#New Arcadian Journal

[theedengirls]

(  𓇢𓆸  )        . . .        𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄        𖥻        ᵀᴴᴱ 𝕯𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝑜𝒻 𝐏𝔸ℝ𝔸𝔻𝕀𝕊𝔼

EDEN ( 에덴 ) is a fictional South Korean five-member group that debuted on March 13th, 2018. Once bubbling beneath mainstream media, their cult-like following skyrocketed them into stardom, turning once lovely girls into global stars.

In 2015, U-Sound stood at the edge of the chasm of death: bankruptcy, vermillion spilling from the fissure and lapping at their feet in taunts should they not do something soon. Their survival—fragile, gossamer ligaments holding on for dear life—depended entirely on successfully constructing a new group. With two doomed boy groups beneath their still-callousing fingertips, the decision to debut a girl group was not a choice, it was a necessity.

Of their arsenal, there were but six girls who possessed what they required: the it factor. Of this batch, BOMI was a fan-favoured to debut, and while in rapping she showed just why she would debut one way or the other, the coin tossed for such a skill proved that she would, likewise, lack a certain finesse to public affairs that made even the most hardened of the publicity team nervous. Tentatively, she was made the leader of the trainee group.

The instating of Bomi as leader would prove disastrous. After a controversial post on her online journal, and the rumour that she was spotted with a trainee of the opposite gender at a restaurant, the entire publicity team felt their throats loosen the breath they had been holding since Bomi became a trainee: she was dropped from the label.

The creative team, however, could practically see the crimson of defeat each time they stepped into the building, a future of red ledgers until the entrance above their heads collapsed, as did the rest of the infrastructure.

Upon the official announcement that SILVER STARS—a girl group formed under the TV Show NEXT TO THE STARS—would not have their temporary contract renewed, and thus, they would disband that year, hope dared to itch at their hearts and pockets. In a desperate bid, U-Sound cast their nets out to gather any stray unemployed-idols. Now ex-members HAYUN and YEWON signed on with the company.

The acquirement of two Silver Stars girls birthed rumour of an impending girl group within a year and a half. Further speculation determined that the group would be formed around Hayun and Yewon.

By mid-2017, only Yewon remained of the two, leading to the supposed Leader Curse of U-Sound, which stated that whatever girl was named leader would leave the company within three months. This came in response to Hayun being the third leader to either leave or be removed from the trainee group.

Their debut in 2018 was an instant hit among those who had been following the group pre-debut. Despite praises from critics for their fresh sound, they failed to make any true impact with more mainstream audiences. It would not be until U-Sound was acquired by ARCADIAN ENTERTAINMENT in 2021, would EDEN begin to dominate the music world domestically and internationally.

(  𓇢𓆸  )        . . .        𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎        𖥻        ᵀᴴᴱ 𝕽𝐄𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝑜𝒻 𝐇𝕆ℙ𝔼

❛  Yewon.       (  1997 ).       leader, dancer, centre, vocalist

❛  Kittiya.       (  1997  ).      vocalist, rapper

❛  Rina.       (  1998  ).      rapper, dancer, face of the group

❛  Yoojin.       (  2000 ).      vocalist, dancer

❛  Maru.       (  2000  ).       visual, dancer, vocalist, maknae

[nothingunrealistic]

The Financial Journal

EVIDENCE OF INSIDER TRADING: CEO Steven Birch of PIedmont Capital traded on nonpublic information

EVIDENCE OF INSIDER TRADING: CEO Steven Birch of PIedmont Capital traded on nonpublic information

By Randy Kornbluth

NEW YORK - Reporters from the Financial Journal have unearthed evidence that Steven Birch, CEO of multibillion dollar hedge fund Piedmont Capital, obtained material nonpublic information regarding Arcadian Pacific Railroad, which he then traded upon, therefore violating SEC regulations.

Piedmont Capital has 9 billion in assets under management, and it is estimated that Mr. Birch himself has [a p]ersonal net worth of nearly 1.4 billion. Arcadian Pacific [is on]e of the oldest and largest railroads in North America. [?] cases like this coincidence is unlikely, a clear nexus [?] [be] discovered,” stated former federal [prosecutor James Robbins?] from the [?]

[gaildaley]

2024 05 30 Work Journal

Well, here we are again. Despite distractions from ‘Life (read that Sh*t) happens’ (our business credit card was hacked, and they sucked over $1,200 out of the account before my husband caught it.) Little so-and-sos did it in the middle of the night. If he hadn’t been up at 2 AM and odd hour for him they might have succeeded in draining the account. The bank is working on it and issued me a new card—but they managed to hack the virtual card issued before we even got the real one! It makes me want to go into the bank and sing “You’ve got a hole in your system, dear BofA to the tune of “You’ve got hole in the bucket, dear Liza”.

To keep the pair of us out of jail for disrupting a business, we decided to open an account at another bank instead. Which involves renewing our FBN and unfortunately, we were 10 days late, so we had to start from scratch. Most of this fell on me since it involved spending time in government offices, setting up appointments at the new bank, etc. Time consuming and not especially fun.

However, despite all of that, I did get three chapters of City of Deception done, which leaves me about 69% finished with the rough draft. I ran through the girl’s disappearance, the rescue (where we picked up another teenager in the same fix), the hospital scenes and the new girl’s intro to her new family with Ava as a guardian. I can always tell when I’m on the right track with a book as it just clicks along. The only drawback is I need to make myself go back into the rough draft and expand on stuff. (I do have a tendance to tell not show when I’m writing at light speed). I learned this the hard way when I wrote the Arcadian Web and one of my ARC readers said it was a novella instead of a real novel. 

[waterlilyunit6]

Additional Cannon Hall Information - Boats

When initially researching about Cannon Hall at the start of the project, I didn't find any information about the many boat artifacts, paintings, and tiles or any links they had to the Hall, especially since there were many boat themed items (apart from the years they were from). Since I had only just started the unit, and wanted to continue my other research, (my main focus being The Duchess and Georgiana Spencer), I didn't continue my find for any facts around the boats. Which is something I came to regret as the Unit progressed, and the boats became more of a feature for my collection, especially my garment.

I couldn't find anything online, and any books about Cannon Hall I found only talked about the brief history/list of owners, and artifacts on display there today. I decide to contact Cannon Hall to see if they could tell me anyhting about the boats. I was forwarded onto a Freelance Curator at Cannon Hall, who gave me amazing information.

The information includes:

"Ships and boats that can be seen at Cannon Hall Museum there are two groups of objects. Most of the objects such as ceramics, clocks, glass and metalwork were bought after the Spencer Stanhope family sold the Hall in 1951 so do not reflect their interests. However, the tiles in the Ballroom fireplace which have the ships on were there when the family lived in the Hall. An old print of Cannon Hall shows a boat on the lake but that may be artistic license.

 We do know that the brother of the owner of Cannon Hall in the early 18th century bought a ship which he called, ‘The Cannon Hall’. Sadly, this ship was bought to transport enslaved people as part of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. The journey was devastating for all those on board with many deaths and we believe that the endeavour was not repeated."

...

"We do not believe the family had any specific interest in boats and ships beyond what would have been normal for their time and social status."

Melissa Gallimore also sent me an attachment of an article that was published in 2011 in the New Arcadian Journal, titled 'THE VOAYGE OF THE CANNON HALL'.

I'm now extremely pleased to finally have information about the ships and the link to the Hall even if it's not much of a link. I'm also pleased that my garment's print isn't solely inspired by the concept of the artifacts and pieces, and something can be said for the inspiration.

^ GALLIMORE, M (informant, Curator). 2024. Email. (Date of information given: 16th May 2024)

[moxymoxen]

Stride On In!

My fellow pixel pony enjoyers, a new HARPG breed known as the Arcadian Strider - a silky-soft, super intelligent, magnificent baroque breed - currently has a MYO (Make Your Own) event open! Meaning you get to design and spawn in an Arcadian Strider of YOUR total and complete design without having to breed, lineage, or import one!

You can find out more via the event's DeviantArt Journal, found here:

https://www.deviantart.com/acadianstriders/journal/MYO-Feb-Mar-2024-1018874792

The event lasts until the end of March - I can’t wait to see your pretty ponies!!

[arthistorysblog]

Bibliography

 Jones, M. (2022). What role did the catholic church play in the Baroque Movement. [online] Available at: https://homework.study.com/explanation/what-role-did-the-catholic-church-play-in-the-baroque-period-architecturally-after-martin-luther-made-known-his-theses-why-is-this-historically-relevant-or-important-for-us-to-know.html

 [Accessed: 28th Nov 2022]

Hickson, S. (2015). Patronage of the Arts. [online] Available at: https://www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/document/obo-9780195399301/obo-9780195399301-0358.xml. 

[Accessed: 28th Nov 2022]  

DeLuca, C. (2010). The capacity of assessment in arts education. Encounters on Education, pp: 11,3-12.  Available at: http://library.queensu.ca/ojs/index.php/encounters/ article/view/25 

[Accessed: 28th Nov 2022]

Apollodorus (1921) The Library, trans. James George Frazer Loeb Classical Library Volumes 121 & 122. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann Ltd.  

           Available at: http://www.theoi.com/Text/Apollodorus1.html  

          [Accessed: 22nd November 2022] 

Bednarova, S. (2019) The Male Gaze- the Myth of Diana and Endymion. Artuk.org [online] 

            Available at: https://artuk.org/discover/stories/the-male-gaze-the-myth-of-diana-and-endymion 

          [Accessed: 16th November 2022] 

Brigstocke, H. (2001) Solimena, Francesco 1657-1747. 1 The Oxford Companion to Western Art: Oxford University Press. 

Chilvers, I. (2015) The Oxford Dictionary of Art and Artists. 5th ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press.  

Davidson Reid, J. and Rohmann, C. (1993) The Oxford Guide to Classical Mythology in the Arts 1300-1990s. New York: Oxford University Press, 1:373-82. 

Downing, C. (1981) The Goddess: Mythological Images of the Feminine. New York: Crossroad. 

Forment, B. (2008) Moonlight on Endymion: In Search of "Arcadian Opera'' 1688-1721. Society for Seventeenth-Century Music Journal of seventeenth-century music, Vol.14 (1), pp.1 

Graves, R. (2017) The Greek Myths: the complete and definitive edition. London: Penguin Books. 

Liverpoolmuseums.org.uk (2022) Diana and Endymion [online]  

          Available at: https://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/artifact/diana-and-endymion 

          [Accessed: 15th November 2022] 

Pliny the Elder (1855) The Natural History, trans. Bostock, J. and Riley, H. T. 

         Available at: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/cgibin/ptext?lookup=Plin.+Nat.+toc 

          [Accessed: 27th November 2022] 

Zirpolo, L.H., (2018) Historical Dictionary of Baroque Art and Architecture. Lanham, Maryland: Rowland & Littlefield. 

Solimena, F. (1705-1710) Diana and Endymion  [oil on canvas] Liverpool : The Walker Art Gallery 

[thefollyflaneuse]

Gibraltar Tower, Heathfield Park, East Sussex

Gibraltar Tower, Heathfield Park, East Sussex

In 1791 Francis Newbery, bought Bailey Park, an estate in East Sussex, which he renamed the Heathfield Park Estate. Almost immediately he set to work constructing this elegant tower on high ground in his park. The Folly Flâneuse has joined forces with The Garden Historian to elaborate on its history.Continue reading

[jesuisgourde]

Mentions of Carl in Books Of Albion

Here is a list of various mentions of Carl in Peter’s journals. I figured these were of specific interest so I thought I’d make a compilation post. I’ve probably missed some since I went through the transcript fairly quickly, but these are most of them. Some are definite references, some are just things written by Carl in Peter’s journals. Some are very likely indirect references to Carl, but they may be references to others; I’ve made the assumption due to the context of surrounding pages. Also, Tumblr has ruined my fancy formatting from the doc, so I’m sorry if some of it looks weird.

Books Of Albion (physical book)

The Albion is still on course, though the route is annoyingly prone to be more akin to a Sid James Mystery Tour than a plain-sailing maiden voyage. Tension on the ship as ever, but more body mass to absorb & ease it. Steve sings. Justin plays bass. Carlos & I stoke the furnace. For now this is the format.

Without any clue as to the basics of self-sufficiency, Carlos is a slight burden - but still a richly talented and quite noble old stick who goes well out of his way not to prise anything out of my weak grasp.

Kellijean, Carlos, Francesca & myself all slept upstairs. Made my way home with a hoover, carrying it around my neck like the arm of a drunk friend.

9/3/1999 4....3 days to see out before my 20th birthday. I have asked Carlos to cancel my surprise party. He is a concern, I noted before: 'MY FRIEND IS RISING, PACKING HIS GUITAR, LEAVING ME. HE IS A GHOST AT THE MOMENT HE WALKS AWAY. DOES HIS SOUL CARRY THIS TORTURE FOR PAST MISDEEDS UNPUNISHED? DOES HE EXIST IN THE SINGULAR? MY FRIEND, A PROUD AND LONELY YOUNG MAN. FIGHTING GODS AND DEMONS. RUNNING ALWAYS FROM DEATH."

Strangely, I brought my guitar with me. Perhaps I can busk across. How foolish, naive or impracticle am I? How adventurous, capricious or inspired am I? where am I.... Through the peephole on the moving train, all I can see is that the place is quite long in letters and begins with an S. I think of Lorraine, Carlos, Francesca not at all....not of anything. I am conscious only of the desire to live.

First night of the club tonight. Justin, [illegible], Carlos & I are doing it. Came home from work & all my records are gone. stormed to the cambridge and berated the pigman, after a brief and bitter little exchange with his boss.

Francesca appeared before me outside the Prince Charles Cinema. She raced to me and kissed Carl.

Sometime close to the day that Carlos & I watched 'Love And Death on Long Island' (and afterwards paraded through the tea rooms of Picadilly) we both filled in application forms and were tres excited to be invited to the same group 'interview' - twas more like an audition though. I got the part. Carlos never. This did not bring any animosity - we both know that success for either of us is magnified a million times if it is shared by us both. But hey ho and never you mind the acute psychological burdens this most splendid and dark relationship heaps upon me.

I put the sick pig to bed. am out stalking... singing to meself & walking on me heels. your Love has made misery distant. to London quantum ille canis est in fenastra?

The new Albion rooms careworn & glamorous as any before.  Already the Arcadian dream feels the pinch. Rough trade visitations... today is that day that we longed for & what of it? Piggle sleeps on the cradle-rocking central line.

But we do find ourself in reflective mood this cold christmas 23rd day of december, 2002. One ragged roaring hell of a year wherein The Libertines made good friends & had some right old knees ups to boot. & they can't take that away from us. I wonder where Carlos is this night. Perhaps he has fled to the wilds of Hampshire to be with his family. So long Marianne, it's time that we began.... the Albion rooms has spent the last three weeks being skag & boned up to the nines, and what tales I might tell.

day one in the Arcadian retreat, I awoke congealed & unhealed on the on the sprawling soft leather of the couch where Alan, Carl, Goatee, & I my last awake self watched headhunters awhile, I slept.... Wales greets me, we are in the hem of the Brecon Beacons' shirt Day 2 I come into myself for the very first time, not liking my appearance but aware of evolution & forever changes. Loathe to write & line even. Cherez Some Friday and the black hills surround us. Carl has gone under the knife today, after smashing his own face in on the glass sink shelf, after a harsh night of drinking, smoking and rowing.... "'ere what about us?" take an easy graceful sideways position.

Autumn barricading itself in subtlety in colours mixed and matched, steady days like a yawn, the nights silent stillborn cry for the very dawn. Bales of hay strapped up on the M4 broken bones on the roadside, weathered by the years cars crossing lanes like crabs. Biggles stirs in his sleep coughing. Again: a time for valour. A time of whispered events. Now faded with the passing years.

Christmas 2003 comes and goes in sweeping highs & unfamiliar agonies. Think back to the 23rd & the christmas do at the Rhythm factory, Carl at the end of the 3-man show in his jeans conducting the crackers crowd in some beagled ritual. spurring them on to further

"I was thinking of you..." he says "I always think of you..." we natter awhile on matters trivial and terrifyingly important alike. He wanders in and out from room to room. A wolf in his rooftop cave, elongated lair, wild hair and unfathomable eyes. I am begging him for words...longing for the exaltation & infinite glorious morning that comes like a shadow hot on the heels of a new song.

Image, bottom left: a torn out magazine photo of Carl with the title "Carl Barat: 'I'll love Pete 'til my dying day'.”

when you talk about your brother lover since you walked out on each other I know I'm a mess me, and that how when you but when you test me & why kiss and carress me and then I need for nothing more than maybe some wine the taste of my beloved is vodka & ciggies

Through The Looking Glass

You and I my love - we shall set off together very soon. A voyage unto the unknown - away from here, this wonderful place, these horrors..... "the waltz of the snowflakes" from the nutcracker suite Bones Bill has listened to nothing else but since QPR were sponsored by Classic FM. In his blind allegiance to west Londons finest, the logical hooligan was enraptured by the surprising soothes of this new music. Carlos you distressing little bug. Walking out like that. What can the title be for that odd little track Steve, Tom & I knocked up last night. Whitechapel Wonderland? Certainly I need to pay tribute to this wonderful place. This is my perfect summer....hidden away here.

As it stands or slouches The Libertines consists of Steve Bedlow, Bill Bones, Carl Barât & myself.

Let's get beagled & play pacman & read to me of the countess of Pembroke's Arcadia "D'yknow what pisses me off?" "What?" "You"

Image: a yellow post-it note. In Carl's handwriting in biro, a scribble in the top left corner and then "? shut eyes" in the centre.

NEVER NEVER sucking on a cigarette - where did that crowd come from. All money for the slot machines, to sell you back your dreams that's fine in hell so & I'm going with you that's fine with you we'll try it again, but my heart wont sing if my stomachs all untold cause she buckelled my spine [Written in Carl's handwriting] tattered [Written in Peter's handwriting] & tattooed my soul will soul old oh some wonder didn't you always say we gonna see better days so why we building them up & knocking them down it's always living them up & shooting them down with you knocking back [Written in Carl's handwriting] I believe everything you say I believe there'll be A Brighter Day

shit moosic at de foundary - until Spaniel & spaniel take over of course. Then commenceth the grand cabaret & oh what a night.

Let me on / let me off that fucking train. I cant stand the pain & the strain all over a gain c'mon a rush & a push & the land that we lie dead on is all ours. My friend loathes & despises the hammersmith & city line & all those other routes to false fame.

[Written in Carl's handwriting] Pity the fool you made like fear trod all over his sandwiches put grass down his back but here he comes again with the girls in tow what a horrorshow! [Written in Peter's handwriting] A protestant with the housekeeping? A catholic in the bedroom? A satanist in the bedroom?

[Written in Carl's handwriting] In cold silence She was silhouetted Her backdrop the twilight thames and this verdigris rail she reminded me the world was going to end fire in the west to have lived and to have loved to die arm in arm our bodies destroyed we'd come to no harm Do you hear the slurred whisper rising on the wind? Good-bye - love forever

Skint & Minted

feeling revolutionary? or consumed with self pity? dose yourself I remember you you're the one who filled my nose with glue so many kisses ago

sometimes your hard faced, makes me wanna hold you tight & kiss you till you're at least pretending to smile. At least pretending that the smallest ever thing can even be made right. Not living in a pantomime. fragile thing Cigarettes appear out of thin air

I you loved him when he was on the dole & when he was the king of rock n roll & you'll love him when he's buried in a hole. now here's a tale, a tale I will tell of blood & theft & oh sweet love & all the things we do so well

I cant believe how you spoke to me earlier you meanie. Anyway happen fuckin new year you fickle heartless rogue. Ex. I love you you sweet silly thing! flageolet. heres to 2002...hip hip

Albion 47

Drove up to the palace at night with Carl, perched on the kerb as pre-dawn mist spread thick over London, clouding the lights. The only the we have in common anymore, apart from the band, is that we both wear safety pins in our ears.

Campaign Of Hate

Carl, Gary & John... ha. Carl mumbles very quietly about it needing a little more dirt or aggression. Talk about a contradiction in terms. Shuffling about, mumbling, talking about spark! I drifted off into soho, old border. Saw sailer, bought some weed. Guinness. Do I wake or sleep, creaking door. Oh Stella! Don't worry her.

'The Making of the Libertines' Tax Exiles The irresistable rise of The Libertines' 'The Rise & fall of the Roman Empire' Where's Carlos? (the brackle)

my twin he pretends to be me walks abroad lies to broads locks me in at home tied to a like burrowed in a hole smoke & choke alone at home    rocks to rocks chewing on my bone, smashed up into little dont need no pretty face stones dont need no human race..... slash the cushions I read every review velvet on the even though noone's got a fucking clue throne all your heroes sold their soles and brought brand new shoes, born to cant help those in need today lose cant get any speed today if you never the my lifes got no real meaning or control choose write some crappy catchy song you know try & get out of this hole couldnt we write some crappy snappy dont want to stay where you say I belong

At least I can come here now, to you, my blessed book. Confidante & forgiver. Holy book of all sordid scribbling & petty grievancy. & what's this I hear? the clanging melodia of Breck Rd Lover. Carlos & John doing their old school harmonies.

[Written in Carl's handwriting] cognac in the bedroom, sunami of polaroids & you are the fool Peter. Hold your tongue or someone may lop it off.

Another punch up at Leeds now biggles wrongly accused me of starting on him which I never did the opposite if anything. I got him a good crack in the face so this weekend he's had smacks in the face from Rabbi, Bani & myself That Boy he's mania they gave him a chance & he gave it right back he doesnt need it a good soundtrack

[Written in Peter's handwriting] So how did it go from EMI/Toshiba to Sony dinner? & in an hour? [Written in Carl's handwriting] We realised she had passion - they emitosh were good at their job BUT she had passion for music... we wanted you to meet her... we/you need to get on with these people⸺ but the food & conversation will be good ⸺⸺ xx

Fine moments at RAK. Mick Jones looks at Carl & smiles fondly, fatherly as the rock n roll star stumbles into the studio can in hand very late in the afternoon (Carlos that is). Oh love my friend, he drags me out to meet Abraham (formerly 'Phil' which he has tattooed on his knuckles).

[Written in Carl's handwriting] Spickio GQ Inter-view 1) The Libertines started in the dusty embryonic pages of of 17th century renaissance literature. The band started in 1997 in Mortlake. Another renaissance blah blah, ask Peter... 2) Hype? Comes from journalists and nosy noisy unfulfilled types. People got & get excited about songs. 3) the songs on our album might sound like

Albion 34

The wandering troubadours the black sheep boys the unowned sous dweller in purgatory in transitory transition the bustle and the hubbub of the old cinema has had a profound effect in my mind - the music heals and entrances the rapture of the exited boys and girls is so wonderfully new and so inherently old. [Written in Carl's handwriting in black ink pen.] Well, let me wright my dreams.

Will you take us with you when you go? Will you call us when you get there? When youve seen how the other half live Let us know Your song will fill the air..... [Written in Carl's handwriting] What a shame my steps were out of sync on that cold and rainy morning. I knew if I fell, dear friend, then we all would. how was I to hold that bulk of legend in order. that's the order of the day. Skinny wag from whitchurch. In these two hands, & my so beloved home town. Only tears now that well up & teater on the edges of my leathery sunken red eyes. Still it doesnt change. on & on & on. I hear Manchester groan under the weight of its self knowing industrial cosmopolitan north south skally gun toting soul chip on the shoulders. Says Imran anyhow. "We all shat ourselves down the wetland estate?" Another timeless tale from the subjects of Albion. Met Johnny Marr last night.

[Written in Carl's handwriting, cont.] Did it for you really. When I shook his hand, I gingerly probed his callouses & thought of you. Never make me swear on the soul of my twin. He was kind but jaded. told me where to score. told me to be ware. He gave up smoking yesterday his wife (who's name escapes me) Mrs Marr, told me from behind her hand. I didn't score. flesh, bone, myth, legend. 2 hands. no more heroes. go through them all like cigarettes & what you got left? Is t really worth it? Thou shalt not worship false idols. Idyl idle eye doll. I hear lou Reeds a right old spaz these days. I don't know when to die. Some go too soon. Nietzsche says.... then died too old, babbling mad with syphilis. There is no other half. not unless you see it as those who do & those who don't. those who show it & those who won't. those that choose to live, or ? candy coated sinners. Always alone. Mental note. Dont get killed crossing road in rain.

couldnt hide my excitement when Carlos said he met Johnny Marr & that he's coming to the gig & likes the album. Or is he winding me up?

All At Sea

what words scyth the heads of my loves poppies. a creeping, cautious shadow that hates my reckless intent. To hold you, to heal you, to kill you yes & roll over you in Teesdale st. Loyal and jealous the night, play a record. If you will I will anyway feel this hollow or sick. loyal and sick to the back teeth of that awful taste. You're the model of my love, hardened in the fire, so soft to touch, so warm to the blade, you hurt me & I hear you cry out in pain

F#m → E & change rhythm intro "what do you know about me? All you know is all that you see, wish you would listen to reason baby - wish you'd been listening to me. So.. so you tell me I'm not alone, and that you'll soon be coming home but the way that you left me drives my mind insane"... check with biggles...

'look out for the Daley Thompson lookalike tanned trim toned and ready to get superstoned, a thousand kissywishes to you and a thousand more and one more for Carl from the bum at the corner. here's lookingatcha hugs of love wolfy'

Novella

Is a book of Albion lost now and forever. Grand tales of scandanavian adventure wherein we realized one of our early dreams of absolute pandemonium on stage, encouraging the gyrating immaculate kids to take to the boards & swarm all over the stage they did & what wonder ensues. Some of them are so surprised I'm taller or shorter than them. Chucked out of the venue we played at in Bergen for beating up the dj when he wouldn't play the Smiths & was rude to Carlos. Burly vikings escorted us to the door.

I suppose I must begin now, to record these last four months, to reflect on the 'absolute' - the sights I never thought I'd see & the meagre miserly destruction which I held so dear. My long talk with Carlos today is the green light for this trawling into the dim & near past. (Afore the smoke addled brain loses it entirely to loss)

Now I must tell you a tale of great splendour & horror, the tale of the last few sacred months, and their unfathomable events. sketches of scandanavia, lost forever in a mislaid leather bound book of Albion. Remember Carlos being awoken by the Norwegian customs guard, light shining in his sleeping face. "Fuck off" "It's Norwegian customs" said the uniformed guard "I dont care about your local traditions" He sat up and saw the officer - fell out of his bunk & cracked his head on the wooden bar.

Come 'ead Biggles, eight days a week. I heard it was a competition, do I look like I care? I suppose that I must I wrestled the infinite & mastered the lonesome day. Making & breaking friends.

A friend one respects when you get on the gear. The universality of culture. A personal poem that hundreds more relate to, and then a life and a love is shared. More than a tatoo,

Lonely Villein

Can it be true that you after so long you're strolling into view I've missed you but you know I can be stoical and struggle on with lost limbs a plenty

Stealing from a thief was I that day in Harley Street, booking down a door and strolling off in the rain. They never mentioned - in court, in the press - the one object that I truly, completely singlemindedly stole. Not trust, not friendship: a burberry umbrella.

Bilo & Biggles go together like a couple of cup of Earl Grey & Giggles

Fragility Of Openness [There are loads of photos of Carl scattered throughout Fragility, so the only non-text put in are the documents that weren't photos, or the whole pages of images that were Carl related.]

Image, top left: Carl's jobseekers allowance claim from January 2002.

Image, top right: a torn piece of paper with Carl's address on it.

[Written on lined paper in Carl's handwriting, sideways at the bottom of the page.] Helium Casino Blanks trenchcoats Racketeers Buckaneers the streets you never have to walk alone cowslick in your eye greets us through the lonely ranks on the rails and up to Bank

Image, top right: Carl's visitor pass to the BBC for visiting Tina Turner.

Image: Peter's court summons for burgling Carl's flat.

Image, upside down, bottom of page: a typewritten caution to Carl for stealing a moped on 16 August 1998.

Image: a large photo of Carl, shirtless, playing guitar and singing.

[Image, top left: a fragment of lyrics and chords to Jail Guitar Doors by The Clash. Image, bottom right: a black and white photo of Carl in the original Albion Rooms, he is wearing a dark jumper and is looking down. There's a framed collage and a small gun or gun-prop on the wall behind him.] [Written in Peter's handwriting on white paper held in with silver tape.] 'Carlos Ashley Raphael Barât' snap of Biggles, that most photogenic of Libertines... The photograph you can see here on this page is from around 1998, t'was taken in the basement flat of 236 Camden Rd, the original 'Albion Rooms' Enjoy my friends (I'm sure the lad himself will...)

[Image, top left: a polaroid of Carl placing a cigarette in his mouth. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl sitting on a couch with a cigarette in his hand, gesturing as he talks. There is a rifle leaning against the couch beside him and trash all over the floor. Image, bottom right, sideways: a photo of Carl onstage, singing. He's shirtless except for a tie.] [Written in Peter's handwriting on white paper taped in with silver tape, top right.] 3.00 am Paris 6th Jan 2004 Carlos... you came back to the hotel room. said you were gettin lonely. I was getting a familiar old feeling... when you go a'strollin' & a'drinkin' and dont come back for a week . . . .

[Image, top left: a photo of Carl in the doorway at Rough Trade, mostly in shadow. Image, centre left: a photo of Carl holding an infant Astile, posing with one hand behind his back. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl in a white vest and a hat, looking over the edge of a balcony] [Written in Carl's handwriting, sideways on the right side of the page.] If you knew where id been, could feel what i'd seen you'd have been beside me, but no bother, all the same.

[Image, top left: a torn printout of the poem “For That He Looked Not Upon Her” by George Gascoigne. Image, top middle: a photo of fans jumping onstage at a Libertines gig. Image, top right: a photo of Carl standing in an alley. Image, centre left: a photo of Peter, Car, and others posing. Carl is in front, making an exaggerated smouldering expression at the camera. Peter is peering round his head. The other two people in the photo are obscured by other images. Image, centre middle: a photo of Carl onstage, shirtless, singing. Image, centre right: a torn photo of Carl. He is looking at the camera, possibly mid-speech; his hair is in his eyes. Image, bottom left: a torn photo of Carl onstage, shirtless and singing. Image, bottom middle: a photo of four men. Three of them are sitting on the stairs; one has on a black cap and has his head in his hand, one has dyed red hair and sunglasses, and one is not looking towards the camera. Carl is standing beside the stairs, looking at some papers in his hand. Image, bottom right: a fragment of a photo of Carl onstage, shirtless.] [The text of the poem by George Gascoigne, top left.] You must not wonder, though you think it strange, To see me hold my lowring head so low; And that mine eyes take no delight to range About the gleams which on your face do grow. The mouse which once hath broken out of trap Is seldom teased with the trustless bait, But lies aloof for fear of more mishap, And feedeth still in doubt of deep deceit. The scorched fly which once hath 'scap'd the flame Will hardly come to play again with fire. Whereby I learn that grievous is the game Which follows fancy dazzled by desire. So that I wink or else hold down my head, Because your blazing eyes my bale have bred.

[Image, top left: a photo of Carl wearing a grey shirt with "Playboy" written on it in reverse in white, red, and blue. He is looking at the camera with a neutral expression. Image, top right, sideways: a black and white photo of Carl in the original Albion Rooms. He is looking at the camera with an unfocused or mid-blink expression. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl in front of a blue wall, talking to someone with a smile on his face and a cigarette in his hand. Image, bottom right: a photo of Carl onstage, playing guitar, wearing his red military jacket.]

[Image, top middle: a torn title of an article, reading “A devine Original”. Image, top left: a photo of Carl standing in an alley. Image, top right: a dim photo of Carl onstage, playing guitar. Image, centre right: a black and white photo of Carl wearing a hat, a white vest, and an unbuttoned collared shirt, looking to the right. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl in a sleeveless collared shirt, posing, flexing his right arm and making a face. Image, bottom left: a torn piece of paper with a fragment of a poem from Order And Disorder by Lucy Hutchinson. Image, bottom right: a photo of a young Carl in a white collared shirt and dark tie, with the sleeves rolled up. He has a slight smile on his face.] [The text of the poem by Lucy Hutchinson, bottom left.] if I on thee a private glance reflect, confusion does my shamefull eyes deject Seeing ye man I Love by me betrayed by me who for his mutual help was made. Who to preserve thy life ought to have dyed & I have kill'd thee by my foolish pride, defiled thy Glory and pull'd down thy Throne oh! y! I had but sind & dyed alone, Then had my torture, & my woe been lesse I yet had Florished in thy happyness.

[Image, top left: a black and white photo of Carl peering at the camera. He is wearing a hat and looking at the camera with a neutral expression. Image, top right: a photo of Carl onstage, shirtless, singing and playing guitar. Image, centre left: a black and white photo of Carl in a hat, a white vest, and a dark unbuttoned shirt, posing and looking off to the right. Image, centre right: a photo of Carl in a grey shirt and a hoodie, looking off camera with a neutral expression. Image, bottom middle: a photo of Carl in the studio with headphones on and a flushed face. Image, bottom right: a polaroid of Carl, shirtless, making a face, seemingly in the middle of playing around. The photo has been damage around Carl's waist and the top of his head.]

[Image, top middle: a torn photo of something unidentifiable, perhaps a fireplace. Image, top middle: a sexy playing card, the three of hearts, featuring a woman in a red dress and red feather boa posing. Image, top right: a black and white photo of Carl sitting at a table with his head in his hand and his eyes closed. Image, centre right: a torn piece of a letter addressed to “Mr C Barat & Mr P Doherty Partners     The Libertines”. Image, bottom left: a photo of Carl sitting on a couch, half-lit. Peter is sitting on a nearby chair or table mostly in shadow and is reaching over to hand Carl a card. Smoke from his cigarette hazes the image. Image, bottom right: a photo of Peter standing in an alley.]

[Image, bottom: a photo of a white and black stove. A small bucket or rubbish bin sits to the left of it.] [Written beside the photo] Agar stove Bilo & Biggles sat around writing Good old days in the not so good old days

Some mysterious devil plays us of against each other at opposite ends of hell. It is so hard to make amends. [Written on a white square of paper taped into the page.] a pare of mournful rebukes of her eyes and bruised dark lips. The girl cant help it

Paris Montmartre

Arthur there with a beard as all camera following me & my family around the Albion rooms and then...... "remember leeds, so giving us hell even when we've done our best interest to accomodate her" Carlos sits at the end of the double bed I share with the sleeping Alan Voss crammed all 3 are we in the 'Formula One' motel on the outskirts of Nantes. A french music video plays on the tele on the perch. It is Kate Ryan singing 'Libertine'! A wee burn of the brown stuff. Its crappy 'uplifting' housy-pop, euro pop. Alan whistles sleep through his nose. [Image: a drawing of random parts of a face in random order.] [Written in Carl's handwriting] spamagotcha #?*¡?=@! smakinamouth repertoi revue act 1 somewhere brown, cracks in the walls and stones. pigman ferretting around for bone in a dirty little matchbox. No joy there. [Written in Peter's handwriting] five a side goals, metal bars, punching school friends in the face. A rap on the door, tis Dialektik and the spectacled Stephan avec le van. Alan & Carl need more sleep so I venture to the studio, alone but full of good feeling for le day & the the boys. Nantes is village like in aspect, in the age of mechanisation it retains a rural air. coiffure Bernard Homeopathic. college petite laude.  Le virginia

Arrive at the studio in the freezing cold to the strains of 'through the looking glass' with beelzebub playing fender rhodes over the ragged & beautiful version with myself on guitar, Alan on drums & Carlos on bass guitar.

[Written in Carl's handwriting.] Humdrum song of the sad rain EDC#B/ A /D piano G /A /D Bm A-Gm7 f# guitar Gmaj7 though shalt not kill

That was I you know who come up to my room & someone else - it was looking beautiful but someone commented on heroin. Then a party & everyone was there including my mum as her younger self with curly blond hair & a funny do it was all piled out like famous me duty. Tabith! remained tidying up? Before that festive house cards on the door looking to the darkly street. Woke up a wee restless all the french about Carlos commenting on everyones lack of joie de vivre. That would be that then wouldn't it. Alan calling in the troops who are all feeling groovy and we all listen to the final mixes of the 4 tracks we recorded two days previous. ta to dialektik and now 'ta ta' and adieu as we are to head to Holland. Alan, wunderkind, stalks the room, leaning up against the door, whistling. Carlos talks in hushed tones to a sweet girl skinny like her sister. I've spent the whole day on the sofa pretty much. Taking it in, mind. Carlos says 'Its only a short life.' - Is he trying to persuade her something? old Hollywood lover man. Torments in the night. sex pest. I wish someone would ruffle my hair or something give us a kiss an that. Narcissist is pretty fucking amazing - the best vocals I've ever heard Carlos sing actually. It is fucking good. Jesus it's a fine song... le monde,  ha ha wall makes me cry.

It's cold on the motorway we're all freezing in the colder climes & [illegible] flight connect neglect. Ah and then golden brown on the stereo, soothes my aching belly defrosting lights like sparkles and all flashing before me Carlos silenced like a parrot coat over his head "Is it dark in there?" 'I dunno I cant see a fuckin thing man." Ice scrapings on the window, soul was frozen over for a while back then and a severe bout of wolf sickness. Barricade of bales and through the gaps stretch of iced fields. Not a good morning to be a French farmer if there ever was one... this handsome face multiplied by the presses from the depths of my 426 (I'm already beyond that) This story may not always seem artificial, and in spite of me you may recognize in it the call of the blood: the reason is that within my night I shall have happened to strike my forehead at some door, freeing an anguished memory that had been haunting me since the world began. Forgive me for it. This book aims to be only a small fragment of my inner life. she was so proud to make the pimp come.

February 2002 Montmartre Table shakes - the soul of the wine. Columbia on the stereo. The rattle of pans in the sink. Carlos is cooking dinner & I was flat on my back, silhouette. Recall the Rabbi stumbling for a drink in some backstreet pub near a motorway/railway bridge. Befriended a load of hardliners he did, whilst I ducked beneath the lilipads of a hotel boy. I am to have a son then it was scanned, a Lisa in tears awhile for my not contacting. 'candy gram for Mongo' Peter looked out of the Brassierie window 'I feel strange' he said 'You are strange' Carl added helpfully

[Written in Carl's handwriting] New Motion don't look back into the sun [Written in Peter's handwriting] you know as well as I it will never come [Written in Carl's handwriting] into nos tal gee [Written in Peter's handwriting] oh my friend you haven't changed your usual ways I thought we'd lost you You can be jonny & I'll be june stop fucking around with death at the disco (how queer) time will come coy with nostalgia can go jogging to die healthy

Merry Go Round

Innit funny, Biggles ventures to join me in the studio & even deigns to visit me in my home... on the eve of the tour How cynical has my heart become? Miss Hayley Kenneth has joined me in the fiercely overcrowded one room tenement flat. Evidently she has jacked in college & all else up north & for this... a candlewax model of Arcadia. Unfathomable is her countenance & unproven her power over me. Now even she pats the space beside her & beckons me - Carl lies sleeping on the sofa & I scribble here at the little

sensible studios. Trying to get a straight simple drumbeat never seemed so difficult Poor engineer or cruel engineer? To pity or be pain? Tis the question of the day the day as ever itself nearly 4 and where's Biggles?.. I may aswell to bed

Another day another pretty much perfect squalor of heart and profile upon the Bristol stage this very eventide past. Off the stage to soothing tides of comradeship & the very core of what was altogether a head fuck of a setup & Biggles knows and how keenly he feels the pinch too on these occasions: no other can.

It was the first one of the day it was the last one of the night hold me tight They said 'oh he's a wrong'un' but I could see in your eyes how you were gentle & wise (and you had the good stuff)

I know you better than that lad if you pack in the cracks & smack I'll be your might find me waiting for you with a love that's truer than true you cap my heart [illegible] a love the too many fools that are queuing up to be with you I write a song just to sing it darling I, really mean I gave my heart I know I'm a mess but I'll do my best to prove my love to you

This Charming Man

[Written in Carl's handwriting] Master for the Man the likely lads It was a jelly situation in the yellow heart of mine took some time to tell my belly with the milk of human kind? Now my lip it curls not my kind of world back on knees to the foily ruler

Consumption

The Likely Lads Doherty / Barât [Image: a drawing of an angry pig's face with breath coming out the nostrils. Image: a drawing of French Dog, facing away from the pig.] please dont get me wrong see I forgive you in a song they call the likely lads but if it's left to you I know exactly what you'd do with all the dreams we had blood runs thicker - we're thick as thieves you know please (if that's important to you) it's important to me pipe all summer long I tried to make you then get forgiven in see - but you a song dont wanna know that's a touch my lad oh what became           but they sold the rights to of the Likely Lads?            all my wrongs What became of and        but when they needed the dreams we had?         my new songs What became of forever?    it's 'welcome back' (how sad) (we'll never know) [Written in Carl's handwriting] We all bought the one's we took. we toured we taught the world and wrote the songs there's the the dream we have, but wrap up all the wrongs and I will hold you for a song/so long you know you're not so bad. x

Arise in good spirits... well rested after yesterdays palava. I had come out of the live room to be greeted by the newly arrived Alan Magee bearing certain long-awaited gifts - the mythical digital recorder that all uses n robotic melody translate obsolete recording device which is not that which I described to swap cop this Biggles expressing a certain huffy sense of rivalry - inky like I leap back in time from here late at night in the silken canopied room of Lucie all gypsy like the occurrences. We made acquaintance in arcady and with ease conversation amidst all wild adventure fatigued, in Camden Frontline but'd look alright in a clash video, rudeboy with a Libertines soul. You know who, you know the sort - the one. The one you love, more than forever desire. oh you wanna be with them, now, reading this page aloud to you or bath or kissy kissy or so

Image, top left: a photo of Carl's bare back with “Libertine” in Japanese painted on it in black. The image has been brushed with white paint on the edges.

[Written in Carl's handwriting in gold gel pen.] Although I sit here on a vital page of my own potted history, sometimes lonely, sometimes not, I feel I write from afar. Just where or how I came to be here, I couldn't explain. Sometimes I dont know why, or maybe thats what I kid myself? However, the studio is sunny, the music is dulcet, my friends are here sharing a timeless pride. Mick is dancing [Image: a drawing of Mick Jones from behind, dancing with his hands up.] [Written in Peter's handwriting] How can you make us understand how Carl sounds like Jim Morrison but better when the penny drops

[Written in Carl's handwriting] NO → E dont dont be coy cuz I'm too clever I wont follow you down to the darkest stormy weather the bracket is wider now whats your pleasure ill see you on the other side but please....

[Written in Carl's handwriting on a piece of lined paper pasted into the journal.] I hear the things u say watched friendship fall away And it only leads to sorrow so lets be it as it may I meet people every day with thinking something they wont say I hear what all the bullies say lays on the grit hair turns grey and its such a sunny day oh its not any an easy game to play

[Written in Peter's handwriting] Dont look back into the sun Doherty/Barat [Image, top left: a drawing of a sun.] verses G / D / Em / D / C / D chorus C / G / C / D Dont look back into the sun now you know that your time is come and they said it would never come for you oh oh oh they'll never forgive you bit they won't let you go she'll never forgive you but she won't let you go [Written in Carl's handwriting] Don't look back into the sun you cast your pearls, but you're on the run & all the lies you said, who did you save? But then they played that song @ the death disco it started fast, but then ends so slow, and all the time just reminded me of you. they'll never forgive you but they won't let you go Barât / Carl

Stix & Stones

My fingertips filthy, blistered burnt and sliced... a tatty crossfire of plasters hold the end of my right index finger together. I slit it open by accident when I was pulling the razor blade out the razor to slice my chest up with t'other night. Ended up doin' one of the geetars over a monitor on the last night of Brixton, kicking Carl's amp over, showing 5,000 people my chest, blood fury, legging it through Brixton... was caught up with by my tour 'shadow' minder (Jeff) decided, topless & freezing in the street, to head back in. Cut myself a bit more and then rejoined the boys half-way through the Good Ol' Days. Heartless swines had done time 4 heroes without me!

you dont show your face no more I miss you man pal I miss you bad I miss this and I miss all the good times we had was digging out some old tapes we done winding melodies & reparties France writing general smuts & dont look back into the sun

Libertine

I showed no decorum I saw the photo you left on the forum hell had furys warning the photo was the happiest way that was today now they dont think I'm o.k now to them if I'm happy then I can't be o.k. I gave fair warning just to relieve your boredom you showed no decorum in my harem that day when I get round to si who will buy my beautiful roses who will buy my beautiful song?

in a bangkok bizarre 'no... you call each other Mr Spaniel'

You smile like a sickly child & with grace & guile You steal the shows embrace your foes keep your nose crystal clean & re-live the dream Your beautiful for an awkward second hot tin metal scars white pink petals all debts to the soul settled more or less.... could the gods care less? cruel motherfuckers they'll never stop us cant touch this

do you know me? I dont think so romanticize a dark & gloomy past trying to escape from the underclass Gm / Gm / Gm / A Bb / Dm / Bb / Dm you darken the bright & beautiful day your breakin' my heart in everyway don't tell me everything's dandy & fine you're no friend of mine I took you in & you stole from me but you still got everything I need you walkin' so tall & lookin so mean walkin so tall & lookin so mean.. don't tell me everything's dandy & fine...

The vehicle we travel in is soundproofed... the old siren manages to [obscured, water-stained] the eerie silence. If your ears were mine right now you'd imagine yourself to be in a country yard not an inner city. We head up the Camden Road now and past Delaney Mansions, where Carl & I once top n' tailed in our formative years of being absolute fucking disasters legends.

Befuddled

[Image, top right: a torn magazine photo of Peter and Carl onstage, sharing a mic. Peter is on the left and Carl on the right.] That partner- ship now otherworldly in its inception and left to fight another day is it aye I'm open to suggestion but the rules suggest it cannot be how many envision it to be or so

It is hard to measure how different I feel, another week will be even madder... strange new worlds of purity and clean living, ha! rock and roll! I feel sad now about Carl and his apparent heartache at the Sun article. It's his birthday today and I know I won't see him again for a while.It is hard to measure how different I feel, another week will be even madder... strange new worlds of purity and clean living, ha! rock and roll! I feel sad now about Carl and his apparent heartache at the Sun article. It's his birthday today and I know I won't see him again for a while. He whirls himself away somewhere into his mind, away from me and the hateful hurtful worlds he can imagine. I love him and wish I could tell him so, and wish him to believe it to be so.

Transparent

I showed no decorum saw the post you left on the forum was like a photograph of a happier way that was today now everythings o.k now but to them if I'm happy then things just cant be o.k but I gave fair warning just to relieve the boredom I went & spoke to Gordon he was a goalkeeper from Feltham oh I show no decorum                L.A saw the post you left on the forum it was a photograph of our happiest day...

I've been running after you too long your trying not to see how you dont see me how you dont need me

people who just look a nasty way of biting your back- talk to me about the way you thought. The importance of not being too earnest. There is a, always will be a natural, incomparable chemistry between the Spaniels. Sidelong glances that evolved over centuries of late night riff sculpturing and misgiving, petty grievance & synchronized handshakes. All the strength one can muster, even to open the door. The words rattle out of her boney face, ramming at my ears, [illegible] me through of tears & fears such is the numbing effect of the incessant Babble. At least if it's too the face one can defend oneself. Sometimes if it appears that you dont care... apparently I cant see it. so devious? underneath it all so cold blooded & nasty? The reason being that I 'don't express myself that much' This do indeed get misunderstood

PD

Words, long ago building a dream what's worthless to the past is priceless to the last

they meant it and so, so it was meant to be ... they've all got it in for me so someone'll have to pay someone'll have to... great save me from what I want "————" need saw the face it's gone it's gone and wont given [illegible] gone and won't be coming back undone the whole shebang, a plan planned it out on a towel all the guys are going back oh & aye plan A not goin for intimacy riffle and I know what it meant to be all got it in for me oh they call 'em the Libertine oh they aint Libertines

A' Rebours

[Written in the margin of a very cluttered page] (Aye, Carlos) (I, Carlos) ([Image: a doodle of an eye and a car.])

Remember Banni sitting us down in a Notting Hill bar, on comfy sofa, and with some urgency rattling off a spiel about how we must project an impeccable image as a band suits she said suits!

The Libertines carry on without me it seems - even to Australia! christ... how to carry this weight? what's he up to that troubled man? There's having the [illegible] & proving something (whatever that is [illegible]) and then... then there's fucked up torture techniques cruelty and amputation. If I do get not guilty on the 10th of August for the flick knife palava then I'll end up inside anyway for strangling Biggles. I jest of course... his accursed brains would serve my peace of mind well if all over a monitor speaker they were mashed. given that he does not seem to offer me any of the love & friendship & loyalty that he tells the world of in these NMEs nearby. Then again, I would rather he could retain his giant pink [illegible] in that coked up paranoid 'sexiest rock star' head of his, and just stop this Libertines-without-Peter charade that for some reason breaks my heart all lately. If he will not open the door to me then stop playing my songs. It's hideous, hideous, tenuous? A flash then of a [illegible] hanging on my final words.

From Albion To Shangri-La

Oddly enough, I am back at the hotel with Stef of original 'Alf and Stephanie' fame. Their friendship disintegrated quicker than you can say 'Pete + Carl' a couple of years ago, after hemlock escorted the pair of them aboard the good ship Albion one oblivion-dashed New Years Eve

I'm on the balcony at Adelphi Terrace, just off the Strand. I think of Embankment Gardens, down there below me and the river Thames, a stone's throw beyond. I do not feel sentimental. I just fondly recall times when Carlos and I would loiter about these side-streets. Acting out for each other in the mini amphitheatre round. Our ever present guitars rattling out new compositions. We believed them to be masterpieces. It would turn out to be accurate – innocently arrogant and brimming over with belief in each other and in our unseen allies out there in the city.

Typecast

[...] flashy flashy all the while as it fat stub speaker raises its wireless voice and tickles the beagled morning with aplate of the geetar from me new tune - Hell to pay at the gates of Heaven. Carl reckons its yet to be written and that he is the man with the middle 8 and the je ne sais qua to put this lil' kontry armaggedon balled to bed for the winter. Bursting with all the joys of spring it'll be come harvest festival etc etc.

Doing this thing with John Cale – which I Haven't as yet actually done as I'm a day late for rehearsals.. He himself – Carl I mean, not John, I say he himself like that because I was just picturing him akipp' upstairs in the spare room, me dear Ol' mucker and one of the few who knows me from when I was meself alright then let8s get straight to the heart of the matter

“I think it's time for bed, ” says Carl, “I think it's time for your loves and hates ..” says Peter Carl takes a slash. Hates.. 1 Hatred “how I loathe it” 2 Injustice 3 Crass idiocy 4 Fear 5 Helplessness 6 “myself” …. 7 a great hatred for complicity and blinker'dness to beauty 8 The sound of a glass being filled 9 cardashians and sundry false idols 10 the darkside Carloves 1 Intoxication 2 Orgasm 3 liberty 4 bakewell Tart with tea, builders tea 5 Escape 6 the pay-off 7 p pokey 8 melancholia 9 self-betterment 10 family 

Miscellaneous

Seen Dean on the save at the bar / had a jar / Carl is away with the famous Libertines in Brazil it would seem. As ever now The Libertines is run-off my radar screen. I know nothing about it I am left no choice but to give all my life & living breath to Babyshambles and the great push for infinity

My dearest Jiggle down dawson. This is Catalonia. You get them all down here. I only really want to see one man though, My dearest old bejiggled soul.Tender is this nightt, and hyde parkey beckoneth. Strange town and-affect and that's a northern soul drum intro and a half.... bum da bum bum bum indeedy diddily doo

Carl alone in the room, talking intimately with Missus we butt into the conversation and hear Carl say, off handedly “yeah I know what you mean its like when people ask you how you are are...” Peter enters “Carl whispers goodbyes etc I'll call you back”... Carl looks at flash new wtch “[illegible] oand P: “I just been to get some dog food “How are you?holds up tripe cut to music hall pupple Carl “Its like.. imagine seeing life in a spectrum at the top is clear crystalline glass and blue sky hashtag no filter (stops, emphasizes..) NO filter” continues in a reverie “tilt your head a little, and start seeing [illegible] of a sunset -kodak moment.. a glass of chardonnay, but it's getting hazy “ Silence Carl: “can you see it?” P thinks “what a wise person” Internal dialogue of Peter : “I dont want a baby that Carl: looks like that Carl continues “can you see it it's getting darker it's the kerb, blood teeth , dog meat piss, kebab darker and you know the hammer is about to fall a reebok classic on the back of your skull do you get it...?  

[heli0s-writes]

“I’ll wait.”

With Bucky, for an anonymous request. I love pining, dreamy landscapes, and soft Bucky. 1.4k words. 🌻🌱🌷🍃

[28 WAYS Masterlist // Prompts]

The path through the woods is overrun. Heat of a thawed winter warms his determined steps as wild grass stems flick his shins. Speckled seed heads bow when he parts them with ease. His destination is sharper each passing second and he feels it shudder awake and alive, rocking him with anticipation.

Nestled inside the verdant greenery even maps couldn’t mark is the safehouse cabin, a sanctuary of dappled sunlight and unspoiled earth. A secret you keep close to your heart, allowing only few to know.

Bucky would never have come to your hideaway uninvited.

But it had been a week without you and the ache grew restless.

Inside, the imprint of your shadow reveals furtive observations his heart collects when you’re around: half-finished mugs of coffee, abandoned papers by the dining table showcasing scenery in skillful marks, its accompanying array of chalk pastels to the side. Bucky investigates your traces like footsteps of a trail, eyes reaching stems of wilderness collected and pressed between journals. Novels piled in stacks on the counter with fondly dogeared pages of tender quotes.

Faithful habits of chasing escapism he knows all too well.

The bedroom door is slightly ajar, but empty still. Pillows are pushed down in careless piles, blankets and sheets crumpled against each other. How did you look this morning, he wonders. Hair mussed prettily in disarray? Long lashes fluttering, heavy-lidded for a few blessed seconds?

A glance at the softly indented spot where your cheek laid just hours prior and he exhales.

Probably lovely. Like always.

There.

Bucky spots the familiar hue of your crown deep in wild grass. Buzzing wings land on your bicep, crawl to your elbow. Wildflowers are entangled sweetly in your hair.

Ethereal and finally found like the recollection of a wayward dream.

A delicately molded face with rounded chin regards his figure. You are resplendent like spring itself, yet the corner of your bottom lip is pulled inside your mouth, tongue holding back the tide of a million thoughts.  

Bucky swallows drily when a pained smile shifts your eyes downward, but neither of you are ready to address your isolation or his arrival. Instead, one hand reaches forward over the blades, palm faced at a slant, eyes imploring him closer.

Effortless steps lead him past tall trunks. He’s close behind your graceful weaving, hand over yours carefully, keeping you close as if he might lose you again.

Trees finally give way to a small clearing where fallen logs lie haphazardly, adorned by worms and beetles that loiter about in ridges of the bark. Dandelions rise from the earth between tufts of grass and droop gently in the breeze. Patches of dirt pattern the forest floor, quickly becoming overcrowded with seeds and remnants of the nature all around.

He’s awestruck by how you find these pockets of splendor where time fades and surroundings suddenly seem to be glazed over by a painter’s brush. Delicate phthalo emerald leaves, linseed glaze of the highest shine, gold-grained flecks over blades of grass, and it’s like he’s entered a Rococo rendering. A pastoral Arcadian landscape, fragrant and idyllic and sublime. Steve would weep at the sight if he were here.

You shift into the scenery— all light-footed with buoyant step until you pause, distracted by a ring of chanterelles. Half-shaded by the canopy, half-illuminated by the streaming and stubborn sun, their soft caps looking like thick marshmallow brushwork.

“Better not step in or fairies will take you.”

A mischievous peek at him before you turn back around. Intrigued blue admire the collection of buds falling apart in your hair, lavender and orange petals crumbling down your back and he thinks for a moment perhaps fairies have already taken hold of him.

  At a stream of water, you kneel and invite Bucky to your side with earnest pats. Tilting forward on elbows and knees, you press your body to the ground and gaze at the trickle as it runs, mouth curving into a smile. The wide neck of your top slips when you duck to smell a blossom, exposing a broad line of collar and shoulder. Strips of baby-fresh skin cord down your arm like vines, strangling the moment.

Six days with your advanced healing and you’re practically brand new again in all ways but one.

“Buck? I’m glad you’re here.” Your mouth opens after a second of mulling over a thought, breath on the pinnacle of a confession before a snap and pop alerts both your heads over the water to where something emerges from behind a tree. He’s already up on his feet, poised to protect, drawing laughter from your throat when you spot the intruder.

Tawny grey and absurdly harmless, the bunny’s nose is frantically twitching, cheek full of sweet berries but alert with wild panic. One tall ear quirks Bucky’s way and the moment grows quiet as the three of you watch each other earnestly, before finally, as if it’s had enough of his shadow, it takes off into the deeper woods behind.

“Sorry,” he offers, sitting back down on his haunches.

A swat to his knee—mouth still cheerful, “Nah, just in its nature to run.” Then, suddenly, you avert your gaze. “Keeping itself safe.”

One hand wraps around the other shoulder and you begin to cave, folding inward like those bedsheets, pulling yourself smaller and smaller. “Maybe it’s in my nature to run, too.”

The quiver of your voice wounds him. The ache, the tremble, the silent lament when you duck your head down, hiding. Bucky waits for now, lets you have a few seconds because he knows you need this: the silence and comfort of nothing sentient. The balm of meandering wind prose. The consoling ebb of water. The midnight song of crickets because sometimes the human world is too loud, too painful, violent, and unfair. Indiscriminately vicious. Because sometimes, people hurt, and hurt, and hurt.  

And despite your best efforts—you hurt, too.

Your heart behaves in ways he’s well-versed in. He knows it. Knows you.

  You remain on the forest floor, face buried into the crook of your elbow and it reminds him of how you lie supine across the couch after sunset, feet propped in his lap, watching the warm sherbet gradient, patient for the curtain of night when all things rest. Aglow and warmed by the disappearing sunlight. Painted blue-gold. A little shattered. Still lovely.

Deeper in the woods, birds begin to sing.

Bucky reaches forward tentatively, slowly, until he’s holding your arm, fingers gently curling. “Hey,” he whispers when you rise from the curve of your elbow to look at him. “I’m not in a hurry to leave. I’ll wait.”

He points to the tepid rivulet, a trickle of it going sideways and cutting through a patch of dirt. “Bit of running water, nice sunshine. Looks like our day’s booked full.”

It’s enough to make you grin even if your smile is a little swollen around the edges.

A breath as you trace the slope of his touch all the way back up to his face. Another breath as you watch him watching you, lips slightly parted, eyes searching, knowing, seeing you. Caring for you.

And then you’re up, closest hand gripping his, other one reaching with haste to find his neck, or chest, something to support your weight when you pitch forward.

Even though he wasn’t expecting it, but because he’s fast, Bucky meets you halfway, pulling you flush into his lap, letting your damp cheeks rest on his collar. Like he’s done it all his life, his arms arrange themselves without another thought, locked tightly over your back, fingers stroking lightly down your spine.

  A gentle breeze blows through and ruffles his eyelashes under the canopy, scattered sunlight falls on his chestnut head, lighting up stray hairs. He’s warm daylight and sugary sunshine. Soothing meadow brook music and butterfly wing caresses. Your heart bumps along in time with his, chest on chest when you turn and look up at him, nose tip rubbing against his chin. Bucky chances a smile at you, sincere and concerned and doting.

Lovely, you think. Like always.

You graze your cheek over his, eyelashes kissing along the path, feeling emboldened nestled like this, wanting to tell him—show him—feel him, too.

But instead, like that little rabbit, you tuck yourself back and away, not yet ready.

Bucky hums to the tune of your breath when you shyly press your brow against his collar, cutting off the start of an apology with a promise. “It’s okay.”

And it is.

Birdsongs echo through the trees and he feels it in his bones the way you sink into his hold. Trembling and warm and perfect. Heartbeat dancing along with his. 

He’s waited hundred years for a love like this. 

He’d be happy to wait a hundred more.

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs @pinknerdpanda @xoxabs88xox @imsoft-barnes @momc95 @typicalangel @wretchedgoddess @readeity @iwannasail @ya-lyublu-tebya​ @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus @jhangelface0523 @wkemeup​ @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave​

[indulgenceweave]

Prompt #14: Generous Applause

In which Arcadia falls to the sounds of lively festivities.

Prompt: Part

(Note: I was so tired when I wrote this so I have no idea if it’s even coherent ;-;)

When Arcadia fell, it was not to solemn silence or the deafening sounds of war; it was to generous applause. For you see, the day Arcadia fell was a day of celebration. We knew the Empire of Garlemald was coming. We knew they were bringing their artillery and their machines and their airships and we celebrated. ‘Twas the greatest festival Arcadia had ever known. It would also be the last.

We celebrated not because we were to die, or because fathers and sons would part from their families; in fact, children were kept hidden during the fighting, but man and woman, brother and sister, husband and wife, or any combination of two people you could think of, we all stood and fought the Empire. And oh, what a glorious day it was. A grand day. A red day.

I look back on it with fondness even now. It’s a strange feeling, no? To feel fondness for the loss of your home and the death of your friends, but at that time… I’d never felt more alive. War is religion to Arcadians. We hold festivals to celebrate War. Now imagine that kind of festival while the war is actually happening. Of course, we lost, but that’s no less reason to celebrate.

I briefly wondered if I should join the Eorzean Resistance in their battles against the Garlean Empire, but concluded instead that I would learn of my new home. There was much that was different to Arcadia; the people, the creatures, the magic. Yet, despite this situation I find myself in, I still don my Star arms and armor, and walk this land as if it was my own. Perhaps it will take time to part with Arcadia. Perhaps it will never happen. If it does… I do not think I will be sad. Arcadia lives on in the next life. Her people live on in the next life. And one day, I too will live on in the next life. I will die, and Arcadia will be there. There will be no silence; only war, and the festivities and applause it brings.

- From the journal of Ser Connor Cormaic, Knight-Commander of the Star, Most Holy Order of Arcadia

[23rdhunter]

Tagged by @biologically-confused , thanks!

1. Are you staying home from work/school?

Early on they let me go, but that didn't work out for them very well so now I'm working almost as much as before but on an unpredictable schedule

2. If you’re staying home, who’s there with you?

I'm with my parents and three youngest siblings, so six of us in the house. For a bit it looked like S2 (Sibling the 2nd) was also going to join us but it looks like their living situation has stabilized some.

3. Do you have pets to keep you company?

Yes! My dog, who is suffering on restricted exercise due to an injured wrist but otherwise a fantastic quarantine buddy, our ancient Calico, who in her old age has become the perfect lap cat, and an outdoor pond with at least two fish and several! hundred! tadpoles!

4. When was the last time you left your home?

Yesterday to pick up dinner

5. What was the last thing you bought?

Stamps! I'm very excited for their arrival

6. Is quarantine driving you insane or are you finally relaxed?

Um? It's been good for my younger siblings to have more people around, so I'm thankful for that, but between the somewhat crowded conditions and continuing to work outside the home the way I have been I have not been able to relax much.

7. Are you a homebody?

Yes, very much so, I'm just also an introvert

8. What movies have you watched recently?

Watched The Willoughbys with my mom the other day, which was.. okay? For all it's artistic chaos it felt very creatively inhibited, like it was too afraid to step on any toes and say something.  Also The Black Cauldron with S5, which continues to be okay but not as good as the books. Planning to watch Miss Congeniality once I can wrangle a copy.

9. An event that you were looking forward to that got cancelled?

Nothing really planned, but about once a year I get an itchy soul and try to go on a road trip and that's just such a bad idea right now. S2 has been devastated about all the concerts they're not attending.

10. What’s the worst thing that you’ve had to cancel?

This seems the same as 9? So I'll speak for my cousin, who had to cancel her maternity leave because her work suddenly needed her experience running the whole place by herself desperately.

11. What’s the best thing you’ve had to cancel?

My siblings have been pretty relieved about the whole cancelled school thing.

12. Do you have any new hobbies?

Not so much new as going deeper? I'm more involved in gardening, writing, making ink and doing things with fountain pens, playing DnD, trying new recipes, etc.

13. What are you out of?

Nothing at the moment, running low on some things that are still proving scarce in stores but I think we're good for now.

14. What music are you listening to?

Spotify playlists: Classic Road Trip Songs, DnD ambient, a Daily Mix best described as Arcadian+various other French Pop artists, and my Guess The Movie playlist.

15. What shows are you watching?

None right now

16. What are you reading?

Also nothing? I think the stress might be getting to me because I am always reading something.

17. What are you doing for self-care?

Walks, weeding, journaling, vitamins and vegetables and at least two meals a day, going to bed at a consistent time when possible, just trying to stave off despair.

18. Are you exercising?

Yes, at least a bit most days

19. How’s your toilet paper supply?

Fine, we keep a stock of essentials in the storeroom. I think this is the most useful it's ever been and we're all glad of it.

20. Have you made any changes to your hair during quarantine?

No but I might? A lot of what I do with my hair is, whenever someone tries to tell me what to do with it I stubbornly do not do that, and no one has said anything about my hair in months so I've begun contemplating some changes (it is currently waist-length and tawny brown-blonde) (suggestions and such are fine, it's when people get pushy about it that I push back)

This is fun but very long so I really am not expecting anyone to do this but I'm tagging @adhdcombeferre @existentialterror @existentialsiren and also viewers like you.

[missoneminute]

Hi, I’ve became a new fan since Carl toured in Korea. I’m eager to know more about the libs, your account has been very helpful, thank you. I want to ask is there anywhere else I can learn more information? Any recommendations? Like tumblr/Twitter accounts worth following, forums, groups I can join in etc. Sorry for any grammar mistakes

Hello! Welcome aboard! I would actually recommend some reading and watching! Get a hold of the books Bound Together, Kids in Riot and Carl’s book, Threepenny Memoir. You can often find these really cheaply on eBay, or purchase e-books online. I also recommend the documentary There Are No Innocent Bystanders about the 2010 reunion, which you can watch for free on YouTube. There is also a wealth of information at Up The Albion, linked here, and while it’s no longer active, you can go through old interviews at the Live Journal site, linked here. The old French Dog Blog is good too and goes back years, though not as updated as it once was. I don’t recommend any existing Facebook groups to be honest, but the most active one would be Dreams From Arcadia, however the members are very strongly Peter focused and known for being negative towards Carl. The forums aren’t really all that active anymore but still exist here. In terms of on here, I suggest following: @suchasinistergame @carlbaratnews @travelling-tinker @jon-is-my-lord @memberofthejazzclub @moonshine-and-a-fennel-straw @doherty @lookthemoonissinging @albion-sails-on-course @stars-are-stars @libs-as-paintings @libertines-suggestions @liber-memes @azurfemme @opsyana @arcadian-beauty-cult

 and many more I will add shortly. I hope that helps for a start! x

[aestheticaelexa]

How to Keep Studying After a Bad Breakup

Take a break if at all possible. Seriously. Skip class for a day. Lay in bed, watch YouTube, and cry. You need to let your emotions out. During your day off, write any feelings down if you can bring yourself to do it. That way they won't be swirling around in your head. Get out of bed if you can. Try to eat something healthy or anything at all. Take a shower if you can. You can go right back to crying in bed, but any ounce of self-care you can muster will make you feel better. Try to avoid drinking alcohol, it stops you from processing your emotions.

Get back into the swing of things the next day. Pull yourself out of bed and go to class. Fewer people will ask what happened than you think. The day after your day off is probably the hardest day to make it through, but you're gonna be okay.

Take a day within the first week after your breakup to put all of your ex's stuff in a box, delete all of your pictures of them off your phone, and unfollow them on all social media. Cleanse any places in your living space that remind you of them with Clorox or whatever you desire, then redecorate. It will hurt, but you'll feel a little bit more like yourself when it's over.

Here's where the studying comes in. Make yourself a big cup of your favorite (non-alcoholic) beverage, light a candle, and sit down at your desk. Put a cheerful youtuber or happy music on in the background to stop yourself from getting lost in bad thoughts (recs include Lucy Moon for YouTubers and The Arcadian Wild for music). It's really, really hard to do things when you're sad. Accept that you may not get as much done as you typically do and that you may need to take breaks. That's okay. What counts is that you're trying. Keep your journal around if you need to write down any thoughts. They don't have to be coherent.

Talk to friends. Go out with friends, or stay in with friends. It will help with the loneliness.

Rearrange your study space. Buy new stationary that makes you happy.

Keep processing your emotions. Keep crying. Trust me, you don't need to "get over it". Take the time YOU NEED to heal. Don't text your ex, no matter how much you want to.

Start trying to get back to your normal productivity levels. Do this slowly. You don't need to hurry up and get better. You need to be kind to yourself.

Set a short-term study goal, such as making x amount of notes sheets for a certain class. Try to achieve it. Be proud of the things you accomplished.

Set a long-term study goal, such as adding a new class to your schedule or learning a new language. Work on it. It will fill up your time and make you feel more confident.

You might not be done crying at this point (I'm sorry). Keep crying. Keep processing your emotions. It will be over soon.

Save money to go to a destination that you've always wanted to go to with a friend.

Set self-care goals, such as drinking a certain amount of water per day or exercising for a certain amount of time each day. Work on the areas of your life that you feel are lacking.

Keep letting go of little things. Give yourself closure.

There's no magic solution to forgetting about your breakup and losing yourself in your studies. However, setting goals, filling your time with learning new things, and being kind to yourself can really help. You've got this. Prove your ex wrong and have an amazing life.

[gaildaley]

WORK JOURNAL - Jan/Feb

2023/03/04 UPDATE: I’ve revised the release dates and sequence of my Outlawed Colonies series. Since I’m still struggling with Cloned Ambition, I’ve decided to release The Arcadian Web as book no 5, (Its already finished), and Cloned Ambition is now book 6. New Schedule is below: UPDATED RELEASE DATES FOR THE OUTLAWED COLONIES SERIES: BOOK TITLE                       SERIES NO  RELEASE…

[sirkkasnow]

11 When Opportunity Knocks, Answer

Ao3 link

07/20/13 Saturday

Activity around the Shack kicked into overdrive through the next few days. Mabel scheduled her slumber party for Saturday evening, cackling in delight all the while as she took over the shared attic room for a thorough redecoration.

Dipper accepted his exile to the upstairs study with at least a little grace - he set up his laptop and and settled in for hours of journal work and game planning. The abortive DD&MD session was definitely back on for sometime early the following week.

Stan found himself pulled in too many directions at once. He squeezed in one more full day with Ford up at McGucket’s place working on the Fairlane, trying half in vain to dampen their more harebrained schemes. Apparently letting those two share the same space for any length of time resulted in exponential nerdery, or whatever the hell it meant when you got nerdery squared - he wasn’t sure but they made each other worse.

Soos sidled up to him early the following morning. “Hey, Mr. Pines, business is awesome! We’re in great shape to host the dance next week! Here’s the thing, though, I’m really close to having the new Dreaming Denizens darklight exhibit done.” He clasped hands together in anticipatory delight. “We could do a grand opening that night but I can’t find time between tours to work on the critters. Can you maybe help out for a day or so?”

So he’d had to leave the two lunatics unsupervised while he assembled a batch of fierce, hissing, taxidermied flying minks. There was no way to turn down Soos or an opportunity to upsell the dance tickets.

He cornered Ford for a lecture before Tate swung by to pick him up, something like that thing had better still be street legal when I get up there or so help me. Ford made a bunch of almost-certainly-hollow promises that they’d respect the sanctity of Clary’s mom’s precious vintage touring vehicle and that was that.

Stan put the whole thing out of his head for most of the day, focused on patching together the little monsters they’d need for the exhibit, and was washing up in the kitchen when he heard Clary’s level voice spike in surprise.

He stuck his head out into the hallway and found her by the side door, staring in disbelief at her phone. Ford’s voice was just audible on the speaker. " - sure you still want to keep the old paint color? This is a fine opportunity to change it if you'd like!"

She had a hand pressed to one side of her face, fingertips pushing in hard at the temple. "Ford, that was mint-condition factory-original paint when I got here. Arcadian Blue. What happened to the rest of it? You were just supposed to fix the hood!"

"Well, Fiddleford and I thought we'd rechrome everything while we had the opportunity, since we had the windshield out. Then we saw a chance to improve the safety features while we were at it - did you know cars of this vintage are practically death traps? I'll have to take it up with Stanley - " A distant, hollow boom sounded on the phone. Clary's visible eye squeezed tightly closed. "Whoops! I'll get back to you shortly!"

The line went dead.

Clary slumped against the wall for several seconds. “I have made a terrible mistake.”

He bit his lip and patted her shoulder warily. “I’ll, uh. I’ll give him a call an’ make sure they behave themselves. It won’t end up any more of a death trap than it was when y’got here.”

She laughed at that, the same ragged laugh he’d heard when the piston blew up in the first place, then looked up to him with a pinched smile. “You sure you mean that? I get the impression that those two can get a bit out of hand.”

Stan ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. About that. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve taken a day off, but we’re so close to havin’ the new display done...I’ll get up there an’ have it all under control before things get too weird.”

“Promise?”

“Trust me, sweetheart.”

She laughed at that, too, just a little cynical pfft, but her eyes softened in a way he very much liked and she hooked her index finger into his for a fleeting clasp. “I trust you,” Clary murmured. He damned near bent to kiss her right there before the racket of Dipper coming down the stairs set him rocking back two steps and clearing his throat.

Dipper paused before he made the left turn to the outside door, looking them over in scandalized confusion. Clary just smiled. “Good luck with the winged weasels, Stan. See you for dinner.”

By Saturday morning there was a menu tacked to the fridge. Clary’s tidy angular script promised things like ‘baking powder biscuits with honey butter’, ‘brown sugar bourbon baked beans’ and ‘deviled egg red potato salad’. She’d been running all over town with her little borrowed pickup to line up supplies.

At this point Stan was pretty sure anticipation might kill him if the stress of getting everything done on time and keeping the Fairlane project on track didn’t get him first.

He managed to swing by the manor to check on the station wagon - still blue, thank mercy, the hood now snapped back into its original shape and the cracked windshield replaced. Ford showed off the GPS they’d installed and McGucket chattered endlessly about the new frictionless coating they’d applied to the engine cylinders. Half of it went right over Stan’s head and at length he waved hands in frustration. “Just tell me it’s gonna run as well as it did before she got here!”

“Oh, much better!” they replied in tandem.

Stan stopped dead, squinted at their innocent faces in profound suspicion and groaned. “Y’know what. I don’t have time t’ double-check all this right now, you both know that, and so I’m leavin’ it to your tender care. I swear if anythin’ you two do harms a hair on her head, there’ll be hell t’pay. Got it?”

McGucket blinked in rheumy surprise. Ford had that faint thoughtful look Stan was getting really tired of, but he nodded in agreement. “You have my solemn word, nothing but some very minor improvements to safety features and performance. It’ll be more than safe enough to trust the kids in.”

“Fine. Fine. You’re both gonna sit down an’ explain everythin’ before she leaves, though.”

“Of course!” Ford’s most reassuring smile was in full force. Stan didn’t trust it for a second, but it would have to do for now.

There were a few more errands to run as the long afternoon wound down. Stan tacked up posters for ‘Mr. Mystery’s July Jamboree!’ around town as he went. By the time he finally pulled into Greasy’s he’d relaxed, humming an absent tune as he headed in to hang one last poster and pick up a coffee.

“Hey, Susan,” he called as he parked at the counter, swinging a look around the joint and its collection of regulars in for an early dinner. He was the center of attention, because of course he was and no one in this burg was any good at being subtle about it.

“Oh, Stan! It’s so nice to see you, sweetie,” she said in her usual tone of cheerful obliviousness. “How’s it been going this week? I hear the party’s going to be quite the thing!” Susan poured him a cup of familiar potent black sludge. “That tourist lady of yours has been through a couple of times. She’s really nice for an out-of-towner, good tipper and all. Was in the other day for breakfast, you know, wearing your jacket. Went pink as a petunia when I asked her about ya!” Her laugh was surprisingly sweet and she tugged her slack eyelid up, then down. “Wink!”

Stan busied himself with dumping too much sugar into his coffee. “Yeah, I mean, she’s all right I guess. Pretty good company for a hoity-toity type.”

“She came in yesterday asking about supplies.” Susan set her elbow on the counter and leaned in, conspiratorial. “Said she was gonna do a picnic at the Shack next Friday right before your big event.” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Why, she asked if I could bake a couple cherry pies for her! What’re you up to, Stan?”

“Well. Y’know. An exclusive little gatherin’.” Stan settled himself, sat back and sipped slowly for effect. “Just friends an’ family.”

“I’m surprised she’s stuck around this long, nice city girl like that.” Blubs anchored the end of the counter, Durland seated one stool over and working his way through a ham-on-rye. “She has to have seen everything Gravity Falls has to offer by now. The Shack, the mall, the museum, the bottom of the lake….” Both of them chuckled over that one. “Maybe she should just hang up a shingle out there. We could use a lawyer.”

“Well, Stan could use a lawyer,” said Durland to a general rumble of laughter.

“You guys trashed her car, right?” came from one of the far corners. “That weird brother of yours made the brakes cut out or something so now she’s stuck here getting it fixed? We all know you’re too cheap to actually send it up to Portland.”

A prickle of annoyance nudged at the back of his eyeballs. “We offered and she decided she liked my face enough t’let us do the work. Should be done in a couple days. She’s just hangin’ around for the dance party.”

“Oh, I’m sure she likes ya, sugar.” Susan hid a giggle behind one hand.

Blubs tugged down his shades for a direct glance. “You did fish her out of the drink.”

Manly Dan scoffed from the far side of his mountain of meatloaf. “Stan Pines hasn’t managed to keep a lady around for more’n a couple days in all the years he’s been here. I’ll believe it when I see it!”

Stan slugged back a swallow of bitter, bitter coffee in an effort to not spout off, then did it anyway. “What, y’think we kidnapped her or somethin’? She’s here because she wants t’be!”

“Now calm down, all of ya.” Susan looked around the murmuring diner in reproach. “She’s been nothing but sweet to everyone in town. I’m sure it’s gonna be a real nice picnic.”

“Excuse me!” Mayor Cutebiker’s skinny arm went up from a few booths down. “Is that going to be included in the party ticket price? I need to know when I should show up!”

“What?” Stan’s shoulders twitched in surprise. “No, no, the party thing’s only for the dance, people.”

Dan bared teeth in one of his terrifying smiles. “I’d pay just to meet the woman willing to put up with Pines for three weeks.”

“What’s she serving, Stan?”

“Are you two going to dance?”

The whole place got the wrong idea in about three seconds. Stan could barely get a word in edgewise as conversation erupted, people pestering him about prices, about the new exhibit, about who’d be hosting the party that night.

Something snapped in the back of his brain.

“ALL RIGHT,” Stan roared, and the chattering crowd quieted in anticipation. “Listen up, because I’m only gonna say this once: Miz Merrick’s willin’ to make a very limited number of tickets for dinner available. Eighty-five a head. That’ll get you into the dance party and the Dreamin’ Denizens exhibit, too. This is a one-time engagement, folks, the lady’s a class act an’ I’ve seen the menu. It’s gonna be an event for the ages.”

He zeroed in on the nearest pretty face, hit her dead on with the full-headlights smile and the finger-guns, and was gratified to see her half-swoon against her companion. “Whaddaya say? First come, first serve!”

Fistfuls of money appeared as if by magic. Stan leaned over to whisper to Susan. “Sweetheart, lend me that ticket book, would’ja?” Starry-eyed, she handed over both the book and her pencil stub, and he started scribbling out tickets for Clary Merrick’s Chicken Picnic! on two-part carbonless guest checks as fast as he could.

Half an hour later he was driving back up towards the Shack. Almost eighteen hundred bucks was jammed into his back pocket along with a stack of IOUs. He was already puzzling out where to beg, borrow or steal enough chairs and tables to accommodate a crowd this large, and wondering just how much fried chicken Greasy’s could crank out on like four days’ notice.

He was also figuring out how the hell to survive through the end of the day, because Clary was going to kill him.

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The whole diner erupts in excited conversation, and everyone in here has got the wrong idea. They want to come to Clary’s picnic! And they’re willing to pay for the privilege!

Absolutely not!

Talk up the dance instead.

Sell tickets!

[your-jellyfish-senpai]

Sunflower obviously ! ❤ but also journal, clouds and pine if you'd like ! =D

happy asks //

thank you, dear, you’re the sweetest!! ^-^

sunflower: if there was a door that went to a city that was a good representation of you, what city would it be and would you go through the door?

wow this is such an interesting question! it’s also very hard... I’ve never been to Italy, but I’m really compelled to answer Venice! It just feels right. It’s not a bustling city like New York, as far as I can tell, but it’s got life and history and character. And yes I would absolutely go through the door; free travel is my kind of travel.

journal: would you dye your hair if you had the opportunity? why or why not? 

totally! I’ve dyed my hair a lot in the past (everything from blonde & white/silver to blue, purple, pink, teal, and more!). It’s a lot of fun. Right now, my hair is pretty much its natural brown, and I don’t hate it lol.

clouds: list your top 5 songs at the moment and how they make you feel 

Oh wow okay. These aren’t technically my “favorite” songs but they’re ones I like lol.

Joy by Bastille - Longing, contentedness, a sense of living in the moment and cherishing the little things?

Daddy Lessons by Beyoncé - Full of fighting spirit, an image of bloody knuckles bound with bandages (this one is hard to explain, but it mostly makes me feel bold but also a bit of hollow sadness?)

When It Lands by Rainbow Kitten Surprise - Freedom with a hint of rebellion and retro nihilism

Castles by Freya Ridings - Reclamation and strength

Wander. Wonder. by The Arcadian Wild - Nostalgic, wistful, somber

pine: if you could only smell one scent for the rest of your life, what would it be?

VANILLA. it’s my favorite scent in the world. I could do without other foods and flowers and stuff. Vanilla is the best. It’s also the only scent of perfume i wear lol.