himself. The gun had an encouraging heft in her hand.

“Yes,” she said.

“A video message was found on your laptop, apparently from this Triumvirate.”

Hot and cold washed over her in sickening waves. The threats had always been repetitive, obnoxious, poorly spelled. It led her to believe that no matter how widespread, the harpies were petty thugs. They never sent a media file. Even a hint of sophistication was enough to rattle her at this point.

“Send it to me.”

“M’lady, I don’t think--”

“Send it to me.”

“It’s . . . disturbing.” Her stomach lurched.

“I understand,” she said.

“Maybe you could give us your insights. If you recognize anything. Watch at your own discretion. I’ll be in touch,” Seaworth said gently. Daenerys traded information with the detective and hung up. A moment later, the phone pinged with a media file. Daenerys swallowed hard and pressed PLAY.

The playback was grainy, glitchy, on the minuscule screen. Through the blaring of the speaker processing, Daenerys made out the familiar walls of her apartment. A block of ice congealed in her belly, the cold creeping up her chest, her throat. The apartment was destroyed, much like she’d last seen it. But on the bed . . . Fine hairs rose on the back of her neck. On the bed was the body of a woman. Something about the positioning, her shredded clothing, the dark stain on the bedding . . . oh gods, they’d raped her.

Gagged and snuffling, tears leaking from green eyes. Her hair was silver-blond, like Dany’s own. Nausea roiled in her belly. Disembodied black-gloved hands hovered over the stubby ponytail, gave it a sharp yank. Her yelp was muffled. The duct tape covering her mouth had ‘Daenerys’ written in crude black lettering. A knife appeared in the intruder’s grip, its silver point tracing the woman’s throat. Hopping against the hammer-beat of the woman’s pulse.

“Once King Joffery shed a tear/From a woman’s smile spread ear to ear/The bleeding smile all will fear . . .” the sing-songy rhyme sang in a rough, accented voice. The video cut out as the knife bit in and the woman began to scream.                

                                                   ~

 The string between he and Dany was stretched taut. He could feel it somewhere between his shoulder blades. An itch. Ghost seemed to sense his urgency and finished his business in the empty lot two blocks down without complaint. Jon peered up the street toward Visenya’s Hill and The Oasis. His old glasses felt too heavy on his ears. The heavy black frames pinched the bridge of his nose. The goldcoats had been patrolling thicker, he noticed. Good.

The air was cool after the drenching storm, but the sun shone warm on his shoulders. More clouds brewed out toward the Blackwater, a tang of ozone in the air. Jon dragged in the scent of wet pavement, the greasy food from the pub down the street, and the brine blowing in from the sea. The street felt quiet and industrious.

Jon tried not to think about the half-naked woman in his apartment, or her clearly expressed wishes to fuck him. It made his mouth water, just to think about it.  

“Come on, Ghost! Let’s go home,” Jon said, picking up the pace.

Jon scanned his building with fresh eyes. The keypad at the lobby was a good start, but anyone could buzz anyone else in: takeout guy, friend of a friend, whatever. Anonymity was their best protection, fifteen floors of apartments to comb through. That plus the one hundred fifty-pound dog, thirty rounds of ammunition, and Jon himself. Enough for a scumbag ex, but a multinational evil crime syndicate? Gods help him.

Jon and Ghost clattered up the stairs to his floor. Sam met him on landing. Relief lightened his face.

“Jon! I’m so glad you’re ok! Gilly and I were calling you all night!” Sam grabbed him an awkward one-armed hug.

“Sorry, Sam. I had a rough night after work. A friend called needing help and my phone took a dunk in a puddle,” Jon said, with an abashed smile.

“Oh my. Is everything all right?” Sam asked. Jon shrugged, feeling uncomfortable and underdressed in his sweats.

“It will be. I better get in and check on her.”

“Oh, she’s staying with you?” Sam said in a stage-whisper. Jon nodded.

“I’ll leave you to it, then! Give her my best. I’m on my way to pick up Little Sam from school.”

“See you later. Give Little Sam a hug for me.”

Jon rapped softly on the door, then twisted the key in the lock. Ghost shoved the door open with his nose, shaggy tail wagging madly.

“Jon?” Dany’s water-logged voice sent adrenaline singing through him. Jon slammed the door shut and twisted the lock. In a flash, the door was barricaded and Jon cast a frantic glance around.

“Dany?” He heard the sharp note of fear in his own voice, but couldn’t help it.

The living room was empty, the homey scent of tea wafted from the kitchen. Ghost was way ahead of him, padding across the carpet and jumping up on the bed to slobber Dany. Jon elbowed the dog out of the way, scrubbing his fuzzy ears in apology. Huddled in the bed, Daenerys looked at him with haunted, tear-stained eyes. His mouth dry as dust, Jon knelt beside her. The look on her face gave his heart a sharp twist. He scanned her, searching for injuries.

“What is it? What happened?” He plucked the gun up and set it on the bedside table. Dany dragged him close, nestling into him as if he were her lighthouse in the storm. Reflexively, he hugged her. Tight, protective. The combat energy still hammered away inside him, and seeing her cry made him want to kill something.

“They killed her! They killed her because of me!” Oh gods. His face went numb. His gut clenched.

“Who? What happened?”

Daenerys sobered with some effort, sucking in shaky, whistling breaths. Peeling back to look at him, her eyes shut briefly. Tears flashed down unchecked in silver streaks. Jon petted her cheeks, smoothing away the tears. It hurt to see them.

“A detective from the Watch called. The guy who attacked us was gone by the time they got there.” Jon frowned.

“How is that possible? The only way he was getting up was on a stretcher. You’ve got a wicked right cross, if I remember right,” Jon said. The feeble joke did its job; she gave him a little travesty of a smile.

“He got away somehow. They . . . they left a message on my laptop. Of . . . oh gods. They . . . they raped and killed a woman with my coloring in my apartment. An innocent woman is dead because of me.”

“Shit,” Jon said. There weren’t words for that. The mind boggled. Sick bastards. Jon’s fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. Pain helped contain this gushing well of feeling.

“Did . . . did the goldcoats find her there?” he asked. Horror upon horrors. I’d burn the bed and move to a different city if I were her. Dany shook her head.

“No. They covered their tracks.”

“I’m sorry, Dany,” Jon said, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

Jon wrapped his arms around her as the storm of tears blew through her. He rubbed her back, petted her hair, crooning nonsense, feeling like a useless lump. Dany breathed a harsh, heart-breaking little sigh, leaning into his touch like a kitten. After a time, her reddened eyes met his.

The kiss bloomed fully-formed. He tasted the salt of her tears and the sweetness of her beneath. Joy and pain. Jon stayed perfectly still as she kissed him, though everything inside surged toward her in answer to the unspoken question. Yes. Yes, I’m here. Yes, I’m yours.

“Jon, make love to me.”

[the-record-newspaper]

My first love and the truest of all true love stories

                                          Carmel Schmidt Toliver

By JERRY LANKFORD

Record Editor

Sweet Home Alabama was playing in my head in the summer of 1982, as I left Birmingham, Ala., in the window seat of a Greyhound bus on my journey back to North Carolina.

I was 18 and was a troubled young man. I was leaving my sweetheart and first love, Carmel (pronounced Kar male), behind. We had been nearly inseparable since we began our relationship the previous summer in Upward Bound – a college prep club in which we spent six weeks each summer on the campus of Appalachian State University.

Carmel was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. We were partnered in a canoe during a week-long trip on Lake Watauga in Tennessee and really hit it off. We started dating and quickly fell in love. Our first kiss was on a rooftop in lower Manhattan on a field trip with that club. We were looking across the river into New Jersey and were happy.

A year later I’d wound up in Alabama.

I had ridden to Atlanta with my late brother, Mike, who went there to finalize a divorce. The Lankford brothers slept that night in Mike’s old sky-blue Ford Maverick in the parking lot of an apartment complex in the rough side of town with pistols under our legs. Mike drove me to the train station at daylight, walked me in so I could buy my ticket to Birmingham and waited until I was safely on the train. I still remember his smile as he waved goodbye.

Carmel had been living in Boone with her father and stepmother, Sigurd and Leah Schmidt. She had left by train from Greensboro in the middle of the night to go visit members of her late mother, Eva Slaughter’s, family. My buddy, Mark Brooks, and his girlfriend drove us to the train station because I’d blown up my Chevrolet Vega, and after several wrong turns, we finally found the depot. I walked with Carmel as far as I could before she boarded an Alabama-bound train.

We were happily in love — as much as we could possibly be. It was the kind of love that glows red in your belly and typically consumes all rational thought. It made me sick to see her go.

After a couple weeks, and hours of long-distance telephone conversations, Carmel convinced me I should come to Alabama and that I might want to stay. I knew that would be a hard sell – trying to convince me to move there -  but I wanted to see her badly.

It just so happened that at that same time Mike needed to make his trip to Georgia. He said if I was really serious about running to Carmel, I could save train fare money if I left from Atlanta instead of Greensboro.

If you’ve ever ridden on a train, you likely noticed that they mostly travel through the more industrialized sides of towns, leaving the scenery a little less than pristine. Along my way there was some lush greenness to savor, although there remained an unpleasantness due to very frequent stops, the unceasing bumpy-bump rhythm of the tracks, and the obnoxious porter who flirted continuously with an unwilling lady passenger.

Finally in Birmingham, Carmel met me at the station. One of her family members (I can’t recall which one) drove us to her Grandmother Lorene Slaughter’s home on the outskirts of the city. It was hot and mosquitoes were fearsome.

          Lorene Slaughter

Mrs. Slaughter’s home was an oasis – with a “Welcome Home” feel and filled with love from room to room, and from corner to corner. As for Mrs. Slaughter, she was a pure pleasure to know. She had sparkling eyes and a great head of beautiful white hair. Her food was incredible – especially her homemade pimento cheese that rivaled my Granny Lankford’s. And her soul was huge – speaking in a Deep South dialect I’d only heard in movies.

She took me into her home as part of the family.

Carmel and I each had our own separate bedroom and very generous amounts of cool air blasting from the vents.

There was a little store around the corner where Carmel and I would walk. I'd buy her M&M's and we’d play the big quarter-fed Space Invaders video game machine. There was also a nearby park with a large pond where we would go exploring in the waning hours of those lazy afternoons.

Finally it came time for me to leave. I was missing home and by that time - much to her family’s chagrin – Carmel had agreed to return to North Carolina a couple of weeks later.

We had learned from the Schmidts that some of their friends – Joe and Cindy Pacileo – at that time, were in Gadsden, Ala. That’s about an hour or so by bus from Birmingham. The Pacileos were there visiting Joe’s relatives. They’d offered me a ride in their van from there as far as Boone. My momma, Willa Mae Lankford, said she’d pick me up there. And thus my return home was arranged.

Again, I was parting from my love. I watched her wave goodbye to me until the bus turned the corner and I could no longer see her.

I was heartbroken when the Pacileos retrieved me from the bus station in Gadsden. They are wonderful people. I remember Joe as being a collector of many great paperback Westerns and a great cook who puts raisins in his meatballs. Cindy - whose sweet smile would warm the coldest of hearts - is a well known artist, having created many forests of little sculptured critters over the years. My sister, Ellen, still has one of her tiny frogs.

As we started out for the Blue Ridge Mountains, I remember Cindy handing me their copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull to read on the way back. It was as if she knew exactly what I needed. I didn’t just read it, I devoured it. I never realized how much that little book would come to mean to me.

It wasn’t long before Carmel returned to Wilkes. We were married in August of that year in Momma’s living room in her home in Millers Creek with a few close relatives and friends there as witnesses. A year later, our first daughter, Jennifer, was born – on Aug. 22, 1983. Anna came on Dec. 22, 1988.

Carmel and I divorced, found other loves and married them. But as years passed, we again became good friends.

My Momma and Carmel truly loved each other. She and my sister, Ellen, also maintained a strong bond. I always loved Carmel, too, somewhere deep down inside — if nothing else but for the fact that she was the mother of two of my three wonderful daughters — the third being Gabriella, who is now 16. Carmel had four more daughters, Diana Pless, and Destiny, Cassidy, Samantha and, stepdaughter, Leslie Toliver.

Carmel’s girls: back, left to right, Leslie, Jennifer, Destiny, middle row: Samantha, Cassidy and Anna. My daughter Gabriella is in front. This photo was taken in 2012. Inset is a photo of Carmel’s daughter, Diana.

Carmel was born on Oct. 9, 1963. She died of pancreatic cancer on Sept. 6, 2014. Hospice had brought her home to Wilkes from Forsyth Hospital in Winston-Salem on a Friday afternoon to spend her final hours with her family. She was surrounded by daughters along with our little grandsons, Sammie and Charlie. Throughout the night, her husband, Ken Toliver – who has become one of my dearest friends – held her hand until she took her last breath the next morning.

That is certainly the truest of true love stories.

Carmel and her husband, Ken Toliver  

Before Carmel died, she told her husband, Ken, that she wanted to be buried near my mother in the cemetery of Arbor Grove United Methodist Church in Purlear. He made sure that she was.

I know it sounds strange – or maybe I’d just never noticed a particular occurrence around here in September — but right after Carmel died, I saw dragonflies nearly everywhere I went. This past September (when I wrote the first draft of this column) I saw the reflection of one hovering in the glass of the front doors of The Record offices as I came into work. I thought it was going to follow me inside.

It is likely that dragonfly that brought Carmel and that period of time of our teenage years back to mind — the memories of my first love, that journey, and a little book entitled Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

I guess at that stage of our youths we are all trying to learn about life and flight.

Carmel, thank you for the two daughters you gave me and the entire beautiful family you helped create. May you always be carried on dragonfly wings.

[orbemnews]

Traveling This Memorial Day Weekend? Pack Patience. Last year, for the first time in 20 years, AAA, the automobile owners group, declined to put out its annual Memorial Day travel forecast as the surging coronavirus pandemic kept many people close to home. Its forecast this year: Travel is back. More than 37 million people are expected to venture 50 or more miles away from home between May 27 and May 31, AAA said. That’s a 60 percent increase from the 23 million who actually traveled last year, the lowest on record since AAA began counting in 2000. “Americans are demonstrating a strong desire to travel this Memorial Day,” said Paula Twidale, AAA’s senior vice president in a statement. “This pent-up demand will result in a significant increase in Memorial Day travel, which is a strong indicator for summer.” The Transportation Security Administration essentially said the same thing at a news conference on Tuesday, when Darby LaJoye, the acting administrator of the T.S.A., warned of longer wait times at some security checkpoints at airports because of the increasing number of passengers. On Sunday, the T.S.A. screened more than 1.8 million people, the most since the coronavirus pandemic began in March 2020. While the increasing numbers may be good news for the travel industry, which has been among the hardest hit by the pandemic, for travelers they could make things complicated. AAA said that drivers in major cities should be prepared for road trips to be double or triple the length of a normal trip. So many ride-share drivers have stopped working that those relying on ride-sharing apps may face long wait times and prices that are multiples of their usual fares. Hotel rooms are booked up and many destinations are still struggling to hire staff, meaning that stays may be rocky. Many Americans seem to have booked earlier this year, perhaps spurred by eagerness to get out of the house once they were fully vaccinated. A recent report by the travel technology company Amadeus found that, when the pandemic was at its height, most people were booking within a week of their expected travel, perhaps because it was so hard to make plans. But recently, same-day bookings have been falling, while those for stays 31 to 60 days out have increased. They now make up 11 percent of reservations, compared to 6 percent in the first week of 2021. The result: a shortage of places to stay, especially in top destinations like the Outer Banks in North Carolina and Cape Cod in Massachusetts. “We have 19,000 guest rooms, and we expect them to be full this weekend,” said Bill DeSousa-Mauk, a spokesman for the Cape Cod Convention and Visitors Bureau. “I think we’ll have a completely sold out summer on the Cape this year,” he said. Lodging choices may also be limited because many people who own second homes on the Cape and rented them out in past years have moved, at least somewhat permanently, to the area. Lee Nettles, the executive director of the Outer Banks Visitors Bureau, said that the area, known for its more than 100 miles of shoreline, is also experiencing a shortage of rental properties. “Our lodging partners are telling us that they’re getting really close to being sold out” for Memorial Day weekend, Mr. Nettles said. Those looking to stay in the Outer Banks should, he recommends, “contact your lodging providers as quickly as possible.” The travel industry still has a ways to go. There are nearly six million fewer people traveling this weekend than did so in 2019, according to AAA, and air travel has yet to reach prepandemic levels, largely because business travel has not resumed. Big cities with hotels devoted to conventions are still experiencing low occupancy rates. But those who are traveling may feel the crunch because of diminished capacity. Hosts on Airbnb have dropped off the platform, and Brian Chesky, Airbnb’s chief executive, recently told CNBC that demand would “probably” outpace the number of available Airbnb listings as travel rebounds. He added that the company would need to add “millions more” hosts in the coming years to keep up. Campers, too, should brace themselves for what experts said could be the busiest camping season ever, according to data analyzed by the e-commerce company Pattern. The company tracked consumer behavior in 2021 so far compared to the two previous years, and found that the demand for camping tents this spring is already up 97 percent compared to the same period in 2020 and 85 percent compared to 2019. Jenny Anzelmo-Sarles, a spokeswoman for the National Park Service, said that overnight lodging at many of the system’s top destinations, such as Yosemite, Yellowstone and Grand Teton, is nearly or fully booked through Labor Day. Campsite bookings through Recreation.gov, the government’s reservations system, are up 73 percent compared to this time in 2019, she said. “One of our top tips is to make sure folks have reservations before they hop in a car for that weekend road trip,” Ms. Anzelmo-Sarles said. “We don’t want people to show up and have nowhere to stay.” This increased demand is coming at a time when many parks, hotels and food service establishments continue to experience staffing shortages. Over the past 15 months, many hospitality workers have been laid off or have left the industry, and seasonal workers from overseas have been unable to get into the United States. Ms. Anzelmo-Sarles said travelers may see limited services in parks or in businesses in surrounding communities. And a survey of members of the American Hotel and Lodging Association found that 48 percent of hoteliers have closed or limited food and beverage and other hotel services because of a lack of staff. The tourism bureaus in Cape Cod and on Michigan’s Mackinac Island said that Covid-19 restrictions have prevented the usual flood of foreign workers who typically help during their busiest seasons from arriving. “At the moment, there are a lot of owners that are wiping down tables, busing tables, cleaning guest rooms, making beds, doing laundry, because they have to,” Mr. DeSousa-Mauk of the Cape Cod tourism bureau said. “Logistically, will people who visit be happy coming and having to wait for dinner or if their room’s not ready when they arrive at the hotel?” he added. But some people said they got ahead of the curve. Christian Asencio, the executive chef and general manager of the Chatham Squire in Chatham, Mass., on Cape Cod, said he “thought ahead about the staffing issue” after facing it last year. “We put up a bunch of ads,” he said. “I personally contacted chef friends from Maine and chef friends from Florida for seasonal cooks, and they were able to send me a whole army of cooks and servers.” Bill Catania, who owns the Cape Codder Resort and Spa, in Hyannis, said that keeping a core staff helped him prepare for the surge in travelers over the last few weeks. “Fortunately we had a strong base staff to start with, so we’re able to get it done. It’s just a lot harder to do,” Mr. Catania said, adding that accessibility to certain services has been limited and that he has set two- or three-night minimums on some rooms to minimize checkouts. “We basically allow the amount of business that our staff can handle.” But it can be hard to balance that with guest expectations, said Jake Hatch, the director of sales and marketing at the Sanderling Resort in Duck, N.C., on the Outer Banks. The resort’s occupancy is at a record high, and it is charging higher than usual rates. At the same time, daily cleaning has been eliminated and its high-end restaurant, Kimball’s Kitchen, has been closed since the end of the summer season in 2019. It will finally open this weekend. Mr. Hatch worries that guests will want more of a four-star resort. “That’s been a tough line for us to straddle,” he said. Across the Outer Banks, he said, “it’ll be very noticeable around the island that everybody is short-staffed,” with longer waits and restaurants declining to take reservations. “It’s still the same beautiful Outer Banks,” he said, but people should “just be patient as they can be with staff.” Higher prices for ride shares may add to the misery. Susan Subracko, a mother of three who lives in Brooklyn, was trying to get to Kennedy International Airport in early May. She was forced to cancel two rides after the Lyft drivers did not arrive, and when she finally got a ride it cost $160 — about twice what she was originally quoted and $100 more than she usually pays. The company reimbursed her after she filed a complaint. On her way home, there were no ride-share cars available and she instead waited two hours for a yellow cab. A Twitter user who goes by @sundeep recently shared a similar experience: His ride to J.F.K. cost him nearly $250 — about as much as the cost of his flight to San Francisco. In April, Uber announced a $250 million driver stimulus to boost earnings for drivers and get them back on the road. Lyft is also providing incentives for drivers to meet the increased demand. The national shortage of rental cars is another hurdle for travelers. Emily Armstrong, a community college instructor in Kansas City, Mo., said she and her husband booked a van for their family of six three weeks ahead of their 12-hour road trip to the Smoky Mountains on Saturday. But when Ms. Armstrong called the rental company to ask for an earlier pickup, a customer service representative accidentally canceled their reservation and later told her there are no more similar vans available in her area. Instead, she said the family would either squeeze into their four-door sedan or have some of their children ride with relatives. “I know this is a first-world problem, and we understand the shortage,” Ms. Armstrong said. “It was just kind of a surprise and caught us off guard.” Adding to the tension for travelers are the conflicting feelings and differing regulations around mask usage and other Covid-19 rules. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recently announced that vaccinated travelers do not need to wear masks, but this does not necessarily apply everywhere. Masks are still required in airports and planes, for instance. Tim Hygh, the executive director of the Mackinac Island Tourism Bureau, said that though regulations in Michigan have been relaxed, masks are still required on the ferry that takes people to the island. He added that “each business on the island is still adapting their own rules based on what they want to do for their employees and what they want for their visitors.” The Federal Aviation Administration recently said that there has been a “disturbing increase” in the number of unruly passengers who have returned to the skies with the easing of pandemic restrictions. The F.A.A. said this month that it had received more than 1,300 unruly-passenger reports from airlines since February. In the previous decade, the agency said, it took enforcement actions against 1,300 passengers total. Earlier this week, a woman on a Southwest Airlines flight was arrested after getting into a physical altercation with a flight attendant, who, according to one passenger on the flight, had reminded the woman to wear her mask. The flight attendant lost two of her teeth, according to a letter from a union representative to the head of Southwest. Mr. Hygh, of the Mackinac tourism bureau, urges visitors to be flexible and do their research ahead of traveling. “Any time you’re in a time of transition, there’s going to be confusion and sometimes confusion can lead to anger,” he said. “I’m hoping everyone gives everyone else a break.” Jackie Snow contributed reporting. Source link Orbem News #Day #memorial #pack #Patience #Traveling #Weekend

[thewidowstanton]

Archive feature: Guillaume Saladin and Artcirq

2018 seems to be a year of important circus anniversaries: 250 years since Philip Astley created the first circus ring in the UK, 40 years that Laszlo Simet has been performing on the high wire and Semaphore, 25 years of Cirque Eloize, and 20 years of Artcirq, the circus set up in Igloolik in the Arctic Circle to try to combat the high suicide rate among young people there.

To mark Artcirq’s anniversary, we have chosen this feature – by The Widow’s Liz Arratoon – from 2005. We first met the inspirational Guillaume Saladin at the after-party for Cirque Eloize’s show Nomade at the Barbican in London in 2003 and instantly became friends. Struck by his passion and commitment, I interviewed him – during a trip to Paris to see Nomade at the Folies Bergère – to learn about his plans, before he headed off to the frozen north. It was in the days of dictaphones, and just after we’d finished chatting for about an hour we noticed the tape had snapped! Drama! But Gui calmly said: “We’ll do it again.”

There cannot be many circus artists who would willingly give up the bright lights of showbusiness to spend a year living on an island in the Arctic Circle. But after touring with Cirque Eloize for the past three years and performing in its show, Nomade, almost 500 times, that is exactly what Guillaume Saladin is going to do. Seven years ago he set up a circus project in the tiny Inuit village of Igloolik. Saladin says: “It’s called Artcirq. I started it in June 1998, just before I started circus school, after two of my old friends committed suicide, to try to prevent further young people in Igloolik from doing the same. It had been like that for many years, a lot of suicides.” Since then the 32-year-old French Canadian has been back every year for up to three months at a time to teach his students more and to help them put on shows.

Now Saladin has been asked by the village to return to Igloolik to spend a year running the community centre, where the students train, and to provide workshops. He says: “In July, after my last Nomade show in Christchurch, New Zealand, I’ll move to Igloolik to a little hut lent to me by the missionary. I will schedule next year’s activity for ten artists that will end with the shooting of a movie I devised with the film-maker Marie-Helene Cousineau. With these ten we’ll create a solid base, but each week we’ll provide open workshops for the community and the kids will help me teach them. So we’re already giving back knowledge from local people to local people. For the Inuit people, by the Inuit people.”

It is Saladin’s unique upbringing that has led him to this point. Both his parents are anthropologists and his father spent almost 50 years working in the Arctic with the Inuit community as an expert in Inuit Shamanism. Although Saladin was born in Quebec City, he spent much of his childhood in Igloolik. He was baptised by its queen and given the Inuit name of Ittuksardjuat. That name relates him to a family with whom he stays whenever he goes back, so he feels very strongly that he is part of the community.

“I was raised in Igloolik and spent all my summers there until I was 15. Then I didn’t go again until I was 24. My father continued to go there to conduct his research. I started out training to be a sociologist and I decided to finish my Sociology degree there with Isuma Productions who were shooting the film, Atanarjuat, The Fast Runner. I realised then that there was a dark side to the reality to life there that I never saw when I was a kid. Kids are lost in the generational gap. There is a loss of meaning in their lives. The elders still have the old knowledge but the kids are disconnected. There are so many images coming at them from the TV, but it has no meaning for them. There are no local role models. That’s why Isuma are trying to create Inuit stars with their movies. Artcirq is trying to do the same thing at ground level. We’re not that big.”

As well as circus skills, such as juggling, acrobatics, Inuit straps, unicycling and trapeze, the kids also have a chance to learn such things as lighting, set building, costume, dance, theatre, acting, writing and video-making. It is intended to give them career opportunities and a purpose in life. Their job prospects otherwise are limited to becoming cashiers or sewage truck drivers. Saladin has a network of about 15 potential trainers and is looking forward to working with an old friend from circus school.

“Janju Bonzon will be helping me. He’s a teeter board and BMX specialist and has been working with Circus Zip Zap in South Africa. As soon as he’s finished there he’ll join me in the Arctic. He’ll be in the movie as well. I’m also going to bring other circus people to provide speciality workshops. I’ll be there the whole time, the other artists will come to bring specific training. The end of the movie will be the beginning of the show that we want to present to other local communities. It will be a full-length movie about a year in the life of two young kids from a remote community close to Igloolik, who do stupid things, and one is caught by the police. He has to do social work at the community hall and gets in touch with the circus group.”

Early on, Saladin’s project began to address the problem of a rising number of suicides in Igloolik that local residents had debated for years. Before Artcirq there were an average of four or five suicides every year but, dramatically, 12 months after it started, they were able to celebrate a suicide-free year. But it remains a bleak place for kids. The island has only 1,200 inhabitants and is surrounded by ice for eight months of the year with temperatures falling to –60 degrees C in January, when there is no sun.

“It can be brutal. It’s never banal, never flat; life is either very high, beautiful, powerful, very strong, then suddenly, very dark, deep, violent, with a loss of meaning. Kids there need to find themselves as teenagers, find out who they are. Traditionally there, men were hunters, women were mothers. That’s still the same in Igloolik, but not many people are hunters anymore. Lots are just like teenagers anywhere. They have lots of energy, they listen to hip-hop, rap, rock ’n’ roll, they always ask: “Yo, what’s up?” And the answer is always: “Not much.” And it’s that ‘not much’ that causes the problems. They are stuck on an island, stuck in a village, everywhere is a dead end, every street, and it’s flat, flat, flat. Just gravel and tundra. For eight months a year, it’s all white and for four, it’s summertime. Then there is an explosion of life. Everyone breathes again. In winter people stay inside. The kids have school until they are 16 and then are free to do whatever they want. Everyone is an artist inside and trying to express themselves, sometimes this will be by drugs, alcohol or sports. We’re trying to bring back another way of expression. Another possibility.”

At present, Saladin explains, the young people have three ways to escape. “Igloolik has two little hills; one way is the airport, then the village and the other is the cemetery. They can look out and see two exits. One way out is when you die and another is if you leave the island and don’t come back. Education is free, so it’s possible to leave the country. They go and study in the white world. It’s not connected to them, but it’s a possibility. Another possibility is if you commit a crime and kill someone, you will go to jail down south, so it’s a way to leave. Another way to leave is if you shoot yourself. Or you stay home in your own environment and do things that make sense of your life, and try to mix where you come from with where you want to go and find a meaningful job. We’re trying to provide meaningful expression that could be transformed into meaningful careers.”

Sadly, even though the suicide rate in Igloolik has been reduced by 80 per cent, there are still deaths among the young people. Last year the elder sister of one of Saladin’s 12-year-old students hanged herself despite being clever at school and apparently having a bright future. “She was 14. We don’t know exactly why she did it. I arrived three or four days afterwards and we worked with her sister for a month. We did a 45-minute show last summer that we presented ten times to the community. And for the last show she juggled with us. She’d come a long way. Inside she was always sad, but she stayed with us because it brought her joy and happiness. But at the same time she was not full of life. She had to work, work, work. It was meaningful for her to show her father how she could juggle. She did that, her family was there and they were all crying.”

Saladin first became involved in circus while he was studying for his Masters degree in sociology. A friend suggested he join her at a circus class and he loved it so much that he decided to give up his studies and enrol at Montreal’s National Circus School, where he met Karine Delzors. They became performing partners and specialised in hand-to-hand balancing. Delzors is also involved In Artcirq, as are others from the Nomade cast. Bartek Soroczyński, one of the clowns, is another of the artists who has visited Igloolik on several occasions to run workshops for the kids and help with the shows. Acrobatics, juggling, unicycling, hand-to-hand have all featured in the productions, which always have a local theme and feel. The shows are filmed by the students, some of the activity taking place in igloos or out on the ice pack.

He and Delzors have now been performing together for seven years. ”We were taught by Alexandre Arnoutov, who comes from a famous Russian circus family. He’s in his sixties now and is still doing hand-to-hand with his wife. The other two men who have influenced Karine and me a lot, and therefore Artcirq as well, are Daniele Finzi Pasca, our artistic director in Nomade, and Krzysztof Soroczyński, Bartek’s father, our head trainer at Cirque Eloize. He has a lot of knowledge about different techniques. So, those three men have been very important to us.”

In Nomade, Saladin displays his own wide-ranging talents. Due to his stature and strength he forms the base of a four-man column, he sings, plays the trombone, juggles and performs acrobatics. But it is his stunning hand-to-hand display, performed with Delzors under a fine mist of water, that provides the show’s finale. Despite losing one of the key members of its troupe, Cirque Eloize is committed to supporting Artcirq. It has sold red clown noses at all performances of Nomade to raise funds for the project, which has always been run on a shoestring. “They are also providing training space in Montreal, their own circus equipment that they no longer need and they are buying specific things for us, like juggling clubs. They are a great partner. They are sensitive. Krzysztof can also come to Igoolik to lead a workshop if we need him.”

Saladin has many hopes and dreams for the future of his project. “One is working with the Inuit trying to bridge the cultures, and the other is to create a show with Cirque Eloize one day. Karine is part of Artcirq and she’s staying with Eloize, so I’m sure they’ll propose her for it. Daniele will also be involved. If the timing is right, everyone is in place.”

His altruism puts most people to shame but he sees Artcirq as a lifelong project and appears to carry his responsibilities lightly. “It’s a promise I made myself when I was a kid and I’m just following that. My Inuit name means ‘the little old man who will grow’. This man, Ittuksardjuat, was a powerful Inuit leader in the 1930s, a great chief. Inuits say that through the names they’re passing the knowledge also, so the one called Ittuksardjuat will be a little like him. If my name was not Ittuksardjuat I’m sure my life would have been different. I feel connected to him. I feel I’m going back for me also. To save my life, to make sense of it because when I was a kid I used to live there. I was baptised with an Inuit name which joins me to their culture. I can’t say I’m not part of it. I’m just trying to mix everything that I am inside and use it to communicate and to share. If you don’t realise someday that sharing is the best way to live a happy life and that you can’t just live for yourself, you’ll feel sad at the end and alone. That’s my motivation; to be happy.”

Saladin already has an invitation from a festival in Salzburg for the Inuit troupe to perform there if they ever go to Europe. The Inuit Cultural Centre in Paris is also open to help them in any way. “There are many places we can go. This is one dream, to set up a tour, then to perform somewhere else. My mother is also involved with aboriginals in Amazonian Peru and when I was there I was surprised to see similarities between the two cultures. That would be a nice exchange. What one has lost can be relearnt from the other. But those are my dreams and I don’t want to impose them. It’s their own destiny. It’s for them to express and direct.”

Saladin is passionate about Artcirq and determined to preserve its heritage. He stresses: “It’s important to combine the circus skills with traditional dance and music. Last summer we recreated an old legend in a month. It made me realise how willing the kids were and how good they are. We’re trying to find the roots of circus in Inuit culture. Through that we’re trying to bring back meaning and not lose everything from the past. If you want to run forwards you need to know where you’re coming from. Our goal is continuity. Artcirq is not a little fire that will burn for a month and then go out.”

Artcirq’s website. To make a donation to the company contact Guillaume Saladin at info@artcirq.org

Twitter: @isumaTV

Follow @TheWidowStanton on Twitter

We’ll be catching up again with Gui in the next few weeks and posting an interview to further mark Artcirq’s 20th anniversary.

This feature first appeared in Spectacle magazine. A shorter version also appeared in The Stage.

[blacksheepunited]

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DISAPPOINTING AS A COVER UP NOW WITH THE APPEALS COURT RULES THAT HILLARY DOES NOT HAVE TO TESTIFY UNDER EMAILS OR THE BENGHAZI ATTACK RECORDS SO THIS REALLY GOES RIGHT INTO THE FACE OF JUST NORMAL EXECUTION OF HAVING PEOPLE BASICALLY TESTIFY IN THESE COURT HEARINGS AND COURT CASES SO I WILL SEE WHERE THIS GOES BUT THAT WAS A DEFINITE SETBACK TO DEFTLY WHAT WERE TRYING TO DO IS GET AT THE TRUTH MIXES DRAM CHARGES THIS LAST WEEK A FORMER FBI ATTORNEY WHO ALTERED THE EMAIL ON CROSSFIRE HURRICANE PROBE SO THIS IS DEFTLY INTO THE PFIZER REPORTS THAT THE FOUR DIFFERENT SIZES THAT THAT HE WAS INVOLVED IN A SECOND SOURCE IS MITT ROMNEY BLOCK SEN. 5 million you get a pay because here’s here’s how this is this is it was a no win situation because if you’re looking through itand you see that this movie has Oscar written all over to the studio here every you put to get a really set your there’s no way Kevin Spacey is nominated for an Oscar is no way does know it is impossible your movies be much you’re scrapping it so what you need to do then is reassessand say okay we can do an unprecedented move hereand reshoot all of his scenes get Christopher Plummer election looks the part two by way of the use of the make up we can do this take the shot that we can only done this already spend the 25 with the understanding that we know what were doing here we believe in this thing that is if the gamble pays off it’s a it’s a gamble if the gamble pays off that’s 25 to get back in the because everyone’s eyes will now be on this even more so because the press of what they did the unprecedented moveand if you’re able to pull it off was able to give a kind of performance that knocks it out of the park went by goes away with with with nominationsand you know more people going to see it in the understanding of getting out to the public it’s a it’s a gamble but it’s a it’s it’s a gamble were taken yesterday writing this is pennies on the dollar contrary to the title of the movieand IMA a mighty box office this is such a positive swirl of news around it coming off the fact that you had in jazzand Kevin Spacey’s entire performance people love Christopher Plummer the sound of music you want a statue for beginners everything is not in between he put him in this I know that the studio all along wanted to make a huge Oscar push for Michelle Williams’s performance in all the money the Mark Wahlberg is also it seems to have some name powered to this if you spent 2 1 2 million dollars C SPAN essays than 5 million to do all these reshoot the Christopher Plummer in there the movie is going to make that money back because a lot of people may not have heard of all the money in the world more humans have now I think to get be intrigued if my nothing else the morbid curiosity of you pull a shoot like this off in such a small amount of timeand still eerily fitting award consideration yeah I like it really was like when I can do an ECG replacement I would actually just shoot a practical so that’s is also the fastest way to do it as a shoot they can edit they could pinpoint all the scenesand just redo themand cut them into the movie on because it was isolated scenes is aware though that Christopher Plummer I think there’s another plumber in the film note that’s his actual grandkid the kid is playing the crankand it did look it up on IBB is another plumber same spelling of the name I don’t know if they’re related you went toand instead of the end be like the occupation yes so CSE is not Plummer on February just like we just the plumber Mario in the movie makes total sense I mean it does sound crazy like it’s coming out a month but in the take all the money you need to make it you know to make this right because I think with all of these situations Louis CK’s film not coming out now all these I mean our hearing Andrew Kreisberg from the arrow verse you know they had to lock him down toand investigate all these allegations it’s a pretty horrible situation every data every day to hear about all these different thingsand keep hitting home like if you love and love super doesn’t matter what I love you see this went out it is a horrible thing he certainly thought were here yes but is also very encouraging because this stuff is been going on for very long timeand it was never out there now it’s like bum bum bum bum bum you anything that you think about it as I can hopefully if your creep on it without a leash you’re going to go with that artists set set my face to be a moron now there’s repercussions in back in the day there wasn’t there is now so I’m glad it’s all coming out but it’s you know but it still it it said as he heroes was our heroes actually be scummy if you have a lot of conversation this week about me know that a comedy is there is so yummy I thought to myself my face the main takeaways is that there sometimes where is very easy to separate art from the artist of the people who made it in the cases some people like Brett or makes M Brett Ratner’s moving I can enjoy a the crap that I put out the last 20 years to get over not watching Rush hour three in the same light but then there’s other times when it does becomes operating as if you are involved in the production of all the money in the world at least you can say hey with Louis CKsand you can’t replace that guy that virtually every shot but here we gave Kevin Spacey such a small role that might’ve been meaning but we can still read somebody else in their for you as a moviegoer does this kind of put the film on your radar in a way that it had not been previously actually want to see the movie writing camera for Importantly for me to keep muchand now that is when it comes like from like four know but a movie like this yet because I don’t have a number of those big huge budgets from a smaller budget but you’re absolutely right that’s publicity he has 25 million that’s probably when it is publicity because a lot of me know about this movie arrivedand existed now that the movie replace Kevin Spacey would actually actually right etc See Other related products: Sometimes I Talk To Myself The We Both Laugh and Laugh Funny T-Shirt from AmazinkShirt.com