#But neither him nor Nathalie having had the knowledge to know what they are doing to his mind isn't SOMETHING GOOD

[familyagrestefanblog]

Oh screw it, I’ll risk it: About the fan reactions to Gabriel not having known that wearing several Miraculous’ is fatally dangerous

I honestly don't vibe at all with the current attitude going around that in "Evolution" Ladybug did a 'not required act of mercy' when she informed Monarque about the dangers of wearing 15 miraculous at the same time (clarification tho: Marinette saying it IS worthy of due credit, she is upholding a moral responsibility of her hero job and its something noone else has done. It's the Fandom reaction I see over and over again I absolutely don't fuck with).

It just really doesn't sit right with me that seemingly so many people legitimately think that any of our HEROS are entitled to withhold such a crucial information from the villain when it literally regards a human beings sanity, humanity and LIFE. No matter how god damn awful he is and that he was the one starting this war. He’s the villain, HIM acting like one isnt the moral standart, that should be the HEROS.

But just to clarify first: Its not the takes of people who just enjoy to see Gabe (the fictional character) get fucked up for an episode, but still treat the situation with at least SOME of the appropriate gravity, that I’m criticizing here. Its the ones who legitimately think this is rightful and moral justice our heros are entitled to, and that even so much as having mentioned it towards him was a saint-like deed that didnt needed to be done- THATS where all my alarm bells go off (AGAIN).

Because that's just morally despicable to me and in my opinion it's not only VERY MUCH an automatically obligated responsibility of a hero (so not just Ladybug, this regards ALL the heros. Chat Noir, Rena Rouge and everyone else) but truth be told.. in my eyes, this information being mentioned to Hawkmoth from our heros side is already loooooooooooong overdue since the beginning of s4.

In my opinion, the moment our heros found out at the beginning of season 4 that Hawkmoth has been starting to wear the Peacock miraculous himself it automatically became a moral obligation for any of them to make sure that ShadowMoth to 100% KNOWS that even wearing TWO miraculous fucks badly with your mind. For me this is not up for debate. Villains being fuck awful doesn't give heros a free pass for acting amoral themselves. This is also not a situation where “but they assumed” is excusing anything since the consequences are too fatal for that and too many people (besides Gabriel himself) end up in the crossfire.

Look, I'm not going to hold a speech now on ✨seeing the best 🤩 in everyone! ✨giving second chances 🤗 ✨out of the purness of our hearts 💖✨ because that's the right ✔️ and good💁🏼‍♀️✨ thing to do! 💪✨

And I'm also not going to tell you that I think that our teenage heros are obligated to ✨save✨ this toxic garbage can of a grown ass man. No of course fucking not.

Our teenage heros are NOT horrible people because of this - in fact, in my eyes the context of s1-s3 may have had our heros unfortunately assume too much that Hawkmoth KNOWS about the danger. Because of Mayuras involvement, and the heros not knowing that there was a DIFFERENT reason for why Hawkmoth hasn't worn the Peacock for so long himself - but this simply highlights one factor in the narrative that “Multiplication” interestingly enough even brought up:

The question of why tf children are fighting this war against the grown ass man. Because of course are children more likely to look at the way the evil side used their miraculouses and think “Well, apparently Hawkmoth knows about the danger and is now just risking it”, whereas an adult would perhaps have approached this like: “ ...IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII am just gonna mention it just to be sure or just throw it in his face that he isnt as invincible as he thinks he is when he continues like that. I’m gonna clarify this at least for the record so whatever happens afterwards is that asshats own fault, my responsibility is done”

So when Marinette asks Monarque in “Evolution”: Didn’t you know that it was dangerous to use a bunch of Miraculous at once?” (and I hope this line also is a question in the french original) this is not one of our heros “being boundlessly merciful, doing a good deed she didnt HAD to do”, this question hightlights one seriously neglected moral aspect that just wasnt taken care of because children are made to fight this war against an adult, so its no wonder they’d never concidered needing to tell Hawkmoth. Doesnt mean its something positive now that he never knew! That’s not comeuppance, thats just sadistic in the way people celebrate and glorify this (as per usual).

The villain was stripped off his choice and agency regarding if he really wants to risk turning himself into a full blown monster with no way to return. Gabriel was stripped of his agency and choice to do the right thing, something “Evolution” ALSO brought up again from the Heros Day:

Thats NOT good! He and Nathalie were at another crossroad of destiny but couldnt make the choice if risking him possibly ending up becoming so unhinged by the miraculouses influence, his plans crossing lines he previously hesitated or refused to cross, or him ending up taking it out in his civilian life which doesnt have a miraculous ladybug cure, is actually still worth their mission (all things that btw happened with s4). Because I would definitely make the argument that, if they had known, NATHALIE at least would have had insisted on him not wearing it all the time to take care of himself.

There were absolutely a couple of choices here these two could have made in this regard and while it isn't our teenage heros fault per se that this agency was taken away from the villains, it still doesn't change the fact that the villains HAVING this information could have very much have been a game changer. Gabriel and Nathalie are humans, that can't just be disregarded from the moral question. Especially not when disregarding that puts other INNOCENT people in even MORE danger!

No, villains aren't owed jackshit, but if the danger situation they create can be solved more peacefully and civil then in my opinion it is anything but "rightfully justified" for the good guys to instead rather insist on sending them to hell consumed by madness.

At the Heros day Ladybug gave illusion Hawkmoth the choice to redeem himself but it wasn't actually Gabriel it's was an akumatized LILA (once again, a CHILD) and now the villains never had the needed information to make the proper choice if they wanna continue their path, under these VERY DIFFERENT circumstances. Yes, they're fuck awful people but this ain't right either.Not even in the slightest. Nathalie at least made the choice of wearing the Peacock while KNOWING that it would harm her, and the show properly acknowledges that accountability:

And yes, Gabriel decided against his mission in “Evolution” and AFTER Ladybug told him of the dangers. And by all means, for that he can be dunked on however this fandom likes since then he DID have the information and could at least still somewhat properly put that in perspective. That's fine by me, roast away.

But there’s also a hook in the situation now isn't there? Cause Gabriel has already worn TWO Miraculous for an entire season without knowing thats harmful AND he is already wearing 15 (!) Miraculous for a bit when he is finally told.

So for all it is (and tbh, thats ALOT), this information is simply, already too late to not have affected Gabriels decision in "Evolution".

One entire season too late that sealed this man’s and his FAMILY’S fate.

Yes, he did it himself and noone put a gun on his head, but that isnt the moral aspect in this im talking about. If Gabriel hadnt crossed that line without this excessive Miraculous mind influence he wasnt aware of, then I’m sorry, I can hate this man however the fuck I want, in my book this influence nooone warned him about in an entire season is to be taken into concideration. Yes, I would also be saying this about any other villain because I’m not demanding for them to be saved, I merely want the unfortunate morality factors in their fates to be acknowledge (Like, if you think Azula from Avatar the last Airbender is merely a one-note evil and NOT a tragic villain, or Catra and Hordak from She-Ra deserve no ending towards redemption, I can give you a solid piece of my mind)

Immense harm upon a human being out of control has already been done through this assumtion of him having known. This has made him even worse and now he’s walking right into his damnattion, lost in his madness and willing to drag the world with him. I see nothing good or morally RIGHT in this:

Gabriel is done for in the most dehumanizing, painful and awful way; and no matter how much I agree that this man is a toxic, abusive scumbag and deserves to be locked up in a prison cell for the rest of his life, the punishments people are talking about are STILL no fate to be celebrated with such... genuine entitlement for self-proclaimed “rightful” vengeance/ comeuppance in the form of just letting him spiral down even further, ending up a broken and deranged shadow of a person and all alone with nothing and noone left. 

So yeah, I don't fuck at all with the continously returning take that Ladybug, Chat Noir (aka any hero) apparently held the RIGHT to act as moralities harsh fist of justice/vengeance and let it happen that this other human being maybe even unknowningly screws his own mind up, turning himself into a monster to a degree not even HE might ever wanted to become. This is NOT a suitable punishment and its very clearly reveange porn on an extreme level that is just more tolerated fandom-wise after s4 because its the white, male, adult villain, even though the initial GOAL in the show is to defeat Hawkmoth so Paris is safe once more.

Taking the man who has become a monster and taking joy in letting this human being fall into the darkest pits of his madness while undoing his personhood as “deserved punishment thats supposed to LAST” is disgusting. Just put a bullet between his eyes, empty 10 more rounds of ammo in his corpse and let his fashion empire vanish into the lost pages of history, that would be more merciful and heroric then the former.

Its beyond unethical. Heros are not supposed to be executioners or torturers and the way some people are genuinely straight-up serious about that is just.. something to behold (And I purposfully didnt even touch upon the morality behind what people are making ADRIEN do. Of course, once AGAIN without Adrien even being allowed to know that Monarque is his FATHER). Heros aren't justified or entitled to let their villain destroy themselves in such a long-term, painful and dehumanizing process of undoing their sanity. Heros are supposed to be good people and BETTER than the villain they have defeated.

[thechatsmeow]

So um... does anyone have any links to theories abt the graham/bourgeois/tsurugi/agreste connection?? I know I saw someone bring it up once but I can’t find it again and I’m having a hard time finding stuff on it in general

Tinfoil hatting under the cut (warning, it’s a long and disorganized post)

I remember seeing someone spitball about the possibility of some kind of secret society/conspiracy with them and honestly I’m?? Kinda seeing it holy shit

First I’d like to bring up this symbol

this first appeared (to my knowledge) in Gorizilla. It flashed prominently on the screen before the movie, obviously meant to come across as a pre-movie ad. However it’s placement feels VERY deliberate. you’re supposed to notice it

when it zooms out, we see the name on the car is tsurugi

this symbol also appears in Ikari Gozen, in the Tsurugis’ smart car. 

I feel like this is important. Some kind of triangle with three pieces in it. The symbols inside of it remind me of halves of a yin yang sign. (it also reminds me of sharingan but my weebism is not relevant)

While we don’t know very much about Tomoe Tsurugi, we do know that she is well acquainted with Gabriel. She also, like Gabriel, has a “perfect” child that’s being groomed to be the perfect successor. (A side note, I can’t help but feel like Kagami’s ring is important also, but I don’t have anything to go off of with that.)

Interestingly, at the end of Feast, when the news shows that the Guardian Temple returned, the camera cuts to the reactions of 3 specific people. It flashes to Tomoe Tsurugi, Audrey Bourgeois, and Gabriel/Nathalie. Hmm. Sure Gabriel and Nathalie have a reason to be interested, but the other two? 🤔

What could they possibly have to do with it? 🤔🤔🤔

Back to Gorizilla. 

old news ofc, plenty of people discussed this. just throwing it in the post to solidify Audrey’s involvement in all... this since she hasn’t really had many other hints dropped about her that I’ve picked up on. I find it interesting though out of all involved parties Audrey’s the only one who’s kid isn’t being brought up into some freakishly perfect little golden child. Maybe she decided Chloe wasn’t worth the effort lmao. 

Onto the Grahams. 

An early reference to the Graham family twin rings brought up in Felix. We know those rings are important, somehow, but we don’t know how. They’re either super duper symbolic of something or literally magical. Given that one of them now belongs to Felix and all the little quips about him being such a little magician, and being super interested in the backstory of the rings, I’m inclined to believe they’re literally magical. Especially with how much Amelie wanted them back. I don’t think Gabriel knows the significance of the rings, he’s merely attached to them bc they’re literally his and emilie’s wedding rings. 

Gabriel’s relationship with the Graham family is actually super interesting in general. I’m fully convinced the Graham’s were up to some shady shit. Gabriel seems generally uninterested in interacting with them, and the fact that he didn’t let Adrien go to Mr Graham’s funeral shows some strain between the two families. I wonder if maybe Emilie tried to distance herself from them when she married Gabriel? I feel like Gabriel was pretty out of the loop in general, even with the Miraculous’, considering he didn’t even know how to activate Nooroo without asking. I think perhaps he got roped into Emilie’s magical bullshit.

This is probably just my super secret strong desire for Emilie to be The Real Villain shining through, but that’s neither here nor there.

We still don’t know why she was using the Peacock Miraculous in the first place, it would be super interesting if it had something to do with the Graham family and their potentially evil shenanigans. 

I want to know how the kids potentially play into this. All involved parties have a child around the same age. In Adrien and Kagami’s case at least (can’t speak for felix since we haven’t seen much of him) we have two kids with overbearing parents that isolate them and expect absolute perfection.

I’m ESPECIALLY interested in Adrien’s upbringing. Gabriel is a massive piece of shit but he must not be the only one, since he isn’t soley responsible for his isolation. His mom’s only been missing a year, his homeschooling, insane amount of extracurriculars, and complete isolation from people his own age is NOT new. Gabriel and Emilie deciding that Adrien gets to grow up as a repressed friendless ball of Perfection was a joint effort. We’re given the impression that Adrien was close with his mom and that she was sweet and loving in that vague Dead Mom kinda way but we really know nothing about her. Perhaps they were just insanely overprotective but I feel like there’s more beneath the surface here.

And isn’t it interesting that the only other kid he DID get to socialize with and befriend was none other than the daughter of Audrey Bourgeois? Who we know has to have at least some involvement in all this crazy shit? 

Another thing I think about is Gabriel mentioning his “promise” to Emilie. Now this could just be a vague romantic “I promise to bring u back wifey uwu” but wouldn’t it be interesting if she actually... made him promise to bring her back? (I’m sorry u can probably tell that i just rlly want her to be evil)

I’m not sure where exactly I’m going with all this but it’s been knockin around in my brain and i wanted to write it down for my sanity’s sake

[flightfoot]

Ladycat Ch. 5

AO3/FFN

“Wow. You really did a number on this place.”

Chat grimaced. “Apparently he has an alarm system set up. An alarm system that triggers missiles in the walls to fire and kill the intruder. Seriously, how did he even get his hands on those?! Do fashion designers often meet up and talk about weapons trading and brag about having the most deadly secret lairs?! ...Actually considering some of the people my father’s met with, that wouldn’t surprise me.”

A grin slowly spread across Rena’s face. “You really think so?”

“Probably?”

“Feel like investigating some possible crime rings?”

“I think we should focus on bringing Hawkmoth to justice and helping your mother before looking at other possible criminals,” Fu interjected, Ladycat meowing in agreement.

Rena sighed, but nodded. 

Honestly he’d rather have continued speculating about his father’s work contacts. Better than having to face up to reality.

Noticing his downcast look, Rena gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’ll be okay,” she told him softly. “No matter what he says, no matter what he does, we’re here for you. He can’t cut you off from everyone anymore, not once his secret identity is brought to light. I don’t know what’ll happen after that, whether your mother will wake up and you can live with her, or whether she won’t and you have to live with someone else. But I’m behind you every step of the way, same as Ladybug,” - Ladycat purred like a motorboat at that - “and it’s not just us. Nino, Max, Kim, Juleka, Alix, all our classmates really, do you think we’d let you go through this alone?”

He gave her a small smile. “I know, but… well, sometimes I have trouble believing it.”

Even with Ladybug, he sometimes wasn’t completely sure. Part of him, the deepest, darkest, most insecure and anxious part, thought she just put up with him because she had to, that she’d replace him at the first opportunity. He’d been happy she brought in new heroes, but… he’d been afraid too. If she had more help, would she even need him? Or want him around? 

His father’d always given him that impression - that he was only kept around because he was useful, that his love was transactional and required him fulfilling his functions, his job. 

Ladybug didn’t treat him like that. She didn’t always tell him everything, but she cared about his feelings and didn’t withhold her affection just because he messed up somehow. And any time he’d let himself show that he was feeling down, anytime it’d been clear, she’d tried to find out what was wrong and help.

He just… he didn’t want to make her worry like that. Both because he didn’t want her to go through that, and because… well, old habits die hard. He’d tried to put himself out there with his father numerous times. Showing any sign of weakness, and sadness or anger or disappointment, any negative emotions had gotten him ignored at best, yelled at at worst. Safest to put on a brave face.

Ladycat weaved in and out from his legs, brushing herself against him. 

He smiled. He may not have had a cat before, but even he knew what that meant - ‘You’re mine.’ 

She didn’t need him to be Chat Noir - other people could wield the Black Cat Miraculous, and his skillset wasn’t technically required to defeat akumas. With other Miraculous wielders being available, she could’ve just relied on them instead.

But she CHOSE him. She WANTED him. Not because of what he could do for her as the Black Cat, but because of who he was as a person. 

Even now she did the best she could to comfort him, to let him know she was there for him, even though she couldn’t speak. 

He still might have some days, some times, when he couldn’t make himself believe that she wouldn’t pull the rug out from under him if he wasn’t useful, if he did something she didn’t approve of, like his father would. 

But in the end he knew she would comfort him, reassure him if she had any idea he was feeling that way. Because that’s who she was.

He took a deep breath, held it a moment, then slowly exhaled. “Alright. Let’s go.”

-------

Hawkmoth hadn’t had time to do more than throw a tarp over the cataclysmed part of the mansion - to conceal it from prying eyes she assumed, though plenty of people would’ve seen it before Gabriel managed to cover it, it wasn’t like the Agreste Mansion was in some far away part of town with little foot traffic.

Not that it had done any good at that point. Chat Noir had gleefully ripped it off, throwing it out onto the mansion lawn.

Which served two purposes: letting Chat Noir blow off a little steam before talking to that sorry excuse of a father, and distracting anyone who might otherwise have noticed a little bit of debris being moved or disappearing here or there beneath Rena Rouge’s invisibility illusion.

The chamber had been empty, any butterflies trapped within it long flown away. Which was one good thing she supposed; even if Hawkmoth WANTED to become Scarlet Moth again (and if that was a simple matter he would’ve done so earlier), he didn’t have enough butterflies to be nearly the threat he was last time. 

The elevator had been unguarded, seeming to invite them to go downstairs - to the heart of all this.

Chat’s eyes narrowed, looking at the elevator and then flicking towards Rena’s, Ladycat’s, and Master Fu’s position - roughly speaking at least, since he could only hear their footsteps and breathing.

Not for the first time Ladycat thanked whatever decided on kwami-given powers that while the Black Cat was blessed with super senses, the Butterfly was not. 

Wordlessly he walked to the elevator, the three of them following close behind. Fitting all four of them in that little space without making it obvious that there were three invisible people was uh… a challenge to say the least, but they managed it. (She had no idea Rena Rouge was that flexible. She’d need to grill her about her workout routine later. She knew she did yoga, but DAMN.)

A few seconds later the elevator reopened, revealing the sprawling chamber she half-remembered.

This time marred by an unpleasant stain of purple.

An unpleasant stain of a person.

“I knew you would come,” Hawkmoth declared, back still to the group.

Had he been standing like this the whole time, just waiting for them to eventually come down here so he could be dramatic?!

...Okay that actually fit his M.O. perfectly.

Adrien and Gabriel may be different in the ways that mattered most, but one of the things it turned out they shared? Their overdramaticness.

“You know why I’m doing this,” Hawkmoth said. It wasn’t a question. “You know what wish I need to make.”

Ladycat crouched behind Rena, tail lashing, ears pinned back, holding back a hiss.

Hesitantly Rena put her hand out near Ladycat. 

She rubbed her head against Rena’s hand, taking comfort in her presence.

But she never took her eyes off of Hawkmoth.

“Wishes come at a cost,” Chat Noir told him through gritted teeth. “If you know about the wish, surely you know that as well!”

“Whatever the cost, it’s worth it!” Hawkmoth shot back. “You’re her son, my son; how can you pretend you ever loved her, but not be willing to do whatever it takes?!”

“Someone else will pay the price,” Chat Noir said stonily. “You can’t control who or how. You think it’s fair to put someone else through this pain?”

“Fair!” Hawkmoth spat. “Was it ‘fair’ that she was taken in the first place? That the Miraculous she used happened to be broken? Let the unfairness fall on someone else for once. I’m just protecting the people I care about.”

“And that’s all that matters to you. Protecting the people YOU care about. You don’t give a crap about anyone else, do you? Hell, you don’t even care about what the people you love think of what you’re doing, our perspective on this!”

Chat’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute… where’s Nathalie?”

Hawkmoth looked away. “She didn’t understand. She cares about you, you know, but she doesn’t get it. This is best for you - you’ll see that later. Even if I have to fight you first, well - sometimes a father must inflict some pain on children who don’t understand what’s best for them. What’s best for our family.”

A low growling sound came from somewhere close to Marinette. It took her a moment to realize it was coming from Chat.

“WHERE. IS. SHE.” 

Hawkmoth waved him off. “Safe and unharmed. By the time she wakes up it will all be over. With Emilie awake, restored to us, she'll know I made the right choice.”

Chat stared at him, shaking his head. “You always do this. Bulldozing over other people’s concerns, their point of view, believing that anything you want MUST be right. That they’ll realize the error of their ways later. Never daring to consider that maybe, just maybe, you’re the one in the wrong. You never even tried to find other ways to wake Mom up, did you?!”

“Do not speak of things you don’t understand, son,” Hawkmoth hissed. “You think I didn’t comb through any magical tomes, scour any sources I could find to look for a cure?! The Wish is the only thing I could find that might work! Even Nooroo couldn’t think of anything else!”

Marinette’s heart sank. She glanced at Fu.

He noticed her gaze, shaking his head.

Fu might have some sources, some knowledge that neither Nooroo nor Gabriel had been able to uncover… but it was unlikely. From what she’d been able to glean in prior conversations, he hadn’t had much training as the Guardian.

Hawkmoth’s gaze hardened. “If you will not hand over your Miraculous, will not help revive your mother, then you leave me no choice.”

Hawkmoth - Gabriel - Chat’s father - lunged.

------

The three of them raced towards Emilie’s pod, trying to avoid the commotion. Chat tried to stay around the edges of the chamber as best he could, luring Hawkmoth away from the central walkway so the three of them could proceed, but it was difficult.

Especially with Hawkmoth having the upper hand. 

She and Chat alone couldn’t stand up to Hawkmoth on Heroes Day.

Chat alone? The best he could do was buy some time.

She winced as Hawkmoth caned Chat in the stomach, sending him flying into the nearest wall, leaving massive cracks in the concrete.

A faint hiss started up. It took a moment to realize she was the one making it.

Glancing at Fu, still under cover of Rena’s mirage (her necklace blinked. Two minutes to go before she detransformed) she watched his eyes travel over Emilie’s figure. Opening the pod, he reached in and gently checked her pulse, raised one of her eyelids, put a hand out near her mouth to check her breath.

Grimly he shook his head.

Marinette’s stomach knotted up.

He couldn’t fix her. 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Her head shot up.

Hawkmoth jumped, Chat Noir temporarily forgotten, landing in front of the open pod.

“WHO DID THIS?!”

He looked around wildly, but couldn’t see them - yet.

“What, are you *huff* already done?” Chat Noir asked, grimacing in pain. “I’ve… I’ve got more where that came from!”

Using his baton as a cane he hobbled forward, barely able to stand, yet still serving as a distraction, still trying to keep others out of harm’s way - like he always did.

Unthinkingly Marinette flexed her claws. This… this man KNEW he was hurting his son, KNEW who he was beating until he could barely stand. 

He just didn’t care.

Hawkmoth raised his cane, his face a mask of fury. “You’re even more of a disgrace than I ever imagined. If you won’t help me without coercion, so be it.”

“Wha-?” Chat looked up, confused.

Hawkmoth flipped open his cane.

A purple-black butterfly fluttered out.

Making a beeline for Chat Noir.

NO!

Marinette ran, pouncing, catching the akuma between her teeth by the edge of a wing.

“You!” Hawkmoth shouted. His eyes narrowed. “You’re the cat from before. The one who infiltrated my lair.”

Marinette just flicked her tail at him, turning her attention to Chat instead.

She expected him to look relieved.

Instead his face turned an ashen gray.

“Milady, LOOK OU-”

The struggling akuma touched her collar. The one Chat Noir had given her to help keep her safe.

It dissolved into it.

A purple mask covered her vision.

“Well this is a surprise…” a voice rumbled through her head, seeming to hit the core of her being. “But not an unwelcome one. You really care for Adrien, don’t you?”

Marinette yowled, writhing, trying to force out the voice, the twisting of her desires.

But his words were so enticing. He… he just wanted to help her achieve her goals, right? He understood.

“Don’t listen to him!” a far away voice yelled. “Whatever he asks, whatever he promises, it’s not worth it!”

“Only you can help me,” Hawkmoth purred. “Only you can help him. Adrien refuses to take what he needs, to do what must be done for his own happiness. But with your help we can save his mother, repair his family, our family. We can fix EVERYTHING. Isn’t that what you want? To make things right?”

She…

“My Lady, NO!”

She would do this.

For his sake.

He was Her boy, after all.

Purple goo covered her body, transforming her into a more suitable form. 

She grew quickly, from being less than a foot long to over five feet, from a kitten to the size of her cousins. Her claws grew, no longer retractable, but razor sharp, her fangs growing out from her face, her pelt darkening until it was as dark as Chat Noir’s suit - a reminder of who she was doing this for.

“Panther, seize Chat Noir’s Miraculous!”

[koshofthevorlons]

Heroics and Friendships

ML Idea: Marinette and Adrien decide they need training and if the Guardian won’t provide it, they will figure how to do it themselves. Things quickly spiral out from there.

---

It starts with an offhand comment. Just a joking remark in a conversation Marinette happens to overhear by one of the regulars at the bakery to a friend about the newest talk of Paris: Ladybug and Chat Noir. It was a argument about how who had trained them – with suggestions ranging from the government, to some secret magical enclave or to a school for mutants. Suddenly the high she had gotten the night before from defeating Stoneheart and cleansing his akuma is replaced by panic. Marinette is suddenly reminded that she, and likely Chat Noir though she will need to check, are flying by the seat of their pants. That they had already messed up once.

It says a lot about the lecture about protecting her secret identity and the dangers of not doing so Tikki delivered the night before, that Marinette manages to woodenly escape to her room without anyone noticing. It says even more about Marinette’s sense of duty that she manages to swallow back a panic attack. She cannot let herself fall apart now: she has promised to protect Paris along with Chat Noir. Everyone she cares about is relying on her.

Attempts to question Tikki only reveal some disturbing facts. The kwami is clearly limited in what she can reveal but Marinette is not happy to hear that yes, there are trained adult miraculous wielders out there who are not Hawkmoth, including an apparent “guardian” person who choose her and likely Chat Noir as well. She is even less happy to hear how Tikki is not allowed to really tell her anything about them.

Her mood goes to abyssal once Tikki reveals in board strokes and by structuring her answers in such a way to have Marinette ask questions Tikki cannot answer, that there once was an order in charge of miraculous. An order that also held Hawkmoth’s miraculous. That if it existed, the silence on the situation in Paris means it is gone now. It does not take Marinette long to also pick up how several of the ways in which Tikki has worded her answers suggest that this ‘guardian’ was once a member or that he might be in some involved in its destruction.

Meanwhile, Tikki as you might guess from the above is not a happy camper. She is not truly surprised Marinette is untrained in utilizing a miraculous. Both hers and Plagg’s powers work best when used by someone who has no assumptions about how miraculous are supposed to work. On the other hand, she is far less happy the guardian apparently gave her miraculous to someone who has no combat training. Learning Stoneheart was the first time Marinette had ever fought someone does not help her anger. She had assumed Marinette had been given some training – especially with the good job she did. Instead she is learning that no, Marinette was completely in the dark about everything! It does not help the situation is uncomfortably like poor, lovable Jeanne who also started off with no training or idea of what was happening. Tikki is still holding a slight grudge over the fate of her old wielder and both Marinette and Jeanne being young French girls just highlights the similarities between the two girls.

Saying Tikki is angry at Fu is an understatement. Especially once she sneaks out later while Marinette is asleep and discovers, no he does not have any plans on training either Ladybug or Chat Noir currently. She swallows back her fury and plasters on a smile, but this is the last straw for the kwami. She had ...mixed feelings about the Order, but it was Fu’s incompetence which saw it destroyed and two of her fellow Kwami lost. Making her even angrier is the knowledge Marinette is actually a child. Tikki you see, never really had a good grasp on human aging besides the difference between young children and adults. Neither the Ladybug nor Black Cat miraculous were often used due to their power. The youngest wielder she had before Marinette was Jeanne who was already an older teen by the time Tikki fell into her hands. However, her discussion with Marinette had led to a discussion about the girls age and the difference between adults and older teens versus young teenagers such as Marinette.

She decides if Fu won’t train Marinette than she will. The magic of the miraculous might limit what secrets she can share, but Tikki is millennia old. She is more than capable of being creative about how to get around those restrictions. Tikki is also feeling confident in her newest bug's ability to draw the correct conclusion and build-off from there.

Following an Akuma attack the very next day, Ladybug setups a meeting to talk about what she’s learned with Chat Noir. Adrien is understandably not happy. It may have been merely a few days since Stoneheart, but Chat Noir was already becoming an escape from his responsibilities. This acts as a bucket of wet water on that. He hadn’t really stopped to consider where the miraculous came from or the dangers involved. He ...is not surprised that the apparent Guardian isn’t going to help even as another part of his mind hisses at yet another adult controlling his life but never helping him. The guardian being involved in the destruction of the organization meant to watch over the miraculous and even potentially responsible for Hawkmoth just pisses him off even more. There is even a tiny part of Chat Noir angry at Ladybug for telling all of this, but it dies quickly when he sees her face. It is obvious Ladybug is depressed about what she has learned. Plus, Adrien appreciates her honesty and still has a massive crush on her.

After some discussion Chat Noir smiles, slaps a fist into his hand and announces that if the Guardian won’t provide any training, they will simply have to do it themselves. He has both training in fencing as well as some martial arts due to his parents forcing him to learn them. It won’t be perfect, but he can help Ladybug improve there. Meanwhile he will question his kwami and the two can share whatever lessons their kwami give them.

Cue the butterfly effects. Ladybug and Chat’s teamwork is quickly improving by leaps and bounds with quickly taking out the akuma Hawkmoth is sending out. The two of them are getting to know each other despite the masks and secret identities. Ladybug loses the image of perfection she might have once held in Adrien’s mind, but he finds himself loving her even more for all the little character ticks he notices. Ladybug leans about her partners home problems and starts to help him find an emotional balance in his life now that he cannot use Chat Noir as release valve. She is also a bit grumpy when she realizes she might be getting a crush on him as well as Adrien.

Another major change is Chat takes the fights more seriously. He still puns during fights but he no long flirts until after the fight is over and even then not as often – partly because he is taking the fights more serious but also because Chat noticed Ladybug is more flustered if he does not bombard her with flirtations, so is trying a new strategy. He also become better at protecting Ladybug without needing to sacrifice himself in exchange. Landybug meanwhile is becoming a better and better fighter who with Chat’s help is developing quite the dirty fighting streak. She is even every so often willing to join Chat in a pun or three during fights.

The effects even bleed into their civilian lives. Learning about the Guardian like he did was the last straw for Adrien. Yet another adult has failed him, and he can long fully use being Chat Noir as a source of freedom. He swings between a sunshine child to angry teen to someone with an overly large fondness for puns. His approach to handling his father when the man starts to threaten to pull him school, shows that he is his father’s son: with facts and hidden threats on the various ways he could potentially cause Gabriel’s brand harm. Marinette meanwhile is more confident and less clumsy but at the same time is fighting against a sense of betrayal. The Guardian has no plans to provide any help to them ...and from everything Tikki has shared, that might be a good thing. She does not have a positive view of them. She is also angry and depressed about Chat’s home-life and the fact she cannot doing anything about it. She is being forced to let her partner, her friend suffer and that is like a punch to the gut for someone like Marinette. She is also more suspicious of adults and less willing to simply accept or believe their criticism without comment.

The situation is also impacting Hawkmoth. Gabriel is growing far more desperate, far quicker. Not only are heroes growing at a far faster pace than him and easily defeating his akuma but he does not know how to handle the situation with Adrien. More then likely Nathalie is forced to wield the peacock miraculous during the events of s1 and Hawkmoth himself might take to field.

This situation is understandably causes even more ripple effects...

[tsuki-chibi]

Passionfruit (November) Day 18: Belt

See the whole fic on AO3: Passionfruit

————

‘So you’re telling me Plagg hasn’t said anything to you?’ Marinette thought. She snuck a quick glance over at Tikki and tried to imagine Tikki staying quiet if she had been the one to witness Adrien and Chloé. She couldn’t.

‘Nope. I’ve been waiting for him to bring it up, but it’s been four days and he hasn’t said a word,’ Adrien thought back. ‘I mean... he was eating cheese at the time. Sometimes I think the house could burn down and Plagg wouldn’t notice if he was eating cheese.’

Marinette giggled, then hastily bit her lip. Luckily, she’d had the forethought to prop her phone on her knees and open up tumblr before she and Adrien started chatting mentally. Tikki didn’t even bother to look up from where she was dozing in a pile of scrap fabrics. Still, Marinette ducked her shoulders and straightened out her expression.

‘I guess we got lucky. We’ll have to be more careful in the future,’ she thought. ‘At least until we figure out what we’re gonna do.’

‘I know. I’m -’

‘Don’t,’ Marinette thought, exasperated. ‘I warned you if you apologized one more time I’d steal your belt tail and hide it, and I meant it.’

Adrien chuckled. ‘I remember, but you wouldn’t leave this poor tomcat without a tail, would you?’

‘Keep pushing me and see,’ Marinette thought teasingly as her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and saw that it was Alya.

‘Uh oh,’ Adrien thought.

‘What? What’s wrong?’ Marinette thought, confused. She made the mistake of hitting the call button before she could figure out what was on Adrien’s mind. Unintelligible shrieking blasted out of the phone’s speakers. Marinette recoiled so fast she hit her head against the wall; Tikki jumped about a foot off the desk with an alarmed squeak.

“What the - Alya, is that you? What’s wrong?” Marinette cried over the shrieking, wincing.

The shrieking stopped. There was a beat of silence before Alya hissed, “What’s wrong? WHAT’S WRONG? Have you looked at Chloé’s Instagram lately?!”

“Uhhh....” Marinette said, watching as a very annoyed Tikki picked herself up off the desk and flew over to Marinette.

‘Chloé posted the pictures we took,’ Adrien thought. ‘I just got the notification about thirty seconds ago.’

Ah. Marinette sighed and brought up Chloé’s Instagram to see for herself. A small smile tugged at her lips as she saw the photos again. At Adrien’s request, Chloé had sent them all to Adrien and Adrien had sent them all to Marinette. But Marinette couldn’t really look at them when Tikki or anyone else was around, so this was her first chance to really see them.

They looked good if she did say so herself. Chloé had only posted seven of the pictures. Two were of Chloé and Chat, two of Ladybug and Chloé, two of the three of them together, and one -

“Oh my god!” Marinette screamed.

‘Oh shit,’ Adrien thought.

“I can’t believe that bitch got a picture of Ladybug and Chat Noir kissing before I did!” Alya bellowed into the phone.

Speechless, Marinette stared at the screen in absolute horror. Obviously, Chloé had followed Ladybug out onto the balcony and witnessed the quick kiss between her and Chat. Mercifully, the picture wasn’t of their actual kiss. But Ladybug was pretty damn close to Chat Noir in the picture, and their expressions made it blatantly obvious what they’d been up to.

“I - they aren’t actually kissing,” Marinette said weakly, not daring to look over at Tikki.

“It’s close enough! They even took selfies with her, Marinette! Selfies!” Alya was furious. “Why would they take selfies with her when they could take them with me? Why would they give her such a huge scoop?!”

‘Figure out a way to call Chloé right now and ask her what the hell she was thinking,’ Marinette thought to Adrien.

‘On it,’ he thought back. ‘I’ll tell Plagg I’m taking a shower. He hates water.’

“Alya, I’m sure Ladybug and Chat Noir had their reasons,” Marinette said as calmly as she could. “Maybe Chloé helped them out with an akuma or something like that.”

“You think Chloé helped them?” Alya said in tones of great disbelief.

“It could happen,” Marinette said. She looked at the pictures again and realized that she probably should’ve seen something like this coming.

Chloé had promised to keep quiet about the fact that Adrien and Marinette were soulmates, and about their identities, but they hadn’t thought to ask her to not say anything about.... well, about anything else. Marinette put a hand to her forehead, feeling a headache forming. In all fairness, Chloé probably hadn’t thought it was a big deal because no one else knew who they were. What difference did it make if Paris found out that Ladybug and Chat Noir might be dating?

But one person, or rather, one kwami definitely did know. Said kwami also knew that Marinette and Adrien were dating right now. Said kwami was currently burning a hole in the side of Marinette’s face. She pretended not to notice, locking her phone and lifting it to her ear.

“I don’t believe it,” Alya declared. “I bet she blackmailed them.”

“Alya,” Marinette said. “I really don’t think that’s the case.”

“It’s the only explanation that makes sense! You just wait until the next akuma battle. I am going to get an even bigger scoop than Chloé,” Alya vowed. “I won’t let the Ladyblog fall behind her!”

Marinette felt a chill of foreboding run down her spine. “What do you mean? Please don’t do anything stupid! Alya? Alya!” She pulled her phone away from her ear and groaned when she saw that Alya had hung up.

“So,” Tikki said. “Chat Noir and Ladybug, huh?”

“Ugh, Tikki! Please,” Marinette moaned, falling backwards on the bed and covering her face. Her mind raced, searching for a suitable explanation. Adrien wasn’t any help. He was as frantic as she was.

“Marinette, what’s going on?” Tikki said severely.

There was only one thing she could say. “I can’t figure out if I’m in love with Adrien or Chat Noir,” she blurted out. “But I didn’t kiss Chat, I swear. I wouldn’t do that to Adrien.”

Tikki was quiet for several seconds, to the point where Marinette got nervous and rolled onto her side to see what Tikki was doing. She realized that Tikki was staring at her with an intense, scrutinizing expression. Marinette did her best not to crack under the pressure, meeting Tikki’s stare even though she couldn’t figure out what Tikki was thinking.

Technically, it wasn’t completely a lie. She had kissed Chat, but it was with Adrien’s full knowledge and approval.

Finally, Tikki sighed. “Oh, Marinette. You are tangling yourself in a very complicated web,” she said at last.

“I know,” Marinette said guiltily. Adrien, quiet in the back of her mind, winced.

“I won’t pretend that I understand where you’re coming from,” Tikki said, crossing her paws over her chest. “But you should know that it would be dangerous if Hawkmoth knew you were dating Chat Noir. He would try to use you two against each other. You are safer with Adrien.”

“You make a good point,” Marinette said quickly, nodding.

‘You hear that?’ she thought to Adrien. ‘No more kissing in the suit, I guess. At least, not where sneaky blondes can see us.’

‘I heard,’ Adrien thought. ‘Chloé didn’t pick up, but she texted me to say she didn’t see what the big deal was.’

‘Yeah, I figured that’s where she was coming from,’ Marinette thought. She avoided Tikki’s gaze and rolled back over, unlocking her phone again. She scrolled slowly through the pictures.

‘It really is a good picture,’ Adrien thought.

Marinette smiled slightly. He wasn’t wrong. In the photo, Ladybug had her hands on Chat’s shoulders and was partially up on the tips of her toes. Chat’s eyes were wide in surprise, while Ladybug had a small smile on her face. The way they were looking at each other made Marinette feel all tingly. No wonder Alya had jumped to the (correct) conclusion that they had just kissed.

‘Looks like Ladybug was really rocking Chat’s world,’ she thought back.

Adrien flushed. ‘Well, to me it looks like Ladybug jumped Chat when he wasn’t expecting it.’

‘I didn’t jump you,’ Marinette objected. ‘I was just... frustrated. People kept interrupting us! First Nathalie, then Chloé... you can’t be mad at a girl for that.’

‘Mad? It was the very opposite, My Lady. You can jump me anytime,’ Adrien thought. He was laughing.

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Marinette thought, biting her lip to hold back her smile. She set her phone down and sighed, carefully directing her attention away when she sensed Adrien getting into the shower for real. It was times like this that soulmate connections could get awkward.

“Marinette?” Tikki said.

Marinette rolled onto her back. “Yeah?”

Tikki flew over and settled onto Marinette’s chest. “You’re a really good Ladybug. I hope you know that. I know that it’s not always easy for you, and that having to hide your secret identity is difficult. If you really love Chat, and you want to be with him, then maybe that can happen someday. I’m just trying to keep you safe in the meantime.”

Marinette softened. “I know you are, Tikki. Thank you.” She craned her neck until she could kiss the top of Tikki’s head. “It’s just a crush, that’s all. I’ll try to be more careful, and I’ll work harder on keeping things professional between me and Chat.”

“I really think that would be best,” Tikki said. “Especially since you have Adrien. He’s such a nice boy.”

“Yeah, he is,” Marinette said quietly, her guilt deepening. She hated keeping secrets from Tikki, and she knew Adrien hated keeping secrets from Plagg just as much. If they could just get a straight answer about what would happen if they knew who the other was!

But no matter how often they asked, neither Plagg nor Tikki would tell them what they wanted to hear. Marinette forced a smile and grabbed her phone again, closing out of Instagram in favor of opening up Netflix. She put on a mindless show to distract both Tikki and herself, but it didn’t work very well.

“Hey, look,” Tikki said, pulling Marinette’s wandering attention back to the screen. “You got a notification about a new panther exhibit at the zoo. You and Adrien should go!”

“The zoo?” Marinette said, tapping on the notification. She scanned the page. “Like as a date?”

Tikki nodded. “You two don’t get much time together, and his father can’t argue because the zoo is such an educatonal place. But it’ll be a great chance for you two to spend some time alone!”

A brilliant thought struck Marinette and she grinned. “Actually, Tikki, I don’t think Adrien and I need time alone. I think we need a double date.”

[thewritewolf]

Rekindle Chapter 18: Balconies

Marinette pays a visit to Master Fu and, later, her parents.

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@marichatmay

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

Marinette wasn’t sure how much longer they would have stayed out that night had she not remembered something very important that she had nearly let slip out of her mind entirely.

Pulling back from Chat, she put a finger on his lips as her eyes widened. “The Butterfly miraculous! I was supposed to bring that the Master Fu the moment we took it from Hawkmoth.”

He became sheepish and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Y-yeah. We got caught up in me and my problems there for a while, didn’t we? Sorry.”

“If it means that you’re in better state of mind, then I can’t regret it.” She placed a kiss on his nose as she stood up.

His brow scrunched up in confusion as he watched her. “Wait, are we going there now? Can’t this wait until morning at least?”

“No, I’ve already put this off too long. Besides, I know that Master Fu won’t mind being woken up this late if it means getting ahold of the miraculous.”

He grabbed her hand when she got close to the fire escape. “Allow me, my lady.”

And just like that, he had pulled her close and jumped over the edge, deftly catching the railing nearest to their bedroom and swinging them inside. She snorted. He must be feeling better if he is back to his theatrics.

“You know, I’m perfectly capable of walking down the stairs myself.”

“Probably,” he said with a grin. “But I like my way better.” He spared a glance for Tikki, still resting in her spot at the bedside. “Need a lift to Master Fu’s? Your ride seems to be sleeping.”

She knew it would probably be better to wake her up, but the last few days had been hard work on the poor kwami. Tikki deserved to have a little more relaxation, right? Besides, Marinette would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy sailing across Paris holding onto Chat Noir. It felt good to let go every once in awhile. With a shiver, she remembered she was still wearing pajamas and a robe.

“Let me change into something warmer and we can head over.”

-----------------------------

“You did well to bring this to me, young ones,” Master Fu said while placing the recovered miraculous in a familiar black and red box.

“Sorry it took so long - everything just happened so suddenly.” Marinette bowed her head and saw Chat Noir do the same out of the corner of her eyes.

“Understandable,” he replied as he cast a meaningful look to her feline partner and placed the box next to the Miracle Box.

“Wait, aren’t you going to return it to the rest of them? I’m sure Nooroo wants to see his friends again.” Chat rubbed his arm nervously. No wonder he was concerned for the sick kwami - hurting and alone wasn’t far off from his situation not too long ago.

Wayzz zoomed in front of his face. “While nothing would please us more than to return him immediately, being exposed to such intense negative emotions for so long would require healing for any kwami. And Nooroo, being so sensitive to the subtleties of emotion, is in even greater need.” His frown gave way to a small smile. “But don’t worry! He is in good hands now, and his recovery can begin.”

Master Fu stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Which is more than I can say for Duusu and her miraculous. It is a shame that we don’t know what happened to it.”

“Actually… I think I know who has it,” Chat replied, hesitantly. Marinette blinked at him in shock. When had he found out about the Peacock miraculous? And why hadn’t he brought it up- okay, that part was obvious. A lot has happened in the last few days.

“Really? That’s excellent news!” Fu’s excitement gave way to concern. “Wait just a moment. Is it in use?”

Chat nodded. “I didn’t see her actually transform, but, I talked with Plagg and Nooroo a little and Nathalie definitely has it. Somehow, she used it to teleport away from me before I could stop her.”

While Master Fu stared into space, stroking his beard, Marinette settled into Ladybug mode, “How bad is it? Do we have to worry about another Hawkmoth?”

“While some mischief may be caused by the Peacock miraculous, it lacks the potential for secrecy that the Butterfly does. No, it is not the people of Paris that I fear for, but rather this Nathalie.”

Marinette exchanged a look with Chat Noir and saw the worry in his eyes. “What do you mean, Master?”

“The Peacock was damaged during the Fall. It is much too unstable to be used for extended periods of time. Even worse, until I can repair it, the chosen will suffer from prolonged use.” He let out a deep sigh as he shuffled into the kitchen. “The good news is that there will not be a new Hawkmoth and one way or another, this situation will resolve itself soon. What is less fortunate is that I don’t know what the repercussions might be.”

“You mean for Nathalie? Will she at least be… alright?” Even after her betrayal, Adrien still cared. Marinette felt her heart go out to him.

“I can’t say. Hopefully she will seek help before then. We simply have to be ready until then. With the powers the peacock can grant her - and her apparent knowledge of them - she will prove difficult to catch otherwise.” Master Fu shook his head sadly. “I just hope that no other damage occurs because of her recklessness.”

Slipping her hand in Chat’s, Marinette nodded and said, “I hope so too.”

---------------------------------

Marinette sat on the balcony of her old room above the bakery, looking out over the familiar night time vista, practically a copy of her childhood memories. After a couple weeks of being in close quarters with each other, she decided that maybe it was best to give Adrien some space to himself. And what better way to do that than to pay another visit to her parents’ home?

Still… even if it was just for the weekend, she couldn’t help but miss him. She rolled her eyes in irritation with herself. It was only a few days! He was probably doing just fine without her right now. The least she could do was go back down and spend some more time with her parents. She was about to do just that when something caught her eye.

Maybe it was just because she was thinking about him - she’d certainly been doing a lot of that these last couple nights she’d been sleeping alone. Because it surely couldn’t have been Chat Noir she saw across the street. Right?

Pulling out her phone, she sent a quick text to Chat Noir’s baton, asking if he was out. When he replied immediately, she huffed and pressed the call button without responding.

“Chat.”

“Um, hi, Marinette. Did you, uh, need something?”

“Don’t play coy. I saw you.” Her voice softened as she crossed her arm over her chest. “You know my offer still stands, right? You can come over if you want.”

“I don’t know.” The call ended. She wasn’t about to let him off that easily, but just as she was about to redial, she heard his voice coming from behind her. “I suppose I can make some time for my favorite civilian, though.”

She turned around and he was perched on the railing like an actual cat. She crossed the distance between them. Putting her hands on his cheeks, she pulled him into a kiss and felt his tail wrap around her leg.

“Miss me?” He smiled smugly against her, but before she could provide a retort, he continued, “I missed you too.”

Shaking her head, she laughed. “It’s only been two days! Are we really that bad?”

“It isn’t bad to be madly in love, you know.” Despite his bold proclamation, there was a faint blush on his cheeks.

“Such a flirt.”

“You like it,” he replied in a sing-song voice.

“Maybe.” She poked his nose. A sudden idea occurred to her and she pulled him off the railing. “Come on!”

As he struggled to stay on his feet, he asked, “Where are we going?”

“To see my parents, of course. I’m sure they’d love to see one of the great heroes of Paris.” She whispered to him as they leapt down the trapdoor into her old room. “Just tone down the flirtiness, okay? We haven’t even told anyone we’re dating yet.”

He looked her up and down with a dubious look on his face. “It’s going to be hard with you looking like that.”

She glanced down at herself in confusion. He’d seen her in pajamas plenty of times. “Looking like what?”

“Looking so beautiful, as always.”

She punched his arm playfully with a roll of her eyes. She hoped that the light blush wouldn’t be too noticeable when they reached the floor her parents were on. Taking a deep breath, she led him into the living room, where they were watching television. Since she was here, they were staying up late - at least, late for bakers.

“Mom, dad? We have a guest!”

“Guest? But I didn’t hear the door-” Her dad turned around and his eyes widened when he saw Chat Noir standing by the door. “Welcome. Welcome!” Neither Marinette nor Chat were ready when he picked up the feline hero in a hug. “You’ve done Paris a great service, son!” He placed him gently back on the ground. “Stay here for just a moment. I have a present for you!”

While Tom hurried out to the kitchen, her mother walked over to them. “It really is something, isn’t it? After so many years of worrying about supervillains and all it ends in an evening! You must be so happy.” Sabine smiled warmly at him. “We really appreciate everything you’ve done for Paris, though heaven knows I’m glad you won’t have to put yourself in danger like that any more.”

Marinette’s eyes widened and she felt like smacking herself in the forehead. Of course her parents would want to talk about Hawkmoth and his defeat. What else would you discuss with Chat Noir? It was true that he was doing much better, but it was still a recent pain. She glanced worriedly at Chat, who had plastered one of his fake model smiles onto his face as he listened to her mother.

Before Marinette could change the topic, her father returned with a platter laden with bags. No doubt they were filled with the remains of that day’s batch of pastries.

“Here you go, son. You’re not much more than skin and bones - eat all you want!” The enthusiasm became dampened as he continued. “But, if you could take some to Adrien Agreste, we’d appreciate it.” Chat nearly choked on the croissant he had begun eating.

Sabine put a hand on her chest. “Oh dear! That poor sweetheart. I can’t believe his father could do something like that.” As they all sat down, she shook her head sadly. “There were so many akuma attacks that went at your school, Marinette. To think that he put his own son in danger like that…” She patted Chat Noir’s hand. “Thank you for taking care of him. Being constantly bombarded by questions and accusations would only make this worse for him, I’m sure.”

“I know he appreciates the support, but how are you so sure he doesn’t have anything to do with Hawkmoth?” His ears flattened against his head. “A lot of Paris seems to disagree with you.”

Both Sabine and Tom chuckled. Sabine replied, “You haven’t spent much time with him, have you? He is far too sweet to have taken part in his father’s crimes. I’m sure of it.”

“Besides, Marinette is a good judge of character,” Tom said. “Since she fell in love with him, that’s proof enough for me.” Grinning, he added with a wink towards Marinette, “Somehow, I can’t see the same boy that decorated Marinette’s walls being an agent of evil.”

As Marinette paled, Chat’s ears twitched up, alert again. With a mischievous glance in her direction, Chat asked, “Marinette had a few posters of him, then?”

“More than a few! Practically covered all her walls, didn’t you, dear?” Tom nudged Marinette’s arm and she groaned.

“Daaaad!” She whined in betrayal. “That was years ago!”

“Say, Mr. Dupain, have any more stories about little Marinette’s crush you’d like to share?”

As her parents did their best to embarrass her, Marinette couldn’t bring herself to care very much. After all, this was the widest smile she’d seen out of Chat for weeks. Even so, she made a mental note to bribe Plagg later - she knew that his obsession with Ladybug had been just as great.

But for now, she was content to watch him be happy.

[forkergirl]

You may read, and I hope that you enjoy ths essay in its context here: (http://abstractmagazinetv.com/2017/09/24/fuckinmuse-a-journey-into-collaboration-by-thylias-moss/)

  I am indebted to Jaclyn Jacobs for her interest in Collaboration, for it is my sincere belief that no one and nothing  makes alone.

  I repost that article in its entirety here:

  Art credit: Nathalie von Arx, Zurich, Switzerland

fuckinmuse: a journey into collaboration

(therefore, also into a True Love story in Love Jungle)(1)

Thylias Moss

Emily Dickinson had her Thomas Wentworth Higginson, and I have my Thomas Robert Higginson,(2) a man, poet himself, who became my muse.

In some ways there is startling similarity in how these writers became correspondents and more, so essential to the making of our poetries.  Both Higginsons are writers in their own right—I am simply astonished by how much is shared.  What channeling my Thomas Robert Higginson seems to have accomplished of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, both men assuming similar roles in the lives of female poets.   Roles they were born into, inevitabilities:

“MR. HIGGINSON,—Are you too deeply occupied to say if my verse is alive? The mind is so near itself it cannot see distinctly, and I have none to ask. Should you think it breathed, and had you the leisure to tell me, I should feel quick gratitude. If I make the mistake, that you dared to tell me would give me sincerer honor toward you. I enclosed my name, asking you, if you please, sir, to tell me what is true?

That you will not betray me it is needless to ask, since honor is its own pawn.”

April 26, 1862 (excerpt)

“MR. HIGGINSON,—Your kindness claimed earlier gratitude, but I was ill, and write to-day from my pillow. You asked how old I was? I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter, sir. I had a terror since September, I could tell to none; and so painful as I supposed. I bring you others, as you ask, though they might not differ. While my thought is undressed, I can make the distinction; but when I put them in the gown, they look alike and numb… and so I sing, as the boy does of the burying ground, because I am afraid… When a little girl, I had a friend who taught me Immortality; but venturing too near, himself, he never returned…for several years my lexicon was my only companion. Then I found one more… You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog large as myself, that my father bought me. They are better than beings because they know, but do not tell. They are religious, except me, and address an eclipse, every morning, whom they call their ‘Father(3)’”

Art credit: Gary Frier, South Africa, @gary_frier

  Long before I knew my Thomas Robert Higginson, as well as I now do, he had written a review of my book Last Chance for the Tarzan Holler (nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award, by the way):

  Last Chance for the Tarzan Holler – by Thylias Moss

    and it is quite telling to share that review at the outset, for it reveals his interest in the life of this poet:

  “Last Chance for the Tarzan Holler is the sixth book by Thylias Moss, her first after grabbing one of the MacArthur Genius grants. Her work has changed—moved further out, encyclopedia-ized. She has memories of playing jacks sans hands, Thalidomide-esque, but all it is, is nose-sucking, the end of the world. Included are The Brothers Grimm, Zora Neale Hurston, Amy Clampitt, and Stanley Crouch: this is a thin volume, but spectacularly dense, provocative (is her cheating poem about Lazarus “cheating” death? or her and her husband’s affairs?). To read her Susan Smith/baptizing poem is to be horrified—yet, as Moss posits, ‘’tis poetry’s job.’ The long, more formal open-field works, particularly ‘Advice,’ ‘Sour Milk,’ and the title poem, all break new ground. I want the book! I want the movie!” Thomas Robert Higginson

  It is when I read this passage from Thomas Wentworth Higginson: “Once set foot on such an island and you begin at once to understand the legends of enchantment which ages have collected around such spots. Climb to its heights, you seem at the masthead of some lonely vessel, kept forever at sea. You feel as if no one but yourself had ever landed there; and yet, perhaps, even there, looking straight downward, you see below you in some crevice of the rock a mast or spar of some wrecked vessel, encrusted with all manner of shells and uncouth vegetable growth;(5)”

  it was when I read that passage that I realize how similar these men are, aware of the beauty of the world, that interest in being connected—all this is essential, for the gestation and subsequent  birth of collaboration, an extension of sharing, and admitting that no one entity knows everything, nor even what “everything” is, for such knowledge would require a foreknowing of completion, as there is no “everything” until there is  an ending as point of reference, so that everything including that which will contain that everything, even just a thought of it, may be included, and whose thought?—for each thinker, each experiencer has a sense of everything, a personal understanding, not universal, and yet each one true. Perspective and point of view, real, but not quantifiable, in a general sense of definition.  The specialness of what was forming, both of us aware, and not questioning it as if a destiny neither one of us could control nor wanted to control.

He called this truth our “US-ness.”

  A great word and he has invented many, whenever there is need, whenever the rare and impossible are born, the only children He and I will ever have, and who can say how many children these children will have?  How many populations? Descendants of all time just as time itself gave birth to our connection.

  I noticed how in so many of the letters, Emily Dickinson addresses her friend as “Mr. Higginson,” something I do also to my Mr. Higginson.  I noticed Emily’s habit of thanking her Mr. Higginson, something I do too, for how can I not thank this man who was the singular vehicle for my return? from so many things that set out to derail me from a life of joy and love? —a life of poetry?  He has signed correspondence to me as “Higgzy,” “Higgs,” or “Thomas Robert”—most often I simply address him as  “Mr. Higginson”; I like the formality of that, a simple title bestowed on him.

How do I thank the man who has done so much?

And I must thank him; this generosity is astonishing to me; never imagined it would happen. Was I looking for this? I must have been.

  I think that I was looking for him, without realizing I was, when I  developed “Limited Fork Theory,” a way of understanding how all things are connected, “limited” in that we are bound by our abilities to notice and a related inability to meaningfully notice everything that exists or has existed or ever will  exist.   Bound to the limits of our senses, those devices for accessing

  information and bringing it inside ourselves where it is processed for meanings, some of which are just beauty often expressed through ways in which what is accessed sings. And not all senses of all things access the same information and certainly do not process it the same way which is also beauty and variety.

I am always amazed by these ranges.

Both deficits and extensions of senses, that measure differently yet refer to related realities, that expand in both space and time, sometimes the same things expressed differently, and here is where personal preferences contribute to a delicious complexity of it all. For instance, the blind experience both increases and decreases, elsewhere, yet not all is even seeable, and the mind itself is able to perform some seeing for which conventionally functioning eyes are not required and would interfere with meanings issuing from a certain visual range, while acknowledging that human seeing does not include an entirety of the visual spectrum.

Limited.

  All means available to us for measuring how existences are experienced, are limited, and without collaborating, without sharing, without augmenting our own perceptions, there is little chance of moving beyond our limited understandings, limiting them even further and our understandings

even further. Limited by limitations themselves limited by other limitations, all ranges outside of “everything” are necessarily limited. Takes a conglomeration, a community of all seeing to produce a more accurate understanding of seeing, not seeing; understanding, not understanding; comprehending, not comprehending, and so forth.

  A realization that everything has significance has burdened this writer; I have even felt guilt about what I have failed to notice. And I cannot even know what all of that is. So, I realize that making is collaborative. All things have a part in whatever I consider, and all things that have a part are collaborators. Nothing I do is done alone, in every part of everything I do, others contribute, without exception; unseen people and things, even spores about to burst with no more than possibilities, building blocks of proteins, enzymes, atoms, linking, connecting into molecules, fabulous chains of existence, substances whose contributions are invaluable, and they should be thanked, in the very least acknowledged as being our co-makers. Unseen things, and

that which has attempted to manipulate these things. Such awareness totally transformed my life; I self identified as “Forker Gryle,” even on Facebook, until I was told that “Forker Gryle” did not sound like a real name, although I had been in the world, teaching and living, using this identity since 2004. Renaming of self to better understand the changing is essential.

  Why a fork?

  Consider the hand, or a tree with its hand-like branches; please note how fingers are branches of a hand, yet are connected, those branches rooted, even from what is referred to as the lifeline. Now also consider this; there is no limit to how many branches may exist or into what a branch may point to, or that a branch, like an arrow may connect, harshly or gently, perhaps each branch leading to something different, simultaneously, a road, a means of access both, in at least, to and from some location for some duration of time, those locations which could be any dimension, past, present, future; any parcel of time itself, and each branch may further subdivide and branch itself, those bends, those curves, those mobius branches, for those are possibilities also, those knots on a hand, those moles of dark tunnel, those cancers of opening new roads, all connected somehow to a singular hand of some sort, each part making a connection with something.

(Better angels.)

For connecting tends to be intimate, a touch of some sort, recognitions of humanity, that touch that brings all together, for no matter how briefly, something has been shared, each entering this temporary partnership differently than they leave, for something of each participant remains and

this happens in every interaction, something is left and something is taken away, mixtures, endless mixtures, masalas everything, fiestas of possibilities, changed forms changing further and further, the more interactions occur. And parties involved in an interaction are forever changed by this very partnership, temporary though it may be, of interacting; each now knows more about an other, and this is so useful, for this knowledge lasts and as subsequent interactions are made, particles of what has been shared, exchanged in a previous interaction are shared at some level, on some scale, in some location with whatever is next touched, for some duration of time.

Mighty Forms of embrace.

All temporary, unless, until, and here is where hope may harm as one entity of a connection seems to bend, twist, curve out of contact; however, when connection is made, there is memory of it, and this memory does enhance what may occur in a subsequent interaction: it becomes easier for these entities to connect again. Perhaps in a stronger bond that too may be permanent. A priming for interacting, for connecting. A risk that must be taken for the sake and possibility of change itself. We should not remain as we are, ideally improving as ultimately, we are sure to do. I have that kind of faith, that kind of naiveté if that is what is–

  –Did not Kinnell say  it, Saint Francis and the sow? –the only poem I have ever wanted to steal — I met with sme success in my collection of poetry “Tokyo Butter”

  Tokyo Butter – a search for Dierdre

Persa Boosks, 2006, the poem: “Dierdre in Kinnell’s Saint Francis and the Sow with the Aid of France Bourély’s Micronautics: Also the Culture of Epistle.)

Saint Francis and the Sow

BY GALWAY KINNELL

The bud

stands for all things,

even for those things that don’t flower,

for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;

as Saint Francis

put his hand on the creased forehead

of the sow, and told her in words and in touch

blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow

began remembering all down her thick length,

from the earthen snout all the way

through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,

from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine

down through the great broken heart

to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering

from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them:

the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

Galway Kinnell, “Saint Francis and the Sow” from Three Books. Copyright © 2002 by Galway Kinnell. Reprinted with the permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved, www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com.

Source: Three Books (2002)

——–

I have needed to believe in an ultimate improvement system, some things so limited, so contaminated that growth itself is thwarted, falls short; they refuse to improve and are left behind as the change machine of existence continues, plowing through field after field, upturning hope buried under rigidities that must give up control; those delicate flowers manifesting thorns and other forms of armor that allow their very beauty to exist, their scents to become better atmospheres. Bouquets of hope, Hopeful Garden spots freckle landscapes; so this is where we live now, all Pollyannas do, becoming pollyanna in interactions, some of that goodness, that optimism, rubbing off and onto every participant who interacts with this more rugged hope, more likely to survive, circle game after game, concentric circles widening, that embrace becoming bigger and bigger, wider and wider, the best possible circular-esque rip in spacetime, the colorful and productive circulating destinies that now come into and out of view, reachable view. Grab it! That brass merry-go-round and round and round ringing roulette wheel of chance liberties, libraries of liberties, each with a trailing ribbon that suffices for hair of the world, and wind, melodies of movements, concertos all. Nourishing also. Why not believe in this and make it true? What palate does not prefer the taste of this, so long as there is no other food, the breast milk root, child itself of prolactin: O lucky hormone.

  Art credit: Chris Rivera, @chris.rivera, Christopherjphotography@gmail.com

  There is no limit to how many times forms of entities that have connected may reconnect, for each connection or form of collaboration changes what has connected, making it easier for them to connect again. There is memory of having been connected. And that ease is hope when the

  connection has been beautiful, which is what I emphasize, in my preference for the beautiful possibilities.

Love is one of them.

  In July 2011,  I nearly died when a cranial aneurysm ruptured, and I consider this the most fortunate thing that ever happened to me, for it allowed a friendship with my Mr. Thomas Robert Higginson to blossom into a fulfillment that it never could have blossomed into without that rupture.

  A rupturing through which a salvation entered; I literally was looking out the window from the couch, and saw the sky seem to break, as if a rainbow had become a colorful saw, each color lengthening and bending, a tooth growing able to split the sky it was tasting, dripping slobber as

  the colors themselves, more ropes of tasty rainbow, the licorice of it all. It was a moment that had me run onto the deck, to see this splitting better, to be a more involved witness, my t-shirt reflected nothing but colors, I was only part of a spectrum of energy and colorful wildness, I was transmitting this rainbowed effect, a job I took most seriously, passing along information, being only a connector which is what I was even with my co-learners, a sharer of information. I had helpers, lots of them, everything that existed and was able to transmit in whatever ways it could impart the knowledge that it was still acquiring, information never static, but constantly adapting

  —it could be just his nature to help others,

for me the rupture, those neurons, my cranial rosebush as it were, a stunning pink flower blossomed in my head, a bouquet that life itself gave me, preparing me for something else, a romance with existence and with Thomas Robert himself, in my head—that is what the rupture gave me in a collaboration with a localized, blood-filled balloon-like bulge in the wall of a blood vessel, fertilizer of a sort.

    Everything is poetry, this is what I have come to believe after nearly losing my life, and Thomas Robert Higginson was waiting for me—I didn’t know he would be, although I had appeared in  a movie he produced in 1990 or thereabouts, The United States of Poetry, where I met him in Chicago for the movie shoot.  How innocent that was, but  connection indeed, a beginning of our physical collaboration; our words had already touched and enmeshed. For once connection happens, it is easier for reconnection to occur as what has reconnected remembers that it has

connected before, and no matter how changed these entities have become, there is on some cellular or sub-cellular level, addresses of the internal heavens for instance; there is some memory that these entities should connect.  My belief for which I have not lived long enough to either prove or disprove.

I am limited;

my own thinking goes only so far, each of my senses also has limits, and I cannot remove them all, but I can collaborate, make stuff with others and their differing limits. That is what happened with Thomas Robert Higginson. When I survived the fortunate rupture of that aneurysm, on 23 July 2011, released from the hospital to the disbelief of everyone on 9 October 2011, I lay on the couch at home, and saw light enter the room in a way I had never seen it enter, as if the sky itself had had an aneurysm. I saw everything differently from that moment; I myself

  astonished to be alive. Just alive. Nothing else mattered. And then began the task still underway of reclaiming life, with which I was already collaborating, more aware of my limits then than ever.

It was in this heightened and necessary sense of being that I read some of Thomas Robert Higginson’s poetry again, and found things there all along, but that I had somehow overlooked; it took that reorganization of my brain and an admitting of the impossibility of knowing everything, and a looking into that poem and realizing that there were locations to take further, to actually turn corners introduced there, to journey into the lines and find much more than it would ever be possible to locate if I looked only through my even more limited and incomplete lens system. Those microscopic universes even became essential, those worlds that lived unseen on us; a tool of a poet also became a microscope. Any and everything that helps access, for if unaccessed, cannot be considered.

  Yes; the work of making. The peeling away of layers and the accessing surface after surface, for surfaces are where things occur. Interior surfaces. Surface of the heart, brain, spleen, Thomas Robert Higginson’s poems, So much there, and I became determined, a hunger that I cannot

  fully explain, and that is a good thing for to be able to “fully” explain something is to be a mystery thief, one thing that I hope remains impossible, and I will work to make it so.

  Thankful to have finally had a baby in 1991 —all of this  leading to that moment of when Thomas Robert Higginson could enter my life in a most real way, taking me beyond my limitations to new limitations���for limitations—in some form exist.  Death being considered one such limit.  But I was not yet collaborating with life as I needed to.  For collaboration is a

  way of exceeding limits, in my case, traps. I had searched my whole life for an opportunity such as what the rupture afforded me, for “rupture” is so close to “rapture”—that is never lost on me.

About my finding so much in his work, my Thomas Robert Higginson said this:

“Here’s what I think — I think somehow I’ve become a fuckin muse, and that’s just fine with me so long as you keep pouring out the outpourings. That’s right, Write On, o! Great Crusader of the Pen Nib.”

  Art credit: Chris Rivera, @chris.rivera, Christopherjphotography@gmail.com

  The big question is what happened to allow me to see further?  And why that day?  What did the angle of light entering my house have to do with it?  And could this precise angle be repeated?  I knew I was recipient of something most rare, and I didn’t want to lose this gift.

It began, all of it, in collaborations with poetry, with daily my finding unexplored locations in his work, and I traveled; from the beginning, he took me places I had never been. One of us would write a line or stanza and send it to the other, adding a line, a stanza, and before you knew it, there was a new poem, something neither one of us would have written separately. Realizations possible only via connection; ideas the other may not have had; poetry itself is that great thing that always connected us, metaphors and the like, expressions, tastes, things barely there in abstract ways. First the writing connected, first we each realized something special in the writing the work of the other, and it made so much sense that a collaboration, a reaching beyond what one could accomplish would extend itself to a corporeal realm, and connect, collaborate there also, and what a grand connection that also was, profound, words, bodies, and everything, for the words are part of the body—through and complete connection in every way—you do not find this often, And once this manner of connection happens, though the components may for a time seem to go their own ways, their own ways have forever been changed, and they find their way back to each other, their paths having been rewritten by coming together in the first place

  surviving tremendous interference from that which was outside the bond.  Tiny essences remain, Poams and Poems themselves reinforced by these things we believe, these things defying senses and usual ways of knowing.  Proof, of something greater than either part separately.  Naturally we would explore what becomes possible in a corporeal way then the physical sources of the poems come together in something a simple as a Kiss,

  And then came a chance to actually be with this man, and that was nearly beyond my ability to conceive. We met in Chicago for that movie Thomas produced, and when I had an opportunity to go to Chicago to accept an award, naturally, I thought of someone accompanying me, and I thought of him, and what he had been saying to me about his always having been interested, waiting in fact, 25 years just to Kiss me was the beginning stanza of a poem we would write together , would be together, collaborating as nothing has ever collaborated.

He said we would : “make the poetry of this and that, the poetry of everything, the poetry of my being with you; the poetry of you being with me, the poetry of us together; the poetry we’ll be writing all over the bed, all over the room, whole weekend of poetry, that whole lifetime.”

These makers attempt, these makers try, experiencing instant chemistry that is simply poetry connecting their bodies. “There is nothing else to breathe, only the deliciousness of air that has

  touched your lungs, has been purified there, crystal molecules that spell out your name, even your hair that I’ll finally touch becoming that Thomas Robert Higginson alphabet, where every word translates into pleasure…”

  “Very soon, Thomas Robert; —I have been waiting for this moment!”

  “Not nearly as long as I have! Twenty-five years for me!—don’t forget that! —all that I’ll be thinking about is seeing you, holding you, touching you for the very first time; already Wonderland for me. My understanding is that in Wonderland, the only utensil is a fork —all anybody in Wonderland, ever needs.”

  “At this late date, a couple of necessary questions, please. If that’s all right.” “Well, what do you want of me, ideally? —I know sex; I invited you for that purpose. Guess at this late stage, I’m wondering just what your intentions are with me. I’ve made it quite clear that I’m interested, very interested in making love with you —in fact, I would like for you to

  make love to me, and I’ll make love back… I want one beautiful, exceptional weekend; ideally, you’ll want much more from me —but I need to know your intentions… ”

  “This is brilliant and clear and bone honest, Dream Baby. And I can say I want the same. IDEAL:LY is a great word. You don’t get hung up on what obstacles, just quotidian reality boring shit, IDEALLY must overcome And I take my cues from you on the Drunken Boat Grid, the Full Body Grid, the Total Life in a Weekend Grid, the Pulse of Morning Grid, the Sky Blue Dress Grid, your tender touch my body gloving you. See? I rabbit hole down go why not stay there long as possible no way out whoosh it’s morning. Alarm clock. Bzzbzzz. Hello, Dream Baby Thylias, it is Mr. Higginson, For me, aged sixty-six, it is still, Hey, ya never know. And I wouldn’t say it except you really want to ask directly and you yourself have set this Truth Grid and I can negotiate it as I can, and I don’t know if this will be our only time. On the Truth Grid I can only say I do not know: I think this might be our only weekend, yes. But I do know that I anticipate a lot for and from our time together, and that looms lives as long as it took to get here, the intricacies, details, loop whorl menagerie. I want us to just do and be and live and penetrate the Universe with our Us-ness. Can that be done on the Truth Grid, Tine Forker Dream Baby Thylias? —Can it?”

  Excerpt From: Thylias Moss. “New Kiss Horizon.” iBooks.

NEW KISS HORIZON, ROMANCE NOVEL ABOUT VASHTI ASTAPAD WARRREN AND THOMAS ROBERT HIGGINSON

And this these poets attempt, these makers attempt, and I have the best Kiss of my life, endowed with all the feelings, for I find myself in the arms of a poem, a poem written for me, and a poem written about me, and he is a poem for me, and I am a poem for him, as if he has never seen a poem before, poetry is born right then, and we would be the discovers of it, if poetry had not already existed.—and I am forever changed by the collaboration of our bodies, there is nothing like it. There will never be anything like what Thomas Robert Higginson and I, Thylias Moss, two poets make in collaboration on every level through with anything may touch, make, create, and Be, penetrating every connected universe with the Best Love ever, that instant chemistry was simply poetry connecting their bodies. A Kiss.

  Talk about collaborations, well, I felt orgasmic just from that poet’s Kiss. The first time I had ever felt such things. Our finest collaboration, senses operating beyond what anyone would have said was possible, the finding of a more that can never be fully demolished, a Kiss that can never be duplicated as that is a moment unlike any other. Monument also. Everything.

He is in my Life, and I am in his Life. Permanently.

  “See, I will be writing to and about you for the rest of my life. No matter what. As you yourself said: “That’s the truth of it. Everything. It means so much. It means everything.” —You wrote that to me, and now I write it back; does it really matter who initiated any of this at this point?

It is, I continue, for old times sake, for looking out for “our” past to find “our” future, whatever it is, as if I could ever forget you, and I assume that even though you do not acknowledge me right now, you know who I am, and know what we had together. For you are part of it, whether or not you want to be.

You cannot erase it; it is established, we are the monuments of what we accomplished.

  So many wonderful things to be said about Thomas Robert Higginson, a writer of course. From somewhere in the Universe?

The solar system?

Planet earth?

Well through him,

I have felt that I have known the universe, visited stars without getting

  Burnt or breathing poisoned air,

Think my lungs adapted to be able to maintain respiration processes dependent on his cologne, Dakar —I never forget that, and when the atmosphere cooperates, which is every day, I move through a Dakar soup, rather primordial from which existence begins again and again and again, whenever I am with him, which also includes thought, ideas that collaborate with him, connect with him.   All the time.  Our connection  is that profound.  Our writing talks to each other, and the conversation, the poetry that comes out of these conversations, are transcripts of the experience.  I did things with him I will never do with anyone else, unless an instant connection is felt, unless there is instant chemistry.

  I am sorry that I felt a need to make you real —I wanted to claim my space and time in your life; I wanted to make clear that I was with a “real man.”  And that you were with a “real woman.” That I made up none of it. That there really is a past to look out for,” “to [try] to find our future,” that a “future was not yet written,” etc.  It is poetry afterall.  It is meaning afterall.  It is truth.  All we have ever had is truth,

    I do not know what happened to us; I think I misunderstood something important and basic about him: everything is poetry.

I am not sure how to recover this as he has asked me not to contact him further. But we will come back to each other; this is just a natural and temporary split in the constant ebb and flow of existence. I just happen to write this during the ebbing part of the cycle. Tomorrow and many tomorrows later, flow will resume, as we collaborate with Andy Goldsworthy.7

  But this was purely the foundation of us. Everything is poetry, including and especially sex; in some ways the body’s greatest achievement.

  It is not that I cannot write without him, but what I write is better, reaches further, moves further out, travels to locations I would never consider without the inspiration, the motivation of his eyes, his thoughts, his ears; his senses extend my senses, and it hardly matters which of one of us begins a poem, when we make it together, it always travels to locations neither of us could take it alone, and that is the beauty, the distance discovered.  Discovery is the outcome of our collaboration, perhaps also the point, and, Oh,   the surprise! That to be writing for as long as we have been writing and to still find surprise. Our poems Love each other probably better than Thomas Robert Higginson and I love each other.

But we try.

  I am still pulling for  “US-ness” –you know I am and always will be.  Forever beside him on a bridge in Chicago.  

My favorite picture of Thomas Robert Higginson and myself on a bridge in Chicago.

  Sacred ground now, as is room 304, a hotel room that is already immortalized.  For that is where we make stuff, and realized we really could.  Chicago.  Manhattan. Ann Arbor. Detroit. Minneapolis.  Wherever we go this power goes with us, this voracious power that is never the power of one,  but the power of two, so coiled together, they are inseparable.  Pull them apart, and there is an ordinariness never possible when they make together, that exchange of the bits and  bytes, neurons of the machinery, even the machinery of our minds.  Buzz, Buzz; we are working.  We are making. Even making love, Love of each other and Love of poetry.  Inseparable love supreme.

    What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again —Truth directly from Him; truth  we told each other, tell each other; truth that made it necessary for us to actually touch, to make that “US-ness:” already real and truth, gospel  truth to us, also truth in the world to which  we are connected and with which we collaborate, every moment of every day,  whether or not we are physically together, for in my mind I certainly am, sometimes so exasperated with him, but loving him just the same.

He is a real man, a living collaborator, and I accept the eccentricities and inconsistencies of realities; he is definitely part of them, but when we get together, such magic happens.  If I were to see him right now, just being  honest; I would be unable to keep my hands off him; I might try not to touch him, every moment wanting to fail.  He knows this also, for we have collaborated so deeply and thoroughly, he knows exactly what I feel, And with him, always with him.  I will never be free of him. And more importantly, I do not want to be free of him, not really, for writing this, revisiting the journey of our collaboration makes me realize again as if for the very first time how special our coming together is.   He once said I was bad, and added that that is a good thing.  And he is right.  I was bad with him, in all possible good suggestions of bad, except for tying him to the bed; adventurous, eager to know the full realms of pleasure; full throttle —I was fully alive with him, and responded breathlessly to everything he did, and he responded to everything I did, and he said he wasn’t worried, because from the beginning, he could tell how much I liked everything he did; I didn’t know that level of compatibility existed. I had no idea —do you think for one minute that I want to give that up?

  Both Poetry and Sex, for they are indeed equivalent

—Maybe I wouldn’t be writing this were I not missing him right now.

But talk about collaboration, and I have to talk about sex, that give and take, that take and give, the most erotic spell —spell, because it is so magical, like nothing else, oh the basic mechanics of sex are the same for most people, I presume,  but they lack our motivation and reason for collaborating in the first place— most erotic spell  in my life, yes; my whole life; the only sex in my life worth talking about is sex with Thomas Robert Higginson, that poetry of our bodies.

I am glad that he is such a noisy lover; I was always aware of what gave him pleasure. Just as he is aware of what gives me pleasure. He was determined to find out. I admit that I become a little sex machine with him, but only with him; something about him exposes feelings and connections that are with him and because of him. Face it, I am aware of how I look, and aware of how I look to him. So many men approach me because of how I look, not understanding that my look does not mean that just any man gets some. You do not realize what Thomas Robert does, and of course he was really after what every man seems to be after, but he was smarter than most because he actually got it, because of how he allowed me to feel, because my feelings in this connection matter to him. He didn’t want me to pretend, something that never occurred to

  me.

I am not one who has faked an orgasm, if I feel it then you will know it, and so far I have genuinely felt that only with Thomas Robert; I didn’t know until I felt it, although I had once been married for forty years.  He really should be proud of himself.  And f of course, there is also what he felt, and I assure you that I know a lot of what he felt, all that energetic thrusting as we collaborated with and became tangled in sheets. What he did standing behind me as I tried to look out the window, but looking at him is so much better.

  You do not understand, but from the very first time, we came together like hand and glove. In fact, given what he talked about I don’t think he has any inhibitions in connecting. He told me that anything I desire would be mine. He talked about my tender touch in our collaboration, his body gloving me —do you realize how physically close we had to be for this to happen? It was sometimes more like masturbation, and we did that too, together somehow, a whole weekend of sex—we met for that purpose. We were really collaborating when he said this: “I guess this is awkward. Not sexy. But there’s so much going on the planet Us that my head is spinning. Not unpleasant, mind you. But the view’s quite complicated. When what I want see. All I really want

  to see. Is a clear view of all of you. And me” I don’t like when men approach me just for sex, usually because of how I look; puhlease! He said this and he meant it. Thomas Robert adores how I look, part of the collaboration; part of what drew him to me, and part of what drew me to him, and now I look even more like an ideal woman for him; exactly his type, a woman who cares about him so very deeply, the very long hair, all of it natural and, as if it grows just to connect with him, wherever he goes in the world, those black patterns and designs in asphalt are really filaments of my hair; reaching out to Thomas Robert, and he is not afraid of this; in fact, he expects it, and sometimes has wondered why it has taken me so long to allow my hair the same full reign that he encourages in me.

I love that about him, and many other things with which every memory of mine collaborates: “Well what I want you to know is this I’ve carried a torch for you since I first laid eyes on you. And if we’re ever alone, whatever you desire shall be yours. What an extraordinary woman you are, Thylias! Your directness is not provocative, it is All Being, All the Tine (to use your language!). My body reacts to your written words as if you were touching me, it’s amazing and I like it I like it I like it.”

Art credit: Chris Rivera, @chris.rivera, Christopherjphotography@gmail.com

    And he was serious about how we would collaborate.  I wish I had known more then than I did that first time with him;  I love when his voice called out strongly; everyone knew what we were doing, the volume suggested that he wanted others to know that he was with me, because I am a prize and he knew how victorious he is, and I wanted others to know that I am just as proud to be seen with him, for he is also a prize for me, and he kept busy  enjoying every ounce of pleasure he could from my tiny body.

  Such intensity of pleasure, 

and I was glad to be doing all of it with him,  the tickle of his mustache, and feeling  his mustache every-time we Kissed, OMG —a little bit of champagne!  —also his tongue in my ear —I almost couldn’t stand that, and my first thoughts that all of him would never fit inside me, but he did, and he had all kinds of lubricants just in case. 

He really prepared for this as if he was being ordered to the mines, and there was just the mine he was heading to, a homing device, the taste of me, right between my collaborating legs.  I was a fuckin muse for him just as much as he became a fuckin muse for me.

    I can’t believe I am saying all this, for the sake of collaboration, much more than simply sex, for this was the actual writing of an indelible poetry right inside my body, and what a pen he had, every centimeter mightier than a sword.   And he Kissed every centimeter of me, and I kissed every centimeter of him.  I know you’re not supposed to Kiss and tell, but I must use superlatives about this man.  It’s as if I didn’t really know what Poetry is, until we made love to each other.  No parts of our bodies were off limits.   Yes; we used condoms, but not for the oral parts, and there was lots of that.  I really trusted this man, and he similarly trusted me.   I have to admit that I liked his tongue the best, because with it, he wrote poems inside me, and my breathing punctuated them, the rhythms of the sex, oh my, oh my.  We talked about this extensively, how condoms were an absolute necessity, the margins on the pages and pages of rarefied  sex, just not

  for the oral part, he asked, and I agreed.  How else could I taste him, know a superb root of his poetry?

The best part of preparing to see each other to physically collaborate, beyond only with our minds that had already made love, but Thomas Robert asked, and he wasn’t shy about this; he knew what he wanted, and called me one night to talk me through my body, from head to toe, he told me exactly what he wanted to do, and asked if he could.  If there are rules in collaboration, the first would be to ask; just to let me know what he wanted, and since it was a question, I had

  opportunity to refuse, but I didn’t; just his asking the way he did,  allowed me to want him, and then there is the sound of his baritone,  the recording he made me so that I could have the soothing sound of his support as I wrote about him;  just the sound of his voice makes me horripilate, little champagne bubbles of his inflection all over my arms, torso and legs, my breasts also. How I love the collaboration of my breasts in his mouth…He kissed away the goosebumps and then I got more just from his nearness, so he could never stop Kissing me and holding me, gloving me just as he said;   I even had a Brazilian wax to invite him in, oh the  language his tongue spoke inside me, and the melodies of my mouth sliding up and down him.

There are no words,

and here is where I lose my poetry, because there comes a point where words are insufficient; he and I didn’t even talk in usual ways of talking, sign languages instead, the way we looked at each other, the warmth of his palms, the smoothness of his chest. I didn’t tell him this, but from the moment his hand touched mine in O’Hare, the first connection of his flesh and my flesh, I started feeling sensations that became full-fledged and unstoppable desire by the time we were outside the airport and he opened his coat, and welcomed me inside it with him, and the only air then was his Dakar. My nose is always looking for the scent of him; it isn’t just Dakar that anyone may buy, but the scent of Dakar on his skin, a scent unique to him. Thomas Robert Higginson was prepared for anything that might happen. We were writing a very different kind

of poem, in that extreme collaboration, of our bodies: tongues and fingers everywhere.  That touching without limits.   Stanza of Kiss, onomatopoeia of Kiss also, metaphor of everything that exists from those fiery touches, he said the fire would meld us together and it did, because this wasn’t the primary goal of our connection, —which is poetry— but a completion; it wasn’t just sex at all, but so much more;  he indeed wanted to collaborate that way also, but he is smart enough, he feels enough not to ask me for only that, the way too many men do; he never rushed me but knew what I would need to feel, and that is it right there; I have to feel it or I can’t do it; I had to really desire him just as he really desires me; I had to want to collaborate with him physically; that is what is important; I wanted to do everything I did with him.

There is no part of each other that we did not explore, one way or the other. I am remembering the first time with him because that set the tone for everything that followed. It was easy because we had already Kissed in the taxi all the way from O’Hare to the hotel, and I had no idea that I would respond to him as I did, this 60-year-old woman making out with a 66-year-old man in the back seat of a taxi, but I was hoping; the physical things he promised as no one can ever promise because it was him, that is the only reason; he is the only reason.

  Art credit: Vivian Nimue Wood, @viviana_boscardin, Vale d’ Aosta, Italy

  My Thomas Robert Higginson knew how to do everything exactly the way I needed for them to be done.  Somehow he just knew, and he didn’t approach me just for the physical enactment of

  our connection, but I am so glad he wanted that —I would have felt insulted otherwise; the man does indeed have eyes, and so much more than that; he would make me laugh by telling me I had no idea what he can do, and he was right; I had no idea at all, for if he had told me that physically collaborating with him would cause me to feel, what i feel with him, I would not have believed him.  And he did work far beyond the mere necessity of asking; Thomas Robert understood the kind of sex I needed, that is what he promised the kind of sex I needed, he made it his business to figure out just what it was, and knowing exactly what I needed, besides what we both wanted, made this the most fulfilling experience of my life that and how I responded to him thoroughly, We really collaborated in a most enticing and seductive way.

Don’t let his look fool you!

  That man is far sexier than you may think.  I ought to know.  We collaborated in the shower; he can do simply amazing things. Anywhere.   I ought to know because I did them with him. I’ve done that only in thinking about him, sometimes that dildo he gave me in hand.  Yes;  a lot of my

  time with him —even time in my mind— was good and nasty, and that is a part of the complexity that makes being with him so good.   Maybe I emphasize the physical right now, for what we have is complete, the cerebral and the nasty —even Einstein9  did that,

  What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again

—Thomas Robert Higginson10

  POEM

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again

(Dateline: 9/2/97)

  What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry

Is Connected to the Body Again

(Dateline: 9/2/97)

Jean allowed the body to drop The beautiful face bluing so perfect A fly buzzed by — but no one would believe it She raced frantically to the offices of the National Enquirer A reporter wrote up the story — it made the cover Now she could get the attention of the radical newsweekly That only told the truth She just casually flipped it down on the desk “Hey,” an editor reading upside-down said, “What if this story is true? It would certainly change Our story — maybe we should look into this. Hey! Stop those presses!”

Jean walked away. Horns were blaring, It was a brilliant dusty sunset and the sirens were distorting. She didn’t hear em. She was remembering her lover’s face, What they’d said about how you never know If someone else’s orgasm is better than yours But that shoudn’t stop you From coming together Even if it’s not exactly At the same time. 

ESSAY

  What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry

The title says it all and says it with a line break in case you think that “Spoken Word Poets” are not “Real Poets.” Real Poets eat line breaks for breakfast.

I love to read the title at a reading, parsing it out like this:

“What You Can’t Understand (take a little pause here) Is (big emphasis on IS, and a little pause, get ready for the matter-of-fact, always with us:) Poetry.”

The Perfect Lie. One always “understands” poetry! When you jump on the horse and it takes off, you don’t ask where’s it going, you exalt, here we go! No no. Wait. Reading a poem, that’s not like that is it? not like riding a horse?….

What you can’t understand is poetry – because it’s a mystery why poetry exists in the first place. Although you could actually say the same thing for language itself, which I suppose is what philosophers do. Which came first, the thought or the word? sounds Wittgensteinian to me. It’s like when you say, something is lost in translation, what part is it that gets lost? The poetry. The poetry is what’s lost, get it? The joy is in knowing that what you don’t understand, exactly that, is a mix of sound and meaning, body and song that is, all together, what makes a poem a poem.

Again and again, not making sense! And this is what so many think (please don’t agree with them!) — that poetry is hard, obscure, difficult-to-impossible to understand.

WHEN IT WAS CONNECTED TO THE BODY YOU JUST DANCED IT—Who said that?!

Hey, hey, Order in The Poem! Let’s PLEASE stick to this first line of the title before releasing the second. So ok, let’s just say that the first line of the title is simply agreeing with what everyone is always saying – Oy, Poetry! You can’t understand it.

Thus Ends The First Line Of The Title

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry

so we take a little pause here, in performance, and then (finally!) go on to:

Is Connected

And then a little pause here, so that it becomes: What You Can’t Understand is Poetry is Connected, which is another truism that’s actually a false-ism: the easy way is to say that – Poetry IS connected, is the essence, to life/to meaning , and, here back to the title (say it!) – To The Body. Now we’re getting to what the body of the poem is, and why this is the title – it’s about the physical, and when I think physical, the body, I think of Orality.

Even though we think of it that way, the dialectic is not Literacy and Illiteracy. Illiteracy simply designates an individual’s inability to read. Orality, as Walter Ong points out, is a separate and equivalent consciousness: when there’s no writing, the only way to pass things on is person-to-person, body-to-body. You could say, “We Are the Book.” This idea, devastatingly simple, is at the root of this poem, indeed, of my whole “body of work” as a poet. How to capture the way Poetry was connected to Existence, something that was inherent in Oral Consciousness, is what I’m after. It’s what my mother showed me – she didn’t read a book to me. The book was talking. In her voice.

Again

Comes in after a pause. Because we used to “understand” this. In fact, “understand,” the way we understand understand, is totally colored by literacy. Before writing, there was a spew of sound that carried the speaker’s meaning – you’d ask the person to explain what they meant, but you never asked someone what a word meant because – there were no words! Before writing there were no words there was only meaning, and I know that seems crazy but again only because we don;’t get what a different consciousness Orality is. When writing began, there was no separation between words because what was being said came at you like a block of meaning, not words arranged in a pattern.

And now, in this time of Literacy Consciousness, I am suggesting that we learn (unlearn?) to “connect the poem to the body again.” Since the triumph of Literature, Poetry’s voice has been owned by the book. And I love books, I write ‘em myself and read a lot – my walls are lined with them. And the quiet space midbrain where we read to ourselves? That is a private space where we are most ourselves, a holy space. But the Poem has another power, a power we left behind when we left Oral Consciousness behind. We can feel it as children, when we haven’t yet learned to read. Some kind of magic and musicality, inherent when reading aloud, that’s what I’m after, in general, in my work, and specifically in the two-lined title and following body of the poem known as:

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected To The Body Again

The poem is divided into two stanzas, twelve lines and ten. Kind of ungainly and awkward as to line lengths, form doesn’t’t sit easily here, even if both stanzas end with four-word lines. The poem is prosy, it sort of seems to tell a story, even if we can’t quite tell what it’s about (the old “understand” bugaboo again), a story that makes headlines. It has a character with a name (Jean, named for Jean Howard, who I knew in Chicago as one of the first poets to use film to make poetry, someone who understood the non-separation of poetry performance), and it even ends with what may well be a joke. So it’s a Poem that evokes all manner of non-poetry forms – novel, play, journalism, joke.

Let me tell you a story: the “Plot” of the Poem

Jean allowed the body to drop

    OK. Is this the “body” from the title? At least. Right after we learn that the body and poetry are connected again, our hero, Jean, drops the body! Is this so that her poetry is completely for the Intellect? Because as she drops the body (which we will later learn is her lover’s), the body dies.

The beautiful face bluing so perfect

“Beautiful” and “perfect” in the same line – ach! Redolent of romantic poesy, these are words that each signal Poem without the work, and here they are, together – the face is “beautiful” but dying (or dead? “bluing”) and thus can become “perfect.” What a move!

A move so insistent, so bold, so over-the top, that the only thing that can possibly cap it is line 3

A fly buzzed by—

Emily Dickinson! At her best! “I heard a Fly buzz – when I died” (Johnson #591/ Franklin #465). This sure enough is the way Death sounds, sigh. Well, the fly was buzzing and still is buzzing and forever will be buzzing as sure a sign of Death as the Death Haiku, that Japanese form where the dying poet holds quill and scroll and just as last breath escapes, concludes the final character of the final line – 5-7-5. but no one would believe it

Dear Reader/Listener, you are perfectly within your rights to ask What is it that no one would believe? That our hero, Jean, would drop the body? That words like “beautiful” and “perfect” could conjure up dear Emily’s fly (“bluing” is pretty cool), the Essence of Death? Indeed, why is Jean even concerned that anyone believe that her lover/Poetry itself has died? Is she the murderer? Must she have the Truth be told, it’s what she as a Poet must do? All the above? We don’t know, so it’s all these things and probably more and we’re only at line 3, my God!

Because what happens next makes one thing pretty clear about our Ms Jean – she certainly does know how to get a story out. Since this is taking place during the Media Age Stage of Late Literacy, just before the Birth of the Digital Age,

She raced frantically to the offices of the National Enquirer,

the biggest, ever-lying, sleazeball publication of them all. Jean knows the world of print: to get the absolute widest possible distribution, the most explosive telling of this Death, it’s got to be — the checkout counter rag!

A reporter wrote up the story

The story of course is that the body died from lack of connection to the poem. And guess what,

—it made the cover.

And our story could end there, the headline “POETRY FOUND DEAD: BODY SEVERED FROM SOUL.” But Noooo. Jean has a bigger game plan. As Lines 6-7 state ,

Now she could get the attention of the radical newsweekly That only told the truth

So first she goes for and gets the Big Blast Sensationalism Launch, and now she’s circling back to get the liberal Truth-tellers. She wants to get the story told to the biggest possible audience AND she wants it to be politically correct. Or at least be validated by the liberal media.

She just casually flipped it down on the desk

She may have raced frantically to get this into The Enquirer, to play into the demands of yellow journalism, but here for the thoughtful Voice or Nation, she plays it cool.

So cool that (Line 9)

“Hey,” an editor

(she’s moving up, no mere reporter here!)

reading upside-down

(truly literate, can read upside-down!)

said. What if this story is true?

(you can never be sure about Enquirer stories – but something in Jean’s demeanor….)

It would certainly change Our story

(they had a story? How interesting? What could that have been?)

maybe we should look into this.

So the radical newsweekly already has the story but it is Jean’s version of the Body dying from lack of connection to the poem, for which, even filtered as it is through the hyperbole of the Enquirer, the radical newsweekly is willing to Stop the presses!

It’s an image I loved in black & white, the massive whirling printing presses grinding to a halt, screaming headlines erupting. The news is overpowering!

We know that Poetry is News that Stays News (Pound), that it Makes Nothing Happen (Auden), that It Is Difficult / To Get The News From Poems / Yet Men Die Miserably Every Day / From Lack / Of What is Found There (Williams – Rich used the last six words as the title for her great book of essays). Hey! Stop those presses!

Now we understand, as Jean understands, that the life, music, vitality of the poem can never be separated from the poem’s meaning. By physicalizing the so-called Death of Poetry, she in fact shows us that poetry will never die. THAT POETRY IS CONNECTED TO THE BODY AGAIN and the single voice and vision of our poet-hero Jean is going to make, well, not sure what, let’s call it Nothing. Make Nothing happen. But I mean, make it really happen.

She does. She just puts an end to the literary tradition, right then and there. We get the poem to the book and then our job is done. Gets published, distributed, bought, and read. Each step of course is fraught with complications, and at the end maybe 2000 copies will sell, but hey, this’s a poem, so let’s just give it the drama that Mayakovsky did when he demanded an airplane with propeller whirling be parked outside his study so that when he finished one it would be whisked away to the publisher – not a second to lose.

The second verse begins, like the first, again with our hero, Jean. But now

Jean walked away. Horns were blaring,

Is it celebratory tooting, poetry’s reconnection being cheered on by the public at large? Or simply the continuing, ongoing noise of our blatting culture? Both? Both. The Poet’s Choice, as Gregory Corso once told me, “When somebody asks you to pick one, always take both.”

The cinematic vein of “Stop the presses!” continues,

It was a brilliant dusty sunset

Yes, in a poem you can pick both, and the unusable poem-word “sunset” can become even more golden when it’s “brilliant” and “dusty”

and the sirens were distorting.

Is it the Apocalypse brought about by reconnection of Poetry with Body (again)? Or is it Just the Apocalypse? Both (you’re getting it!).

It’s the end of The Terminator, of Snowpiercer, the end of every walk-into-the-sunset Hollywood potboiler poem ever written.

Jean has passed on the oral tradition into print. She has insinuated Orality into Text, clawing her way into the inner sanctum of the print medium. And, in so doing, she has preserved her lover’s face for all eternity.

She didn’t hear em.

What didn’t she hear? The car horns playing music – Beethoven? Ode to Joy? Guns N’ Roses? Randy Newman’s Faust? Aretha’s Respect? David Thomas’s Mirror Man? or Captain Beefheart’s, for that matter.

She was remembering her lover’s face

Yes, the action of creating art, of living her life in the service of Poetry, has caused her to lose the Poem Itself, the Source! Her lover’s face now fades in through the Apocalyptic Sunset Waltz, and now she does hear, not music nor horns nor sirens but words, just words and now it’s clearer, the conversation with her lover,

What they’d said about how you never know

True Poet lovers know you Never Know, echoing the poem’s title, and in that way stay connected – Poem as Body – but this line break skittering into riot control

If someone else’s orgasm is better than yours –

Yes! Exactly! Understanding a poem and demanding a locked-down analysis, forever footnoted and irrefutable, — who would know, who could know? The meanings keep changing. Eros is flowering out the mouth, People! Only the poem/orgasm stays the same.

But that shouldn’t stop you

from what? From having an orgasm? Well, yes, of course, but there’s more –

From coming together

Yes, that’s it! That’s what the poem in the oral mode is about – it’s about the audience experiencing together the meaning of the poem, the connection of the griot to the body politic, the poem bringing/giving Rapture that the listener accepts/understands. Brings all that inside.

Even if it’s not exactly

o! the quivering between Oral and Written, the twin mouths finding each other, that poem that is the kiss, not exactly, OMG whatever IS exactly, Jean, Jean you must not leave us in the vagueness of not exactly, the orgasm goes back inside …

At the same time

Yes, she said, Yes! “You never know if someone else’s orgasm is better than yours, but that shouldn’t stop you from coming together. Even if it’s not exactly at the same time.” Oh God! as these realizations ripple through the audience, wave after profound wave of orgasm, feeding each other, yes, coming together years later, why, it is – it’s a Poem! It can be read later, after the poet is long-gone dead, it’s still being read. You are coming with the poet years later as the orgasm of meaning reconnects you at that moment. Ah, Jean and Emily!  The gentle laugh as her lover, dead and blued and perfect and gone gone gone, reconnects through the poem.  The fly! The fly! Then the fly buzzed by

Art credit: Nathalie von Arx, Zurich, Switzerland

  RESPONSE

BLUE COMING

Blue Coming: After Bob Holman’s “What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again” Colorado Review – Volume 42, Number 2, Summer 2015

(in response to Bob Holman’s Poem: “What You Can’t Understand is Poetry is Connected to the Body Again):

BLUE COMING

RESPONSE

BLUE COMING

(CLICK TO HEAR THYLIAS MOSS READ THIS POEM,

Thylias Moss

Poetry is connected to the body,

part of my fingertips, just as blue as anything that ever was or will be blue–

–blue that dye aspires to, true blue denied to any sapphire,

        Logan sapphire included, even

if she wears some on those blue fingers, blue spreads, consumes her

as if she hatched from an Araucana egg:

SHE IS BLUE, fingers, bluest hands ever, shoulders, breasts, every

     nook and cranny blue, big bad wolf says: how blue you are!

    The better to blue you….

She, so blue today, visits Offices of the National Enquirer to

    report on this surging of blue epidemic, Blue bottle fly bluer

    than any sound buzzing, fly buzzing as blue as it can, making

    the Blues, making

The Blues mean something very different –such music from

    beating of wings, some of what has spread blue throughout

     her bluing body,

blue buzz

even layers of atmosphere: blue buzz: name of a new Crayola crayon

    and marker, manufactured from her fingertips Blue

   Buzz Blood group She bleeds an orgasmic paint set. She bleeds

   a blue layer her lover’s face becoming blue she’s dreaming of

   again, blue as his face That defines blue for her blue orgasm,

   so much blue everywhere world become blue for her –story of

   this massive bluing –true story on the cover of papers –turning

   blue once in her atmosphere

Blue static Blue stuttering

Blue hands

Blue —Code Blue–coming together, what a mighty tincture–-

   not exactly at the same time, but coming, connected to coming

    Her fingertips writing a

Blue coming.

by Thylias Moss

also published in “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” by Thylias Moss, Persea books, 2016, a New and Selected volume that contans poems from all of her publihsed books of poetry except “Small Congregations” a previous collection of New and Seleceed poems published by Ecco press and praised by  by Harold Bloom.

  Cover of “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery Of Realities’ Red Dress Code

  The Charlie Rose Interview in which Harold Bloom mentions me at 12:01

        ENDNOTES:

1 From a love poem Thomas Robert Higginson wrote for me, “You Are the Corner of My Eye” published in New Kiss Horizon as “A Trip to the Tienda.”

2 A pseudonym

3 Excerpt From: Emily Dickinson. “Letters of Emily Dickinson.” iBooks.

4 How prophetic on his part, for this volume was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award.

5 Excerpt From: Francis Bacon, Ignatius Donnelly, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, C. J. Cutliffe Hyne, W. Scott Elliot & John, Third Marquess of Brute. “Tales of Atlantis.” iBooks.

6 “Limited Fork Theory” <http://www.4orkology.com> and <http://www.4orked.com>

7 “as in “Rivers and Tides” =, his definitive film about flow and collaboration, see that film here: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7sZv4_0Fxg>

8 A collaboration of Thylias Moss and Thomas Robert Higginson forthcoming likely in Nightboat, 2017, a collaboration that began as “Moving Dance of Reduction” with a quote by Bringhurst; Thomas Robert sent Thylias the initial salvo, and back and forth the emerging poem went until Thylias wrote the line “armadillo style” to which Thomas Robert responded “Wow!” and whenever Wow comes, the poem is done. Praises to armadillos. I never would have arrived at armadillo without collaboration through time and space with Thomas Robert Higginson. I will always love this expansion of space and meaning that I know only with him, my muse, and if that isn’t Love, what is?

9 “Einstein” — the Genius series on National Geographic <http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/genius/videos/einstein-chapter-one1/>

10 Published acknowledging the real man behind the pseudonym, Bob Holman.

11 “Blue Coming” was also published in “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” by Thylias Moss, Persea Books, 2016, and in Poets & Writers online, also in 2016, where you may hear Thylias Moss read “Blue Coming”: <https://www.pw.org/content/wannabe_hoochie_mama_gallery_of_realities_red_dress_code>

About the author: 

Thylias Moss, a self-employed multi-racial “maker” at Thylias Moss Writing LLC, is also Professor Emerita in the Departments of English and Art & Design at the University of Michigan. Author of 13 published books, and recipient of numerous awards and honors, among them a MacArthur Fellowship, and a Guggenheim Fellowship, her 11th book, a collection of New & Selected Poetry, “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” (from Persea Books, October 2016) as part of Limited Fork Theory, an approach to making and thinking developed in order to assist co-makers and co-learners to become more collaborative in thinking and being. All about how things interact across all boundaries, and encouragement of interaction that becomes more meaningful over time; all have collaborators. Nothing makes alone, and everything makes; there is nothing that exists that does not make stuff in some form, which is also open: any form that becomes possible; invent whenever necessary. “Making” is not static, is evidence of life, as is book #12, collaborations, with Thomas Higginson, a collection of poems, Aneurysm of the Firmament, 2016 and a romance novel, New Kiss Horizon 2016,  about Vashti Astapad Warren and Thomas Robert Higginson. Follow the lives of these characters beyond the book in Vashti’s Blog. She has also completed an as yet unpublished collection of prose poams: “LFMK (Looking for my Killer)” –an act of public service, currently being read by a potential publisher. And a book about her fther.

  Follow Thylias Moss on twitter: @4orkergirl 

thyliasm@umich.edu

http://www.4orkology.com http://www.midhudsontaffy.com http://www.moxiesupper.com http://www.lex97.com http://www.thyliasmoss-writer.com

    Fuckinmuse: a journey into collaboration (therefore, also into a True Love story in Love Jungle)1 by Thylias Moss You may read, and I hope that you enjoy ths essay in its context here: (

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New Post has been published on The Maier Files

New Post has been published on http://the.maier-files.com/war-is-older-than-history/

War is older than history

WAR IS OLDER THAN HISTORY. Battle axes of polished stone found in late Neolithic culture, and the arms of war have appeared in every society since, escalating from cavemen’s weapons of personal destruction to nations’ weapons of mass destruction. Vicious fights evolved into nation-versus-nation and culture-versus-culture wars. Covered within every war is a secret war whose actions may never be chronicled. Because of the lack of documents, historians who write about battlefield wars often ignore the secret wars. In times of peace, secrets still hide, resisting history’s attempts to ferret them out. But eventually, sometimes decades after the end of war, documents do emerge, disclosing the hidden roots of celebrated victories and defeats. Spying, the secret servant of war, is there when the war is being planned, when the war is being fought, and even when the war ends and peace negotiations are beginning. This has been true for a long time. According to the Bible, when powerful Philistine lords were planning war against the Israelites, they recruited beautiful and seductive Delilah and told her to spy on Samson, an Israelite hero: “Coax him, and find out what makes his strength so great, and how we may overpower him…and we will give you each eleven hundred pieces of silver.”[vc_separator type=’transparent’ position=’center’ color=” thickness=” up=” down=”] To Sun Tzu, a Chinese military strategist who wrote The Art of War in the sixth century B.C. , the most vital weapon of war was intelligence. “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear a hundred battles,” he wrote. “If you know yourself and not the enemy, for every victory you will suffer a defeat. If you know neither yourself nor the enemy, you are a fool and will meet defeat in every battle.” Sir Francis Walsingham, the brilliant spymaster who worked his wonders for Queen Elizabeth I from 1573 to 1590, did not have the benefit of Sun Tzu’s advice. The Art of War remained unknown outside the East until the late 18th century, after it had been translated by Jean Joseph Marie Amiot, a French Jesuit missionary in China. But Walsingham would understand one of Sun Tzu’s basic beliefs: “A hundred ounces of silver spent for information may save ten thousand spent on war.” Walsingham said it more succinctly: “Knowledge is never too dear.” Secrets, especially secrets of war, are priceless—and expensive. Spying is often costly, and that cost has usually been one of the major secrets in the secret world of espionage. Walsingham’s skillful handling of intelligence gave Elizabeth and her strategists invaluable knowledge, enabling Britain to thwart Spain’s invasion plans. The defeat of the Armada ended the anti-Protestant crusade of King Philip II of Spain and weakened the political power of the pope. Victory over the Armada launched a British navy that would eventually rule the waves.[vc_separator type=’transparent’ position=’center’ color=” thickness=” up=” down=”] Another great spy was Sidney Reilly. (1918) according to some of his admirers and critics, was more than a double agent. At one point he was suspected of working simultaneously for the British, the anti-Bolsheviks, the Bolshevik government, and that government’s secret police. He is also reportedly the inspiration for Ian Fleming’s secret agent, James Bond, who emulates both Reilly’s daring and romantic entanglements. Reilly was said to have “eleven passports and a wife to go with each.”

Declassified documents from the files of MI5, the British security service responsible for counterintelligence, show that he was put under surveillance in 1918, when he was an officer in the Royal Flying Corps and applying for employment in MI5. The surveillance report also shows that MI5 then believed that he was born in Ireland, not Russia. Other declassified documents show that by April he was working for MI5 and in May was sent on a mission to Moscow. There, he met with Robert Bruce Lockhart, head of the British Mission to Russia. Together they plotted to overthrow the Bolsheviks, who had come into power in the revolution of 1917.

In July 1918, the Bolsheviks massacred the czar and his family. A month later, an anti-Bolshevik shot and grievously wounded revolutionary leader Lenin. It was claimed at the time that Reilly was involved in that plot. While Reilly escaped, Lockhart was arrested and subsequently exchanged for a Russian diplomat in Britain. Lockhart later wrote a bestselling book, Memoirs of a British Agent. The book was republished in 1974 and 1984 with an introduction by his son, Robin Bruce Lockhart, who had served in British naval intelligence during World War II. The younger Lockhart later wrote Reilly: Ace of Spies, an exciting and highly imaginative thriller.

Otto Skorzeny stated in his memoirs that World War 2 was a intelligence-war. Also Gehlen comes to a similar conclusion is his memoirs “The Service”. During the second World War Britain’s Double-Cross System evolved into a complex scheme for misleading German intelligence about plans for D-Day. The system became an instrument of deception. But at heart Double-Cross was a double agent operation. Of some 20 men and women who worked for the British while appearing to work for the Germans, Nathalie Sergueiew stands out. In her relationship with her case officers she personified the classic problem that arises when dealing with a double agent: When someone is living a lie, what is true and what is false? She almost undermined an intricate deception plan for D-Day, possibly derailing the invasion and altering the course of World War II. The motive was revenge for the death of her dog.