#Using these as a writing exorcise to challenge myself

[tsukimefuku]

Right, wrong and the in-between (Epilogue)

Previous chapter

You and Higuruma were assigned to investigate the disappearance of women around Shinjuku. This led to a dicey situation regarding what place Jujutsu sorcerers occupy in this world and what is their role to play when non-sorcerers get involved.

This is part of my "Jujutsu Partners Canon Divergence AU". There is currently a sequence of short stories and random drabbles for a fic I'll eventually write (eventually). To see the ever-growing list of one-shots, please visit my masterlist :)  The "Right, wrong and the in-between" will be a 4 (maybe 3) part short-story set in this AU. I hope you enjoy! The tags below will be applicable to every chapter.

Tags: oc/f!reader, soft/implied Higuruma x reader, soft/implied Nanami x reader, slow burn, DARK HUMOR AHEAD, SO MUCH FLUFF AND HURT+COMFORT HERE, just characters being themselves driving the plot (and me) insane. Some philosophical debate will be in place.

WC: 1.9k

Ijichi took Higuruma to Jujutsu Tech, and you and Nanami decided to hit a bar before going back. You were both seated beside each other at the main counter. After using reverse cursed technique on your face, you stood there, pathetically, holding a bag of ice to your swollen cheek. Everyone that walked past the both of you was giving Nanami the stink eye as he downed his glass of whiskey.

"Nanami, are we in a domestic dispute situation, or are you my pimp?" You asked, looking at him with a wide grin on your face, just waiting for the show that joke would certainly elicit.

He almost choked with his own drink, and even if he usually had the same stoic expression to his face most of the time, something about it right now said flabbergasted. "There are times you're incredibly inappropriate. Your jests are quickly becoming worse than Gojo's". He scolded you, and you chuckled.

"My trauma, my coping mechanisms." You retorted, taking a big gulp of your beer. He sighed heavily.

"What happened while you were captive?" He asked, lowering his voice. He knew you were prone to shove things deep down and never letting them out, covering it all with sarcastic commentary about your own life.

"If you're asking me if that happened, no, it didn't. They just hit me in the face pretty fucking hard." You scoffed, looking at your reflection in the mirror that sat behind the bottles of liquor. "Pieces of shit."

"I see."

"Hey, Nanami." You spoke lightly. "I want to thank you."

He didn't turn his face to look at you, but you could see his eyes rolling your way now that he had his glasses off. "What for?"

"For saving me. I mean... Saving me from myself." You completed, downing your own beer. "If it weren't for you, I mean-" you choked up a little, "just, thank you."

" you must be aware of the fact that I won't be there to guide you most of the times you see yourself in a similar situation. Therefore, you cannot expect me to be your moral compass. You need to learn to do that by yourself, and for yourself." He added, matter-of-factly.

You grunted. "Ugh, I know!" You put the ice bag back on the counter. "It's just that... The job description was exorcising curses and fighting curse users. There was none of this ethically challenged shenanigans in the tiny disclaimers."

Nanami ordered another whiskey. "Exorcizing curses comprises most of the job description, but things tend to get dicey when we're dealing with curse users and victims." He sighed, now turning his face to look directly at you. "You were one of my dicey cases, and it definitely took a toll on me years ago."

Gazing back at him, you felt your heart break all over again. "I know."

You both locked eyes for a while, and stayed like that until your gaze involuntarily drifted to his lips. He seemed to notice and started to say your name, but you quickly looked down at the counter and grabbed the bag of ice, putting it over your flushed face as your heart began pounding in your ears.

“Nanami, come and have a drink with me and Higuruma. I really think you guys should get along.” You interjected, out of the blue, shoving the discomfort away.

He scoffed. “It’s an offer I’ll happily refuse.”

“Come on, it’s important!” You started pouting.

“Oh, how unfortunate then.” Nanami retorted.

“Nanami, please, I’m really trying to be serious here. The man saved my life.”

“And then proceeded to endanger it. Twice.” He said nonchalantly taking a sip of his whiskey.

“Well, this time it wasn’t entirely his fault. I’m the one who decided we should go in the club to follow the curse user. There was no way we could’ve known she had a cursed speech technique.”

Nanami sighed heavily. “If my thinking is correct, you’ll keep persisting until I go with you?”

“You thought correctly!” You replied with fake enthusiasm.

He grunted. “Okay, but you’ll be paying for tonight’s drinks.”

“Eh?! Seriously?!”

“Yes,” he bottomed down his whiskey, “terribly.”

***

You were wearing a backpack to make the beers you were sneaking in more discreet. Nanami walked directly behind, not believing he let himself be dragged into this tomfoolery by you. As both got to Higuruma's room door, you knocked excitedly. He promptly opened the door, smiling at you. The glow and smile on his face disappeared, however, as soon as he saw Nanami.

"It was her idea." Nanami said, instantly.

"Come on, guys. Truce, unity, peace, just for tonight. We all had a terrible day." You said, waltzing into the room, followed by a hesitant Nanami. Higuruma had to hold his impulse to close the door in order to only letting you in.

You sat on the bed, and Higuruma sat beside you. Nanami pulled the chair from the desk and settled down comfortably, crossing his legs. You pulled your backpack and opened it, revealing multiple cans of beer stuffed inside. After giving one to Nanami and another to Higuruma, you grabbed your own beer and opened it. "Here's to not getting fucked by curses, curse users or Jujutsu High!"

"Preach." Higuruma said, as he clicked his can to yours.

Nanami silently lifted his can and took a sip, making a disapproval grimace. "It's warm."

"You surely drank worse." You said.

He sighed and looked sideways. Nanami might not have been pouting physically, but spiritually, he surely was.

***

A few beers in and you all had flustered faces, feeling more at ease after that dreadful day.

"Hey, Higuruma. I have something funny to tell you." You told him.

"Brace yourselves, here we go." Nanami noted, putting his empty beer can away and grabbing another.

"What is it?" Higuruma questioned.

"Did you know Jujutsu High absolutely hates my family?" You said.

"Do they? Why?" He asked, genuinely interested.

"No fucking idea. Something about two people killing each other many centuries ago, and now it somehow became my problem. Can you believe it?!" You answered, chuckling.

"Well, isn't that the entire history of humanity?" He retorted. You laughed harder.

"Oh, they tried to pin some mishaps on me, then Gojo had to come and save my sorry ass!" You cackled.

"How about this: two months ago, I was ready to begin planning my retirement, and now I'm fighting demon looking creatures and have a death sentence hanging over my head?" Higuruma said, as he started laughing himself.

You both were silent for a few seconds, and then began to cackle hysterically. Nanami covered his face, but he wasn't sighing. He was trying to contain his own urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"We shouldn't be laughing at this!" You said, in between cackles, nearly out of breath, drying the tears that were streaming down your face.

"No, we shouldn't." Higuruma had his face covered by his hand. There was a certain desperation to his own laughter.

"You are both completely insane." Nanami said, uncovering his face. He did not notice yet, but he was smiling. It was amusing seeing you and Higuruma sharing a single brain cell, after all.

As the laughter subsided, Higuruma looked at Nanami, with a loose mouth from alcohol.

"Why are you such a rule follower?" Higuruma asked, pointing at Nanami.

Nanami sighed and grabbed another can of beer. "Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fan of the way they run things here. But having some order with a proportional amount of sacrifice is better than to have nothing at all." He sipped on the beer, not feeling the off temperature anymore. "Many times, they fall into unfairness, but the system in place has helped save countless people."

Nanami then paused and pointed at the other man. "You, Higuruma, for that matter, is one of those people. You could’ve been arrested and tried for the judge’s and prosecutor’s murders, and even though I’m not an attorney, I believe you wouldn’t be sentenced lightly. Yet, you’re here, looking directly at the prospect of future freedom just some weeks later."

You and Higuruma were silent, for Nanami was absolutely correct.

"The rules aren’t perfect, but they’re what we have for the time being, until something better comes along." Nanami completed.

"Those same rules, however, turned my life into a living nightmare, Nanami." You noted.

"I know. I remember it all very clearly, and that was when I decided that whatever we had in place was simply not good enough if it lead to such injustice against people we should be protecting." He sipped on his beer again. "Your case was the reason I left years ago."

Higuruma was curious, but didn't ask about it.

"I remember." You replied, holding yourself to not go into that dark place of your mind. "I’m glad you came back, though. You’re a fine jujutsu sorcerer and a good, decent person. We need more people like you in the world of jujutsu."

The corners of Nanami's mouth perked up slightly, as he put his last empty beer can on top of the desk. He then got up and looked at you both. "I have to go, it's late, and I have not only drank way more than I'm accustomed to, I also need a decent night of sleep."

"Weakling!" You said, pouting, as he began exiting the room.

"You’re starting to sound like Gojo." Nanami retorted.

"Aw, thank you." You sarcastically replied.

Nanami sighed. "It was not a compliment. Good night, everyone." He concluded as he left, closing the door behind him.

"Good night." Higuruma said, waving Nanami away.

"Wait a second." You told Higuruma as you got out of the room right after. Nanami turned back to look at you, waiting for you to say something.

"He’s not a bad person," you said. Nanami sighed. "Do you hate him a little less, at least?"

He inhaled deeply and looked at you. "Give it time." Nanami answered.

"Fine." You smiled at him. "See you tomorrow?"

He properly smiled back, which was a rare occurrence. "See you tomorrow." Nanami finally said as he made his way out of the building.

You went back in the room and sat on the ground, trying to fish inside the backpack for any can of beer that could still be untouched. Higuruma eyed you up and down, and decided to scratch the itch that had tormented him ever since he knew you asked Gojo to have his death sentence suspended.

"Why did you give me the benefit of the doubt then? Why did you tell me to escape and decided to save my life?" Higuruma asked.

You sighed, disappointed to learn the three of you had drank all the beers, and started talking. "Because if I found myself in the same circumstances you were in when you killed those people, I can’t say I would’ve done any differently than what you did. I mean, hell, this was evident today." You shrugged. "I needed Nanami to hold me back, or else... Or else I might’ve become the next Higuruma they’d put a death sentence on the head."

"Nonsense!" Higuruma said, jokingly. "You’re much prettier and my nose is much bigger."

You laughed and gave a little bump on his shoulder with your fist.

"We, the rebellious, need rule abiding people in our lives to keep us from tripping over the edge, huh?" He pointed out.

You chuckled at the irony of it. "Yes, we definitely do. And I guess they need us to remind them that some rules need to be overturned, every now and then."

"What a delicate balance to achieve." Higuruma said.

"Yes. But it’s worth it." You replied.

"I hope so."

End notes: I was so OBSESSED writing this one short story I literally could not sleep until I finished it. Well, here we are, 8.3K (!!!) words later. I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it (it was a blast!).

Fuku-chan 🦉

[like-tears-in-rain-storms]

Not to sound all self-important and stuff, but I see so much discourse about using AI in fic writing especially these days and I'm like......imagining me not writing my splatterfuck, messed up, Stockholm-Syndrome-laden, unhealthy romance-ridden, purple prose-overflowing, cracky, bourgeois degenerate little pieces myself. Like, where would the fun be in that? The challenge? The self-gratification and the exorcising of my demons? Where at all would be the reason?

[pear-pies]

Placebo in Rock & Folk magazine - April 2003

Words by Jerome Soligny, photos by Carole Epinette

Wonky translation under the cut:

These three did it all. Shot with the QOTSAs and posed with Indo. They survived "Velvet Goldmine" and the Top Bab. They come back after the ordeal of the fourth album. Danger interview: “Jerome, what if you came out?” They ask our charming reporter.

"We do not regret anything"

Everything begins again with "Bulletproof Cupid", a punky instrument that pulls everything off. Then "English Summer Rein", mechanico-depressive spinning punctuated by twisted keyboards, and "Sleeping With Ghosts", the lament which advances while blistering during cooking, confirm the tone. Against all expectations, because you never know how will age the groups that the previous album installed at the Top, Placebo took over. And stuffed it in an iron glove. Further on, "The Bitter End" tumbles through yapping guitars which would stick to the hatches the thickest of the sailors. Be careful, Placebo is on the way out of being one. At the end of the record, Brian Molko, Stefan Olsdal and Steve Hewitt do not even run out of steam. The cows. They drop a "Centerfolds" which frolic like a cynical top under a shower of saving doubts. What augur still other perspectives.

The fourth album: a horror for all who have faced it. Often a stupid trap. Returning from the Gothic directly inherited from the glam of pageantry and from these hasty and harmful certainties which congest the face and the veins, Placebo publishes its first real great disc. Oh, not the marvel of wonders, not the album from the third millennium, but something very strong, compact, tenacious in listening, which proves that the future is indeed there, in front, where the light is most blinding. Calfeucée in their Parisian hotel (the Costes, of course), our three lads do not make the blow of the revelation, of the luminous questioning. Simply, they now think with their heads, a good plan most often Likewise, reality no longer frightens them, and it is probably she who is hiding behind this "Sleeping With Ghosts" which relates the sorrows only for the better. melt into hopes At the moment when rock brings us back to life and when we just want to ask them everything, the Placebo have decided to say everything. Not even in a hurry, they settle down on the couch, ready to talk like never before. Despite new batteries embedded in the carcass, the Panasonic barely a Brian Molko: Hey Jerome, you came to talk to us this time when you had not come to the previous album ...

Rock & Folk: Uh yes but I was there for the first two, that says a lot, right?

Brian Molko: Certainly, I also believe that over time, we finally appreciate the true nature of the problem: we were mainly criticized for the sound of the previous album, which I can understand but, paradoxically, it is the one that brought us to the Top.

R&F: Legitimately, we have the right to expect a lot from the people we love: while "Black Market Music" sounded a bit like a sequel, this new record is all about a renaissance.

Brian Molko: Actually, we were finally able to live a little. After having existed in a small bubble for a very long time, we forced ourselves to take an eight-month break. The album-tour rhythm put us on the sidelines: we no longer had normal contact with anything. We were losing ourselves. We have fully lived the old cliché which claims that we spend the first years of our life writing a first record and six months on the second. It turned out to be very true. We had to get back to the situation of the first album, see friends, go shopping, look at the buildings in our city.

R&F: So the freshness would come from there ...

Brian Molko: Yes, and it was essential spiritually, emotionally and physically.

Steve Hewitt: We had to be in tune with reality again.

Brian Molko: In fact, we find ourselves in a bit of the same state of mind as when we released "Without You I'm Nothing", although "Sleeping With Ghosts" is a lot less gloomy. The heroin has since stopped leaking. In fact, I feel like I've pulled myself out of what I consider my second teenage years, between twenty and thirty. I conquered the self-destruction, exorcised some demons, understood what had happened to me. I held on to what I had learned. As a human being, I am now able to continue living, to try to answer the big questions posed by existence.

R&F: Maybe that's why the melodies are needed this time. It took me four records to get a favorite Placebo track.

The whole group in chorus: Which one?

R&F: "Protect Me From What I Want", of course ...

Brian Molko: The most paradoxical is that this song dates from the end of the "Black Market Music" sessions. I was not married at the time, but I was trying to get out of a particularly vicious divorce.just started. Then we wait for the lyrics, which don't arrive, it's rather intriguing. We especially wanted to avoid the big Rican producer side, we needed someone who shakes us up a bit. Jim could do that because he comes from dance and his pedigree is impressive. We have all his records at home, Bjôrk, Massive Attack, Sneaker Pimps and especially DJ Shadow. It is believed that guitar rock can only evolve by incorporating new genres, this is the only way to remain a modern rock band. At home, we practically only listen to hip hop.

R&F: Still, he didn't betray you.

Brian Molko: No because he actually brought out our rock side, which I'm particularly proud of. In fact, because we always wanted to control everything, it was not easy to be forced, to do certain things backwards, to walk on the head. But in truth, that's what we wanted: yes, there was some tension in the studio but we all took advantage of it. The challenge is necessary and it is also valid for the public. We opened up and rediscovered ourselves.

Stefan Olsdal (emerging from his chair): We found ourselves in front of the mirror, at the foot of the wall: someone had to kick our ass.

Brian Molko: Jim was like, "Why are you doing this?" We would answer him: "Because we always do it like that!" He would say: "All the more reason not to do it."

Stefan Olsdal: On the first day, he messed up all the demos, changed the tones, the tempos ...

R&F: Like Brian Eno ...

Steve Hewitt: Yeah, but with a lot more compassion. Eno is a bit (silence) ... We don't really like being told our actions, but at the same time, we are still young, still absorbing. Jim knew how to preserve us while making a modern sound.

R&F: Modern and rock'n'roll at the same time, a characteristic which does not necessarily apply to all the young groups in The which recycle the past gently but are convinced to have found the virus of the AIDS.

Steve Hewitt: Placebo doesn't belong to any current, has nothing to do with fashion.

R&F: You always pose as outsiders.

Brian Molko: It's the only way to survive.

Steve Hewitt: These bands, like The Strokes, play the nostalgia card.

Stefan Olsdal: And what happens next? I would not like to be in their place.

Brian Molko: If you want good New York pop, you better listen to Blondie.

R&F: In 2003, 11 seems that you have abandoned all the androgynous paraphernalia, sexual ambiguity, glam references ...

Brian Molko: I think today everyone knows what there is to know. Our sexual inclinations haven't changed, and we still wear makeup. It is just more expensive and better applied. We are ourselves, in our music and in private. I went through my travelo period (in French in the interview - Editor's note), and I understood that being androgynous was not wearing skirts. It is a way of being on the spiritual plane. It is not an image but a state of mind.

Steve Hewitt: It's like being punk, it's an attitude.

Brian Molko: At the same time, I don't regret any of my eccentricities. I grew up in the spotlight and it all kind of makes me smile.

Stefan Olsdal: People still talk to us about certain outfits or positions, as if it still shocks them.

R&F: Yes, and particularly in France, a particularly homophobic country which bumps heartily on gay artists.

Brian Molko: And you, coincidentally, you still hang out with.

Stefan Olsdal: Jérôme, it's coming out time (laughs) ...

Brian Molko: All that has to change, that all of France becomes gay (laughs)!

R&F: "Protect Me From What I Want" precisely, here is a title heavy with meaning. What was the idea behind this song?

Brian Molko: For me, it's a study of the pathological need people have to copulate, the search for meaning in copulation. As if bachelors or monogamists were aliens. As if we were only one when we were two. The song is about the fact that one relationship has destroyed me but I can't help but look for another ... why do I keep coming back to this?

R&F: Wow, we're bathing in philosophy here!

Brian Molko: Yes and it's the same elsewhere in the record: in "Plasticine", I insist on the fact that you have to be yourself above all while asking myself all these questions. Why do we have to do a lot of forbidden things, bad or harmful?

R&F: It's therapy in public.

Brian Molko: At least I find some balance in it. These are not songs about compassion or self-pity. They came out like this because it was vital for me. I am in this privileged situation where I can express myself and the world hears me. Otherwise, I would be really frustrated and I would have suffered a lot more in the last fifteen years.

R&F: Music saved your life.

Brian Molko: Sure.

Steve Hewitt: Everyone: I think we can say that. Without Placebo, we would not be not even alive.

Brian Molko: Spitting it all out is not necessarily the right solution. There are things with which to live. In fact, I've always been afraid to go see a psychiatrist ...

R&F: Yet, listening to you speak earlier, you could have the feeling that Jim Abiss acted a bit like a shrink with you.

Brian Molko: That's right. You could say that.

R&F: At a time when Bush and Blair want to play World War III, what attitude do you adopt? What do you think of these Englishmen who left for Iraq to constitute a human shield?

Brian Molko: Let's say we stand together. We participated in the March for Peace on February 14th with Damon Albarn and 3D from Massive Attack. We were also surprised that so few groups mobilized, which increased our desire to participate tenfold.

R&F: Do you consider that it is the role of the artist to give voice in such circumstances?

Steve Hewitt: Yes, in the sense that we can help with general motivation.

Brian Molko: I'm very interested in seeing if Blair is going to let Bush bomb Iraq with the British present on the soil of the country. If he ever allows that, the consequences will be dire.

R&F: It will only be one more religious war, in the name of oil and money ...

Brian Molko: It seems absurd that we can still fight for that. And curiously, nobody speaks more, or almost, of Bin Laden. Wouldn't it all come from him, by chance, as a huge consequence of September 11? On the other hand, we have such a feeling that Bush wants to finish the job that daddy started. Its image is so bad that it needs at least one war to restore its image.

Steve Hewitt: And reinvigorate its dying economy.

R&F: The method is lamentable, deceitful. Like those employed by the recording industry which claims to be doing well by selling pop in damaged boxes to ignoramuses.

Brian Molko: The ability of this job to ingest people, bribe them and then spit them out is impressive. This is what happened here at Canal +.R&F: Business is the beast.

Brian Molko: All these pre-made artists are young and naff ...

Steve Hewitt: They'll all end up in a labor camp for ex-pop stars.

R&F: Warhol was talking about fifteen minute glory, we're brutally passed to fifteen seconds.

Brian Molko: We should have called them Karaoke idols from the start.

Steve Hewitt: And it only works because of the TV ...

R&F: Who washes the poor, helpless brains.

Steve Hewitt: You can tell how much people want to think less

R&F: And spend less. For many, music should be free: one in five thirteen-year-olds doesn't know that a disc doesn't have to be a computer-burnt puck. Some are flabbergasted when they see a cover for the first time.

Stefan Olsdal: And those who don't buy records put pressure on those who have them to pass them on at all costs, just long enough to copy them.

R&F: Exactly.

Brian Molko: That's why we blame Robbie Williams so much. Scooping 80 million pounds off EMI and then declaring that pirating music is a fantastic thing just makes him want to stick a chunk in his face.

R&F .: And then piracy is not a matter of environment. It's not a suburban thing. There are rich kids who find it normal to burn 80 CDs during their weekend and sometimes sell them to their friends ...

Brian Molko: What do these people believe? That we are there, the face in the stream with a syringe stuck in the arm singing "La Vie En Rose"? And who will pay for our children's school? Not them, anyway. Our mentality is quite different: we always want to buy records from people we love, from our friends. Personally, we are partly out of the woods, but it will be particularly difficult for new groups to make a living from music in five or ten years.

R&F: Come on, we're not going to leave each other on this, a little humor won't hurt anyone. If you were to be banned from any of these three things, which would you choose: making music, making money or making love?

Steve Hewitt (almost tit for tat): I would stop making money, without hesitation. It's because I love music and sex too much. And then, well, you have to choose.

Brian Molko (completely overwhelmed): Oh damn, that's not true. What a dilemma!

R&F: No Brian, that doesn't count, make an effort (laughs).

Brian Molko: Ah, I don't know. And then if. I would stop making money and get on well with someone super rich.

R&F: Or you would be pimp ...

Brian Molko: Yes, that's it. Good plan.

Stefan Olsdal: Stop making love does not mean to stop loving ...

Brian Molko (preparing his shot): And we can always masturbate (general laughter).

Stefan Olsdal: OK then, I would stop making love.

R&F: Okay, it will be written in black and white for all eternity.

Brian Molko: Will we live long enough to regret it? This is the real question.

*COLLECTED BY JEROME SOLIGNY

[Inset, Trash Palace]

Already present on the first album by Trash Palace which he had adorned with his presence one unhealthy recovery of "I Love You, Me No More "in duet with Asia Argento, Brian Molko is coming to re-stack. This time he cosigns directly "The Metric System " with Dimitri Trash Palace Tikovoi, an electro saw boosted to bleeps fundamentals available in two remix and its clip on an enhanced single recently published at Discograph. The result is particularly (d) amazing and sounds good logical, like of Placebo cyber.Placebo in  Rock & Folk magazine - April 2003

[whats-rambled-rambled]

Smoke&Mirrors - playlist

You can find it on Spotify here.

Let’s start from the beginning:

Imagine Dragons - Smoke and Mirrors

Okay, so with Stuck in reverse series everything started with one song that inspired me to write something, and you know what happened later.

With this new series, the idea came first (prompted by @vaneilla​’s wonderful brain, and you know what? I actually went back to check that bit of convo, and it was all because @gallifreyan-uprising​ did what she did to TP, so I guess thank you both, ladies!), and then I was looking for THE song, that could serve as an inspiration and as a title.

And because all my best ideas come to me while driving, and I had Imagine Dragons in my car’s CD player… BOOM.

//I'm starting to cave

I'm losing my flame

I wanted your truth

But I wanted the pain

To disappear

Dream maker, life taker

Open up my mind

All I believe

Is it a dream

That comes crashing down on me?

All that I hope

Is it just smoke and mirrors?

I want to believe

But all that I know

Is it just smoke and mirrors?//

This just felt so fitting for Reader and her struggle a little later in the series, and smoke and mirrors alone seemed like just what I needed to capture the essence of the main conflict between Neil and R.

Chapter 1: Imagine Dragons - Natural

I had the title, I knew what I wanted to do in the first chapter, but I still had doubts if I could switch to this new dynamic. -Neil being mean? I mean how even-- I needed a good playlist to get myself in the right mood to set the tone for the whole series, and even when I found a few songs that were good enough, I knew that none of them was the one. And then again, on my way to work, this time from my Spotify playlist - Natural. I literally started screaming when I realized that it was exactly what I’d been looking for. Not only because of its badass vibe, but those lyrics, holy shit -

//That's the price you pay

Leave behind your heart and cast away

Just another product of today

Rather be the hunter than the prey

And you're standing on the edge face up

'Cause you're a natural

A beating heart of stone

You gotta be so cold

To make it in this world

Yeah, you're a natural

Living your life cutthroat

You gotta be so cold

Yeah, you're a natural//

This is R.  “A beating heart of stone / You gotta be so cold / To make it in this world”. Because she might be all spiky and angry on the outside, but why is she that way? Because she has to. Because nothing ever came easy in her life.

And this is Neil, too. A true natural, as TP calls him. But he also plays a role, because he was put in a position he didn’t want. And not only by TP, but also by R. That scene in the bar? He really hopes to clear the air between them, but she is not ready to listen, and keeps antagonizing him. *sigh* We know how it ends up. Anyway -

bonus: Willyecho - Welcome to the fire

Found this one when I was looking for the vibe, and then those lyrics--:

//I'm focused

I've been watching for the omens

I've been listening to everything you've said

Its been running through my head

Locked and loaded

I've got the feeling that you've noticed

Yeah I've only just begun

I won't stop until it's done

'Til you're broken

So welcome to the fire

I'm the one who lit the night up//

-- because yes, R’s that mad at him, TP, the whole world at this point, really.

Chapter 2: Florence + the Machine - What kind of man

So you know, one of the challenges I’d set for myself for this series was to finally write a proper smut. God, was I stressed out (shoutout to my lovely friends who had to listen to my self-doubting whines for quite some time). And as I knew it was supposed to happen in this chapter, and I already had an appropriate build-up in mind, I needed a song. And it wasn’t this one, although it made its way to the chapter’s playlist. But as I actually wrote the whole thing down… I felt it had that vibe.

//You were on the other side, like always

You could never make you mine//

Oh R, my sweet summer child.

//To let me dangle at a cruel angle

Oh, my feet don't touch the floor

Sometimes you're half in and then you're half out

But you never close the door

What kind of man loves like this?//

And that part is just so fitting with the whole confusion.

bonus: Graffiti Ghosts - Last man standing

The one behind the shooting range sequence:

//Your trigger finger better think about your future

You’re getting twisted thinking I don’t want to shoot ya

I’ve been waiting for a long time

and I’m coming back to get what’s mine

Sick of living with your little double faces

I’m getting itchy and so livid I can taste it

I’ve been waiting for a long time

and I’m swinging til I get what’s mine

but I’m not going down

I’m not going down//

Can’t say that R isn’t fantasizing about shooting Neil at some point, it’s all I’m saying. And the vibe was all right, and worked for the sparring scene as well.

bonus:  Zayde Wolf - New Blood

I needed decent background music to write that sparring scene, you know - to hype myself up. And then found this song. Look at the lyrics:

//I spent my whole life chained to the wall

Hunger for more, not afraid to fall

Had to cut a man down to get where I am

But someone had to tumble, and someone had to stand

Don't try to fight, nothin' you can do

I'm gonna run all over you

It's too late to try, there's nothin' you can do

I'm gonna run all over you//

and

//Most of my life was heavy and hard, yeah

So many days, so many scars

But it was all of those years who make who I am, yeah

But I broke through, and here I stand, yeah//

Added to the playlist instantly. You can see it too, right?

bonus: Nothing But Thieves - Itch

I love this band and I’m eternally grateful that my dear friend @connie-nikas​ itroduced me to their music. Spotify suggested that it fit the mood for the playlist I already had for that part, so I checked the lyrics and YES:

//There's a hunger in my heart

It's full of promise, promise

There's an itch under my skin

It's under my skin, under my skin//

...

//There's a blood red on my shirt

And it's shining, shining

There's a sharp pain from my face

I kinda like it, I like it//

...

//I just wanna love

I just wanna touch

I just wanna see

'Cause I, I just wanna feel something real

'Cause I, I just wanna feel something real

Wanna feel something//

It fits more than one moment in the series, but that blood part seemed accurate for sparring, so it stayed in this chapter.

bonus: Dorothy - Wicked ones

Another Spotify suggestion, and it works pretty well for these dumbasses, although this part:

//This night ain't for the faint of heart

For the faint of heart, for the faint of heart

This night ain't for the faint of heart

'Cause the faint of heart gonna fall apart//

--this got me going while I was having heart palpitations as I was getting closer to the locker scene lol.

And then:

//Ain't no sleep when the wicked play

All we do is get laid, uuh uh uuh uuh

Ain't no love when the wicked run

All we do is try to lay off, lay off, lay off

We're the wicked ones, wicked ones//

Fits, right?

bonus: Muse - Undisclosed desires

I -blame- have to thank M for this one, and it was my initial title song for this part. Just see for yourselves:

//I know you've suffered

But I don't want you to hide

It's cold and loveless

I won't let you be denied

Soothing, I'll make you feel pure

Trust me, you can be sure

I want to reconcile the violence in your heart

I want to recognize your beauty's not just a mask

I want to exorcise the demons from your past

I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart

You trick your lovers

That you're wicked and divine

You may be a sinner

But your innocence is mine

Please me, show me how it's done

Tease me, you are the one//

It just -- it’s not only about that one scene. Maybe it would be even better for part 3? Anyway, could be sung to R almost word for word, right?

Chapter 3: Nothing But Thieves - You know me too well

One of my favourites from this band, and I knew it had to be a title of some part of the story. Because:

//I gave you a call

Baby, I could come by, help forget it all

'Cause in this sticky weather, oh, it's really hard to sleep

As you know all too well

And when we dig together, oh, you make me feel so cheap

But I can't help myself

Filthy impetuous soul

I wanna give it to you

Oh, just to see what you do

'Cause I'm so drunk on you

Baby, you're all that I want

I want you all to myself

Oh, but you know me too well//

So yeah, filthy impetuous soul was only fair to use for that bathroom, right?

//And maybe you're right

We don't get on so well, when we lose the high//

That’s them at this point, all right.

//'Cause every love story always end in tragedy

If you wait long enough//

Oh hello, R’s beliefs here, clear as night.

//Renew me 'cause sometimes I forget

Got my own two hands clenched around my neck//

Could be said by both of them at this point, tbh.

bonus: Leann Rimes - Can’t fight the moonlight

So let me be frank - I knew I wanted to put that bathroom scene somewhere for quite some time, so it’s written purely for self-indulgence. I just needed to find an opportunity. And during one of the brainstorming sessions with A (because she was so kind to help me out with figuring things out when I stumbled over certain plot points, and I can’t thank her enough), the idea of karaoke night came to life and she gave me this song and fuck yes! That was it!  

One of my favourite Neil headcanons is that he likes cheesy songs, and Coyote Ugly movie has a special place in my heart, so I just knew it was the one for him! Especially because:

//Under the lovers sky

Gonna be with you

And no one's gonna be around

If you think that you won't fall

Well just wait until

'Til the sun goes down//

it’s just perfect if you wanna kinda seduce/kinda embarrass someone, right? And also:

//You can try to resist

Try to hide from my kiss

Don't you know, don't you know

That you, can't fight the moonlight

Deep in the dark, you'll surrender your heart//

Because yes, he wanted to kiss her in that locker room, that’s a thing you do when you’re attracted to someone, right? He thought it was just because of this whole angry sex thing, but was aware of that all the time, that’s why R’s reaction in the bathroom alarms him. I mean it would make him stop anyway, but still.

bonus: Ruelle - Until we go down

The mood progression in this song fried my brain, absolutely amazing!

The lyrics, too:

//And I feel it running through my veins

And I need that fire just to know that I'm awake

Erased, I missed till the break of day

And I need that fire just to know that I'm awake

Until we go down//

bonus: Bishop Briggs - Wild horses

Another song that captures the spirit of what’s going on in R’s head.

//You hold me down in the best way

No quarter from these chains that I've

Slept on my heart for a feeling

Why can't I let my demons out?

Keep screaming into the pillow

Cause your taste still gets me stupid high

Oh glory, I'm a believer

Oh glory, I'm a troubler//

At this point, she’s well aware of the effect Neil has on her, and the internal conflict is strong in this one.

//You call my truth in the worst way

Through the dirty lands of a broken smile

And I swear I'm not a pretender

Sometimes it's love who's the baby's cry

So, I keep on damning the devil

And you keep on saying it's alright

Oh glory, I'm a believer

Oh Lord, I'm holding tight, but//

And the whole vibe of this song, it’s like fuck I’m losing my mind, but I want you and I want you now. Just makes my breath hitch.

bonus: Transviolet - Bloodstream

And as I needed a certain mood, -(ended up actually writing with TENDER in the background because apparently I need a complete opposite mood seeping through my headphones to write any smut at all but anyway...)-, and this song is just...wow.

//Fingertips drip down my spine

Cruel desire, danger in our consequence

You look my way and I lose my…

Hey, you wanna rule the world?

Outlaw love, make you lose control

Hey, hey, boy you got me like whoa

White hot, adrenaline baby

In my veins, you got me praying

Whoa, whoa, whoaaaa

My pretty blue lips begging

Take me, I need you in my bloodstream

Hold me, break me

My breath is for holding, overdose me

I need you in my bloodstream

Hold me, break me, break me//

Hot. I won’t be taking any notes.

Chapter 4: Aimee Mann - Save me

You remember that part 4 was supposed to be the last one? Don’t ask me, I don’t know how I would manage to get that emotional progression from these dumbasses by the end of that part, so I’m glad y’all voted on splitting it into 2 (and then another 2) parts. But I already had a playlist for the finale, and then had to make a new one, and then had too many possible title songs.

Why did this one win? Because in my brain it’s directly connected to my OTP and also fits this part of the story. I battled myself if it was a spoiler or not (and also had trouble getting to terms with R ever admitting that she needs to be saved), but then thought - eh, what the hell, it has the right lyrics and a proper mood, and here it is.

//You look like a perfect fit

For a girl in need of a tourniquet

But can you save me

Come on and save me

If you could save me

From the ranks of the freaks

Who suspect they could never love anyone//

and that shift to this part, oh my heart:

//Except the freaks

Who suspect they could never love anyone

Except the freaks who could never love anyone.//

bonus: Jamie O'Neal - All by myself

Okay, so the car scene was in my mind for a little while, and in the initial outline, aka part 4 is the finale I couldn't find a place for it and thought I might end up making a one shot out of it, so when I actually had enough time to write it into the story, I was so excited!

I was looking for a song, and the first one that came to my mind was Air Supply - All out of love, but I could never beat what Jensen Ackles did in the outtakes of that one Supernatural episode, so I had to abandon that song, sadly. And then I thought about the one with basically the same vibe and *ding ding ding*.  And of course Neil would know it. And would know what movie this is from (just look at him and try telling me he doesn’t like British rom-coms, I dare you). And would tease R about it. (and that’s why I used that cover of this song).

//Hard to be sure

Sometimes I feel so insecure

And loves so distant and obscure

Remains the cure

All by myself

Don't wanna be

All by myself

Anymore//

bonus: Meg Myers - Motel

I’ve discovered Meg’s music just because of Spotify’s recommendations, and oh my god, it’s amazing! And this song just felt right for their talk during the stakeout, just look at the lyrics:

//You're weak, broken in a motel

You blink, tears are falling down, down, down

And you're free, free inside your own hell

You speak, someone let me out, out, out

And I can't stop this pain, it only grows

Tell me why I always feel alone

And I can't fight this feeling anymore

Show me what I'm really living for

I wanna love, wanna live, wanna breath, wanna give

But it's hard and it's dark and we're doomed from the start

I wanna love, wanna live, wanna breathe, wanna give

But it's hard and it's dark and I'm falling apart//

ahh, nothing like a good old angst, am I right? Perfect for writing about the more vulnerable sides of them.

bonus: Fear Of Men - Sane

There is just something in this song that resonates deeply, you know?

//I see you drowning

Half flesh half stone

With ambitions that drain your health

You hear me

(Secrets)

You run from me

You hear me

(You hear me)

I know

You hear me

(Secrets)

You run from me

You hear me

(You hear me)

You know, you know, you know

It’s in your eyes when you’re perfectly sane

It’s in your blood when you can’t bear these heavy thoughts again

It’s in your eyes when you’re perfectly sane

It’s in your blood when you can’t bear these heavy thoughts again//

bonus: Laura Doggett - Beautiful undone

That track almost ended up as the title. When I stumbled upon this song, I was completely blown away, as in I-had-it-on-repeat-for-4h-straight blown away.

//I took you walking

Through the murmurations of my mind//

that line just strikes me right through the heart, and it gets even better later:

//I'm looking down and my heart's connected

I'm feeling love from a different view

We learn the most when we least expect it

We learn the most when we break in two//

I don’t think that any of them expects to learn more about each other during that one mission. I mean sure, Neil counts on it, but doesn’t know what it's gonna be. And if she lets him into his head at all.

//You know you're beautiful undone

(Shine on)

So beautiful undone

You look beautiful undone

(Hearts connected)

My boy of blue.//

My boy of blue. I don’t know why it screamed Neil to me, but it did.

//It's the cracks that let the light shine

It's the cracks that let the light shine through.//

And that’s exactly it.

Chapter 5: LAUREL - Blue blood

Okay, THIS song, as soon as I heard it, I was like - this is it, this is her.

//You woke me up for your blue blood

Made me come undone

Can't believe you've been here the whole time

Too nice to pass you by and I can't believe

You've been here the whole time

You made me feel again

Made me dance circles 'round the pieces of your heart

You made me feel again

After the last time, didn't think that I could love//

That “was he always so gorgeous” moment, right? When she just sees him for the first time this way. And is slowly coming to terms with her feelings.

bonus: Prep School - Come as you are

So this one… We all know the original song (or this is my old ass talking), but only when I heard this cover, I really felt it, you know?

//Come as you are, as you were

As I want you to be

As a friend, as a friend

As an old enemy//

Just made me think about R being ready to get to know Neil better. About the shift in their dynamic.

//When I swear that I don't have a gun

No I don't have a gun//

She lets her guard down, and is ready to trust him.

Also - how great is the mood of this song? That crescendo just takes my breath away, and that calmer moment at the end? Good god. Utter perfection.

bonus: Ray LaMontagne - Such a simple thing

I’ve been sitting on this song for quite some time, and just had to find a suitable moment for it. And this was it.

//Tell me what you're feeling

I can take the pain

Tell me that you mean it

That you won't leave again

Tell me what your heart wants

Such a simple thing

My heart is like paper

Yours is like a flame

I can't make you see

If you don't by now

I'll get through these chains

Some how, some how

Take it if you want it

I'm so tired I just don't care

Can't you see how much you hurt me?

It's like I wasn't there//

My heart just aches while I listen to this song. It’s so tender, and yet so heartbreaking.

bonus: Keane - Hamburg sing

When A sent me this song, god, the way I screamed. Because this is so Neil.

//I don't wanna be adored

Don't wanna be first in line

Or make myself heard

I'd like to bring a little light

To shine a light on your life

To make you feel loved

No, I don't wanna be the only one you know

I want to be the place you call home

I lay myself down to make it so

But you don't want to know

I give much more than I'd ever ask for

Will you see me in the end

Or is it just a waste of time?

Trying to be your friend?

Just shine, shine, shine

Shine a little light

Shine a light on my life

And warm me up again//

At this point in the story, he already fell for her hard. And can just hope that she sees him at one point, too.

You know, writing that first really intimate moment between them-- I know I was supposed to be on R’s side, but I knew what was going on in Neil’s head at that point (that’s why I was so happy when Chels asked that one question that made me write Come as you are) and... I don’t know, I’m so soft for this idiot, I just want to hug him.

//Fool, I wonder if you know yourself at all

You know that it could be so simple//

My dumbasses.

Chapter 6: Phantogram - You’re mine

We’re gonna save this one for the very end, just mentioning it here as we move to the next chapter.

bonus: Adna - Night

You know that sad music montage thing that the movies do after a breakup scene or something? This song has that exact vibe.

//Silence grows and you're all i know

Eyes are closed, I'll see your smile, your love

Thinking

This is what

It could be

Knowing

It is all

It would be

In the night

When you see

What i see

In the night when you feel

What i mean

You're my knight

And my dream

And my only sight

Oh you

Oh you

Stay true//

For me, it’s the beginning of chapter 6. R is almost heartbroken, and that almost comes from the part of her that still thinks that still fights the idea that she might have any feelings for that blonde idiot. Conceal, don't feel, or something. But she’s being haunted by random memories from their time together.

bonus: Snow Patrol - Make this go on forever

This song makes my heart ache and clench and oh my god--

//Please don't let this turn into something it's not

I can only give you everything I've got

I can't be as sorry as you think I should

But I still love you more than anyone else could

All that I keep thinking throughout this whole flight

Is it could take my whole damn life to make this right

This splintered mast I'm holding on won't save me long

Because I know fine well that what I did was wrong//

This works for the sad montage thing I’ve mentioned, but it was all about this line:

//First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything//

I was listening to it on my way home one day and my eyes welled up. Because that’s what I wanted both of them to feel right then.

//And I don't know where to look

My words just break and melt

Please just save me from this darkness//

and these lines just brought the image of Neil stumbling over his words and, well, that was it. I knew it had to be done like that.

bonus: Walking On Cars - Speeding Cars

This song is about something different, but there is one part that resonated with the story:

//Even the half smile would have slowed down the time

If I could call you half mine

Maybe this is the safest way to go//

Just fits. Had to be there.

bonus: Etham - Before I lose my mind - Stripped

I think I found this one a while ago, and then it came on when I had Spotify on shuffle, and oh myyyy goooood. That heart-wrenching yearning? So, so on point.

//Look at the state I'm in

I couldn’t say where I've been

Lord knows that it ain't felt like home//

This is as much R’s song, as it is Neil’s.

//I don't know what

I've been running from, running from

Or what I thought I would find

All I know is

You're the only one, only one

I need you tonight

Before I lose my mind//

and this part:

//Don't tell me that I’m too late this time

So much I couldn’t see

With words that I didn't speak

What do I have to do to make you mine?//

This part of the playlist is just utter heartbreak and yearning, but it was only fitting. Just moments before the confession.

bonus: Nick Wilson - Let me hold you

On repeat for the whole part with Neil’s confession. This song is so goddamn beautiful, I can’t--.

//We've been there before

Reaching the end but forgetting the reason we started this for

In all of our flaws

Laid out beneath us, there's no need to keep building up these walls

(Oh we can't go on)

Just let me hold you

I'll run my fingers through your hair

Let our ghost loose

Let me know that you're still there//

bonus: Liz Longley - Rescue my heart

This, on the other hand, started playing right after, and I partially blame it for R’s breakdown. I was just staring at that line about her being afraid to lose him and I was like “where the hell this came from, girl?” and then, as I was trying to push them both further into the plot, but they kinda refused to let each other go, so I was sitting there like “you guys really needed that, huh?”

I know what it sounds like. But when I spend so much time with my characters, really fleshing them out in every possible way, they kinda develop minds of their own, and later they guide me through the dialogue parts, and even sometimes ruin my initial plans. Because they know best how they would behave right then. So all I have to do is just follow them. Or try reasoning with them. (Had a moment like that at the end of the first scene in chapter 6, like had this feeling that R just wanted to dwell on the nature of her relationship with Ives, but I didn’t want to put it there so openly, I was happy with leaving a line here and there, so I had to put my foot down pff - and it switched into that bit about friendships in general)

Right, back to the song:

//Lying to myself I can make it on my own

Making it alone is lonely

Twisting and I'm turning

Oh I'm crashing and I'm burning

So reach out your hand to me

Come down

Rescue my heart I'll drown

Without you//

This is it.

bonus: Madonna - I want you

You know, one of my favourite parts of the writing process is just bumping the ideas around, and I have been blessed to have a wonderful friend such as M, who’s always there when I need to discuss different ideas or just got a bit of dialogue I really want to share. And knowing what I was writing, she sent me this song.

And I’ve been listening to it a lot ever since, and when Neil started his confession, and struggled with words, I wrote: "I want…you.” He moved closer. “The right way.”

I stopped, staring at that line, like really, Neil? This is it? Then the next song from the playlist started playing and:

//I want you the right way

I want you, but I want you to want me too//

So I just sighed and moved on, dropping a short message to M on the way.

bonus: Welshly Arms - Need you tonight

Spotify recommends the best covers, hands down. I love the original song, but this right here? It’s everything.

//How do you feel

I'm lonely

What do you think

Can't take it all

What ya gonna do

Gonna live my life

So slide over here

And give me a moment

Your moves are so raw

I've got to let you know

I've got to let you know

You're one of my kind

I need you tonight

'Cause I'm not sleeping

There's something about you girl

That makes me sweat//

bonus: TENDER - Afternoon

Every song of theirs is just incredibly sensual, so I thought it was only fair to include one of those for the scene (thank you again A, their music is everything, I swear). And this one was particularly accurate:

//I'm spendin' all of my time tryna open up

Let it breathe, let it breathe

It all comes down

To whether you love me anymore

God, I hope you do

'Cause I can't tell, I can't tell

By the look in your eyes//

bonus: Layla - Weightless

Another one for that moment.

//A silver whisper, take flight and steal into my mouth

An urge to kiss you and let this secret pleasure out

Your touch so tender, a helpless roar of golden play

This youthful slender, hallucinate my woes away

We are weightless

We are invincible

Nothin' like this

Flyin' like cannonballs//

bonus: Rob Simonsen - Soft center

While I was discussing the main plot points with A, we knew there had to be a morning after scene, and she had just a song for it. Utter perfection.

end credits: Phantogram - You’re mine

I know I say it a lot, but when A sent it to me… The way I screamed. I couldn’t believe it. The story was already like 2 parts in, I think? And this song...every line was about them. Every. Goddamn. One. And the overall  I just thought to myself “oh, end credits rolling right here.”

//You don't talk to no one

Don't you look at nothing

Focus on me

Look into my eyes

Come a little closer

Let me tell you something

Eat your ego honey

Honey swallow your pride

You don't talk to no one

Don't you look at nothing

Focus on me

Look into my eyes

Come a little closer

Let me tell you something

You ain't going anywhere

'Cause you mine//

And from this part it gets even better:

//I used to be a rifle

Yeah I had my distance,

Whistling like a bullet in the sky//

//I used to be a psycho

Yeah I had my demons,

Crawling like a spider up my spine//

*incoherent screaming*

And the next part took me right back to the very first scene.

//I spotted you the second I walked in the building

I knew that you had let me get you high//

Right? Right???

//I wanna hear the things you say when no-one's listening

But that don't matter anyway...

'Cause you're mine//

And that’s it.

Damn, what a wild ride that was.

Thank you for staying with me until the very end.

[thecoleopterawithana]

Songwriting is like psychiatry

[Dear @eppysboys, your wish is my command.]

-

There are bound to be thickheads who will wonder why some of it doesn't make sense, and others who will search for hidden meanings.

'What's a Brummer?'

‘There's more to "dubb owld boot" than meets the eye.'

None of it has to make sense and if it seems funny then that's enough.

— Paul McCartney, in the Introduction to John Lennon's In His Own Write (1964).

-

When we had a party in the States to celebrate having finished the album, someone came up to us and said 'Hello, Venus. Hello, Mars.' I thought, 'Oh. no.'' When I write songs, I'm not necessarily talking about me, although psychoanalysts would say "Yes, you are, mate." But as far as I'm concerned, I'm not.

— Paul McCartney, interviewed for the promotion of Venus and Mars (1975). In Paul Gambaccini's Paul McCartney: In His Own Words (1976).

-

I don’t examine myself that way. I just am. I just go through it. I just wake in the morning and go to bed at night and whatever happens during the day just happens. I don’t really know how I am.

— Paul McCartney, in Music Express: ‘Paul McCartney Wings It Alone’ (April/May 1982).

-

I’m not a great reader into moods: I don’t naturally say that if I wrote a sad song then I was sad that day, or if I wrote a happy song I was happy. I compose songs like playwrights write a play. They don’t have to know everyone in the play, they don’t have to know anyone in the play, it’s just a product of their imagination.

— Paul McCartney, speaking of ‘Somedays’, interviewed for Club Sandwich n°82 (Summer of 1997).

-

“There are a lot of mindsets when you’re writing a song – and one of them is commercial,” he admits. “It’s like any job, where if you do a certain thing you’ll progress in that job. In songwriting it’s an unspoken thing, but I recognise it. I remember hearing somewhere that people like sad songs, so I thought, ‘OK, I’ll write a sad song.’ I knew what I was getting into…” So, in a way, you were acting when you wrote [Yesterday]? “Yes. I wrote from the point of view of someone who was sad. But when you’re taking on a part, it’s usually you you’re writing about. Your psychiatrist would say it’s you.” Later, someone suggested that lyrics such as, “Why she had to go, I don’t know” were about McCartney’s mother who’d died when he was 14. “I certainly felt that way when she died. So when I sing Yesterday now, it does make me think about my mum. It’s more personal than I realised it was.” You sense that the older he gets, perhaps the more McCartney is prone to analysing his gift.

— Paul McCartney, interviewed by Mark Blake for Q: Songs in the key of Paul (May 2015).

-

This series – I just woke up one morning and I had a germ of an idea, which is all I want really. I don’t want too formed an idea, it’s just not who I am. [...] I woke up with this thing and I thought it would be just a black canvas and these three-fingered scratches, like someone in prison and they’re either trying to get out or they’re trying to mark the dates. [...] But then a shape emerged with this blue, and I still don’t know what it is. It looks vaguely phallic, or somebody’s ass bending away from you. But that’s what started to fascinate me. It’s probably an accident, but also what I like about that is the inner content, that I have no idea what my dreams are about. I’ve no idea, yet they’re every bit as real as sitting here with you. But my interior world, I think it’s not a bad idea to try and tap it.

My view is that these things are there whether you want them or not, in your interior. You don’t call up dreams, they happen, often the exact opposite of what you want. You can be heterosexual and be having a homosexual dream and wake up, and think, “Shit, am I gay?” I like that you don’t have control over it. But there is some control – it is you dreaming, it is your mind it’s all happening in. In a way my equation would be that my computer is fully loaded by now. Maybe in younger people there’s a little bit of loading to go, but mine’s loaded pretty much, so what I try and do is allow it to print out unbeknown to me. And I’m interested to hear what it’s got in there.

I think we must be interested as musicians as often our music arrives that way. I dreamed the song Yesterday. It was just in a dream, I woke up one morning and had a melody in my head. So I have to believe in that.

— Paul McCartney, in “Luigi’s Alcove” by Karen Wright, for Modern Painters (August 2000).

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I think a lot of these songs like 'Tell Me Why’ may have been based in real experiences or affairs John was having or arguments with Cynthia or whatever, but it never occurred to us until later to put that slant on it all.

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Mile’s Paul McCartney: Many Years From Now (1997).

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I was standing at the door and he was in bed, and we were talking about the lyrics of 'I Am the Walrus’, and I remember feeling he was a little frail at that time, maybe not going through one of the best periods in life, probably breaking up with his wife. He was going through a very fragile period. You’ve only got to look at his lyrics - 'sitting on a cornflake waiting for the van to come’. They were very disturbed lyrics. 

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

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I remember giggling with John as we wrote the lines ‘What do you see when you turn out the light? I can’t tell you but I know it’s mine.’ It could have been him playing with his willie under the covers, or it could have been taken on a deeper level; this was what it meant but it was a nice way to say it, a very non-specific way to say it. I always liked that. 

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

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"Sex is something I prefer to do, rather than sing about. Hi Hi Hi was from a period when everybody was getting stoned and having sex… I suppose singing about sex is not really in my genre. [...] It’s the same with trying to write angry songs,” he continues. “I can’t do it.” Really? “Yes. I wrote a song called Angry. Recorded it here with Phil Collins and Pete Townshend. At the time I thought, ‘Wow, we’ve really slammed this…’ I can be angry but I can’t find a natural way to put it into a song. It’s the same with sex."

— Paul McCartney, interview w/ Mark Blake for Q: Songs in the key of Paul. (May, 2015)

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McCartney has written some of the world’s most famous love songs, but has he ever worried about revealing too much of himself? “Yes, but you’ve got to get over that feeling quickly, because that’s the game.”

— Paul McCartney, interviewed by Mark Blake for Q: Songs in the key of Paul (May 2015).

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It’s funny because just in real life, I find that a challenge. I like to sort of, not give too much away. Like you said, I’m quite private. Why should people, know my innermost thoughts? That’s for me, their innermost. But in a song, that’s where you can do it. That’s the place to put them. You can start to reveal truths and feelings. You know, like in ‘Here Today’ where I’m saying to John “I love you”. I couldn’t have said that, really, to him. But you find, I think, that you can put these emotions and these deeper truths – and sometimes awkward truths; I was scared to say “I love you”. So that’s one of the things that I like about songs.

— Paul McCartney, on the challenge of giving too much of himself away when writing meaningful and truthful songs. Asked by Simon Pegg and interviewed by John Wilson for BBC 4’s Mastertapes (24 May 2016).

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Songwriting is like psychiatry; you sit down and dredge up something that’s inside, bring it out front. And I just had to be real and say, John, I love you. I think being able to say things like that in songs can keep you sane.

— Paul McCartney, interview with Robert Palmer for the New York Times (25 April 1982).

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[McCartney (1970)] was kind of… therapy through hell.

— Paul McCartney, interviewed for the Q magazine (2007).

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GILBERT: Do you find it easier to write good records in a darker period of your life than in happier periods? You’ve lived through more than a few bad episodes…

PAUL: That’s a good question, I’m not sure. I think the answer is neither and both. I think it’s good when you’re in a dark period, the good is [the song’s] your psychiatrist, it’s your therapy, and you know we have many tales – anyone who writes has. Going away when you’re really upset about something and putting it in your song – you come out of that cupboard, toilet or basement and go, “I really feel better.” You’ve actually exorcised the demon. So it is one of the great joys of songwriting.

GILBERT: What would be an example of a song you wrote in a very angry or dark mood?

PAUL: I think the words of ‘Yesterday’, when I see them now I think there were quite a few of my songs like that, you know, bad moods made better. More recently ‘Calico Skies’ [evoking memories of Linda]; ‘Little Willow’ [for Maureen Starkey] was one I wrote about a friend when she was dying and, in fact, she did die, so those kind of things can help. With ‘Yesterday’, singing it now, I think without realising it I was singing about my mum who died five or six years previously, or whatever the timing was. Because I think now, “Why she had to go, I don’t know, she wouldn’t say, I said something wrong…” I think the psychiatrist would have a field day with that one. (Sings) “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away / Now it looks as though they’re here to say” – there’s a lot of those songs, that’s just three where I can remember going into a hiding place with a guitar, purposely to exorcise your demons. It’s like writing your dream out or something, and it’s a physical effect where you come back out and you’ve created that magic again, pulling the rabbit out of the hat. “Where did that come from? Wahey!” It’s a great feeling. 

— Paul McCartney, interview w/ Pat Gilbert for MOJO: Don’t look back in anger. (November, 2013)

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Q: Do you have a song that you put on if you’re ever having a hard time or a bad day, and it instantly makes you feel better? 

PAUL: There’s a track [’I Don’t Know’] on Egypt Station that came out of a hard time I think would fit the bill now! […] it’s funny what inspires you to write songs. For instance, John started writing ‘Help!’during a crisis at that time in his life, which is often a good motivator ‘cause there’s a therapy aspect to writing songs sometimes - but not all songs! It’s almost as if you’re telling your guitar your troubles and a lot of composure can be found through that. So you sort of say what you might say to a therapist, but you put it into a song and you might feel better afterwards. You don’t have to be going through terrible times, just something that’s frustrating.

— Paul McCartney, in You Gave Me The Answer (28 March 2019)

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Q: ‘I Don’t Know’ opens with the lyric, “Crows at my window, dogs at my door, I don’t think I can take it anymore.” This imagery does seem pretty bleak for a comeback. 

PAUL: Well, I was in a bleak mood. It’s a well-known fact, you talk to a lot of songwriters, that they write good songs from being in a bad mood. It can often be a really good motivating factor, because you don’t care. You can’t just go out to your friends or your relatives, and just start going, 'I’ve got crows on my window.’ You don’t necessarily want to just go and complain about everything, but you can complain to your piano, in this case, or your guitar… It’s a great therapy. 

Q: Doubt and regret [hardly] seem to be things that people associate with you.

PAUL: It’s funny, isn’t it? People think that about me, that well, when you reach my position… you end up with no problems at all. But that’s unrealistic, because you’re in life. And if like me you’ve got a big family, there’s gonna be some sort of problem, even if it’s just someone’s ill. So realistically speaking, you have to think that it’s very likely that most people you know can have problems. Even President Obama. Even John Lennon. Even Taylor Swift. We’ve all got problems, and that’s what makes us all so human.

— Paul McCartney, interview for BBC 6 (20 June 2018).

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The idea is that what I’ll leave behind me will be music, and I may not be able to tell you everything I feel, but you’ll be able to feel it when you listen to my music. I won’t have the time or the articulation to be able to say it all, but if you enjoy composing you say it through the notes.

— Paul McCartney, regarding Ecce Cor Meum, which premiered in 2001.

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I have to leave  And when I'm gone  I'll leave my message  In my song

-

Tangents

The Walrus | A case study for John’s struggles with meaning in song

The Surrealist | Meaning and Magritte

I Can’t Tell You How I Feel | Expressing emotions and feelings [statements in songs]

This One | A case study for Paul’s struggles with expressing feelings

I’m Scared To Say I Love You | Paul’s struggle with saying ‘I love you’

[okamirayne]

How long does it take you to write a chapter? Where do you get your inspiration/get over writers block?

Hey there, Anon! Whoa. These questions have kicked me into the deep end and I adore you for backing my brain into a corner it doesn’t often like to go to...it’s opened a can of worms...

How long does it take you to write a chapter?

Literally, as long as that chapter takes to write. And forgive me luv, I honestly don’t mean that as a smart-ass response! I’ve discovered that some people seem to work to “time” and others to “content”, if that makes sense?

The example I always give is how I study. Whenever I revise for exams or I’m learning something, I always study for as long as it takes to complete the module I am revising/reading. Some people may say “I study for an hour, or an hour and a half and then I take a break”...that doesn’t compute in my brain. I study until I finish the module/chapter/section. It could take an hour. It could take 20mins. It could take 4 hours straight. I work by project/content not time. So the time it takes to write a chapter depends entirely on:

the length of the content that is flowing, which I can never predict, as I never work to word-count...ha, which might be kind of obvious given the monster-length chapters that I often churn out.

the level of inspiration I’m feeling; when it flows, beautiful, when I’m feeling blocked or struggling, jaaaysus...it’s tough.

the lack of interruptions...both my own procrastinating bullshit and legit outside factors.

Where do you get your inspiration/get over writers block?

Inspiration comes from:

Music

Sadness

Research and the works of certain thinkers

My Witch Doctors (2-3 people in my life who’ve been carefully vetted; they do more than listen when I talk creative shop; they exorcise my writing demons, ground my arse, see me in ways I cannot see myself, unearth my ruins, understand my particular strain of creative insanity and the cost of keeping it and...yeah, they’re my compass pointing true north when I get lost.)

The storytelling vibe-tribe; those individuals with whom I connect or click with when it comes to the way I approach and enjoy storytelling. Those people I’m able to have wonderful discussions with and engage in awesome chats that require lots of chai and many happy hours to spare.

Intuition and a sense of guiding hands

Dreams and synchronicity

Stars (literal stars...the cosmos triggers something in me)

Re-connection

Poetry and/or random quotes...

....and probably a mild case of psychosis; such as when characters walk into my head and start talking, or entire visuals and scenes play out like a wicked acid trip...if there are pills for this shit, I sure as hell ain’t taking them.

Now that I’ve painted myself as a psychiatrist’s wet dream, let me say that I feel a kinship with any and all artists/storytellers who are struck by the thunderbolt of ungodly (yet wholly divine) guidance and unexplainable magic when it comes to their work. It’s like dots connect in your life the way stars align; tides turn you in unexpected directions; you find your way to people, places and pieces of writing, art, music, or a myriad other sources and they all resonate like beacons guiding your story along its charted course...feels like you’re discovering something that already exists...and you know you’ve taken a wrong turn when a character doesn’t feel right or a scene doesn’t read well...you gotta re-orient and find the path again...that’s why I approach writing as something hallowed...maybe that’s also why it scares me shitless at times, which leads nicely onto...

Writers Block....

There is no way to beat this bitch other than to sit my arse down and TRY.  To just show up and start somewhere.  Sure, I can reach for any one of the inspiration points I’ve listed above to help grease the mental wheels, but they often grind to a halt the second I sit my butt down to write....It’s been challenging trying to pin-point precisely why I’ve come up against this block, given that I never used to experience it. It only hit me after having finished the BtB series...which sucks.  I could consider a variety of reasons why this happened...all of them valid...but none of them helpful for removing the obstacle. Ultimately, I just gotta sit my butt down and get over the huge screaming wall of FEAR by going THROUGH IT rather than over or around...gotta take a pick-axe (or a bloody ice-pick, in my case) to that big bad bitch and start chip-chip-chipping away at it.  I think it’s different for every writer/creative...

Thank you for posing these questions, Anon...as you can tell by my lengthy response, it got me thinking and rolling. Thank you, <3

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours Thoughts

Many years ago I was contacted by someone who recommended this novel to me and others from a Mary Jane fan point of view. You can read the recommendation here.

Whilst I own the novel and started it at least twice for whatever reason I stopped reading it before the start of the first big action set piece. However since Dreamscape audio released the novel on audiobook I’ve finally been able to experience it for myself.

So how’d it fair? SPOILERS ahead

I don’t usually do this these days but because this story is relatively obscure I’m going to provide a synopsis. Or more accurately marvel.wiki is:

“Even though he is a chemistry teacher, Peter Parker has now been forced to be a substitute basketball coach over at Midtown High where he works. His ineptness soon negatively draws the attention of basketball star Samuel Larkin, who challenges Peter and refuses to cooperate with his own teammates. Going over the player's records, Peter soon discovers that Larkin has not taken all of the required vaccines needed to play at the school, which will mean his automatic expulsion from the team for the remainder of the season, as well as dwindle his chances of getting a scholarship to a good university.

After a long day of coaching, Peter returns home and discovers that Mary Jane has won a part as Lady Macbeth in Shakespeare's Macbeth. However, the play is held in Atlantic City, so in order to compensate for the long drive, MJ bought a car despite not having a driver's license, let alone any idea how to drive. They began discussing whether or not Peter should teach her. In the middle of the talk, however, the Rhino attacks Times Square, so Peter leaves to go fight him as Spider-Man.

While on the way there, Spider-Man runs into Black Cat, who claims the rampage is a trap and that Peter should not go. He ignores her warning, though, and continues to head there. Peter easily defeats Rhino, knocking him unconscious in the process. Just as he does, however, the siblings of Morlun - Thanis, Malos, and Mortia - appear. They blame Spider-Man for their brother's death despite the Other being the true person who ripped his throat out, and now want revenge by killing him. Spidey initially flees, but with the help of a SWAT team and Black Cat he eventually takes them on (he also seeks help from Doctor Strange but is declined, with Strange asserting that his interference would harm the cosmic balance). Mary Jane comes to the fight scene and becomes jealous that Felicia is able to help Peter fight the siblings, as well as how the siblings are treating her husband. Enraged, she takes her car and runs Morlun's siblings over, distracting them and giving Spider-Man the time needed to banish them to a barren netherworld using three trinkets Strange had secretly arranged to be given to him.”

Let me get some admissions out of the way.

a)      I’ve not read a ton of Spider-Man/comic book based novels, although I own the majority of the Spider-Man ones that Wikipedia claim exist. I dunno why, I just never manage to get around to them for whatever reason. Perhaps it’s because comic book superheroes being designed for a visual medium which so often emphasises action makes the jump to prose (or in this case audio) difficult. Indeed I must admit when reading/listening I do zone out a bit when action scenes occur.

b)      I’m not familiar with the work of Jim Butcher although I hear great things

c)       I’d actually forgotten the specifics of the recommendation for this book. I just remember it was recommended and it was because it should feed the MJ fan/shipper in me and others. Forgetting this was lucky actually as it allowed me to enjoy some aspects of the books I’d otherwise have not been surprised by.

Let’s also get the technical aspects out of the way since this is an audio book I am discussing.

The narrator, Jack Meloche is...okay...mostly.

I find his performance of Peter a little too nasaly and early on in the audiobook you do have to kind of power through his performances of Mary Jane and especially Felicia. By the end of the story I grew to tolerate them but never love them. Hearing a grown ass man do his best to convey a sultry kinda sorta femme fatale can be a bit cringe inducing I must admit. His best performance is as the Rhino though.

Other things you should know is that this novel is loosely in continuity with ��Spider-Man: Drowned in Thunder’ (which I talked about here),

https://hellzyeahwebwieldingreviews.tumblr.com/post/140091613524/spider-man-drowned-in-thunder-my-thoughts

another novel from the same range of books. It was published and is set after the events of this novel and both are set chronologically during the J. Michael Straczynski ASM run prior to Spider-Man joining the New Avengers.

I’ll be upfront with you I found ‘Drowned in Thunder’ to be better for the most part and downright ingenious. It did not however use Mary Jane as much or as critically as this story. She was important but didn’t have as big of a role as she does here. Does that make one novel better or worse than the other? Neither, they’re just different. It’s healthy to mix up the emphasis certain supporting characters get after all.

Looking at ‘Darkest Hours’ on it’s own merits for the most part it nails the characters in terms of the sentiments but my personal problems with it are in the presentation at times. Not even all the time just some of the time.

Let me put it more clearly.

There is exactly one scene featuring Aunt May, specifically a phone conversation. And this phone conversation progresses into a very involved inspirational speech from May to Peter about how awesome he is as a person/hero and the scene’s drama stems from the fact that Peter might be fighting his last battle soon after this. Are the sentiments Aunt May expressing in character? Of course. Are these things she would say? Yes!...but...I felt it was kind of...off that her one scene in the whole story is her showing up and giving the most involved inspirational speech Spider-Man has ever gotten from her or anyone else. Spider-Man 2’s backyard scene was tame by comparison. I just feel it would’ve been better for May to have both featured in some way prior to that scene and for the speech to have been dialled back a bit.

Much more relevantly though is the book’s handling of Peter and MJ’s relationship.

Throughout the novels there are scenes of Peter and Mary Jane being very much in love. The most common way this is expressed is via Peter complimenting Mary Jane in his head.

Would Peter feel this way about Mary Jane. 100% yes! But...I don’t know if it was the vocal performance, the fact that we have this back in the comics now, or really JUST me but personally I kinda...cringed a bit.

I’m not saying it’s bad!

I’m not even saying it could be better!

I’m sure there are many readers who adore this.

I’m not well versed in romance fiction so maybe I’m missing something here and actually it’s perfectly acceptable or great writing.

I’m saying just for me personally again...I’d have wanted it dialled back. It just got a little much, a little cringey for me personally.

But you know that happened sometimes in the JMS run which I loved and agree with everyone else wrote the marriage better than it has ever been written.

Speaking of Straczynski we really need to talk about his Spider-Man work.

Commonly original Spider-Man novels (i.e. not novelizations) that are trying to vaguely present themselves as being canon (so we aren’t talking about stuff like ‘Hostile Takeover’ set in the Marvel Gamerverse) try to have synergy with the status quo of the day or a very recent one.

This novel is no exception. My research tells me it was published in 2006 and whilst it’s not reflective of the then status quo of the comics where Spider-Man was unmasked and a member of the Avengers, it is reflective of the dominant status quo immediately preceding that which ended circa 2004-2005.

To refresh your memory that involves Peter being a teacher at Midtown High, Mary Jane being an aspiring stage actress who recently reconciled with Peter, and both Aunt May and Black Cat knowing his secret. To drive the point home about just when this novel is set there is an entire dialogue exchange discussing the idea of him hypothetically  joining the Avengers. A discussion that in my eyes throws some wonderful shade at the idea.

This is the same status quo that ‘Drowned in Thunder’ was set during but ‘Darkest Hours’ hardcore embraces  this status quo in a way ‘Drowned in Thunder’ never did. ‘Drowned in Thunder’ if anything drew more from the Paul Jenkins PPSM run than JMS’ run and exempting Aunt May being in on the secret felt like with a few changes it could’ve exorcised every other element of his run. Peter’s teaching job was a factor in the story but it was used as a brilliant and organic segue way into a Bugle/Jonah centric investigation.

‘Darkest Hours’ though...doesn’t do that.

Rather it is practically a lost arc from JMS’ run. No, not his ‘era’ wherein we’re talking about every title during his time in charge. I mean that if this was a comic book story it could’ve been straight up slotted in directly before or after ‘Sins Past’ and no one would’ve batted an eye.

The way the story tries to handle Peter’s marriage to Mary Jane, Peter’s teaching job, the inclusion of Doctor Strange and Dex, the potted history of Ezekiel, the direct references to Shathra and friggin ASM #500, and of course Morlun’s siblings. This FEELS like the JMS run!

And for a lot of people that’s going to be a huge deal breaker for this novel.

In my experience of Spider-Man fandom whilst there is a lot of appreciation of JMS’ run it was divisive for various reasons. A lot of people just for whatever reason turned off by Peter being a teacher (or more accurately not being a photographer for the Bugle) and recoil even more over the presence of mystical elements like Morlun or Doctor Strange.

Now if you liked or tolerated that stuff then this novel is a hidden gem of sorts, whether you want a shot of nostalgia or just found that stuff compelling.

Me personally, I liked the first half of the JMS run for the most part. And Jesus Christ looking back at it after what we got after he left it’s a Hell of a lot better.

Say what you want about Ezekiel and Peter being a teacher but I’d take that stuff over fucking Superior Spider-Man and Parker Industries!

Of course the elephant in the room regarding this novel in the modern day is that it predates Spider-Verse and Spider-Geddon as stories establishing Morlun had a family.

And...did...it...BETTER!

In Spider-Verse/Geddon Morlun was the main character and his family had unbearably simplistic personalities that boiled down to being variant action figures of him!

Now don’t get it twisted. Mortia and her brothers are a million miles away from the greatest villains in Spider-Man history. In fact they have LESS personality than Morlun did.

And yet in context this actually works for the story more effectively than in Spider-Verse/Geddon.

Morlun as originally presented was essentially a very eloquent predator and a hunter, not quit a full on force of nature but close to it. He was intimidating because he really didn’t do anything besides hunt Spider-Man and want to eat him.

Where Spider-Verse/Geddon failed was in reintroducing Morlun and then immediately watering him down by having him appear alongside his variant action figure family with moments and even back up stories told specifically from their POVs. Sure JMS gave us moments focussing on Morlun’s character outside of Spider-Man or Morlun, but they existed to introduce  the character and briefly build him up before we realize just how utterly outclassed Spider-Man is against him. When we already know who the Hell Morlun is we don’t need scenes focussing upon him because he isn’t a character who can support that level of attention. Nor should he be because he’s SUPPOSED to be a one not hunting and killing machine basically.

That’s why this novel makes better use of ‘the Ancients’ than S-V/G made of ‘the Inheritors’. We don’t have scenes from their POV thus they can basically be what Morlun was when Spider-Man first met him. Ruthless predators on the hunt, except now there are three of them so Spider-Man is truly screwed!

The plot cleverly focuses instead on the characters who have to DEAL with the impending threat the Ancients pose rather than trying to pretend these guys have actual characters. Butcher also makes them much scarier than the Inheritors because rather than monsters who basically just port in wherever and kill indiscriminately, the Ancients have riches and resources. They are a part of society and Peter is racing against the clock hoping those resources don’t zero in on who he is and where his family lives. This dread, this tension is delectable and far more effective than what Slott of Gage ever did. It helps that we actually see Peter reacting believably to the pressure and stress of his potential demise rather than be a generic and passive as he was in Spider-Verse.

Also the fact they appear alone rather than alongside Morlun is better too as it means Morlun doesn’t look less unique and they look less like variant action figures.

Additionally Butcher does a great job fleshing out the backstory to the Ancients, helping to integrate them well into the established Marvel Universe, developing their abilities and how they worked. Hell he even remembered how they were supposed to work as JMS defined them rather than how Spider-Verse and Spider-Geddon just ignored these abilities and did whatever they wanted. For instance Butcher establishes clearly the Ancients CAN feed off of life forms other than Spider-Man as opposed to S-V/G just having them do that with no explanation and feed off of just anyone. Butcher also remembered Morlun saying that eating Peter would sustain him for a looooooong time and incorporated it into the plot. Similarly he provided a clear explanation for why Spider-Man couldn’t simply use the same trick he used against Morlun again (because he’s outnumbered!) or get help from other heroes like Doctor Strange. Speaking of which we got one of the best ever explanations for how magic works in the Marvel Universe ever. Wasn’t expecting that nor for Wong to be so delightful!

The only real misstep Butcher makes as far as the Ancients are concerned is the idea of the Rhino being a potential snack for them when he never got his powers from a real rhino or anything like that. He was even referenced as one of the pretenders to totem powers by Ezekiel. I guess you could that the Lizard (who was also referenced) should  count so...whatever the rules aren’t clear here.

Let’s leave our main villains behind and talk instead about our more grey characters.

So yeah...Jim Butcher wrote one of the all time great Rhino stories here!

Again wasn’t expecting that!

The Rhino in Aunt May’s home breaking bread with Spider-Man is so insane an image that you’d love it for the absurdity alone, but Butcher makes it totally organic. He also keeps Rhino in character (with the exception of a time he refused to kill Spider-Man which I don’t remember being a real story) and fleshes him out rather wonderfully. He draws some great parallels between Rhino and Spider-Man and frankly the scene where Mary Jane is literally shaking with laughter over these comparisons is unquestionably the highlight of the whole novel!

What was really great was that Butcher didn’t change the Rhino or compromise him. He’s still a mercenary, he’s still not really a good guy, but he’s more human. He doesn’t like Spider-Man, he wants to beat him, but he also on a certain level respects him.

It’s just expertly done!

Then there is Felicia. Had Spencer not already fixed Felicia this story would’ve ignited fury within me. Not because this was bad but rather that this story used Felicia so wonderfully that BND and Slott’s ruination of her would’ve stung all the more.

Felicia is purrrrrrrfect here!

Not quite good, not quite bad, sultry, catty, territorial, smart, aggressive, dangerous, loyal. Butcher NAILED her character!

The fact he uses her to open up a philosophical debate about the differences and moral justifications between Peter, herself and the Rhino is inspired. There are differences but the lines aren’t as clear cut as Peter treats them as. In a sense he really does have a bit of a double standard in regards to her and everyone else. This isn’t the only time Butcher brings out Peter’s flaws very well. The scene where Peter has momentary lapses into light machismo are well done. Spider-Man is a hero but he ain’t perfect that’s why we love him!

This brings us to Felicia and Mary Jane. Sorry...I love it. Maybe it’s problematic, maybe it’s problematic that I do love it...but I just do.

Okay from a strict continuity point of view Butcher puts MJ and Felicia at greater odds than they really should be. By this point in time there were tensions but there was also friendship. Truth be told Butcher puts that friendliness in there but only at the very end of MJ and Felicia’s arc together and the resolution to the tensions are off-page. And yet...what can I say the pure soap opera of it was fun for me on a very base level. Who says marriage is free of tension again?????

The peak of my enjoyment was when the pair were just unrestrained hurling insults at one another. Again, shallow I know, but it was just fun for me and I really loved Peter having to step up and be the grown up in that situation and coldly let everyone know where they all stand. MJ doesn’t get to talk to Felicia that way because she’s their friend. Felicia doesn’t get to talk to MJ that way because she’s his wife.

This brings us to Mary Jane herself. Apart from again the romance stuff for me personally going a bit too far she’s mostly done very well. She’s supportive, she has a subplot of her own dealing with a real life problem (learning to drive), she makes mistakes, she’s great at analysing Peter,  and helping figure things out via being a confidant. Oh and she totally saves the day at the end. No straight up she does. If not for MJ the day would’ve been lost and Spider-Man would’ve been dead.

It was such a baller as fuck scene I am slightly pissed off that it wasn’t realized as a comic. Her throwing shade at Doctor Strange was also priceless.

The final thing to mention is the subplot involving one of Peter’s students.

I am once again going to draw comparisons to both the JMS run and ‘Drowned in Thunder’ as they are apt here.

Okay basically strictly speaking the subplot regarding Peter helping one of his underprivileged kids retain a spot on the basketball team was a weak spot of the storytelling. Not because it was necessarily bad (though a 30something trying to write ‘inner city youths’ leaves something to be desired) but because it really didn’t tie into the main plot all that much.

In ‘Drowned in Thunder’ Peter’s teaching job was integrated seamlessly.

But in this you could tweak the novel and exorcise the whole subplot. It’s relevance really is mostly thematic (Peter and the kid both need to embrace team work to succeed) and to illustrate character traits of Peter Parker. He’s so responsible he would still make time to help out this poor student even whilst his life is potentially ticking away. Nor will he abandon this kid to save his own skin, even though the kid’s physical life might not be endangered at all if he did.

Now that all being said I LIKE the subplot’s inclusion. Not only because it does demonstrate Peter’s character and the lesson he needs to learn for this story, but because I view it as part and parcel of this book’s mission to be a lost JMS story.

Really the subplot could’ve been one of the handful of stories told during the JMS run concerning Peter helping out his impoverished students. If viewed as part and parcel of trying to capture the ‘flavour’ of the era the subplot succeeds.

Finally I must say I loved Peter’s words of defiance before his possible demise.

Over all I’d say this was a very strong story. Okay, as an over all package not quite as good as ‘Drowned in Thunder’ but still up there, with moments and aspects that are as good if not superior to the latter.

Highly recommended.

P.S. I can’t believe we got development and a great use out of Dex of all the obscure characters out there!

[thefragileblackdahlia]

Lazarus Rising: Part two

Chapter Summary: Dean wakes up in a pine box, freed from Hell. He has a joyful reunion with Sam but they wonder what pulled Dean from Hell – and why.

Pairing(s): Eventual Dean x Archangel!OFC, Castiel x sister!Ariel

Warning(s): Typical Supernatural violence, Mild Language, Self-loathing(i guess)

A/N: This story will be in 3rd person cause it makes sense. I hope you enjoy! Feedback is welcome. Italics without quotations are summaries. The episodes will get more immersive as we go along but for now, the first episode will be like the show except for a few subtle changes, like I will be skipping Sam exorcising with his mind cause it doesn’t add to the story. It still happened but I just didn’t write it. Beta’d by no one so if there are any errors I’m sorry.

Word count: 1,862

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After reuniting with Bobby and Sam, Bobby decided it was best to see a professional psychic about his resurrection problem. The four of them gathered in Pamela's seance room, watching her gather her things and conduct the seance.

Pamela, Bobby, Sam, and Dean sat around the small round table, which was littered in witch-like paraphernalia and six lit candles in the center.

"Alright, Take each other's hands," Pamela stated, watching as all the boys listened. "And I need to touch something our mystery monsters touched." Pamela hummed and wiggled her fingers as she flirted, sneakily sliding her palm along Dean's inner thigh.

"Whoa. Well, they didn't touch me there." He grinned nervously, shifting in his seat as he looked at his brother and Bobby. He cleared his throat before pulling up the left and right sleeve of his shirt, revealing the brands.

Sam stared at the handprints in awe as well as fear, what could be so powerful that they could pull his brother out of the depths of hell? Sam peered at Bobby to make sure he wasn't the only one seeing the two, bulging handprints.

Pamela, being seated on the right, placed her palm on the small right brand, "Okay," She cleared her throat to signify she was beginning. The took the hint and closed their eyes. Pamela began.

"I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.

I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.

I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle."

Pamela chanted, the television in the background flicking on to static. She continued, "I invoke, conjure, and command... Ariel, Castiel?? No. Sorry, Ariel & Castiel, I don't scare easy." Pamela shook her head as she spoke unknowingly to an Archangel.

Dean opened his eyes wide, glancing over at the psychic. "Ariel?" It seemed to be the only name that caught Dean's attention. Dean scoffed, looking at his brother, "I was saved by a Disney princess." He said snarkily.

"Their names." Pamela breathed, "It's whispering to me, warning me to turn back." She gripped his shoulder tight before she began chanting again. The white noise and static grew louder as the table began shaking.

"I conjure and command you, show me your face.

I conjure and command you, show me your face.

I conjure and command you, show me your face.

I conjure and command you, show me your face!"

Pamela breathed as the voices in her head grew louder, the white noise and rattling becoming more violent. Bobby talked up over the noise, fear laced in his words. "Maybe we should stop!"

"No!" Pamela shouted, "I almost got it. I command you," She paused making sure to put bass in her voice as she spoke, "Show me your face! Show me your face now!" Immediately after she shouted those words, the candles flared up several feet high followed by Pamela screaming. Her eyes flew open as she screamed, filled with a white-hot flame.

All of the noise and fire die out.

The psychic wobbled as she lost her footing and fell to the floor. Bobby got up out of his chair, kneeling beside Pamela. He wrapped his arms around her body, pulling her into his lap. He held her up as she cried.

"Call 911!" The old hunter shouted at the boys.

Sam rushed into the next room, looking around for the house phone. He ran for it, dialing 911. The world around him grew still, the voice of the operator filling his ears but her words sound like they were underwater. He just quickly said the address into the phone and requested an ambulance.

Dean sat in his chair for a bit, unsure of what to do. He gulped, now even more terrified of what had brought him back to life. It just burned the poor woman's eyes out. He got up from his chair and crouched over Pamela. "Pamela?" He asked.

Her eyelids flew open revealing deep, dark, burned, empty sockets. She sobbed as the blood ran down her cheeks. "I can't see! I cant see! Oh, God!" She sobbed. Bobby just clutched her tightly, supporting her body with his.

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Dean closed his menu, giving it to the waitress. "Be up in a jiff." The waitress responded, taking the menu and trotting over to the kitchen. Dean let out a sigh, concern etched on his face. He looked to his brother who had just entered the diner.

"You bet," Sam mumbled into the phone before hanging up and taking a seat. He huffed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"What'd Bobby say?" Dean asked.

"Pam's stable and out of the I.C.U" Sam returned.

"And blind, 'cause of us," Dean added with raised brows.

"And we still have no clue what we're dealing with-" Sam slightly shook his head and pursed his lips as he spoke.

"That's not entirely true," Dean replied directly.

"No?" Sam questioned with raised brows, giving Dean a look of confusion and doubt.

"We got names. The mermaid and uh...Castiel, or whatever. With the right mumbo-jumbo, we could summon these things and bring 'em right to us." Dean shared.

Sam shook his head, "You're crazy. Absolutely not."

"We'll work 'em over. I mean, after what they did?" Dean snapped, gesturing behind him.

"Pam took a peek at them and her eyes burned out of her skull, and you want to have a face to face?" Sam countered.

"You got a better idea?" Dean argued, squinting his eyes.

"Yeah, As a matter of fact. I do. I followed some demons to town, right?" Sam queried.

Dean huffed, "Okay?"

"So...We go find them." Sam shook his head. "Someone's got to know something about something."

Before the conversation could continue, the waitress walked over to the table with two slices of pie. She placed one plate in front of Dean. Sam pressed out a thank you as he took the plate from her hands and sat it down on the table.

Dean hummed excitedly and picked up his fork but before he could dive in. He noticed the waitress didn't walk away.

The waitress fixed her apron before lightly sitting down in a chair adjacent to the two. She glanced side to side at the both of them a mischievous grin plastered on her face.

Dean sat his fork down and gazed up at the young woman, a flirtatious smirk dancing across his face. "You angling for a tip?" He flirted.

"I'm sorry," She chuckled. "I thought you were looking for us." A dark onyx took over her sclera, revealing to the two that she was a demon.

As she did so, the uniformed man sitting at the counter turned on his stool and the cook from the kitchen looked up, their eyes black as well.

Dean and Sam's smile soon turned to a frown as they realized they were essentially ambushed.

The uniformed demon stood from his seat and walked over to the entrance, locking it. He turned back to face the boys whilst he swayed side to side, almost tempting them.

The waitress's eyes returned to their dark color. "Dean..." She spoke. "To hell and back. Aren't you a lucky duck?"

Dean being himself, motioned to himself as he spoke, "That's me."

"So you just get to stroll out of the pit, huh? What makes you so special?" She challenged, her voice laced with envy.

Dean chortled, "I like to think it's 'cause of my perky nipples." he finished with a smug smile before his expression changed. "I don't know." He said gruffly. "It wasn't my doing. I don't know who pulled me out." He continued.

"Right...You don't" She responded in disbelief with narrowed, accusatory eyes.

"No. I don't." Dean snapped.

"Lying's a sin y' know." She countered.

Dean raised his brows at her speculation, "I'm not lying. But I'd like to find out, so if you wouldn't mind enlightening me, Flo..." Dean sneered.

"Mind your tone with me, Boy." She emphasized boy, her words filled with hate. "I'll drag you back to hell myself." She appended.

Sam made a move to defend his brother, his chair scraping against the tiles but Dean put his hand up, him to back down. The demon looked over to Sam, then Dean with a wicked smirk.

"No, you won't," Dean claimed.

"No?"

"No. 'Cause if you were, you'd have done it already." Dean leaned forward in his chair, speaking in a ridiculing tone. "Fact is, you don't know who cut me loose. And you're just as spooked as we are. And you're looking for answers. Well, maybe it was some turbo-charged spirit. Or, uh...Godzilla" He joked. "Or some big bad boss demon. I'm guessing at your pay grade they don't tell you squat. Because whoever it was, they want me out. And they're a lot stronger than you. So go ahead. Send me back. But don't come crawling to me when they show up with some Vaseline and a fire hose." Dean finished.

"I'm gonna reach down your throat and rip out your lungs." She stated calmly.

Dean leaned forward in his chair, daring the demon to do what she said she would do. He cocked back his fist and threw a right hook at her, which she takes. He cocked back his fist again, jabbing her straight in the face.

She sat still, glaring at the two as a sense of nervousness overwhelming her.

"That's what I thought. Let's go, Sam." Dean mumbled, but before he went to leave, his eyes never left the waitress. He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill and tossing it on the table.

"For the pie." He smirked and then quickly dashed out of the diner after Sam.

Dean shuffled, quickly making his way away from the diner as he let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Holy crap, that was close.", he huffed.

Sam looked over his shoulder at his brother, "We're not just gonna leave them in there are we?"

"Well, yeah." Dean gestured behind him, "There's three of them, probably more." He then motioned to him and Sam, "We only got one knife between us."

"I've been killing a lot more demons than that lately," Sam asserted quickly, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Not anymore-the smarter brother's back in town." Dean quipped.

"Dean, We've gotta take 'em. They're dangerous-" Sam argued before being cut off.

"They're scared. Okay?" Dean snapped. "Scared of whatever had the juice to yank me out. We're dealing with a bad mofo here. One job at a time." Dean reached the driver's side of the impala, fishing for his keys in his pocket and unlocking the car. He opened the car door but before he got in he turned to Sam, his elbows resting on the dust-covered roof of the impala.

"Okay, Sam?" He questioned, waiting for his brother to agree with him so they could get going.

"Okay," Sam growled, clenching his jaw tightly.

Both of them got into the impala and made their way back to the motel.

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[capandbuckysgirl]

Until The Ashes Fall (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Until The Ashes Fall

Hello again! So this is another challenge, this is for @jewelswrites-ish ‘s 1K writing challenge. I chose the prompt “Everything hurts. Being with you is the only good thing in the world anymore.”

Here we go - this one is different from anything I’ve written before… this story was written completely while listening to THIS song by Breaking Benjamin (tears may fall, I’m so sorry!) Please know that I love you all so much and this hurt me to write as much as it may hurt you to read, but I was so inspired by the prompt…

Warnings: Mention of character(s) death, Swearing, Post Infinity War, Depression and mentions of anxiety. This is sad… I’m sorry, don’t hate me please!?

GIFS used are not mine (I had to borrow this one from Google), credit to owners!

Steve Rogers x Reader

I watched Steve as he mindlessly lifted his fork to his mouth. He never said anything about how good the food tasted, not anymore. It was like he didn’t even taste it. It didn’t matter what we all did or how often we all tried to talk with him. He didn’t see us, not like he used to. He was lost in his mind, he was numb, just going through the motions now. He was surviving - barely.

The battle with Thanos had changed everything. We all now lived in a world where some of those that we loved no longer existed.

How were we, the survivors, supposed to cope? How was Steve supposed to truly live having seen Bucky die twice? His best friend and the man he loved more than anything in this world. There was nothing left now in his mind, he’d lost everything.

I couldn’t begin to figure out how to help him, Tony and Bruce couldn’t help him. No one could - because whether we all wanted to face it or not, Steve Rogers was no longer alive, not really. He’d died out on that field along with Bucky Barnes and the rest of them.

He was always so silent now, only speaking if he absolutely had to. He never smiled anymore, not like he used to. It never reached his eyes that now shown dull and almost totally lifeless - they were as empty as the rest of him now. He was broken - solemn.

This was no longer the man that had been Captain America; no, that man died years before when he and Tony had been at odds over those goddamn Accords. He wasn’t even the man that had become Nomad. Steve Rogers was nothing - empty and hollow.

The days were better though; even seeing him like this was better than when he would try to sleep. The screams, the tears that would soak his pillows as he reached out for Bucky.

“Stay with me, please!” He would holler as he thrashed in his sheets. “Bucky!”

I would sit by, completely helpless as he went through his nightmares. I’d tried to wake him in the beginning, to tell him that it was all going to be okay. He’d snapped at me, screaming how nothing would ever be okay again. Life just wasn’t worth it anymore, he’d said.

“What was it all for?” He’d questioned, his voice empty and emotionless. It didn’t sound like Steve, no - this was different. This was the nothingness that was consuming him from the inside; this is what nothing sounded like. “What was the point of fighting - of risking it all? We weren’t rewarded for our sacrifice, we were punished. There’s nothing left…”

I’d given up after that, just waiting for his mind to calm back down or for him to get out of bed so I could try and give him some sort of comfort. Nothing worked, but I still tried. That’s what you did for people you love, you tried no matter how much they fought you. You would do anything for them, fight the darkness that was taking control of them. Exorcise their demons for them.

That’s how much love I had for Steve - I would take his emptiness into myself. Feel the pain and darkness for him so he wouldn’t have to anymore… I just wanted to see that light again, that spark in his eyes.

There was just nothing, no matter how many times I spoke to him. No matter how many times I tried to get him to see or feel anything around him. He was consumed by a grief like I had never witnessed before - like a part of his very soul had died with Bucky, and maybe it had, maybe that’s the part of him that died that day. He was still here bodily, but there wasn’t any spark left inside of him. Maybe he was just a hollow shell, his soul ripped violently from his body as the ashes fell around him.

Why couldn’t he hear me - let me in so I could help him, to help him heal and come alive again. I just wanted so badly to take it all from him and see the man that I hoped still lived inside of him somewhere.

His eyes met mine for a moment from across the table, the fork in his hand halted and poised before his mouth. For a fleeting moment I swore I had seen the corner of his lips raise, but before I could be sure it was gone again.

Days, Months passed by and I stayed by his side. I continued to try and fight the darkness for him, and ever so slowly I noticed things starting to change. Not much, just tiny things that unless you were with him every day you wouldn’t notice.

He began letting me touch him, small touches at first. The brush of my fingers against his hand or the touch of my arms around him when he hugged me again for the first time. This still wasn’t the man I had met all those years before when I’d sided with him on the Accords. No, this was still the empty Steven Rogers, the man that tragedy had found and broken.

The next changes began happening one morning about eight months after, when I’d woken up to make him his breakfast. I walked into the kitchen and Steve was already there, breakfast set out on the table and Steve waiting in his usual seat. He looked up at me expectantly, his eyes brighter than I’d seen them in the longest time and I couldn’t help the smile that pulled across my lips.

“Good morning,” I greeted him as I sat down and filled a plate for myself.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he answered softly, his lips quirking quickly as he began eating his breakfast now that someone had joined him. Slowly the rest of the group trickled into the kitchen and greeted Steve, he greeting them in return and we all sat and ate together.

As I stood to begin clearing the dishes, Steve grabbed my hand gently. The touch of his fingers on my skin sending shocks of electricity up and down my arm.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” He asked.

“Of course,” I agreed and followed behind him as we walked down the hallway toward his room. My heart was thrumming rapidly, the blood pounding behind my ears as his hand held onto mine.

When we got to his room, he led me inside and closed the door behind us. I waited for him to show me where to go before he waved toward the end of his bed. I sat down, once again feeling my heart fly as he grasped my hand in his, his thumb tracing gentle patterns against the skin of my wrist.

“I just - I wanted to thank you,” he whispered, his voice so soft and closer to what I remembered it being. “You’ve stuck by my side, and I owe you for that. I appreciate it.”

“Steve, you don’t have to thank me,” I answered, my eyes finding his as I turned to face him. Our knees touched, our hands still clasped together, our eyes meeting and I felt the fire burn beneath my skin. This was what it should have been, if all had been right and the good guys had won. “That’s what you do when you care about someone - when you love someone.”

He nodded, a tiny smile quirking his lips once more. Progress.

“Y/N, everything hurts,” he admitted. The shadow of pain began to cloud across his face again. I ran my finger along his palm, tickling his hand slightly to remind him I was there. His eyes snapped up to mine once more, the cloud still there but dimmed slightly.

“Being with you is the only good thing in the world anymore,” he continued, his shoulders slumping forward slightly. “You deserve better than all of this, I’m fucked up. But I need you, more than I can ever tell you. I need you to help me, because…”

I nodded, urging him to continue.

“I need you to help me, because I know that’s what Bucky would want. And I want to be better, for you. I want to be the man I was before all of this, but I know that isn’t possible. Too much shit has happened, but I can be better.”

“Steve,” I interrupted him, tears stinging my eyes as I waited for him to look at me. “I’m here, however you need or want me. I’m always here.”

His eyes closed as he leaned forward, his forehead touching mine as we just sat together, silence surrounding us once more as tears slipped from his eyes for the first time since it all happened.

The fat, pregnant tears fell from his eyes, marking trails of pain into his skin. The emptiness and darkness that had been filling him was slowly trickling from his eyes, sliding down his cheeks and falling to the world around him. The deep, broken sobs falling from his lips as he allowed it all to pour out.

And the world, and I were ready to pick him back up and love him fully, broken and pieced back together… until he said otherwise, I’d always love him.

And hopefully he would grow to love me when the emptiness was purged from him and he could find his soul once more…

[darkmarkets]

The Horror of Self-Critique, pt 2

(Or, Why don’t we just put the Writer’s Market down for a bit and relax?)

I collect old college Literature textbooks. It’s a wretched habit, because it means there’s now 70 copies of Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” in my house—but, then again, none of my habits are particularly healthy.

Still, this week, I stumbled across a comic short by Lynda Barry called “Two Questions” in one of those old Lit textbooks, and if you have not encountered this work of life-changing brilliance, I suggest you check it out here. (Especially if you’ve ever suspected your spectral octopus friend might be a manifestation of your creative muse.)

The two questions are, of course, Is it Good? and Does it Suck?

That little scowly-faced “You suck! Get in the Box!” ghost wafts over my shoulder ever time I put a word down on the page. It’s horrible. I’ve been trying to exorcise him, but holy artifacts have a habit of catching on fire as soon as they cross the threshold of my apartment. (It’s weird, I don’t know why…)

Anyway, it took me reading through Barry’s doodled self-reflective insight to realize, Hmmm, maybe I’ve been letting that little “You suck!” ghost get his way too often. He's not the sensible inner-reader voice who often gives out good advice. He's the predatory artistic bully inside all our heads. And who am I to be bullied around? Nay, who are we?

What happens to us as writers when those two questions take over our brain is we’re denied the joy of the act we love. When we cram over a story or manuscript with little in our heads other than “Is it good? Does it suck?” then the art can become centered around pleasing someone else. When our minds are infected by our inner-Predator critic, and the drive for publication and acceptance, then the writing becomes work—and any good thesaurus will tell you, work is not synonymous with fun. Or art. 

Work is, however, synonymous with “Man, this blows.”

I’m not saying we should all completely ditch the idea of producing marketable fiction that other people might enjoy reading. Having an audience is good, and writing to make that audience happy is good, too. And I’m not completely contradicting myself from part 1, in that we should completely ignore that inner-reader voice that tells us what’s wrong with our writing. No—what I’m saying is, maybe, during the creative process, it might behoove us to put those two questions down for a bit. Let them haunt somebody else’s desk.

While we’re creating, we shouldn’t trash that weird, challenging, or freaky idea we get when we suspect it might not be “marketable” enough. We shouldn’t adhere to other people’s definitions of “good” or “suck.” We gotta write what we gotta write. If we take the time to forget about critiquing until we’ve got a finished product to critique, our inner spectral octopi will appreciate it.

And that’s good, because any second now those inner spectral octopi could go all Dagon on our butts and devour our sanity, so you want to make sure and keep them sleeping happily in their sunken R’lyeh. (Ia! Ia!)

Lorna D Keach

[corkcitylibraries]

Cork in Verse | Ana Spehar interviews Julie Goo

You write both in English and Irish. Is your creative process the same when using both languages? Do you find one more challenging than the other?

Yes, my creative process is the same for both languages. When I write in Irish, I would usually be surrounded by a pile of books though. I jump between dictionaries and various notebooks I have spent decades compiling. I don’t find one more challenging, but because I have such a passion and love for the Irish language, I suppose the process of writing in Irish is juicier and a bit more exciting.  

 Where do you seek inspiration from?

I honestly don’t ‘seek’ inspiration. My mind is bombarded with ideas day and night. Finding/making the time to exorcise them is my biggest challenge. Inspiration for me comes mostly from the senses. I am a very sensory person in a constant heightened state of observation, which can be exhausting.

In your opinion what are the most important elements of a good poem?

I think the most important elements are very personal to the poet and poem. Making sure that you are saying everything you want to say as succinctly and honestly as possible. I always ask myself ‘Why am I writing this poem?’. If there’s a hint of ego in it, I’ll drop it and move on to something else.

If you had to choose just one poem as your favourite (I assume there is more than one) what poem would it be?

Siollabadh by Seán Ó Ríordáin. I love its playfulness and meditative rhythm. I had read an Ursula K. Le Guin short story years before reading Siollabadh and they strangely echo one another. I can’t remember the name of the short story though, and it’s kind of wrecking my head now!

What book/books would you recommend to our readers?

I wouldn’t know where to start so I’ll just name some of the books I’ve read recently which I’ve enjoyed: Eimear Ryan Holding Her Breath Kae Tempest On Connection Peadar Ó hUallaigh’s poetry collection An Ceirtlín Órga.  

But the Irish Language is dead

‘But the Irish Language is dead’ you casually said whilst sweeping a hair from your face, you seemed perplexed to learn   of my postgraduate studies in Gaeilge, I looked to the sky hoping   to summon a response one which would articulate the   intimate relationship my soul has with   my mother tongue, although my mother   did not speak Irish well, one could tell   through her use of the habitual present as-she-do-be talking away about her day that her ancestors spoke Irish, ‘But what use is it to you?’, you continue, my gaze is drawn to the street name   fastened to the wall above the   chip upon your shoulder lips pressed together my tongue dances the words ‘Siúlóid na Lobhar’ ‘Walk of the Lepers’ three Gaelic words so modestly disclosing to me forgotten history, ‘Walk of the Lepers’ I imagine them   shuffling their way to the river to bathe lumpy limbs, the anglicised version paints   a different picture however as it declares we stand at ‘Lover’s Walk’, lepers were abandoned in translation and lovers lived happily ever after

‘And how is it’, you ask ‘we sat in the same class as girls listened to the same teacher heard the same words?’ How is it that I embraced this language? absorbed it’s (her) complexities? Almost apologetically I shake my head and say, ‘I do not know’, you reveal having been force-fed   Gaeilge in Primary School you gargled it through your teenage years dribbling sentences here and there slipping on your mistakes until finally the day came when you could spit it out

I empathise with you but plead with you in my mind not to declare a language dead because you cannot find a good reason for its existence

You joke that we are getting old I decide to share with you linguistic gold ‘Ag teacht chun na foirfeachta’ describing the process of ageing not as decaying but as ‘coming into perfection’, I see the reflection of the sun in your eyes as we say our goodbyes leper-shaped clouds form in the sky

Published in Cork Words 2: An Anthology of Contemporary Cork Writing.

Dear Society

I am a homo, homosapien I am attracted to other homos, homosapiens I am a member of the LGBTQRSTUVWXYZ community a group of people in society   segregated by our sexuality. I am not queer, I am here, and I am me. If my honesty offends your inability   to accept that I am free   to love the essence of femininity, well   I do not apologise, for beauty lies in the eyes   of the beholder, and will hold her.   Her curves have been moulded to fit   the pieces of my life society which   you have jig sawed apart   we fit together like art but our love is no   exhibition to be stared at. And if you are to say to me that   ‘God made man and woman to make child’,   I respect your right to be so black and white but I am grey, and I also pray that   one day you may awake to see that black and white blends to make me. I am exhausted society from trying to suit you   my spine aches contortionist pains   from trying to fit into this closet,   from which I emerged terrified and alone,   back into my family home to sit my elders   down and reveal to them what felt like bad news. But why should I, society?   Come crawling to you to accept me? When it is you who should come crawling in apology for building that closet and forcing me in it! Innit? Why is it that you accept men to hold guns, but not hands?

Published in Twin Skies; Poems from Cork and Coventry & Chapbook Poetry Worlds; Lost in Print.

Julie Goo is an established Spoken Word poet from Cork City. She was runner up in Slam Filíochta 2021, won the Heart of Gort Slam in 2019, and was crowned Munster Slam Champion in 2012. Goo has performed her work on numerous stages in Ireland and abroad including: TedX Cork, Winter Warmer, Ó Bhéal,  Body and Soul, Electric Picnic, Cork Midsummer Festival, Indiependence, and Live at St. Lukes. Julie Goo has numerous videos and poetry films on her YouTube Channel, and updated information on her Facebook page.

Julie is widely published in the Irish Language under the name ‘Julie Field’. Coiscéim published her collection DÁNA in April 2021 which is available to buy online and in Vibes ‘n Scribes, Cork.  

Julie has collaborated on numerous poetry films and is currently making trip-hop/hip-hop electronic music with DJ Milis under the name shelovescalpol.  

[forgottenyear]

[tw: physical child abuse, religion/cult, self-harm (not myself, but a sibling)]

[under a cut for length – approx. 1500 words]

Tl/dr: my family is a cult and I need to exorcise the cult from myself

I spend a lot of time on the distinctions between the two realities. From my family’s point of view, I hatefully attack what is right and good. Where they fail is in that I do not need their support or approval to live my own life, but their own belief in the family mythology is such a fragile thing that it cannot tolerate even the hint of doubt from anyone, however remote or unheard. Fortunately for them, I have always been the scapegoat and malcontent, and this means I always stand against all that is good, so my opinions are only the evil reflection of what is good.

According to my family, all evil emanates from my twisted mind alone. My internalization of this idea is my challenge.

--

My oldest sister’s ex-husband and I are still friends, somewhat. He has known us since we were a child. He recently said that the father behaved as though he was afraid of our intelligence.

We had the bad habit of opening our mouth at the wrong time.

(One morning, we saw our father mixing a small amount of cement in the front yard. We went out to see what he was doing. He had acquired a flagpole and wanted to fly a flag in front of the house, as any proud conservative ought. We looked at the size of the metal flagpole and then looked up from the hole he dug, to see that the power lines for the house ran low and directly overhead. With our help and in a rush before the cement fully set, the father chose a new place in the shameful back yard. He never forgave us.)

The father spared no opportunity to put us down.

This is where the sacred family mythology has its roots, as far as me being the root of all evil is concerned. I was always the good father’s enemy. I always turned my intelligence against him with no provocation, and I always do. My name equates to that of Lucifer, within the family.

--

When I write the facts that suggest the family was severely dysfunctional, I am distorting reality. As my mother has always said, the parents cannot be blamed for every little detail of a child’s life. At some point a child must accept responsibility for their own life.

Abraham Lincoln suggested that a child assumes responsibility (“for their own face”) by age 35. In our case, however, it was closer to age 6-ish – the age when we were finally tall enough to climb onto the clothes washer to reach the controls, and when we assume sole responsibility for washing our own clothes (which went unwashed between the infrequent punishments for looking and smelling bad, and for having the irresponsibility one would expect of a six-year-old instead of us – and for trying to portray the parents as neglectful, as a result).

By extension, my oldest sister assumed responsibility for her self-harm scars before she began chewing the skin from all parts of her hands. When I list them as a fact that, when combined with the many other facts, suggests the family was not entirely healthy, I am merely blaming the parents for every little detail of all the children’s lives. I mean, the parents did tell her to stop every hour they saw her doing it, so.

I am also taking the details out of context. I obviously do not list all the wonderful things the parents did for the children, do I? (“What about all the times I didn’t wear a tutu [to school]? Nobody ever talks about those times!” – the Simpsons)

--

It would be easier if it would be my own personal mythology that contradicted reality. This is the premise that spawns each rewrite of the facts post, that I assume I am the one who got it wrong.

It is a little more challenging that it is the family’s mythology. That the only people I can ask about what was reality are all in agreement against my weak (second-hand) memory.

This is why I write a facts post. I write the incontrovertible facts, without trying to force them into a context. They ought to be their own context. I could add that we spent summers camping or that we had nourishing meals that we mostly ate at the dining room table as a family, but they do not influence the other facts other than to swamp them in immaterial information.

I do not argue that good did not exist by admitting that bad also did exist.

The block of wood used to beat us probably does sound better described as a paddle. That it was a section of two-by-four is a fact, but it gives the entirely wrong impression. It suggests that we were beaten with a two-by-four instead of punished with a paddle. It unfairly suggests abuse, and not healthy parenting. The child was only lovingly and caringly beaten with a paddle that was only incidentally made from a two-by-four. It is wrong to call it a two-by-four when it was only made from a two-by-four and still retained the dimensions of a two-by-four, but is not still a two-by-four after you cut it from a length of two-by-four. The child deserved endless punishment, anyway, so it shouldn’t matter. If it was a two-by-four, then it was only because the child was so evil. If the child was beaten with a two-by-four, this is evidence of the helpless parents’ attempt to react to such spontaneously unholy evil in the child. Also, it was only a two-by-four after it was no longer used regularly on the older children and the previous “paddle” (made from a block of wood of slightly smaller dimensions) disappeared. The boy was accused of hiding the original “paddle,” and so he deserved increased punishment with a two-by-four. The boy was pure evil, so good parents must beat him with a two-by-four. It was not a two-by-four (even with the dimensions of one), but it really should have been. It was his own fault for flinching while being beaten and causing the “paddle” to contact bone (there was little of the child that was not mere skin and bone). He only flinched because he wanted bruises so the parents would look abusive, and he was rightly punished more for this reason.

I know the arguments. I also know the arguments against this wording of the arguments. That I am obviously and intentionally twisting the words to make them sound worse, because they are right and good arguments when you use the right and good words. The right and good words always only ever say that the parents were good and the child was evil.

So, I write the facts post, but the facts sound like lies and distortions, so I have to rewrite with the right words. But I am so inherently evil that I always make the parents sound bad with bare facts. It cannot be reality if the parents sound less than perfect, so I have to rewrite.

The italicized paragraph is in the template for my oldest sister’s explanation of the scars on her hands. Except, she has been using creams to erase the scars, so the need for explanations is also erased. With no blatant and embarrassing evidence, she was born-again into the family. Yes, she still has scars even after many years of creams to erase scars, but it was never so bad as I distort it to be.

--

My place in the family remains as scapegoat and malcontent.

My mother now has foreshortened life expectancy (due to age) and wants to draw closer to her family. I am the sole “male” survivor of the family. She is in the disagreeable situation of feeling need to put up with me.

I see no good in pressing my mother on the subjects of reality and family mythology. I try to steer conversations away from the subjects. But I do have to endure the mythology regularly.

I do not talk with my sisters. I see no good there, either. I am only the foil for their cults on the rare occasions when we do talk.

(My mother volunteers in a hospital, and she is aged, so she has been vaccinated and has had the booster. She reported that the middle sister was very angry about this. My mother did, at least, find company in me in this regard. It cannot be comfortable to find that a cult of which you were a founding member has radicalized so far as to be turned against you.)

(The middle sister, btw, claimed she would get the vaccine once it had been officially approved by the FDA. She has not yet chosen to be vaccinated.)

--

The greater cult is beginning to consume the members of the minor family cult. But the (formerly) incarnate holiness of the father remains unblemished.

And this is the context I need – the “family cult” (not its diminishing cohesion).

It is a cult. I can maintain my (inexplicable) love for the members, without buying in. I can hurt for their self-inflicted sufferings, but I need to return to the land of the living.

Their reality is no longer my reality. It is no longer welcome in my head.

[thecoleopterawithana]

Hi! I was thinking about "the night se cried" and I saw some of your posts about it (thanks for the useful tags by the way). I was wondering, is Paul the first (and only) source about that event? And it was specifically Here Today the first time when he made reference to it? Because if it is, it seems to me quite telling that Paul would had chose his first open "John song" post John's death to introduce into the Beatle tale a brand new piece of information (cutting here for lack of space)

(following the last ask) And I think that by doing that Paul was trying to kick the table in some subtle way, by putting again in the center the love and closeness that existed between them. And this fact, makes think about this one is an example of how Paul want us to know some stuff, that he tells without noone asking. I mean, “the night we cried” wouldnt be part (and such an important part") of the Lennon/McCartney myth and fandom if Paul himself hadnt brought it in in the first place. Hugs!

Hey there @vairemelde ! Thanks so much for the ask! And I’m glad you found the #what about the night we cried? tag useful! 

To the extent of my knowledge (and I looked around a bit when doing the compilation post of quotes about that episode) Paul is indeed the one and only Beatle to have publicly talked about that night. Though, it is worth noticing, that he was first asked about that episode only in 2001, almost 20 years after referencing it in ‘Here Today’.

And while Paul has certainly made the effort to, throughout the years, contradict the pervasive confrontational narrative and bring into focus the true love and intimacy between them, I can’t help but feel that ‘Here Today’ was more of a personal attempt at remembering just how close they were. About setting the record straight in his own mind first and foremost. I don’t see him as including this piece of information so much for the benefit of the general public, or to right their perception of them, as much as he was trying to “exorcise the demons in his own head”.

In ‘Here Today’ Paul seems to need to internalize two big ideas: you really loved me and I really loved you.

The need for the first one came about from his second-guessing of their relationship after John’s death, given all the media attacks John aimed at him post-breakup.

I did write a song just before I was going to build my studio – that I’ve done a lot of this album at – before we were actually getting the workmen in and stuff. And when it was still the old place, I just went up in one of the little rooms upstairs in the place, and did write the song called ‘Here Today’. Which was – kind of about my reaction at the time had been.

We’d been slagging each other off a lot, over the years coming up to it, and in fact we’d – we’d got on quite well personally, what turned out to be towards the end. But there had been a lot of slagging off and business stuff. John would’ve been sort of saying, “Oh, he just does all that,” “Oh, bloody hell,” “Oh, he’s like this…” and this sort of attitude, you know, me sort of feeling like I had to, “No, well, uh, I’m not that bad! I mean, uh, I’ve done that, and I’ve done that…” Feeling like I had to justify myself to him.

It was just not very pleasant, because you kind of thought, he’s bluffing. He’s – he’s just doing that sort of very bluffy thing he does. He’s just being very upfront, and he’s sort of… I always got the impression that he was trying to clear the decks for Yoko, and get rid of us lot. ‘Cause he had to devote all his attention to her. Which is fair enough, you know. I always sort of cherished the hope that I’d be able to kind of say to him, “Oh, come off it. You didn’t mean that, really, did you? I know you went a bit overboard, but you don’t think it’s like that, do you, really?”

And I heard, in fact, little bits from Yoko, who was kind of nice enough after he’d died to sort of clue me in on that. Realizing, perhaps, that those w– would be the kind of things that would hang me up, forever. “Did he, or didn’t he… hate what I did?” And she said some very nice things. She told me once that he’d sat her down with one of my albums, and they’d be sat down, and he’d be having a bit of a cry about it, and he’d be saying, “Ah… you know, I – I like him, really.” Because John was like that, you know. He could come at you, but really – he’d just lower his glasses a bit and sort of say, “It’s only me.” It was very two-sided like that. I like that about him. It’s a very interesting part of his personality, really.

But as I say, it really was gonna hang me up. This whole idea.

— Paul McCartney, interview with DJ Mike Reed (13 May 1989).

And the second arose from his need to clearly articulate his feelings, to finally overcome his fear of saying ‘I love you’, even if John was no longer here today to hear it (but we know that Paul keeps writing to “the great record player in the sky”).

It’s funnybecause just in real life, I find that a challenge. I like to sort of, not givetoo much away. Like you said, I’m quite private. Why should people, know myinnermost thoughts? That’s for me, their innermost.But in a song, that’s where you cando it. That’s the place to put them. You can start to reveal truths and feelings. You know, like in ‘Here Today’ where I’m saying to John“I love you”. I couldn’t have said that, really,to him. But you find, I think, that you can put these emotions and these deepertruths – and sometimes awkwardtruths; I was scared to say “I love you”. So that’s one of the things that Ilike about songs.

— Paul McCartney,on the challenge of giving too much of himself away when writing meaningful andtruthful songs. Asked by Simon Pegg and interviewed by John Wilson for BBC 4’s Mastertapes (24 May 2016).

Paul even wrote an entire song addressing the fact:

Q: Like ‘Scared’ – a ‘hidden’ track on New – which is a stark confessional about baring your soul to another person. Did you find that easy to write?

Paul: You can actually say, “I love you,” to someone, but it’s quite hard. And so that’s why it’s usually easier when you’re a bit drunk. It’s like ‘Here Today’ [on 1982’s Tug of War], which was for John, and there is the line, (sings) “Du du du du du du du, I love you,” and it is a bit of a moment in the song.

— Paul McCartney,  interview with Pat Gilbert for MOJO (November 2013).  

So it’s no wonder that he included the night they cried in ‘Here Today’. This is not simply a general illustration of their closeness, by giving an example of how they allowed themselves to cry in front of another “Northern Lad”. That night was, in Paul’s eyes, an “important emotional landmark”, not only because they exposed themselves emotionally by crying, but because they actually said the big ‘I Love You’.

One night, we got pretty drunk and argued and laughed, and it ended up us both crying, because it was, you know at the height of your drunkenness, when you’re all, “Hey man, I love you, man. No, I love you, man.” That was probably the only time we just got that kind of intimate with each other. It’s a male machismo embarrassment thing. I mean, you might say to a girl, “I love you”, but in my case, within the group, The Beatles, it would have been difficult, even though we all did love each other. You just all had to be guys to the full. We were all rough, tough cream puffs.

— Paul McCartney, interview with the Daily Mail (4 June 2016).

But I think that in the end, 1982 Paul (without the added interference of years of Beatle “history”), put it best:

[…] Even though he put me down, I’m not going for it. We were friends, and we got it on, we got a lot on. Songwriting is like psychiatry; you sit down and dredge up something that’s inside, bring it out front. And I just had to be real and say, John, I love you. I think being able to say things like that in songs can keep you sane.

— Paul McCartney, interview with Robert Palmer for the New York Times (25 April 1982).

Here Paul perfectly summarizes and encapsulates the two truths he was personally wrestling with while writing ‘Here Today’: “Come on, you loved me, really, and I love you.”

So even if there are other anecdotes (“I slept with him”) and songs (’Early Days’) that seem to aim to get across to the public that only they know how close they were, I personally think that other songs like ‘Here Today’ and ‘This One’ serve a more personal therapeutic purpose. Like he’s talking to himself and to John, rather than to us. 

Sure, both these songs are utterly revealing, but its public nature may be a side effect of the medium, rather than its main goal.

That we get a glimpse into this amazing relationship through their craft is a true blessing.

[loftyouthprograms]

Meet writer and Loft teaching artist Halee Kirkwood!

Halee Kirkwood is a descendant of the Fond du Lac Band of Lake Superior Ojibwe and earned their MFA from Hamline University. Formerly a corporate mascot, janitor, and small-town library assistant, their work has been published in Up The Staircase Quarterly, Muzzle Magazine, ctrl+v, Cream City Review, and others. Kirkwood is a writing mentor and bubblegum poetry wrangler for the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop and was an inaugural teaching fellow for the 2019 Desert Nights, Rising Stars writing conference at Arizona State University. Their mini-chapbook, Exorcising The Catalogue, was published in fall 2018 with Rinky Dink Press.

Find out more by following Halee on Twitter. This summer Halee will be teaching Writing About Nature in the Time of Climate Change for students aged 13-17.

View the full text of this interview on the Loft’s Writer’s Block Blog here.

***

When did you start teaching? What path—career or otherwise—brought you here?

My first classroom experience began at Ashland Middle School in northern Wisconsin, where I was a teaching assistant for a slam poetry class and as a TA for the poetry and fiction courses at my alma mater, Northland College. After moving to the Twin Cities for graduate school, I was a TA at Normandale Community College and at Hamline University for the Runestone: Introduction To Publishing course and for the Senior Seminar in Creative Writing. My writing career has always incorporated a teaching practice. The two are intertwined for me.

How would you describe your teaching style?

I am a process-based and adaptive teacher. I think of the classroom as a generative space and love creative hands-on projects. I pay attention to student needs and desires and am not strictly committed to my idea of how the class should go—if there's reading, lessons, or conversations that would be more beneficial for a class than what I had planned, I am happy to adapt to that challenge. I treat each student as a peer and want to see everyone succeed in what they've defined as success for themselves.

When it comes to imagining and creating classes, where do your ideas come from? What in particular inspires you?

Many of my class ideas generate from overcoming a challenge in my own writing practice. For example, in summer 2019 I taught a course on revision at the Loft, which came from a handful of exercises I created for myself to overcome blocks I had in a draft of a poem. I am inspired to create reading lists from themes I see overlapping in literature, of which I then craft a small course around.

What's the ideal environment for your classroom? What atmosphere are you hoping to establish?

I aim to create an environment where we all cheer when our peers succeed! Connecting students that are doing similar work, or work that complements each other, is a great joy. I want students to take the energy of the course with them after the last day of class. I wish to connect students with opportunities outside of the class to keep that creative momentum going. Above all, I want to create a friendly environment where learning and creating is a pleasurable experience!

Regardless of what your class is specifically focusing on, what's the main goal you have for your students?

My main goal is to give students multiple ways of looking at and approaching their creative practice. I believe in looking at a subject from all possible angles—especially the strange angles—and aim to develop that same sense of multidimensional wonder in my students.

What are goals you have for yourself? These could be teaching goals, writing goals, career goals, community goals, etc.

My main goal at this point is to publish my first book! You know that feeling when you've been on a long, impossible drive and your destination is just over the crest of one last god-forsaken corn field? That's where I am, and I honestly love that feeling.

Beyond my own selfish desires, I wish to hold space for BIPOC, queer, and disabled writers, to connect folks with opportunities and resources that will help them sustain a creative practice and realize their dreams. I wish to contribute to the canon of nature writing that BIPOC folks are already doing the great work of re-writing and re-claiming environmentally-focused literature. I want to see previous students accomplish so many things—whether that means finally reaching a creative breakthrough on a poem that seemed blocked or landing that dream job at an independent press. This makes me ecstatic!

What have been some of your own favorite educational experiences?

Participating in workshops where an instructor has us participate in unusual ways to learn about our own creative and emotional states of being are always my favorite. Take for example workshops taken with the poet Ross Gay during my time as a Loft Mentor Series fellow. Ross pushed us past the idea that we were "masters" of the craft and instead unleashed a spontaneous, uncertain type of creative play by having us make puppets out of whatever we had on our person at the time! Another example is a workshop I took with the poet T.C. Tolbert at the Desert Nights, Rising Stars writing conference at Arizona State University. T.C. had us move and listen to parts of our body with an intuitive and free-ranging sensibility. My favorite educational experiences have always been unconventional. I want to do strange things with remarkable people!

To you personally, what is the most important part of the literary arts?

Deep, honest listening and introspection. Listening to the world around you, your past, your future. Listening to your family and the multilayered histories there. Listening to your body, listening to your sense of love, listening to the communities you've found yourself living throughout your life. Odd listening. Listening with every part of your body and heart. Across genre and form, attention to the world at large is crucial—precise uses of craft and technique fall flat if you haven't done the hard work of listening, which often leads us to uncomfortable places. This is key in the literary arts. How have you transformed from the challenges set before you? And how do you hope to transform your world?

[back-and-totheleft]

Rider on the Storm

Oliver Stone--Hollywood outlaw, cinematic high priest of the lost generation, America’s reigning Angry Young Man--has dismissed the haplessly out-of-touch: those within earshot as well as those not in sync with his favorite decade.

“Get out there! Take a chance! That’s what the ‘60s were--the cutting edge! Ride the snake! Now! Now ! Remember that? Go to the limits! Challenge authority! Challenge your parents! See for yourself! Get in touch with your senses!”

That fusillade is being delivered by arguably Hollywood’s most successful protester. Yale dropout, drug-taking, decorated Vietnam vet turned auteur , Stone has delivered take after take on the ‘60s and their children--"Salvador,” “Platoon,” “Wall Street,” “Talk Radio,” “Born on the Fourth of July"--coming at his theme every which way. Drugs! War! Money! Politics! Stone has made movies to exorcise his and his generation’s demons, annoying the industry with his excesses, filmic and personal, earning a round of grudging respect for ballyhooing a 20-year-old Zeitgeist all the way to the bank. He is even a producer these days, taking home a nice percentage of the gross. The Outsider has become Establishment. Hey, Oliver, what’s that sound, everything going round and round?

After nearly two decades in the business--writing or directing about a dozen films, earning five Oscar nominations, including two awards for Best Director--Stone has mastered the art of turning the counterculture into a mainstream, bankable product. Today he is Hollywood’s most consistent practitioner of point-of-view filmmaking, yet one who just as consistently falls on his own sword.

His films, lofty in their intent to capture the New Left values of the ‘60s, frequently come up short with undistinguished if competent craftsmanship and an in-your-face moralizing. Critics regularly fault his work. The New Yorker’s Pauline Kael wondered in a review of “Platoon” whether Stone was “using filmmaking as a substitute for drugs. . . . There are too many scenes,” she went on to write, “where you think, It’s a bit much. The movie crowds you; it doesn’t give you room to have an honest emotion.” If Stone disdains such caviling as aesthetic elitism--"Critics say that; audiences don’t. I won’t ever make boring movies, ever!"--he nonetheless has his sharpshooter’s eye trained on his place in American film history. Stone still hungers for the imprimatur of artist.

“We don’t practice repression in this country, we practice triviality,” the director says, standing in a Hollywood sound stage on an early winter afternoon. “I try to make films that are bold and on the cutting edge, with ideas that are greater than me--and I try to serve those ideas.”

Now, Stone is set to unveil his latest homage to his generation--"The Doors,” the much-anticipated movie about the legendary ‘60s band, starring Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison, the band’s charismatic lead singer and lyricist. It is Stone’s first film since “Born on the Fourth of July” won him his third Oscar three years ago, and at $30 million it’s his most expensive production to date. It is also his least overtly political--something of a first for this filmmaker who is regularly accused of being anti-American--but one that is not without risks.

With few exceptions--such as “The Buddy Holly Story"--movies about the music industry are notoriously poor box office. And with “The Doors,” Stone is bringing to market a glossy tale of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll come round again in a new age of conservatism. It is a film for the ‘90s, with a controversial protagonist who practiced a particularly lethal brand of hedonistic nihilism; Morrison died of an apparent heart attack in Paris 20 years ago at the age of 27. Stone has taken a calculated risk in opening “The Doors” in today’s sexually nervous and unexpectedly jingoistic climate--the AIDS crisis and the country embroiled in its first real war since Vietnam. “I think we all feel on the edge of imminent disaster,” says Stone about his film’s upcoming release. “One always has that feeling.”

Even by the ‘60s’ break-the-mold musical standards, the Doors were considered sui generis--a home-grown Los Angeles band whose organ-rich, Eastern-sounding melodies, combined with Morrison’s vicious but poetic lyrics and undeniable stage presence, captured the growing alienation of an entire generation. From their first album--"The Doors” in 1967--to their last--"L.A. Woman” four years later--the band’s raspy mysticism and intellectual lyricism embodied the dark side of the ‘60s.

At the center of the band’s appeal was Morrison, the pouty, drug-ingesting “Lizard King” who became something of the Prince of Darkness in an era that did not lack for antiheroes--a figure extolling themes of undeniable attraction for Stone. “Look, I’m in my 40s,” the director says. “So I suppose this film is about the formation of our generation--the values we shared. People were out there, experiencing things, changing things. There were no limits, no laws. . . .”

Brian Grazer, an executive producer of “The Doors,” perceived two outlaws well-matched. “Oliver was my first choice as the director,” Grazer says. “He does what nobody else does--he takes dark, difficult subjects and turns them into hits.”

But hit making, as Stone likes to maintain, is not his goal. Rather, he single-mindedly goes after what he thinks of as the truths of his generation, wherever that search takes him: Vietnam, Wall Street, rock ‘n’ roll, even the Kennedy assassination. He describes the J.F.K. murder, the subject of his next film, which he will begin shooting this spring, as “the most covered-up crime of our era.” Although risk-taking and possibly radical in their intent, Stone’s films are increasingly mainstream, made with ever-larger budgets and more prestigious producers--Hemdale, Carolco and now, with the Kennedy film, Warner Bros. Success, for Stone, is a double-edged sword.

“Success?” asks the director, slightly startled. “That didn’t become popular as a concept until the ‘70s. Yeah, I have much more freedom to make the subjects that I want, but I don’t see myself as Darryl Zanuck. I would feel bad if I got indulgent. All good films come from people with an independent spirit, those who push. But the power of perception in the world is such that fringe ideas, when they are accepted, become mainstream--that because of their success they become a cliche.

“ ‘Platoon’ was a major innovation in our perception of what that war was. I thought ‘Born’ was a fairly radical statement; it took 10 years to make that picture--everybody passed on it. Once it was made and got eight Oscar nominations, it became a successful Hollywood movie. If it had not been successful, it would have been considered an outlaw film. Now, with the Kennedy film--why haven’t they made that already? Because people were fearful that it was uncommercial. I hope I was destined to make that picture.”

Those who know him suggest that Stone is indeed struggling to reconcile his renegade past with his current role as emerging power broker. “Oliver is conflicted about his success,” says one industry executive. “He hasn’t allowed his political sensibilities to get in the way of taking large amounts of money, and he struggles with that.”

“It isn’t about getting successful and having a career,” Stone says. “Going against success as a formula and embracing failure, like Morrison, where death becomes the last limit. . . . You mustn’t let money or power corrupt. I don’t feel in any way that I have compromised. I want to stay truthful to my era.”

STANDING HERE IN THE CAVERNOUS SOUND STAGE, Stone is putting the finishing touches on “The Doors.” While ostensibly another ‘60s film, “The Doors,” colleagues say, is actually a further cinematic echo of the director’s own persona as self-exiled prodigal son. As one actor puts it, “Although Oliver’s films seem to be about social issues, they are really about him.”

In conversation, Stone is by turns boyish, combative, thoughtful and overheated, one who seems to delight in spewing hyperbole as much in person as he does in his films. A husband and a father, he insists that his one regret is, “I didn’t sleep with all the women I could have.” A former drug user once busted in Mexico, he now calls cocaine “the biggest killer I know” but still salutes hallucinogenics as “fascinating.” A relentless advocate of the ‘60s, he disparages Woodstock as “a bunch of Boy Scouts getting together.” A most famous veteran, he is nonetheless disdained by some members of his old unit as a self-righteous blowhard with little sense of humor and a skewed perspective. (“He is very opinionated, over-generalizes the facts and bad-mouths people who have different points of view,” says Monte Newcombe, who served with Stone in Vietnam.)

As is well known, Stone made his mark as a movie maker five years ago when he turned his own life into film--"Platoon,” the 1986 Oscar-winning Vietnam War film that chronicled the director’s 1967-68 tour of duty. The movie won Best Picture and Best Director and grossed more than $160 million. Stone has made similar connections in his other less overtly biographical films. James Woods in “Salvador,” Charlie Sheen in “Wall Street,” Eric Bogosian in “Talk Radio,” Tom Cruise in “Born on the Fourth of July,” all played characters close to the director’s “male, Type-A personality,” says Bogosian. “Oliver makes movies about men under pressure.”

In “The Doors,” Stone evinces a similar fealty to Morrison, a contemporary of the director’s and a man also known for not tempering his excesses. “Jim had a thing where he went to the limits--women, drugs, alcohol, the law,” says Stone, who plays down some of Morrison’s excesses and recut parts of the film to make Kilmer’s character more likable. “His lyrics were earthy--snakes, fire, earth, death, fear, eros, sexuality. But he was also close to the French symbolist poets--Apollinaire, Rimbaud and a little Dylan Thomas. That combination--the high end and low end, black and white, vulgar and refined--I liked that contrast.”

It is a marriage of opposites that also fits Stone, who is described by those who know him as intense, passionate and smart, a prodigious director and writer whose early reputation for womanizing and drug taking never hindered an equally relentless work ethic. “He has the curiosity of a child and an incredible drive,” says Kenneth Lipper, an investment banker, author and consultant on “Wall Street.” “Oliver uses his films as an excuse to search out the facts--the truth--of a situation.”

Others who have worked for him say Stone is a masterful taskmaster who will manipulate, taunt and pressure cast and crew into sharing his commitment to the subject at hand. “He likes to do a lot of sparring to challenge you,” says actor Willem Dafoe, who starred in “Platoon” and “Born on the Fourth of July.” Adds Bogosian: “He expects you to be a self-starter and thick-skinned when it comes to criticism. And if he senses you can’t take it, he will move away from you fast. Being on a set with him can be very punishing. But at the end of the day, everyone wants to be around him.” Kyle MacLachlan, an actor best known as FBI man Dale Cooper in television’s “Twin Peaks,” who co-stars in “The Doors,” says simply, “I miss working with Oliver.”

With so many of the director’s oft-related demons so readily on the surface, so out there, it is a challenge to sift through the rhetoric. Ask Stone what he is looking for in his self-inflicted Sturm und Drang , and he scorns the question as “so obvious. OK, the 49ers to win.” But in the next breath he turns philosophical, cribbing from Milan Kundera, the celebrated Czech novelist: “the ‘Lightness of Being.’ We’re all looking for equanimity of our souls.”

HE IS TALL, ABOUT 6 FEET AND JUST SHORT OF formidable, with an arresting collision of cultures--French-American, Jewish-Roman Catholic--etched into a face that is all but haggard from years of hard living and late hours. Bleary-eyed, dressed totally in black, Stone is sandwiching in an interview in the midst of back-to-back editing sessions for Friday’s release of “The Doors.”

Surrounded by his editing crew, he holds court in a room that seems the extension of himself as both polemical filmmaker and erstwhile Peck’s Bad Boy--everything state-of-the-art and bigger-than-life. Extra-large leather sofas, screen the size of a football field, giant neon clock ticking off the frames. The sequence being edited this day is quintessential Stone. On screen, Morrison, played by Kilmer, heaves a television set at the head of Doors’ keyboardist Ray Manzarek: MacLachlan in flowing locks. The result--exploding glass and screamed epithets.

Stone flashes his signature gap-toothed grin. “There was a sound vacuum, and it’s making me crazy,” he says about the morning spent laying down extra decibels of breaking glass. “Sound abuse. I’m accused of that all the time,” he says. “But this is the noisiest film I’ve ever made. I have to gauge how much the audience can take after two hours and 15 minutes.” In Stone’s hands, “The Doors” is less an illustrated history of the band’s genesis or Morrison’s peculiarly tortured life than a visceral recreation of the world of ‘60s music. The approach is similar to the sensuous verisimilitude the director achieved in “Platoon,” the first Vietnam War film made by someone who had served. “I don’t want to reduce the ‘60s to a formula or say this is all-inclusive,” Stone says, “but it is about the texture of the ‘60s . . . how music was the big common denominator.”

Producer Grazer says the film is less linear and narrative than “a film made from a real rock-music point of view. Oliver has made a movie that shows that world as dangerous and erotic. It has a real feel for the period.”

Much of that feel comes from the director’s personal affinity for The Doors’ music, which he first encountered in Vietnam. He found the band “visceral and mystical,” Stone says. “The Doors were not a mainstream band like the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. Jim hated that whole teeny-bopper thing. There were decency rallies held against him.”

That Morrison’s grave site in Paris still has the faithful trekking to touch the headstone has only burnished the mystique of the tortured songwriter with the Kennedyesque jaw and the black leather pants that would, on occasion, not stay zipped. A well-known abuser of alcohol, drugs and women, Morrison was arrested in 1969 on obscenity charges after exposing himself during a Miami concert. “He was a pirate, a free soul, an anarchist,” Stone says. “I loved his spirit--a combination of James Dean and Brando, sexiness combined with sensitivity and rawness.”

Morrison’s persona transcended not only his performances but also his death in 1971, which Stone recalls as “like the day Kennedy died.” The revival of so-called Doorsmania, as Rolling Stone magazine referred to it, began 12 years ago when director Francis Ford Coppola used the band’s Oedipal song, “The End,” in his 1979 Vietnam film, “Apocalypse Now.” In 1981, the lurid, controversial Morrison biography, “No One Here Gets Out Alive” by Jerry Hopkins and Danny Sugerman, the singer’s manager, was published. That same year, “The Doors’ Greatest Hits” was released and made it into Billboard’s Top 10. By 1981, Rolling Stone had Morrison on its cover with the headline, “He’s Hot, He’s Sexy . . . He’s Dead.”

Hollywood chased the Morrison story for nearly a decade while the Morrison estate and the surviving members of the band battled over the movie rights. Eventually, Grazer’s Imagine Productions held all the cards--a hefty $2-million development package--largely through the assistance of veteran rock producer Bill Graham, who shares production credit on the film. Grazer took the project to Stone--who had just passed on the on-again, off-again “Evita"--and Mario Kossar’s Carolco Productions, which had signed the director to a two-picture deal.

For Stone, directing “The Doors” brought several new challenges. “It was a very complicated screenplay to write,” says Stone, who shares screenwriting credit with J. Randal Johnson, who had done an earlier draft. Using his usual reporter’s approach, Stone plowed through “250 transcripts from people who had known Jim. It was like ‘Citizen Kane’ in a way--everyone had a different point of view.” Stone shot the film last spring with 30,000 extras for concert scenes in San Francisco, New York, Paris and Los Angeles, including the L. A. clubs Whisky a Go-Go and The Central, which doubled as the old London Fog.

Recreating The Doors’ sound on film proved more difficult. Kilmer, a baritone like Morrison, was cast after Stone interviewed hundreds of actors. Perhaps best known as Ice Man, Tom Cruise’s nemesis in the film “Top Gun,” Kilmer had been so eager to land the role that he recorded an entire Doors album, substituting his own vocals for Morrison’s. In a similar move, Stone decided to obtain the rights to The Doors’ master tapes minus Morrison’s lead vocals. He then spliced the original soundtracks with performances by the actors--Kilmer, MacLachlan, Kevin Dillon and Frank Whaley, who learned to play instruments for the film. The film’s final cut contains 25 Doors songs, including such classic hits as “L. A. Woman,” “Crystal Ship,” “Light My Fire” and “The End.” The music was recorded with “a little bit of Jim Morrison’s vocals--and in the concert scenes I have mixed in the actors’ voices, and I defy you to find the difference,” Stone says.

Kilmer describes Stone as “a person of vision and integrity. He has lived triumph and horrors. And I can tell you his life does not pass unexamined. Look at his body of work. It pulls from his introspection, knowledge and vast intuition.”

Indeed, ask Stone what he hopes the reception for his film will be, and he launches into another paternalistic eulogy for the ‘60s. “A lot of people will want to see this the way they wanted to see Tom Cruise in ‘Born,’ so they can be given an alternative way of looking at things,” he says. “These kids have grown up with Travolta and disco, the high-tech world of the ‘80s, and maybe they have never even seen that there is a different, an alternative, lifestyle, a world we’ve lost touch with.”

“WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE BAND OF THE ‘60s?”

Stone is asking this over lunch of Thai soup--hot as napalm--set out for him and his guest in an upstairs conference room. With Stone, that isn’t an idle question; it’s a password, a test of character, sort of like the soup he’s ordered--beyond an ordinary mortal’s standards. “Come on, it’s good for you,” he says laughing at his guest’s discomfort. “It puts hair on your chest.”

Shying away from risks is the ultimate sin with Stone, the only child of a privileged Manhattan couple, a stockbroker father and socialite mother. Stone wore a coat and tie every day to prep school, wrote weekly essays for his father--who paid him 25 cents each--and embarked on his well-documented fall from grace as soon as he was able. Says one old friend: “Oliver grew up with a lot of contradictions in his life--Jewish father, French Roman Catholic mother who was this semi-Regine-type character. Oliver led this sort of Eurotrash jet-setter’s life--even after his parents were divorced--where nothing was normal.”

“My mother was never in bed before 3 in the morning,” Stone recalls. “She used to take me to France in the summers, and she was a great fan of movies, took me out of school to go to double and triple features. She was this kind of Auntie Mame person. ‘Evita’ would have been my homage to her.”

His parents’ divorce when he was 16 years old, Stone says, “was like parting the curtains of a stage play and seeing what was really there. I found out about a whole lot of things--affairs--I had been blind to. After that, I felt I was really on my own.”

The divorce also coincided with a larger rupture--Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, the de facto starting gun of the ‘60s. “I had no faith in my parents’ generation after that,” Stone says. “By 1965, I was in Vietnam"--first as a teacher and a merchant marine, later as an Army enlistee.

He briefly attended Yale University, his father’s alma mater, which he says he “hated, especially since it was before women were admitted.” Stone dropped out and headed for Vietnam.

He was wounded twice and earned a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart in a tour of duty that was later chronicled in “Platoon.” “He was never a regular GI Joe,” recalls Crutcher Patterson, a former member of Stone’s platoon. “He was pretty green, a loner and moody, always writing things. Whenever we got a break, he would stop and write a little descriptive story about it.”

During his brief Army career, Stone abandoned the idea of being a writer--he had written a novel at 18--to become a filmmaker. “Being there was a very sensual experience, and I started thinking in visual terms,” Stone says. “In Vietnam, all your senses were awakened. You had to see better, smell better, hear better. It was very sensual, with the jungle six inches in front of your face. You couldn’t think along abstract lines--you had to become more animalistic or you wouldn’t survive.”

He bought a still camera and started taking pictures even before he left for home. Once Stone returned to New York, “I got a super-8 right away and started making home movies.” He enrolled at New York University’s film school, where he studied under director Martin Scorsese, drove a cab, married Najwa Sarkis--an official at the Moroccan mission to the United Nations--and made “short, crude 16-millimeter films that were really screwed up,” Stone says. “They were arty, kind of abstract poems with a touch of Orson Welles and the French New Wave filmmakers--Goddard, Resnais, Bunuel. I was trying to get away from a normal narrative line.”

He was also pursuing a similar line in his personal life. Arrested for marijuana possession in Mexico 10 days after his return from Vietnam, Stone became well known for using drugs, an experience that later informed his screenplay for Brian DePalma’s “Scarface.”

“I started smoking cigarettes on the plane going over to Vietnam,” says Stone. “Once I got there, the guys I liked best had been around drugs for ages, and I started doing acid and marijuana. I also got into the music. I had never heard Motown before then. Jefferson Airplane and the Doors. Jim was the acid king. It was all part of the Zeitgeist. “

It was a taste for substance abuse, topped off with an appetite for pursuing women, that Stone, newly divorced, took with him to Los Angeles in the mid-1970s as an aspiring screenwriter. He soon had a reputation notable even by Hollywood’s standards. “He always had a million women in his life,” says one female former friend. “I don’t think he missed too many.”

In Hollywood, Stone wrote “Platoon,” and although it would be more than 10 years before he would get it made, the script earned him attention as a writer of unusual force.

“I was looking for a writer for ‘Conan’ ” recalls Ed Pressman, an independent film producer who worked with Stone on “Conan the Barbarian” and several films since, including “Born.” “His agent showed me ‘Platoon,’ and I was very taken with it. His script for ‘Conan’ was a great screenplay. Like Dante’s ‘Inferno.’ ”

The success of that film led to other screenwriting assignments--"Midnight Express,” “Scarface,” “Year of the Dragon” among others--all white-hot, unsubtle stories, the type that increasingly became Stone’s signature. He won his first Oscar for “Midnight Express,” which led to his first directing opportunity--"The Hand,” a marginal thriller starring Michael Caine that failed at the box office and temporarily stalled Stone’s directing career. Eventually, he was able to make the low-budget “Salvador” through Hemdale Productions, followed by “Platoon,” a $6-million film that Orion picked up from Hemdale and that saw grosses in the hundreds of millions. After that, Stone was admitted to the big leagues--directing Michael Douglas in “Wall Street” and Tom Cruise in “Born on the Fourth of July.” The latter film, based on Vietnam veteran Ron Kovic’s life story, won Stone his second Best Director award but lost out for Best Picture to the crowd pleaser “Driving Miss Daisy"--a loss that Stone took particularly hard. “We made over $60 million with that film--an incredible success. I guess it was just not meant to be.”

Today, Stone has remarried and divides his time among homes in Santa Monica, Montecito and Colorado with his wife, Elizabeth, a former nurse, and their 6-year-old son, Sean, who plays young Morrison in “The Doors.” Stone hasn’t lost his concern for current events: “I’m praying for our soldiers, who are making the ultimate sacrifice in the Gulf War, but I don’t think Bush ever intended to negotiate. There was a military-industrial complex that pushed us into this.” Friends add that the director’s only real interest these days, in addition to making films, “is trying to set up other films.”

Have Stone’s demons finally gone AWOL? “I didn’t say I didn’t miss my old life,” he says with a half-smile. “I love the concept of suburbia, but I also love going to New York and Europe and Asia, meeting new people. My wife and I are different that way. I have a restlessness that never stops.”

Indeed, as soon as “The Doors” opens, Stone is off to Dallas to begin shooting his version of the Kennedy assassination, a film that Stone describes as “the untold story of a murder that occurred at the dawn of our adulthood. It’s a bit like ‘Hamlet.’ You know, the real king was killed, and a fake king put on the throne.” Suggest to Stone that some of Camelot’s luster has tarnished since 1963, and the director says quietly, “There has been an incredible disinformation campaign put out about him. A lot of misinformation. I am using everything I have to get this film made.”

Ask Stone if he likes where he is positioned now in the industry and he laughs. “Oh, this is the part where you’re going to quote me, right? The outlaw director.”

If Stone is cagey about self-definition these days, friends seem equally divided. Some, such as Pressman, who produced “Blue Steel” and “Reversal of Fortune” with Stone, say the director “is at the top of his game. I was always mesmerized and excited by his personality, but now he is much more comfortable with himself and a lot easier to work with.”

But another Hollywood executive suggests that “Oliver has not changed much. He really hasn’t mellowed. He is conflicted about his ‘financial’ success. But that’s how Hollywood respects you--they pay for what they respect, and his movies now make money.”

Stone does seem to be a man with his eye fixed perpetually over his shoulder, one who keeps a daily diary and who describes the art of filmmaking as giving vent to “that other person that is in you. The shadow self, the one that is always walking behind you. The real you, the deeper you.

“I’m not going to say I’m a lone soul here, wandering through my own soundtrack,” he says. “I enjoy the community of people who love movies. And I like using the power that I have to make things happen. But will I be doing this forever? Maybe I’ll be working in Eritrea or the Sudan, or maybe I’ll become a journalist for Rolling Stone.”

Stone has spent several hours over lunch, repeatedly waving off his crew, but now his impatience is tangible. “I still don’t like the answer I gave you about the ‘60s, how this film relates to this current generation. I felt stupid. I was doing a lot of ‘ums’ and ‘ahs,’ ” he says, suddenly obsessed with his image.

“I don’t want to believe in generation conflict, but it’s there. I feel distant from my own generation, out of step with the people my age who went to college. I always identified more with the Charlie Sheen generation, that younger group who came up, because it gave me new life. I was able to act out my own history through them, skip a generation and go back to it again. Believe me, that’s exciting, and I’m grateful for that chance because our tribal rituals are the same. It doesn’t have to be Jim Morrison or Vietnam; it’s about going out there and finding yourself.”

-Hilary de Vries, “RIDER ON THE STORM : With ‘The Doors,’ Director Oliver Stone Exhumes the ‘60s in All Their Lurid Excess,” Los Angeles Times, Feb 24 1991 [x]

[violetsystems]

#personal

It can be a nightmare after all these years to be too transparent for public record.  I imagine it would be something like a poltergeist; always bumping into things and being misinterpreted or read into.  The age old posit of “Shit Happens” doesn’t leave much room for argument or even proof of life  Nobody ever seems to hear my side of things other than when I write about it here.  Nobody registers the endless frustration because I hide it all so well.  I changed a lot of my routines in the last two weeks specifically.  A year ago I started getting harassed at the gym so I changed my schedule there to an early one.  Eventually I quit the gym altogether.  These days I don’t even own a gym membership.  The Nike Training App core routines and some barbells have delivered far more than the stress I had leaving the house.  I think I’ve learned over time that Yoga and Pilates in the back bedroom teaches you more about form and control.  I use a mirror to monitor my posture.  I don’t feel any prying eyes on me behind closed doors.  For years everybody knows I’ve been my own coach and source of motivation.  The source of inspiration is a given and that’s always been fiercely personal to me.  The fact that it should be so obvious is something I’ve learned to enjoy because it is to me.  But nobody particularly knows or cares what goes on in my personal life other than here where I write.  They forget about the weeks and the work therein.  So I probably resemble a ghost clanking with chains in the hallways.  There’s no causality because nobody pays enough attention to accept I exist.  I’m stuck in a limbo between the known and unknown.  There’s some attention I avoid.  I avoid heavy doses of it every day because I know better.  It’s sticks out like a sore thumb socially and I’ve had to practice a sort of poker face.  People often have a habit of expressing their distaste that I think for myself.  I changed my train route to work.  I still bump into awkward invisible walls.  People trying to hijack my narrative in public.  People afraid of ghosts I guess.  Some cultures leave offerings for the dead.  Others try to exorcise and eradicate them.  Some people throw dust to the wind and some people keep their loved ones in a jar above the fireplace.  I’m still alive clawing at the fabric of society and not so much reality.  Society is fake this we all know.  More obsessed with post truth and fake news than statistical based science.  I used to have more dread towards my situation.  That I would be completely forgotten and misunderstood for the rest of my life.  Obviously people following me around on my commute regardless of my route disproves that fate.  People treat me like Frankenstein sometimes.  Pitchforks, torches and all.  Every other week I’m on trial for a different section of my being.  I’m a patchwork of things I’ve picked up from art school year after year.  And year after year there’s something else that claims it’s cooler, fresher, and more alive.  A good excuse to keep me buried.  To keep the heresy out of plain sight.  And then there’s me banging away at the keyboard early in the morning on the internet like a spirit in the tv static.  People free to read into the message however they please.  Most people just surf right through me.  The noise is still out there every Saturday pulsing like a brain in a petri dish.  The horror.

I read this article about how they were growing brain tissue in a lab.  There was this rhythmic pulse of electricity that they couldn’t explain.  The ethics of testing on conscious living material are dicey at best.  So are half the relational aesthetics driven social experiments done in the name of justice and revolution.  What is right and normal is a lengthy discussion.  But it requires dialog. Sometimes I feel like that brain in a dish trying to give a signal but nobody wants to acknowledge.  No one wants the inconvenience of reading how I really feel.  My routine the last year has been fairly measured and predictable.  Yet people still feel the need to watch and make sure.  It’s been a bit of an insult to come full circle a year later and know full well I told you so.  And some of that sting from my own pride is softened by the fact that I broke free from the petri dish a long time ago.  Patch worked my own identity in the face of valid harsh criticism.  I am who I am and I accept pretty much everyone at face value.  I have saved so much face this year that I’ve become more weary of public and how much it takes to put on the act and show.  For all the revolutionary movements I’ve supported and all the calls to action I’ve heeded nothing much has changed for me.  In America there is this endless cycle of outrage.  Right versus left.  Good versus evil.  Black versus white.  And it spirals into a fractal of endless opinions and vitriol.  Nothing gets defined.  Compromise is completely nonexistent.  Closure is a luxury most cannot afford.  You can’t have closure without getting yourself wrapped up in a bigger drama which limits and belittles the argument in favor of populism or worse.  The tribe of public opinion has spoken.  You have been voted off the Deleuzian Island you were shipwrecked on.  A reality exposition in front of camera phones and a conscripted army of influencers.  America has moved from clique to tribe.  Everything is a little more Mad Max than it used to be.  On the weekends I still stare out my kitchen window early in the morning.  People have so many hidden expectations for me now it exhausts me just thinking about it.  It is pure mental anguish to read into all the projections and there’s no real payoff.  What statement shirt will I see today.  What hidden message or Easter Egg do I have to squint my eyes at to prove I’m fully woke.  It’s what is expected of me to be left alone I guess.  Yes I’m ok.  Yes I have a job.  Yes I keep myself busy.  Yes I keep myself out of trouble.  Yes everything outside of my apartment these days seems to be causing me more trouble than it’s worth.  Yes I’m very sad on the inside.  And yes none of that really matters because when I shut the door and think about the people I care about it’s all worth it.  Because I’m not some experiment in a dish that demands some qualitative proof of my usefulness to science, life and America.  I’m my own science project.  A mixture of phantom, shade and shambling mound.  I figured out a way to hide the scar tissue in broad daylight and let the sun fill the hollows in my face.  I’m the most handsome Frankenstein to walk the Earth.  Maybe more of the Hulk for good measure.  Aren’t they pretty much the same thing anyway?

Universal Studios actually owns the film rights to Frankenstein down to the makeup.  The only Frankenstein movie to ever make it to Japan was because of a guy from Chicago selling the rights to Toho.  He’s also the guy that could have boosted Lenny Bruce’s career.  He instead launched Woody Allen’s rise to stardom.  A parable lies within all of this.  Maybe why we’ll never see a decent standalone Hulk movie inside the MCU.  Maybe I’ll just read the comics instead and let it play out in my own head.  There’s a lot of bullshit that I don’t ever want to be part of.  A lot of soul sucking corporate tactics that don’t honor the actual art form.  And there’s the reality that money, jobs, and careers make the world go round.  I work at a non profit.  I make a non profit salary.  I’ve lived being made to feel like I’m inferior to money.  I’ve learned how to budget myself a return to New York every two months.  Someone at work asked if I had any gigs there.  I said I quit music because it was threatening my safety.  In truth the last year was really about setting up a perimeter in my life.  A place that was safe enough and anonymous to share some intimacy with another person.  Music didn’t serve that for me anymore.  It hindered my goals.  How I’ve gone about building fences around my garden has been akin to that scene in Frankenstein negotiating with the villagers.  Except in a no holds barred me alone against the court of public opinion sort of way.  Modern day Hulk has evolved into a sort of cultured retaliation against the mobs.  He’s still too similar to the mad scientist story to make poetic cinema out of it all.  Me I live this shit every day.  Hulk in Hell.  Abused in some ways and blessed in others.  People don’t like it when I’m angry.  I guess as they say that’s the trick.  I’m angry all the time.  It’s how I act upon it.  How I sacrifice my incomprehensible rage and tortured feelings out of love.  For me I spent the whole last year doing something about it.  Challenging the infrastructure of all this bullshit and leading by example.  Too much force and you break things.  Too little and they walk all over you.  Lenny Bruce had the entire police department after him for saying what he felt.  Woody Allen succeeded in Hollywood.  How you view the hypocrisy of all that is all in what you accept and what you resist.  Resistance isn’t fun.  And it looks different for everyone.  The most political battle to fight is the personal one.  The right to be and the right to think.  What is the real different between Frankenstein and the Human Ken Doll anyway?  Who owns the rights to me being me?  What gives me the right to have an opinion?  Who I can talk to and who I can love?  What I need to become to be treated as an equal in the public eye?  What people have done to stop me from becoming who I really am?  Why do I even care about having a popularly accepted opinion when no one listens?  Who has room for drama in their life when I only make space for all the love I have for you?  Of all the pieces of my life that I stitched together you are the most important one to me.  Because you are the piece that makes me whole just by being you.  It’s not a missing link it’s been an important foundation to my struggle.  If I keep bumping into you in the dark just remember it’s a love tap.  I don’t mind if you tap back.  Only you though.  Fuck all this other shit. <3 Tim