#Singapore sun my beloved

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Yvette Mimieux (Dark of the Sun; Joy in the Morning; Where the Boys Are)—She is so enchanting on screen... that ethereal presence paired with her dark, sparkling eyes gives her an almost dream-like quality...

Xia Meng, also known as Hsia Moog or Miranda Yang (Sunrise, Bride Hunter)—For those who are familiar with Hong Kong's early cinema, Xia Meng is THE leading woman of an era, the earliest "silver-screen goddess", "The Great Beauty" and "Audrey Hepburn of the East". Xia Meng starred in 38 films in her 17-year career, and famously had rarely any flops, from her first film at the age of 18 to her last at the age of 35. She was a rare all-round actress in Mandarin-language films, acting, singing, and dancing with an enchanting ease in films of diverse genres, from contemporary drama to period operas. She was regarded as the "crown princess" among the "Three Princesses of the Great Wall", the iconic leading stars of the Great Wall Movie Enterprises, which was Hong Kong's leading left-wing studio in the 1950s-60s. At the time, Hong Kong cinema had only just taken off, but Xia Meng's influence had already spread out to China, Singapore, etc. Overseas Chinese-language magazines and newspapers often featured her on their covers. The famous HK wuxia novelist Jin Yong had such a huge crush on her that he made up a whole fake identity as a nobody-screenwriter to join the Great Wall studio just so he can write scripts for her. He famously said, "No one has really seen how beautiful Xi Shi (one of the renowned Four Beauties of ancient China) is, I think she should be just like Xia Meng to live up to her name." In 1980, she returned to the HK film industry by forming the Bluebird Movie Enterprises. As a producer with a heart for the community, she wanted to make a film on the Vietnam War and the many Vietnam War refugees migrating to Hong Kong. She approached director Ann Hui and produced the debut film Boat People (1982), a globally successful movie and landmark feature for Hong Kong New Wave, which won several awards including the best picture and best director in the second Hong Kong Film Award. Years later, Ann Hui looked back on her collaboration with Xia Meng, "I'm very grateful to her for allowing me to make what is probably the best film I've ever made in my life."

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

Yvette Mimieux:

Xia Meng:

[harley-sunday]

Feels Like Home [01]

Summary: When an unexpected three-week break between Monza and Singapore finds Daniel back on his farm in Perth he’s desperate to use this time to clear his mind, figure out his future in Formula One, and find his way back. He didn’t expect a new neighbour, a sassy two-year old, and three alpacas would make him realise that sometimes, what you’re looking for is right in front of you.

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x reader (unnamed OFC)

Warnings: Language

Word count: 2.7k

AN: Yes. Hi. Hello. Believe it or not but I started writing this fic because I desperately needed some good guy!Daniel being cute with kids in my life. The idea was just a short one shot. Ha. Who was I kidding? Because here we are, six months and nine chapters later... I really hope you like it, please come yell at me in the comments, on anon, or in my DMs about any and all things about this story you want to yell at me about. I probably deserve it. ♥

Masterlist

There’s something about being here, on his farm outside of Perth, that he doesn’t experience anywhere else in the world. Not in Monaco, not in Los Angeles, not even in Austin, or Montana. 

Because here- Here, he doesn’t have to be Daniel Ricciardo, Danny Ric, DR, or the Honey Badger. He doesn’t have to be a Formula One driver, an eight-time race winner, the most beloved driver on the grid, and the fan favourite. He doesn’t have to be Red Bull’s wild card, Renault’s saviour, or, most recently, McLaren’s scapegoat. Here, he is Daniel. And it’s enough. 

Or, at least, it used to be.

Lately, there's been a yearning in his heart that he's unfamiliar with. Or he pretends to be anyway because he’s not ready to put it into words yet, not ready to speak into existence what he really wants from life. Afraid he'll jinx it if he does. 

And so he keeps it to himself and lets his heart ache for something more in silence while the life he does know slowly keeps on falling apart around him.

***

Daniel rests his wrists on the handlebar of his dirt bike and lets out a breath he seems to have been holding in ever since he retired on lap forty-five of the Monza Grand Prix four days ago. Looking out over the valley below, he feels more grounded than he has in a long time and he hopes that the next two weeks will give him the peace he so desperately needs after the shitshow that has been his season so far. 

The sun’s already low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the somewhat still barren trees and shrubs even though he can tell winter is slowly coming to an end from the sprouts of green that have started to grace the landscape with their presence. There’s a kookaburra laughing somewhere in the distance and he takes it as his cue to fire up his engine again for one last run around his dirt track before it gets too dark. 

He knows technically he isn’t supposed to ride his bike during the season, knows technically McLaren could issue him a hefty fine for breaching his contract, but if they ever were to find out he figures they can just take it out of the settlement they’re due to pay him at the end of the year. He’s promised Zak he’ll do whatever it takes to score as many points as possible in the last six races but he also decided early on that he’s no longer going to let the team dictate what he can or cannot do in his time away from the track. 

There’s a meeting tomorrow, with Blake and Michael, where they’ll try to figure out his future in Formula One. There have been a few offers, both from teams who want him as their second driver and from teams who want him to become their reserve driver, but he’s still undecided, not sure if he wants to settle for another midfield team or stay in Formula One without really being in Formula One. 

By the time he completes his lap his head is somewhat empty, too busy instead to focus on keeping his bike under control and not ending up in the dirt. It’s almost dark now and so he opens the throttle wide and guns it home, a race against an invisible clock that, unlike this past season in Formula One, he wins every single time.

Once his bike is safely back in the shed he makes his way over to the house, hosing his boots down before he takes them off at the back door and leaves them to dry on the shoe rack his Dad made for him when he bought the farm. He changes out of his gear in the mud room, making a face when he takes his socks off and catches a whiff of the smell but laughing then because he remembers them smelling so much worse after a race in, oh let’s say, Singapore. With nothing but his boxer shorts on he steps into the kitchen and heads straight for the fridge, taking out an ice cold bottle of water. The sigh of relief when he rolls it against the back of his neck almost obscene. It might be winter but temperatures in western Australia are still as high as a beautiful spring day in Monaco.

It’s then the intercom rings and for a moment he debates ignoring it, not sure if he’s up for telling yet another local journo looking to make it big by trying to get an interview with ‘shunned McLaren driver Daniel Ricciardo’ that now really isn’t a good time  and that any requests for interviews should be made through Blake anyway.  

Plus, he gave his family and friends the access code to the gate when it was first installed, so he doubts any of them are waiting for him to open it, not in the least because they know better than to just show up without a text or call in advance.  

In the end, his curiosity gets the better of him and so he walks over to where the control panel of his alarm system hangs in the living room and pushes the button needed to connect to whoever’s at the gate, “Hello?”

“Hi,” the screen comes on then, the black and white image showing a woman wearing a Stetson hat. She’s staring somewhere into the distance, her face obscured by the shadows the brim of her hat casts under the streetlight, but her voice comes through loud and clear, “Sorry to bother you this late-”

“It’s seven thirty,” he shoots back almost effortlessly.

“-but I wondered if I could maybe ask you to keep it down with the dirt biking a little?” 

“I’m sorry, what?”

She looks up and into the camera then, pushing her hat a little higher so he can finally see her eyes, “It’s just- We’ve got a flock of alpacas over in Eagle's Nest and they tend to get a little jittery from all the noise. Especially when they try to settle in for the night and-”

“I’m sorry,“ he can’t help but grin, running a hand through his hair, “but I’m going to need a little more context here.”

She laughs and he thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard and so he’s a little distracted but then he sees her taking her hat off, revealing her face and- Fuck. She’s gorgeous. He watches her as she shakes her head, a smile tugging on the corners of her lips, “Shit, sorry. I probably should have given you a bit more to go on.” Putting her hat back on she straightens up and points to somewhere over her shoulder, “Your neighbour on that side, Oscar Linton? He’s my granddad. I think you know him, right?”

“Old man Linton!” He smiles and nods, “Of course I do.” When he first bought the farm he made sure to introduce himself to his neighbours and while he likes to think he has a good relationship with all three of them he’s always had a soft spot for the elderly man further up the road. So much so that he always makes sure to drop by for a chat whenever he finds himself back in Perth. It’s then he connects the dots and recognises her from some of the pictures Oscar has up in his living room. All of a sudden he feels guilty for not going to see his neighbour yet even though he has been home for two days already but maybe he can do that tomorrow or-

“He fell a few days ago-” her voice pulls him out of his thoughts unintentionally and his guilt triples in a matter of seconds. There’s a sad smile tugging on her lips which makes him prepare for the worst. 

Surely they would have let him know if- He remembers the pile of unopened letters waiting for him on the kitchen counter then and curses quietly, “Shit.”

“He’s ok,” she’s quick to reassure him, as if she knows what he was thinking. “He spent a couple of nights in hospital and still has a long way to go but at least he’s home again.” She takes a deep breath, “They had to replace his hip and he’s got a broken wrist but,” she shrugs, “it could have been worse.” 

It’s then the absurdity of the situation hits him, with him in his boxers in his living room and her on the other end of his kilometre-long driveway, talking into a metallic box. He shakes his head and pushes the button that opens the gate automatically, “I think maybe we shouldn’t have this conversation over an intercom. I could make you a cup of coffee if you want? Or something stronger? I make a mean-”

She bites her lip and seems to hesitate.

“Just a quick cuppa. It’s the neighbourly thing to do, right?”

He sees her nod, “Yeah, ok.”

He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, “Happy days.” 

***

The house is not at all how you expect it to be, much more modern and open-planned than any of the other farm houses in the area. The west-facing wall has been completely redone in glass panels, offering a stunning view of the valley and surrounding paddocks and you can’t help but admire the interior design of both the kitchen and the living room, which is masculine but still inviting. You wonder if he decorated the place himself or if he hired some interior designer to do it for him.

“Here you go,” Daniel, who told you ‘You can call me Dan’ when he greeted you at the door with a bright smile and an outstretched hand- offers you a cup of steaming hot coffee and motions for you to join him at the kitchen table. He’s wearing white sweatpants and a matching white sweater that look incredibly comfy and that make you want to wrap yourself around him and hang onto him like a koala bear. Wait. What? 

You take your hat off to try and keep from ogling him, placing  it on the chair next to you before you sit down and smile at him, “You know, all these years I thought you were called Danny Ric because that’s what Granddad keeps calling you. I’m not sure I can get used to Daniel.” 

Daniel laughs, the laughter lines in the corners of his eyes even more prominent now, “Trust the old man to keep that gag going.” He shakes his head then, “I can’t believe he fell though.”

“Yeah,” you agree quietly, blowing into your coffee. “We’re lucky Mrs Mackenzie found him when she did or-” You let out a ragged breath and see him nod, his eyes kind, and it makes you continue, “His hip was completely shattered and his wrist is broken in three places so it’s going to take a while before he’s up and running again- I mean, if his new hip ever heals completely- He’s already seventy-eight so-” You hear yourself starting to ramble and so you fold your hands around your cup and try to calm down a little. You’re not even sure why you’re even telling him all of this, but he’s a friend of your granddad and so you figure he’s good people. “Mum and Dad wanted to come back from New Zealand to help out but-” you look up at Daniel and shrug, “I spent a lot of time on the farm as a kid, right until I left for uni, so it made much more sense for me to move in with him for the time being.” 

“That’s a pretty big thing to do,” Daniel says with a kind smile, a warmth to his brown eyes that you can feel yourself get lost in. “You sure your family can miss you that long?”

You don’t really know what he’s getting at, whether he’s talking about your Mum and Dad or the husband and kids he thinks you might have left behind to come back to Mundaring, and you don’t really know you want to tell him your truth either, after all you’ve just met him, so in the end you shake your head and settle on an honest, “I’ve got everything I need right here.” 

He eyes you suspiciously but doesn’t push it and instead he says, “If you’d have me I’d love to come over to see him some time. I’m still here for almost another two weeks  and-” 

“I’m sure he’d like that,” you offer with a smile. “He always tells me what a nice bloke you are.”

Daniel leans back in his chair and grins, spreading his arms, “Can’t say I blame him. I’m the best.” 

“He says the same thing about the postie,” you tease with a casual shrug, “so don’t get too excited.” 

“Ouch,” Daniel brings a hand to his chest, “that hurts.” 

You pout, “So sad.” 

“Very,” Daniel agrees quietly, trying his best to keep a straight face. He puts his arms on the table then and leans forward, “Before you stomp on my ego some more, why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here. What’s up with that eagle’s nest over in some paddock?”

“Oof,” you pull a face and shake your head, “you were so close.” You can’t help but laugh when you see him pretend to be hurt at your comment. You take a sip of coffee before you explain, pointing in the general direction of your paddock, “Your dirt track borders Eagle's Nest, the paddock Granddad uses for the alpacas in September and October, and I guess normally it isn’t a problem because you usually aren’t home during this time of year but I heard you yesterday and today and-”

“Yeah, we had an unexpected three-week break this year so I figured-” Daniel waves his hand around for you to continue then.

“It’s just, we have three pregnant females this year and- I don’t know if you’re at all familiar with alpacas?”

He shakes his head, “I didn’t even know you guys had alpacas. Your granddad and I just tend to talk shit about Mrs Mackenzie and them over a cuppa but I've never really asked him about the farm to be honest."

You throw him a look, knowing all too well your granddad doesn’t drink coffee.

He quickly backs down, “Fine, I drink coffee, he drinks tea.” 

“There you go,” you mouth with a wink. “Anyway, alpacas are basically scared of everything, even their own shadow, so you know, someone riding a dirt bike close by doesn’t really help with keeping them nice and calm during these last few weeks of their pregnancy.” 

“Gotcha.”

“They’re usually out on the other side of the paddock during the day, so anything until five in the afternoon is fine” you offer, not wanting to deprive him of his hobby completely, “but we have their feeders and the shed they can hide in during the night out over in your corner, so-”

“You’re giving me a five pm curfew, basically,” he says with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Just until the end of October.” You bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just-”

“Nah, no worries,” Daniel puts his hand on your forearm and gives it a squeeze to let you know he means it. “I’d do anything for old Oscar.” Then, with a grin he adds, “And his girls.” 

You can’t help the heat that rises to your cheeks and try to hide it with a smile, “Thank you.”

He squeezes your arm again, “He’s gonna be fine by the way. He’s tough, that one.”

“Speaking of Granddad,” you risk a quick glance at your watch, letting you know it’s almost eight fifteen, “I should probably head back.” You push your chair back and grab your hat, putting it on as you tell Daniel, “Thank you for the coffee.”

“Anytime,” he says with a grin as he stands up as well, following you to the front door. “Tell him I’ll come by soon, ok?”

“Will do.” You turn around then and smile again, something about not getting your hopes up but doing so anyway when you ask, “I’ll see you around then?”

Daniel tips his imaginary hat, “Yes ma’am.” 

[surroundedbypearls]

‘CLOSET PUN’ - Excerpt #11

May: The Vampire Draft 1

[Excerpt below the cut!]

Any other year, May would already be headed to Perth for the winter months. And yet here she was, watching a bunch of teenagers try to figure out how to open a box, hidden in a crypt, hidden in the woods. She lay back on the bed and shut her eyes.

“Just break the lock,” she said for the third time. “Who cares? Whoever was looking for that box didn't find it. They won’t find it now if you keep it hidden.”

“But what if that angers the spirit?” Toby’s voice was high, anxious, as it often was when his beloved Jet was in another room. He had such an anxious energy. She didn’t understand how he didn’t tire himself out more. “We don’t want to damage their belongings.”

“What if we open it inside a protective circle?” Hazel suggested. Bright as always. Typical changeling. “Then the spirit won’t be able to get in.”

She sighed. “Wait until Junie gets back and ask her. I’m sure she’ll have something in one of her books.”

She could be on a flight right now. Layover in Hong Kong, maybe, or Singapore, a day or two before she finished her trip. Over the centuries, she’d grown to love the sun. An unhealthy amount, for a vampire, probably. Her protective charms wore out a little quicker than they should. But to her, it was worth it. She was still absorbing a lifetime’s worth of warmth.

She could be on the beach in a week, damn it. Why was she still here?

Finally, the door opened and she sat up. Junie and Jet were standing at the door, each with an old, frayed looking book in their hands. But before she could ask, Jet declared, “Alice Fay’s journals.”

“We could only check out one each,” Junie said, holding out the other. “There’s still one more.”

May eyed the books. Yes, she could imagine the woman from the painting in Rebecca’s office writing in those, perhaps obsessively. She looked the type.

“We need to do a circle so we can open this thing safely,” Hazel said, looking u at Junie from her place on the floor. “Do you know how to do that?”

“I have the theory in one of my textbooks, but it’s an advanced technique. I can try it.” Her voice was heavy with doubt. “But it’ll take some practice, and I have this journal…”

“I’ll read the journal.” May held out her hand. “Guess we’re going to have to delegate. No one else here can do a circle but you.”

Junie glanced down at the book, and May did feel a little sorry, taking her chance at research from her. But if time was of the essence here, she knew what she had to do. Junie handed it over. “Okay.”

“I’ll go read the third journal,” Hazel suggested, getting to her feet. “I’m not allowed check things out of the library anymore, but I can read it in there and Ms Pelham will leave me alone.”

“What’s with the ban?”

“Too many late returns. Look, it’s not my fault her whole life is devoted to those goddamn books.” She sighed, hands on her hips. “Whatever, doesn’t matter. I’ll read it downstairs and let you know if I find anything.”

“What about me?” Toby asked, the wooden box sill clutch din his hands. “What should I do?”

“You can help me with the circle,” Junie suggested. “It’d be helpful to have a volunteer to test it on.”

He looked so relieved at having something to do, it was difficult not to smile. It has hard not to endear to Toby, if she was honest. She’d never been the biggest fan of werewolves. She didn’t like how they smelled when they transformed, and she’d never liked their boisterous nature. They were so noisy. But he was sweet. And he was just a pup, anyway. He’d grow into himself soon enough.

More on Closet Pun here! Leave an ask or a comment to be added to the taglist.

[mar-s-bar-s]

the chariot - a jean pierre polnareff story

(this short fic is part of a tarot/anime prompt series I am writing)

 The Chariot card represents willpower. It is the manifestation of someone’s drive (haha pun) and the actions they take to ensure success. It symbolises control and the determination one has to accomplish their goals. And honestly I just wanted to write my beloved Polnareff for this story. (might contain slight spoilers for the beginning of stardust crusaders and when pol joins) This one might be longer because Polnareff. >:)

in which u and polnareff go swimming and smooch

gn! reader

warnings: mentions of polnareffs sister, spoilers for part 3 of jjba, other than that very wholesome

series m.list

The late afternoon air in Singapore feels like lukewarm soup. It’s almost unbearable the way that the wind is only a caress against your body, and your clothes are starting to stick uncomfortably. The hotel room provides some air conditioning and a plug-in fan, but ultimately, it provides little solace as you watch the plastic blades rotate almost languidly, generating a mere puff of air that cannot be described as cool. 

You lie on the bed next to the window, suddenly remembering Polnareff is your new roommate. After the Stand user appeared and Polnareff narrowly defeated it, you offered to let him stay with you, him accepting almost immediately after his near death experience. You developed a strange fondness for this charming Frenchman who carried himself with such honour even when he was a servant to Dio’s will. His reason for joining the Crusaders touched your heart, and you greatly respected his drive to take revenge for his sister.

The door opens with a clamour, and you jump up, half-expecting another Stand user. But it’s just Polnareff, bearing his belongings and dumping them unceremoniously on the other bed near the wall. This suite was one of the only other ones available, and Polnareff sure as hell wasn’t rooming with Anne, who had verbally expressed her distaste of sharing a room with the Frenchman in the lobby. 

“Hey!” Polnareff hovers over you, flashing a grin at you. His clothes are suited to this weather, you think, watching him pose above you in his, well, tank top? Chest cover? “Did you know they have a pool round the back?”

And so both of you venture out to the pool after changing into more appropriate attire, you being unable to stand the stuffy room, and Polnareff wanting to show off a little bit. 

“Water cannon!” Polnareff yells before jumping into the pool with a slightly underwhelming splash. You’re  glad to see him enjoy himself as he submerges himself, glad to see a smile on his face. Revenge could consume a person, and you hope Polnareff does not lose sight of who he is.

You step into the cool water, enjoying the blue bliss that envelopes you, the cobalt blue sky being tinged by a blazing orange. Even if you don’t notice the sun casting a glow onto you, Polnareff does, and he feels as if you are the only two people in the world when you look at him. He wishes that he was the one kissing your skin instead of the sunrays, and has to look away before his face catches fire. He can’t even spare a thought for his hairdo, which has fallen apart, when his thoughts are consumed by you. 

You on the other hand are marveling at his hair, which has come down around his shoulders. The setting sun casts a golden halo around him, and to you he looks like a knight, albeit one clad in nothing but trunks. 

You sink into the water, and Polnareff swims over to you in an elegant breast stroke, splashing your face slightly with a flick of water, grinning at you before also sinking down next to you, a comfortable silence between you two. However, it is broken in the next moment by you.

“You know, Polnareff, I really respect you,” your voice sounds out across the blue space, and your body turns to face him slightly. “Your honour, your motivation, your drive to complete your goal, and not losing yourself in the process; it’s awesome.”

Your eyes meet his and you notice his red face. Polnareff opens and closes his mouth, before looking back at the water.

“You mean it?” Polnareff asks quietly, his voice cracking slightly.

“Yes.”

“That really means a lot to me,” he looks at you again, his face sports a huge grin, and inside he’s throwing a loud party to celebrate this serendipitous development. Have the gods smiled upon him?

Suddenly, he leans in and kisses your cheek, before pulling back. Your face burns where his lips met, and you’re at a slight loss for words.

“In my opinion, you’re an amazing individual too,” Polnareff starts, looking you dead in the eye. “You are worth everything, and I don’t regret being corrupted by Dio, because I met you. You’re a trustworthy companion, and I hope we remain close, even after this trip ends.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and some of Polnareff’s courage must have rubbed off onto you; you lean in and kiss him with fervour, bubbles swirling around you two as he pulls you towards him closer. 

Safe to say, the sky is a deep purple once you break apart completely, breathing heavily.

[satohqbanana]

It's HEEEERE! Click to see it up close. Descriptions for each character below the cut. DF is shorthand for "Divergent Fate".

Rhen & Lars - I think of their clothes as "Shadwood Academy's standard issued uniforms for graduates except they already put their own slight twists on it", hence the musical symbols that represent DF Shadwood. Said slight twists are majorly them switching belts as a token of friendship, initiated by Lars with the excuse of "your belt matches my earrings better and vice-versa". I would've also made Rhen's flower a marionbell but the pink clashed too much with her current design. (I just put it there so I can make a "hold my flower" joke.) My inspo for their uniforms and Eastern Empire in general is the cultures of Malaysia, Indonesia, and Singapore.

Dameon - I leaned heavily towards my own hcs for Talia for him. I took inspiration from traditional Russian fashion, and the words "elven prince" and "trying too hard", thus the elegant cut of his clothes, but an ensemble that still makes for a fun, boyish look. I also darkened his hair and his skin since the other WIP I posted.

Te'ijal - This is just classic Te'ijal look except I mixed it up a bit as not to make her red (or, well, pink...) stand out too much. For her and Ghedare, my inspo was Taisho era Japan and visual kei fashion. I also gave her an archery bracer (with the vamp family insignia) on her left arm which she can take off when she chooses to wield a rapier. The silver-looking things on her outfit probably isn't really silver, or else that would've killed her, wouldn't it?

Galahad - I added that orange in to counter the flow of so much silver, and I threw in his sprite's cape but I made it blue. I base Sedona on Germany (making Clearwater a counterpart of Switzerland but that's not important right now), hence the eagle on his breastplate. He’s one of my favorite designs despite the simplicity of his look.

Elini - I looked up possible real-world places that could base Veldt off of, and I decided on Turkey. Changed her skirt to a salvar. While she opts for a sleeveless tunik while travelling, I do think she has an entari robe stashed in her stuff (plus she needs that extra protection under the sun). Gave her Nazar amulets - believed to ward off evil - to emphasize her summoner role and how she has to always be careful dealing with her summons. Added a scarf to complete her traveler ensemble, and pimped out some parts of her clothes to emphasize that she’s nobility.

Marge - MARGERIE MY BELOVED. I facepalmed so hard looking up designs for RPG barmaids because a good majority of them were way too fanservicey, so in the end I had to make do with sticking to my guts. She probably has Sedonian roots. Probably. And that necklace has to do with her DF backstory, I think.

John - For his clothes, I looked up the character design of Pirates of the Caribbean. But basically I had his clothes to match Te'ijal's in some way. (Like I said I am a sucker for couples with stealthily/thematically matching clothes, and Teijhohn is my secondary AV ship of choice and is canon in DF.) I think I set his features to be Jamaican.

Trivia: Half of the party has blue eyes! And Marge’s are golden they’re so pretty.

[datenoriko]

Hehehe hi love! Hope ya don't mind me spamming your box! hehe I hope I'm not too late but can I pretty please ask for 1, 2,19,13 and 8 from the ask set ✿◕ ‿ ◕✿

Naddy~ It’s never too late to send asks! ^^

1. favourite place in your country?

- Oh no hehe; there’s always something charming in the places we go but if I have to choose... there’s Mt. Batulao! Our family’s mother mountain (first hike) and since then holds a special place for me~

2. do you prefer spending your holidays in your country or travel abroad?

- Anything goes! As long as I’m out of the house and somewhere far away it’s great. Though for really long holidays, I’d prefer to at least in Singapore where my siblings are; at least the family’s complete for a week or two!

8. do you get confused with other nationalities? if so, which ones and by whom?

- No such experience yet, though in my previous work some customers are surprised when they found out I’m Filipina (dunno why, though)

13. does your country (or family) have any specific superstitions or traditions that might seem strange to outsiders?

- Our own family isn’t into superstitions, but our relatives are! Here are some that I remember: 1. If a beloved one to be sent to the burial site, their clothes should be placed on the roof so the weather will be good 2. Never sweep at night or bad luck will come! 3. When going into a forest/grassy area, make sure to say "Tabi po” (”Excuse me”) to request the spirits to move aside

19. do you like your country’s flag and/or emblem? what about the national anthem?

- The flag is detailed (like, there is a specific amount of rays of sun signifying the provinces the fought in the revolution and of course the colors and stuff) and holds a lot of meaning; the anthem is beautiful and selfless too... everytime I hear it I get the chills, honestly!

[dying-suffering-french-stalkers]

Katabasis Patterns in Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End

Or, in which I make use of my official Classics minor (and my unofficial film nerd minor) while ignoring my French major altogether.

Howdy, everyone, and welcome to this week’s episode of Extremely On My Bullshit!  Today we’re going to talk at length about how the trip to Davy Jones’ Locker in Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End borrows elements from various classical narratives containing a katabasis, or a trip to the Underworld.  This will be a slightly Tumblr-ified version of an actual paper I wrote for my Classical Antiquity On Screen final.

Shoutout to this post by @charlesdances, which allowed me to infodump about Hades/Persephone parallels in Barbossa and Elizabeth’s relationship across the trilogy, and to @aye-tortuga for requesting this longer post, which I teased at the end of the aforementioned meta.

Right then, let’s get started!  Under a cut to spare your dashes from long post made longer still by screencaps and works cited (yep, it’s that kind of meta).  For the purposes of this meta, only the first three Pirates films will be considered canon as the later sequels contradicted elements of the established lore.

I touched on this in the first paragraph, but I’ll begin by defining two words which will appear throughout this meta: katabasis and anabasis.  Katabasis and anabasis are Ancient Greek terms which refer to “that narrative . . . that portrays the hero’s descent into, and ascent from, the underworld—the journey to hell” (Holtsmark 25).  (If you want to get etymological about it, kata is down, ana is up, and baino comes from the verb meaning “to go [on foot].”)

This katabasis narrative takes place in the first act of At World’s End.  If you’ll recall, Dead Man’s Chest ended with Elizabeth chaining Jack to the Black Pearl’s mast: she knew the Kraken was only interested in Jack, so she sacrificed him to give herself and the others a chance to escape.  However, at the very end of the film, Elizabeth and the crew of the Pearl pledge to retrieve Jack from his resting place in Davy Jones’ Locker (the Underworld), and Tia Dalma offers both herself and Barbossa as guides to those “weird and haunted shores.”

So, after the cinematic fucking masterpiece that is the opening “Hoist the Colours” sequence (I also wrote a paper on that lol), we find ourselves in Singapore, where Elizabeth, Barbossa, and co. meet with the pirate lord Sao Feng in hopes of obtaining a map to the Locker.  The Singapore segment opens with Elizabeth piloting a lone craft along a murky river, evoking images of Charon with his ferryman’s pole:

As she poles the boat along, she sings a pirate tune with decidedly death-centric lyrics, tuning us in to the symbolism and themes at play: “Some men have died and some are alive / Others sail on the sea / With the keys to the cage and the Devil to pay / We lay to Fiddler’s Green.* / The bell has been raised from its watery grave / Hear its sepulchral tone . . .” (*A form of afterlife from maritime folklore)

At the end of this scene, we see something odd: Tia Dalma dressed as a blind organ grinder.

Plot-wise, this serves to divert the colonial soldiers’ attention from the pirates’ activity, but metaphorically, here she represents the blind seer Tiresias, whom Odysseus encounters when he first enters the realm of Hades (Odyssey 11.187-149).

When the pirates meet Sao Feng, the imagery starts to mix a little.  The filmmakers present Sao Feng in a somewhat Hades-esque (Hadean?) manner (steam, flames, and warm tones, with a skylight to imply subterranean depths):

However, while he is a powerful figure, he does not keep the Underworld itself (that duty falls to Jones); he merely keeps the knowledge of its entrance.  Barbossa attempts to gain this knowledge by presenting Sao Feng with a silver coin: a reminder of his duty as Pirate Lord as well as another Charon parallel.  Barbossa’s tactic does not work, but like in the previous scene, the imagery prepares viewers for the descent to come.

After getting Sao Feng’s navigational charts another way, the pirates’ journey to the underworld continues in earnest.  When Will expresses doubt about their path, Barbossa nearly quotes the Aeneid outright: “Trust me, young Master Turner: it’s not gettin’ to the Land of the Dead that’s the problem; it’s gettin’ back.”  This echoes the Cumaean Sibyl’s famous words to Aeneas: “Easy is the descent to [the Underworld]: night and day the door of gloomy Dis stands open; but to recall one’s steps and pass out to the upper air, this is the task, this the toil!” (Aeneid 6.126-129, tr. H.R. Fairclough).  Aeneas, guided by the Sibyl, passes through the mouth of a cave as part of his descent (“A deep cave there was, yawning wide and vast, of jagged rock” (Aeneid 6.237-238, cf. 6.262-263, tr. Fairclough)); likewise the pirates, guided by Barbossa and the charts, pass through a cave as they travel into stranger climes:

(Buuuut to be fair, this one is possibly just incidental or else more of a reference to Gustave Doré’s art for Rime of the Ancient Mariner rather than a reference to any specific classical text.  Doré’s artwork is used elsewhere in PotC, so it’s prolly just aesthetic.  Also caves are cool and the ultimate symbolic doorway.)

Next they come to a distant, shadowy realm with a misty sky and a sea tranquil enough to reflect starlight:

Again, this could also be incidental (and/or just a really cool homage to the sailing-to-the-moon scene in The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988)), but it does have a classical counterpart: “The ship took us to the deep, outermost Ocean / And the land of the Cimmerians, a people / Shrouded in mist.  The sun never shines there [...] Nor bathes them in the glow of its last golden rays; / Their wretched sky is always racked with night’s gloom” (Odyssey 11.14-19).

Both of these qualities—the cave and the darkness—fit Holtsmark’s observations on katabatic patterns: “The entryway to the other world is often conceived as lying in caves or grottoes or other openings in the earth’s crust into the nether regions, such as chasms or clefts. . . . The lower world is generally dank and dark, and the journey usually takes place at dusk or during the night” (Holtsmark 25).

At last, the pirates’ ship goes over the edge of an enormous waterfall and the screen fades to black.  Voices from the original Pirates of the Caribbean theme park ride echo over the dark screen, ending with the ominous phrase “Dead men tell no tales.”  However, we shall soon see this proved very wrong, for the pirates encounter several souls with tales to tell.  As for these nameless voices, they may represent multitudes of “bloodless shades” (Metamorphoses 10.42) left to languish in other parts of the Locker/Underworld.

At this point, the narrative cuts from the pirate band to Jack in Davy Jones’ Locker.  Jack warrants special punishment from Jones for disobeying the rules of a bargain they’d once struck (*yells forever about the good parts of The Price of Freedom and the crimes wrought by the DMTNT retcons*).  Jack’s own special hell, recalling the punishments of Tantalus and Sisyphus (Odyssey 11.611-629), does include his beloved Black Pearl (explicitly stated, by Jack himself, to be a symbol of personal freedom), but now it rests completely beached upon an endless, windless salt flat.  Jack is utterly alone in this wasteland, save for a crew of his own imaginary doppelgängers.

(I’m gonna be real with y’all: I don’t care for this scene at all and it brings the narrative to a screeching halt, so let’s just take a moment to angstily reflect on how profoundly this affects Jack-the-character’s psyche/mental state for the rest of the film and move on to better things.  God bless RPers and fic writers who deal with this scene and its effects in a deliciously Watsonian way.)

Tia Dalma/Calypso’s crabs eventually come to bear both captain and ship back to the sea.  This could be seen as classical-type divine aid/favoritism (a semi-literal deus ex machina) or as awkward, oh-no-what-do-we-do-now screenwriting, take your pick.  The crabs take Jack and the Pearl directly to the rest of the pirates, who have washed up on the Locker’s desolate shore.  In a twist on the classical formula, Jack initially thinks his rescuers the dead ones as they recount their past experiences.  Additionally, Jack represents a sort of Eurydice figure as the dead-in-need-of-rescuing, while his Orpheus, Elizabeth, is ironically the one who “killed” him in the first place.  All the pirates (Jack included) finally set sail in the freed Black Pearl and attempt to escape this Underworld: the anabasis has begun.

On their way out, when the sky grows dark, the crew encounter scores upon scores of shades floating aimlessly upon the sea:

This parallels Odysseus’ experience (“Then out of Erebus / The souls of the dead gathered / . . . They drifted up to the pit from all sides / With an eerie cry, and pale fear seized me” (Odyssey 11.34-35, 40-41)) as well as that of Aeneas (“Hither rushed all the [ghostly] throng, streaming to the banks . . . They stood, pleading to be the first ferried across, and stretched out hands in yearning for the farther shore” (Aeneid 6.305, 313-314)).  Tia Dalma reveals that long ago, Calypso had charged Davy Jones “to ferry those who died at sea to the Other Side,” but he has since abandoned his duty, hence his current eldritch appearance.  This explicitly posits Jones as a failed psychopomp who has now left these souls stranded like the unburied men of the Odyssey and Aeneid.

The crew leave these shades in peace until Elizabeth spots a familiar face: her father.

At this point I must ask you to rewatch this scene so you can fully appreciate the parallels without me including a lengthy transcript in this already long post.

This scene comes directly from classical literature, as both Odysseus and Aeneas encountered dead parents in the Underworld.  Odysseus saw his mother: “. . . At once / She knew me, and her words reached me on wings: / ‘My child, how did you come to the undergloom / While you are still alive?  It is hard for the living / To reach these shores.  There are many rivers to cross, / Great bodies of water, nightmarish streams, / And Ocean itself, which cannot be crossed on foot / But only in a well-built ship’” (Odyssey 11.151-158).  Like Elizabeth, Odysseus had no prior knowledge of his mother’s passing (11.170).  His mother warned him of the dangerous situation which had sprung up during his absence, just as Weatherby Swann warned the pirates of the dangers of Davy Jones’ Heart.  Aeneas likewise encountered the spirit of his father, Anchises: “‘Have you come at last[?] . . . Over what lands, what wide seas have you journeyed to my welcome! What dangers have beset you, my son!’” (Aeneid 6.687-693).  Anchises, too, offers some advice for the future, for he “tells of the wars that the hero next must wage . . . [and] how to face or flee each peril” (6.890-892).  Having Elizabeth be the one to encounter a dead parent in the Underworld confirms her as the series’ protagonist, in case that wasn’t patently obvious from the rest of the trilogy (and the failure of Pirates 4 and 5).  Weatherby Swann’s warning also serves to remind the audience of the stakes.

Finally, the pirates make their way out of the Locker.  While the remainder of their journey takes more inspiration from Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Western European folklore than classical literature, the latter’s influence on the film remains quite clear.  When the pirates return to the land of the living, it is daybreak:

(*Lawrence of Arabia theme, but on a cello*)

So, too, does Odysseus emerge from the Underworld into a new dawn: “Our ship left the River Ocean / And came to the swell of the open sea / . . . Where Dawn has her dancing grounds / And the Sun his risings” (Odyssey 12.1-5).  The pirates thus complete their katabasis/anabasis, and with rather more luck than Orpheus.

In review: The pirates begin their katabasis in Singapore, which boasts a plethora of Underworld symbolism, including a death-centric song and images of Charon, Tiresias, and Hades.  They cross various waters in their descent, mirroring locations from Homer and Vergil, and Barbossa quotes the Cumaean Sibyl.  Elizabeth and the pirates retrieve Jack from the Locker’s punishments in a twist on the Orpheus and Eurydice myth.  Like Odysseus and Aeneas, Elizabeth sees her dead parent in the Underworld, who warns her of things to come.  In the end, the pirates emerge from the Underworld into the light of dawn, signalling their return to life.  By borrowing from Homer, Vergil, and Ovid, At World’s End presents an Underworld narrative which is familiar in structure and yet easily incorporated into a new mythology: “Same story, different versions.”

(Please message me if you’d like to quote/reference this post in a paper and I can give you my name + details on the official version!  Plagiarism is shitty and unnecessary!)

WORKS CITED

Crispin, A.C.  Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom.  Disney Editions, 2011.

Fairclough, H.R., translator.  The Aeneid.  1916.  By Vergil.  Theoi Project, www.theoi.com/Text/VirgilAeneid6.html.  Accessed 4 May 2019.

Holtsmark, Erling B.  “The Katabasis Theme in Modern Cinema.”  Classical Myth & Culture in Modern Cinema, edited by Martin M. Winkler, Oxford University Press, 2001, pp. 23-50.

Homer.  The Odyssey.  The Essential Homer, translated and edited by Stanley Lombardo, Hackett Publishing Company, 2000, pp. 241-482.

Ovid.  Metamorphoses.  Translated by Stanley Lombardo, Hackett Publishing Company, 2010.

Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End.  Directed by Gore Verbinski, performances by Keira Knightley, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Bill Nighy, Chow Yun-Fat, Geoffrey Rush, Tom Hollander, Jack Davenport, and Jonathan Pryce, Walt Disney Pictures, 2007.

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest.  Directed by Gore Verbinski, performances by Keira Knightley, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Bill Nighy, Tom Hollander, Jack Davenport, and Jonathan Pryce, Walt Disney Pictures, 2005.

Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl.  Directed by Gore Verbinski, performances by Keira Knightley, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Geoffrey Rush, Jack Davenport, and Jonathan Pryce, Walt Disney Pictures, 2003.

[likenothingnameable]

When Last Did You Take Your Tortoise for a Walk?

The art of walking in the 21st century, a lifelong learning

By: Justin Mah

“Balancing yourself with your arms set flawlessly straight like a marching foot soldier in the Canadian Forces, you were walking before any of your cousins,” my mom recalls with a touch of amusement. For reasons remaining muddled by my subconscious, I skipped the intermediate motor-development phase of crawling altogether and, at just eight months, reached out into the world in front of me and discovered an abiding love for walking—one that, many a worn-out and pockmarked soles later, has reverberated to the present.

In his walking reverie, The Walk, Robert Wasler writes, “A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small…. without walking, I would be dead.” Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap—the faint thump of my own steps, the sweet sound of my second heartbeat.

With little fuss, at the age of three, with scuffed Velcro sneakers and my fluorescent-blue security blanket in tow, I’d stroll around the 4.9 km circuit trail at Burnaby’s Central Park with my mom, a preternaturally brisk walker. I’ve imagined her often, in some parallel universe, eking out a living in the urban bustle of Singapore, home to the fastest pedestrians on the planet according to studies.

Today, with thirty-five years of walking now behind me, that we have felt inclined to study walking speeds at all, says to me every bit about our attempts to outpace those around us. Evading the immediacy of the present in search of fugitive alleviation from the reality of our own flesh-and-bones mortality, we readily employ our lower limbs exclusively for the purpose of getting from A to B.

Pushing against the trapping of an A-to-B mentality emptied of vitality is easier said than done in a culture that lionizes “efficiency” and “productivity.” The earth and its natural ecosystems has beared its most injurious consequences, but for how much longer will it be able to withstand our recklessness? In The Rings of Saturn, a novel borne out of a walking tour of the eastern coast of England, German writer and indefatigable walker W. G. Sebald offers an alternative that calls for the cultivation of a more present, naked form of attention. “It was as if I had been walking for hours before the tiled roofs of houses and the crest of a wooded hill gradually became defined,” he writes of his sojourn to the town of Dunwich. Here, between A and B, is an in-between full of sensorial possibility that Sebald experiences and brings to life with exquisite detail, roof tiles and all.

In my adulthood, I’ve cultivated my own practice of trying to be more purposeful in my walking—slowing down enough to see a familiar spot anew; relishing in the quiet offered by an early Sunday morning walk, wherein I fall into awareness of my in-breath and the pitter-patter of my own footsteps—tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap; weaving with the faint voices of the CBC wafting out into the balmy air through a window ajar, the rhythmic swooshing of branches of fir cast penumbral across the sidewalk, painterly. And—out-breath.

As a kid, well before I heard of Paris’ French flaneurs—the eminent saunterers, strollers, idlers—of the 19th century who would amble purposelessly through the city’s famous shopping arcades, my father ushered in what he coined a “city walkabout.” My little brother and I fell so in love with the concept that it would win out over such other favourite activities as scouring the ‘Action’ and ‘Comedy’ shelves at Blockbuster, combing through the collection trove at the neighbourhood comic shop, or visiting our much beloved arcade, Circuit Circus. Relegating these alluring options aside, we’d plead, as children so do best, for our dad to take us out on a walkabout, an adventure that, above all, held the possibility of the unexpected. We’d walk and walk in winding, circuitous fashion through Vancouver’s cityscape, stopping for a bite when our stomachs could no longer be ignored, strolling till our feet throbbed, pulsed. Afterward, our feet still buzzing, drunk on kinetic motion, we’d proudly tumble horizontal, toss our feet up to rest. And, if we were really truly lucky, we’d have either a root beer-flavoured Popsicle, or creamy vanilla Dixie Cup, in hand to savour.

It is little remembered, but in the days of the French flaneurs, for a brief moment in 1839, it was considered elegant to take a tortoise out for a walk. The gesture was not completely out of left field, though, merely an eccentric embellishment or a desperate call for attention. Rather, it was, in part, a tongue-in-cheek political display, a sort of poetic middle finger to a rampantly industrializing Paris. Bring the tortoise-walk back into the 21st century I say, and be free from the smart phone, even if just for a smidge! But not before searching “People trying to walk their cat” on YouTube, for a humourous, ‘who-walks-who’ preview of what’s to come of this human-tortoise pairing. Yet what a beautiful thing to surrender, to give up brief control, loosen our proclivity toward A-to-B trajectories. All thanks to a turtle holding reign, relish in your surroundings, all 360 degrees of it, and have the world transformed into a place of meditation! Let us follow by example sixty-five-year-old Japanese funeral parlour owner, Hisao Mitani, who goes out on daily walks with his African spurred tortoise through the streets of Tokyo. He became an Internet sensation in 2015 for doing so.

The popular notion of “walking as discovery” has been braided into our collective psyche, and while it speaks to our curiosity-driven nature and, at our worst, to histories of colonialism, over the years I’ve drifted to the view of “walking as recovery.” I discovered walking’s restorative potential as a Simon Fraser University undergrad when, amid the evening calm, I’d take a post-dinner walk to Burnaby Height’s oval track at Confederation Park. Approaching the russet-coloured track set in stark relief by the manicured grass filling its centre, I’d come upon an altogether heart-warming convening, a neighbourly microcosm of walkers looping the track, with the humbling outline of the North Shore Mountains to the north. From the vantage of a wooden bench, absorbing this mellifluous, arcing swirl of motion was enough to lull me into a state of clairvoyance. Sometimes, deciding to join the walking procession, time would seem to slacken, anxieties would unclasp, cascading from the self, outward, dissolving into the unending infinity of the circular track; overhead, a fluttering of crows, dotting the clear blue sky iridescent black, the sun making its beguiling decent over poplar trees, to the west.

Younger still, during the 1990s, in East Vancouver where I grew up, I have memories spent after school at my Italian grandparents’ home, who would care for my siblings and I on many a weekdays while my parents were at work. After dinner, I’d join my Nono for a walk with my brother and, after the house slipped out of sight, he’d pull out and light a cigarette, and in that moment made us complicit in his little secret, with the cemented story back at the house being that he had dispensed of the habit long ago. Walking along with him—the world at our fingertips—we’d dance in circles around my grandfather like electrons around a nucleus, racing ahead, hopping over the sidewalk creases imagining them as perilous pits, sometimes trailing behind, mesmerized by some insect or betwixt by a scattering of shed, dried out Maple whirlybird seeds. We’d split them down their brittle centre, toss them to the sky and, transfixed, watch them pirouette back down to the sidewalk. My grandfather would be continuing along, all the while, at his steady, measured pace, lost in rumination, the kind not yet of our knowing. The trip would end at the corner store, to address our sugary cravings with, ironically, Pop-Eye candy cigarettes. Puffing away on our candied sticks, oblivious to the adult world that lay ahead of us, we’d make our way back to the house, often in time for Wheel of Fortune, Vanna White and her infectious glow of a smile.

Years later, my Nono’s secret would get the better of him when cancer took hold, and after his passing, with my Nona now alone in her house, I’d pay frequent visits, getting her, this time, out of the confines of her home for walks. Delighting in conversation with neighbours along the way, debating the merits of various grades of gardening manure, sharing tricks of the trade for growing flavourful tomatoes, as well as getting caught up on the latest neighbourhood gossip, I could sense her spirit lift and her racing mind being put at ease. Hippocrates grasped this over 2,000 years ago when he declared, “walking is man’s best medicine.” Modern studies today now suggest that walking for even twenty minutes a day can cut one’s risk of premature death by almost a third. During my many memorable walks with my Nona, we’d usually find ourselves at a nearby Chinese restaurant for dim sum, where we’d enjoy an array of steamy goodness from sticky rice, spicy fried squid, to crispy wasabi shrimp spring rolls. “Mmm, my favourite,” she’d exalt, a smile breaking across her face, as a container of steamed chicken feet was placed onto our table. Her diving hands would disperse the tantalizing steam rising out from the wooden container; warmed by her enthusiasm, I’d top up her half-empty glass of green tea.   

That we have even been endowed with an upright gait has much, of course, to do with a lengthy evolutionary battle between big brains and narrow pelvises. But it is also simply a wonderful gift and a constant teacher, if we let it. Pulled by the primacy of bipedalism, with valorous if haphazard spirit, most newborns attempt their first steps around nine to twelve months. It’s easy to forget, less remember, the novelty of walking for the first time. Though, I’d like to think we are always learning how to walk through this life in the play of the open air.

While I do not own a tortoise, I have occasionally imagined myself tethered to an invisible one, noble and seemingly with all the time in the world, when out on a leisure jaunt. Time after time, she has guided me to marvelous, wonderful places I never would have expected.  

[romaniassexdungeon]

Go on, Yankee, break my heart

Pairing: HuttMol

Summary: Orad writes letters he cannot send on a beach he wishes was less lonely.

Notes: Whoop, second in my sad Hetalia fics based on Pogues songs series! This one is based on Sayonara.

Given that I’ve always written him in the third person, I’ve never truly unlocked the full extent of Hutt’s narrative voice and let me just say: it is the most needlessly flowery, pretentious voice ever. Like damn, calm down and stop trying to be a poet.

Again, very sad so sorry.

Read on AO3

Michael - Molossia

Orad/Oscar - Hutt River

Apari - Australia

Manya - Wy

OK, it's time for Sayonara

Go on yankee break my heart

Dearest Michael,

You were different from the other Americans.

What I mean is, you looked different anyway. I expected the whole bloody lot of you to be blond and tanned and tall and built like Greek statues, uniforms fitting perfectly and just adding to how stupidly handsome you all were.

Like your brother, I suppose. He was all bright smiles and flashing blue eyes but something about you intrigued me.

I mean, you had the tan at least. But it was not the sun-kissed gold of your brother, rather baked red, a farmer’s tan, a mark of hard work and honesty. You were a man of the earth with a love for the land and I just knew it the moment I saw you.

Your hair was the furthest thing from blond, but, now that I recall, it was styled like a typical flashy American soldier, but you weren’t swaggering about the place, plying girls with chocolate and stockings and cigarettes.

I could see the appeal though. Even though you were slouched against a wall, watching your brother laugh and chatter with anyone who would give him a second of attention, you still fascinated me. Yes, let us use the term “fascinated” for the moment.

I could see what the locals meant about your uniforms.

I remember the sunglasses too; oh how could I not? You were the first American I saw with a pair that did not look, hmm, how should I describe it? Obnoxious? Then again, we all thought you lot were obnoxious.

It went well with your scarf. The red one. The red silk scarf tucked into your jacket. It screamed trouble to me. Well, not my trouble but your own, like you were off to jump in front of a bull. People have told me the colour red means a lot of things besides earth: love, passion, fertility, danger. Mostly danger. I worried for you, though I did not even know your name.

You would soon be off to war, after all.

You did not exactly look in the mood to talk to anyone, so I did not approach. I never approached people though.

But still, you saw me.

I never asked what you thought when you first looked at me, whether you were instantly captivated or angered that someone had disturbed your reverie or curious if I would say something. I should have asked. I will ask the moment you get home.

There are a lot of things I wish to ask you when you get home. Our time together was so short… so here’s to figuring something out when the war is over.

All the hugs and kisses,

Orad

Darling Michael,

I do not know why I write to you like I would write in a diary, but I suppose this is the closest I will come to actually talking to you until the war is over. Maybe then you can read these and laugh at my silly worries that you may not return. Maybe then I can hear your replies to my questions, and tell me all you are currently seeing in Asia.

Where are you now? Singapore? Burma? I am in the dark about most that is going on. But we are winning, right? I think that is true, that the Yanks and Aussies are pushing back against Japan? They won’t let me in any of the shops to buy a newspaper, and people are secretive about this sort of thing, lest a German is somewhere listening.

No Germans here, just me. Wanting to know how you are.

I hope you are keeping safe.

Hopes and wishes for the future,

Orad

Michael, my love,

I remember the first time you talked to me.

It was at the beach, evening time and I remember the sun painting the sky the colours of life, of nature. I remember letting the sand fall through my fingers as I watched you talk with the other Yankee soldiers and, to this day, I wish I could convince you I was there by accident. The beach is my special place, where I go to feel free and safe. Sometimes when the world is too much to bear, I go for a swim and let the cool water cleanse my face and body.

In all honesty, I was trying to make myself invisible in your presence, sitting quietly and not making a sound, but you still saw me, again. I was probably creeping you out at that point.

When the other soldiers went to the bar, you stayed behind and I wanted to flee. You were coming my way! There was, quite suddenly, no time to run.

But you just said hello, gave an awkward wave, and stood there.

The wind seemed to be attacking your coat more successfully than your hair and the sun dying at the other side of the city made you look like a fire. You smiled a goofy smile and the dimples in your cheeks made me smile back. I introduced myself as Oscar, and you told me your name was Michael.

You were alright, for a Yank.

We talked until we could no longer see, about our lives and the war we both knew little about. You told me about the USA, and I talked about my home on the edge of the city, a brother and sister, my birthplace out west that I had not seen in years. I told you my brother was off fighting and I had to stay here to look after my sister because something horrible would happen if I wasn’t around to protect her.

You told me it was your brother Alfred who was enlisted, and you volunteered to be with him, and do your bit. I remember that, Michael, how desperate you were to help, to save everyone. A man of morals, truly, and I still admire you for that. You mentioned another brother, one you only knew was alive because he was in a POW camp somewhere in Germany. I hope he will be returned to you one day.

The sun kept dipping and dipping, but you did not care. All that mattered was talking to me like we were a pair of regular boys, discussing our hopes for the future and worries. You saw me as an equal and I appreciate that. No one else here did, not the Aussies or Americans or anyone except my siblings.

Of course, there was nothing regular about your fear of death, of the real war. Everything was still a dream-like trance for you. A crappy holiday but not yet the hell your veteran father warned you about. That would soon come.

You disappeared for a while at some point, leaving me to my exhilarated thoughts and returning with a bottle of scotch.

We walked as far as we could as we drank, singing and paddling in the sea. For the life of me, I cannot remember what we sang, if we tried to teach each other the words, if we danced. No, there was dancing, I’m sure of it. When I fell in and got my hair wet, you dried it with your scarf.

I remember that well. It settled around my shoulders; you didn’t seem in any hurry to take it back. That scarf smelt of your cologne and I pressed it to my nose; I apologised for getting my salt and sand stink on it.

You… did not mind at all. Quite the opposite as you wrapped that thing around the two of us and kissed me. We were completely alone, but you still pulled away too soon. Your face… yes I understood the fear, but you did not need to fear me.

To prove it, I kissed you back.

I… am not the best kisser. I want to be the best at everything but, alas, I was terrible. So were you, I have to admit. It was something we could both laugh at, in between little pecks to noses and cheeks.

Then I wrapped your scarf back around your neck and told you to get going, that you’d be missed and we couldn’t have that now.

But, of course, if you ever needed to find me, you’ll find me on this beach.

I’m still here today; the moment you come home, you’ll know where to look.

Kisses to your nose,

Orad xx

My beloved Michael,

As strange a place as it was to meet in secret, the beach became our little, safe world. That is, when we met outside the city, behind this rock outcropping where we could kiss in private, and maybe more.

Everyone said you Americans were overpaid, oversexed and over here. I can confirm at least two of those are true.

No, wait, you’re no longer over here. You’re over there. In Burma, that is what a soldier who knew you told me. His legs were missing and so were his eyes. I begged that would not be you.

Since you left, the worry has not left my body, but it was dull, a far away but painful truth I did not want to admit to myself. And now?

There was a chance you were not coming back at all. And what state would you be in when you came back? Not that I would care about you any less, no matter how gnarled and scarred you became, not even if half your body was missing.

I just don’t wish such a fate on you.

And Apari too! Is it too much to hope you are both returned to me safe? And your brothers too. I just want us all to be fine, and together when the war is over. I want both my brother and sister by my side again, and you in my arms.

I could take on everyone responsible for this war right here right now!

I did want to sign up, and I told you as such. Apari told me not to. I needed to stay with Manya and I was a kiddo who couldn’t go throwing my life away for no reason.

But Apari can, apparently.

I hope he comes back safe.

If I didn’t worry about my sister so much, I would volunteer anyway, maybe fight with you and know just what was going on and if you were still alive. There isn’t even a way of knowing if you have been injured or captured because who is going to tell me? We made sure no one knew of our relationship for a reason, and I can hardly walk into the barracks and ask.

I have convinced myself you are safe, and that is enough for now.

Lots of wishes,

Orad xx

My life and light,

It was strange, but I had never felt as safe as when we were swimming together, in our own private lagoon. I pulled you underwater and kissed you, knowing we would be disturbed by no one in our liquid crystal.

You looked ghostly as the moon filtered through the water, like the very sand you skidded across as you let the tides – and my hands – guide you.

When we came up for air, you laughed and I couldn’t help joining in, dear. You remember, right? Your laugh is the best sound in the world, you know that, right?

Hugs and kisses and walks on the beach,

Orad xxxx

Beloved, darling Michael,

I hope our last night together is as deeply carved into your memory is it is into mine.

Oh, how could it not be? The moon was full and illuminating the sea and sand in a silvery shimmer. Everything was warm and calm as we lay together on the beach.

You laughed as we danced, jacket abandoned and your shirt soon following. You pulled off my shirt between kisses and - gently - pushed me down onto the sand.

You held my face in your hands as you cradled my soul in yours, our bodies intertwined and as loss was already building up in my heart; I did something I’d been meaning to for a while.

I told you my real name.

I wanted you to call me Orad.

And that was what you called me for the rest of the night. For once, I did not even care how your accent made it sound so ridiculous, or that my name was too foreign. I wanted you to tell me you loved me for the rest of our time together and speak words of truth.

My ears and neck burn from the ghost of your voice, memories of trailing fingers up and down my skin. I ruined your hair with my wayward hands, but you didn’t care. Mine was soon coated in powdered gold.

I pressed a hand to your chest to feel your heartbeat and wrapped that scarf around the both of us, fire all around us. Fire in me. Fire on your lips. My heart.

Your heart was my own swing band, playing furiously, like the world was ending the moment the sun rose. And it was, for us.

My mouth had a hunger only you could satisfy, and my heart had an ache that would not leave, no matter how I pressed your body against mine. I wanted that night to last forever, to feel your warmth until the sky fell around us and the earth reclaimed our bodies, but all too soon we had to kiss for the last time as sunlight tore our world apart.

I want to remember everything and hope you don’t mind. If this is too embarrassing to read, I understand. I will be right here ready to make new memories.

My hand in yours forever,

Orad xx

Faithful Michael,

You

You’re

I saw your brother today.

They carried the maimed off a truck that looked like a shrivelled olive and he was there, standing off away from the crowd as the legless and limping and broken were taken to the hospital and barracks, hidden away from the horrified, silent stares of the locals. He refused all help, and refused to go inside with the others. Most of him stood on the pavement, hunched and colourless.

His left arm is still in Burma.

I had to have some news, and besides, in caring about you I grew to care for him too, and we had spoken once or twice before, when he came to collect you. I did tend to steal you away from your countrymen.

Alfred seemed willing to talk to me now, and I lead him away from everyone staring, down to our beach.

I held out as long as I could, and so did he. Alfred talked of the war and losing his arm and watching his friends get gunned down, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak of you until I asked.

And so, with my eyes on the sea and ears in hell, I learnt of your fate.

You.

Michael.

Oh, my Michael. One piece of lead.

You’ve been dead for months.

Yours, devastated,

Orad

[bites-kms]

Once upon a time in Greece

Land of philosophers, birthplace of Western world, history can be breath in every corner you pass by. Athens, by excellence, is the center of this action and a compulsory stop while in Greece. Welcome to an epic journey to the past, you won’t regret it. 

After 9 hours and 15 minutes, in a direct flight from JFK I arrived at the Eleftherios Venizelos International Airport. You can already feel the language challenge bursting by trying to pronounce its name, but nothing easier than to get to the city center with the metro pass by 10 euros. And we were staying meters, I mean, literally 37 steps away from the Acropolis. My friend Mau was waiting for me, and as crazy as it sounds, I guess we’ve seen more of each other during this year in NY, Macau, Hong Kong and now Greece than what we actually hanged out in Singapore - what a beautiful turn of events ♥!

Pomegranate and lemon trees, fake jazmin scent, tons of adventurous and cute, street cats as well as few tortoises, and chirping birds are the beautiful scenery that frames your strolls by Athens. But of course, the beauty highlights are found in the absolute exquisite merge between all of the above with the IV century columns, archeological sites and historic details embedded in every single house at sight.  

It’s a great place to think - if you don’t believe me, then ask Aristotles, but jokes aside, each and every time that I sat down to eat by myself, the writer muse decided to join over for a drink or too, and she hardly ever missed the point. I actually told her “come, stay, make yourself comfortable and talk to me” as per Neil Gaiman’s recommendation. 9 double-sized notebook pages later, I think it worked.

We decided to have a powerful breakfast at Everest, a cute local chain with tons of flavor and delicious coffee and orange juice. Man, if there’s something that I truly miss about living in Asia and Europe is the facility and access one has to delicious organic freshly squeezed juices at an affordable price. They are sweet, tasty and thirst quenching perfect! And I must say, coffee in Greece was an absolute delight as well. Same as in Turkey, their beans are strong yet never burnt, with subtle flavor hints depending on your roast. They were, undoubtedly, a compulsory yet perfect way to start each morning. 

We kicked it off towards Aristotle’s Lyceum. It was quite striking to witness, live and walk around the same inspiration field where major World Philosophers established the Western way of thought. Being Peripatetic for a while - or walking around while wondering about the meaning of things, was quite strange. I had a Philosophy professor that said “the art of wondering is where the questions matter more than the actual answers, and it serves as a sieve for our thoughts” and right there, at the Lyceum, walking around practicing the togetherness of body, mind and soul, with the Greek sun bathing our cheeks, there was absolutely no doubt that this is a magnificent way to create. Surrounding by olive trees and training arenas, contemplation was a must during our stay. We later walked back via the Zappeion or Convention Center, the Olympic Stadium, the National Garden and ended up visiting the Olympion or Zeus Temple, complex which contains the Roman Baths and our beloved Hadrian’s Arch. 

It’s also impressive to acknowledge how long these stone pieces have been standing, and the crazy value they own for thousands of years until today. The same thing happens to me each time I go to a temple, monument or to a very iconic sight. Regardless of the culture or the place where it’s located, these “rocks” contain so much energy, people’s faith, wishes and wonder that is hard not to feel them and truly understand the symbolic attachment and meaning, transforming them into way more than just plain rocks. 

Mau got this amazing tip: checking out the Guard Change on Sundays, when the officials wear their festivity outfits, so beautiful and traditional. Luckily for us, it was Sunday and it was almost 11 am. So it happened that our walk by the National Gardens suddenly became decorated by the Greek Anthem chords, and that was when we knew it was time to approach the Parliament. We found a perfect spot, in the middle of the street, where to witness all the Guard Change and its following parade with the National Marching Band. 

After this dose of Greek nationalism, we decided to go where the action happens: Plaka & Monasteraki. These two are the neighborhoods that surround the Acropolis and where the majority of restaurants and stores are located. Highly touristy, yet beautiful, so it’s well worth to put your “I’m-a-traveler-not-a-tourist” pride inside your pocket, and wonder the streets of Plaka guilt free. The delicious Greek treats you find your way will confirm your decision.

We had a highly Greek traditional lunch by the ladder of the Acropolis, sigh-seeing all Athens at the Klepsydra Tavern. Our first (out of maaaany) delicious Greek Salad with feta cheese, cucumber, peppers, onions and tomatoes, some tzatziki, the delicious yogurt, cucumber, garlic and herbs dip and a spanakopita, the very best spinach pie. 

We had to make a decision: tackling the Acropolis and the Parthenon on the very first day, or leave it for the first thing for the following morning. We decided to go with the second option, having the whole morning to explore and to avoid the crowds - which so far, we’ve been tackling like pros. Hence, we went on and explored Anafiotika, the picturesque and artistic tiny neighborhood full of hidden alley and old houses around Plaka, by the northerneast side of the Acropolis hill.

I loved this house: on the background, a window to the past, where the Parthenon with its Greek and West heritage lays. Inside, the secret and the intimacy of a Greek family, with family portraits, Orthodox crosses, a coffee set and an old TV. And on the same window that allows you a glimpse of this family lifestyle, you can see the reflection of the “outside”, of us, of where we were standing, of today’s Athens, today’s possibilities and tomorrow’s chances in Europe and in the World. I absolutely felt for it.  

The good thing about this area, (not so much Monasteraki) is that no matter which or how many turns you take, you’ll always find your way back. It’s confusing at first, but later you’ll discover its actual pocket size, and start enjoying the joy of being lost, not depending on your map nor phone to figure out where you are (again, another philosophical question to occupy your -un-worried mind while strolling the streets of Athens). 

I don’t know if you had noticed it, but let me call your attention to the sky on all the pictures featured above and on absolutely most of the pictures taken during this trip. There was not a single day where the sky wasn’t entirely blue and without clouds in Athens. It was gorgeous and quite stricken. It’s a Greek clear sky, what I like call the “Gods’ Exodus” - they left their Olympus comfort to wonder around the street of Greece among us mortals, leaving the sky completely clean. Homer already wrote about it on the Odyssey and highlighted a concept that I truly like: the terrenal god, of divine dust and magic that blends, interacts and lives between men. I believe this is the way religion should be lived, felt and practiced, since when the encounter with one another and with oneself happens, it reflects that divinity spark that is walking around, ingrained in us, no doubt about it. 

After more food, learning the Greek traditional dance, having a drink in Athens’ oldest bar and a deserved night full of jet-lag yet some sleep, we woke up with one objective in mind: having a tet-a-tet encounter with the Acropolis. The Acropolis is the name of the ancient citadel and complex group of historic buildings and remains located on one of Athens highest points, hence its name. The most iconic one of all is the Parthenon, but there are a bunch of other meaningful and equally astonishing buildings around worth to check out.  First, the Parthenon is the “newest” temple dedicated to Athena, patron of Athens. It’s the biggest structure on site that remains standing and constant efforts to preserve it are done by the Greek Government and EU institutions. It’s formed by 17 standing columns (weird number, I know) and a smaller and smaller complex done inside with less and less number of them. Right next to it, with incredible goddess-like or nymphs style columns, is the Old Temple of Athena. The Erechtheum is on its right, dedicated to Athena and Poseidon. Then, there’s the famous Temple of Athena Nike, the one that served as an inspiration for the legendary sports brand since Nike is the Victory Goddess in battle and in friendly and athletic encounters. It’s a smaller and secluded temple, yet it’s wonderful and inspiring. The halo of “just do it” spreads around the whole Acropolis complex and inspires its visitor to accomplish and to dare every single desire they have on their bucket lists During sunset, in my mind the only song that was playing in loop while watching the shape of the Acropolis fade to black was “All the things I’ve done” by The Killers, since it played on a Nike commercial a while ago, stating that “All you need is already inside (you)”. Cliche? Maybe. Yet, empowering as hell.

Continuing the exploration of the Acropolis, there’s the Dionysus Theater as well as the Odeon of Herodes Atticus. The first one is small and a little bit ruined down in comparison to the magnitude and the preservation of the second one. Yet, the first one has a deeper and more meaningful connection with me. I used to have a literature teacher that went nuts about Greek Mythology and while teaching us Homer songs, he displayed his beloved fandom towards the Ancient World. We learned about the dithyramb, an ancient Greek hymn and feast dedicated in honor of Dionysus, the God of wine and fertility (my favorite kind of god ;) - so, what happened here, was a kind of old-style, all-in semi orgy with divine purposes where poetry, performances, dances, songs and goat sacrifices were done. Imagine my enthusiasm while witnessing the place my professor was so passionate about, describing it with high-pitched voice, almost like a politician, with emphasis and devotion, as trying to gain the Gods’ approval and grace with his lectures. Those classes were amazing, almost as good as walking and sitting on that same place IRL where comedy and tragedy, with often divine offerings happened.  

Many, many, and some more wines, cafe stops and dishes later, we needed to say goodbye to Athens, at least for now, in order to embark towards Santorini. Mau had left to the airport, and I had yet a night to go. I wasn’t going to bed, regardless of my early flight, at least not before enjoying my last night in Athens, where the sky was clear, the stars were shining and the streets of Plaka were bursting with delicious food and activities to mesmerize me one more time. What happened? I was walking searching for a nice rooftop to have a drink or two and I found Cine Paris - this al fresco cinema, where Joker was playing, right next to the Acropolis. It was a sign: few minutes after its starting time, I walked in, grabbed a blanket, a drink and a pizza -  yet traditional popcorn was available. I just came from experiencing all the tragedy and comedy offered to the Gods, and now I had the opportunity to watch this contemporary masterpiece in which these two elements are being portrait exquisitely by Joaquin Phoenix. It felt I was at the orchestra section while Athena, Dionysus and Poseidon where watching it from the main box. Loved it.  Taking the early train towards the airport the following morning, was also something God-worth it. October 15, 6:56 AM, with the moon setting on my left and the sun rising on my right, in between the Athens hills and the high tension cables, it felt like Apolo was driving his carriage, chasing the moon, bringing the sun. 

So now you know it, when in doubt about Greek plans, or for that sake, with everything you are questioning yourself to do, buy, travel or say, go with Victory’s Goddess wisdom and just do it, Niké already foresees your success ahead.