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joyietalksbooks · 1 year

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Falling Back In Love With Books

Getting Back Into Reading And What It Taught Me

Photo by Cristina Gottardi on Unsplash

Last year, I got back to reading. And it was one of the most significant turning points of my life.

Let me begin at the beginning.

I got my first book, a collection of Aesop’s Fables, at four. I couldn’t read yet, but that was the point. I loved stories, so my parents thought of using stories to get me interested in reading.

And it worked.

At first my mother would read the stories out to me, but as I learned to read, I took over. That was the beginning of my bookish journey. I’d read non-stop, I’d read whatever I could get my hands on. Books were pretty much my entire personality.

But as I grew older, towards my late teens and early twenties, I started to stray away from books.

It was a long, gradual process, which made it hard to notice at first. But slowly, it became more and more obvious that I wasn’t reading as much as I used to. But it didn’t bother me. Because surely there were other things to do in life? So, I took my waning interest in books as an indication that I was now growing up and moving on.

Until last year.

Last year, my brother was leaving for his master’s and I was a bit upset. So, I decided to read a book, to keep myself occupied.

And that turned out to be the single most transformative experience of my life.

The book I picked was The Stranger or The Outsider by Albert Camus. In the book, the main character, Meursault, kills a man and gets the death penalty. When he gets the sentence, Meursault just cannot accept it. He searches for one way, any way to evade it. He considers escaping, dreams about changing the law, hopes the guillotine would malfunction, he simply cannot accept that he’s going to die like that. And as I was reading the book, witnessing his frustration and desperation, inside my head, I heard myself screaming, ‘He gets it! He gets it! Someone finally gets it!’ And I broke down in tears.

A little bit of context here.

When I was about twenty two, after one night’s conversation with my sister, I was suddenly hit by the idea of mortality. The fact that I must die. I was at that age where most healthy people don’t generally feel death approaching. But whether I felt it or not, death indeed was approaching me from the moment I was born and one day it was going to get me. There was nothing I could do to escape. Absolutely nothing.

I remember the next afternoon, my sister was on the phone with her boyfriend and all I could think was, ‘What’s the point? He’s going to die, she’s going to die, if they get married and have children, they’re also going to die. What is the point? Of anything?’

And to make matters worse, around that time I saw three deaths, all untimely.

Ever since, my life has never been the same.

It’s a bit taxing to live while constantly thinking about death. But what’s even worse is the isolation it brings along.

I have never been able to make anyone understand this feeling of dread. Whenever I try (and I don’t try a lot because I don’t want others to feel this way), the response I get is, ‘Yes of course we’re all going to die, we know that.’ And they’re right, I did know, even before that night. But it was just a piece of information in the back of my mind. But now this little piece of information had come alive and was taking over my life.

And no-one understood.

Until I read that book.

You see, the book didn’t give me a solution to my problem, it didn’t find me an escape from death. No. But it did something important.

It told me that I was not alone.

The dread I was feeling was not just mine, there was someone who had felt it before me. I was no longer isolated in my suffering.

It was like James Baldwin said:

“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, who had ever been alive.”

Before writing this story, I actually asked ChatGPT to write a blog post on the importance of reading books. And it did write me one. There it talked about how reading helps develop language skills, expands knowledge, develops cognitive abilities etc. And all those points are absolutely valid, but none of that is the ‘why’ behind my love for books. No.

The reason I love books is because they’re my biggest connection to the human experience as a whole.

You see, we humans are forever trapped inside our own heads, in that sense we’re pretty isolated. We can never really see another person’s thoughts firsthand. But books, they offer us a glimpse. Every book is a peek inside the writer’s head. Because books are outbursts of the writer’s deeper thoughts. Like Oscar Wilde wrote in The Picture of Dorian Gray:

“Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.”

The more you read a writer’s works, the more obvious it becomes. Agatha Christie often said that every criminal has a pattern they can’t escape from, and so do writers. Every writer has something they write about again and again. Take Agatha Christie herself, she writes a type of stories, very different from what Fyodor Dostoevsky writes, and Jane Austen writes another type of stories that’s different from both of them. Why? Simply because they were all different people with very different life experiences.

Books are like a catalogue that showcases the wide span of the human experience.

Now, not all of these experiences are going to be relatable to us. I don’t particularly find anything relatable in Jane Austen’s works. But that’s also part of the fun. To experience the thoughts of others, thoughts we’ll never explore on our own. And as we do, we realise that different as our thoughts might be, human emotions are still pretty universal.

Isn’t it crazy, the consolation I couldn’t find from the people around me, my family, friends, I finally found from a person from another continent who died long before I was even born? He lived a different life, was a different person altogether, there’s absolutely no similarity between him and me. And, yet, it was him I felt understood by. And it alleviated my pain of suffering alone.

And that’s what makes books so special to me. They said to me, ‘We see you, we understand you,’ when I needed it the most.

Whenever I walk into a room and see a book, I feel an immediate sense of relief washing over me. For the longest time I didn’t understand why, but now I do.

It’s because all my life, it has been books who offered me emotional comfort and safety. Books accepted me, guided me, they pretty much made me. If I’ve ever felt at home, it’s in the pages of the books I’ve read.

But sometimes we don’t understand just how important something is to us until we have to live without it. I did that, I lived a life without books, and in a way I’m glad I did. Because if I hadn’t, I’d probably never figure out what books mean to me. So, now that I’ve found my way back to books, I’m never going to stray away ever again.

What about you? Do you love books? Why do you love books? Don’t forget to let me know.

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#books and reading #book blog #bookblr #joyietalksbooks newsletter

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woeddbeanna · 2 years

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Correction. Obviously, the fundamental factor for my liking for the character is not only the mastery of the violin, but also the wearing of a mask by this character.

#Tamlin I'm looking at you #And at you Eric too #absolutely suddenly I remembered about Baldwin #my poor boys with an exceptionally bad fate #acotar #tamlin #sjm books #eric the phantom #the phantom of the opera #baldwin iv #kingdom of heaven #books & libraries

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apinchofm · 3 years

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Miriam and Hamish bonding? Please? 😄

Alternative title: Hamish and Miriam's fun Edinburgh weekend!

"Dr Shephard. Pleasure to see you." Hamish stood outside of the old lodge as Miriam exited her car.

"Hamish." She greeted in kind.

She walked in, finding she liked the ornate way he'd decorated the lodge.

"Here you are." Miriam almost scrunched her nose in disgust. But she found the wine to smell sweeter than the wines Matthew drank.

"I remembered from the last party Baldwin threw, you hate Bordeaux."

Miriam arched an eyebrow surprised, "Thank you."

....

"Why don't you come up here more? I'm always telling Matthew to bring you?" Hamish asked as they drove out to the hunting fields.

"You do?" Miriam asked, surprised. She'd always been distant from him.

"I don't trust daemons very well." Miriam said.

"Well, hopefully I can change your-"

"Stop." She ordered suddenly. Hamish got out his binoculars, and saw the large stag up on the hill.

Her nose flared and she left the Land Rover, speeding after the stag. She was fast, faster than Matthew even.

When she returned, she looked happier and satisfied.

"Impressive." Hamish complimented, "Not a hair out of place."

"Old technique my father taught me." Miriam shrugged, "Hunting doesn't always have to be messy."

....

"Why don't you like me?" Hamish asked as Miriam lined up her shot on the pool table.

"I don't trust daemons. I find you many of you strange, mad and untrustworthy." Miriam said bluntly.

"Much could be said of vampires." Hamish pointed out and Miriam looked up at him with a smirk. She stood up and leaned on the pool stick.

"Touché."

"How many daemons have you met? Aside from me? I mean, I wasn't nervous around Matthew, despite other daemons telling me all sorts about vampires craving daemon blood." Hamish asked curiously.

"When I was younger, daemons helped stir up hatred against my people, allowing the Romans to invade. My father was killed in the war." Miriam said, "I've met enough to know that you are more dangerous than the Congregation gives you credit for."

"I'm very sorry." Hamish said sincerely, "But perhaps I can change your mind about us? I promise not to stir up any angry mobs."

"What did you have in mind?"

....

They went into Edinburgh, going straight to George Street.

"Shopping?"

"You shop for me, I shop for you." Hamish said. Miriam arched an eyebrow, "We both know you know my measurements."

Miriam smirked and shook his hand, "An hour."

....

They met up in a nearby gastro-pub afterwards, both with multiple bags, from multiple stores.

"You first." Miriam insisted once they were seated and Hamish cautiously opened the bag.

She had bought him a pair of red long socks and a pair of brown, shiny brouges.

"Thank-"

"Don't thank me yet."

"Dr Shephard? Is there a Dr Shephard here?" Someone yelled. Miriam waved to the man carrying a large garment bag.

"Here you are." She tipped him generously for getting it done so quickly.

A three piece suit made of olive green tweed and red piping, to match the brown brouges and red socks she had bought.

Hamish laughed happily as he unzipped it, "Oh that is a beauty. An absolute beauty."

Miriam pulled out of one bag, a pair of black vinyl boots, "Cute. I love them."

"I think you'll really like the clothes."

She smiled as she opened the biggest bag. It was a coat. A beautiful black coat decorated with gold thread.

"Its beautiful. Thank you."

"Our madness and creativity can be helpful after all." Hamish smirked.

....

"He's cute." Miriam said of the man Hamish was occasionally staring at and who was staring back.

"Professor."

"How do you know?" Hamish said.

"Excuse me?" Miriam stopped the man, and beckoned him over. Hamish blushed profusely and buried his head in his hands.

"My friend here thinks you're cute." Miriam said and the man blushed as well.

"Oh? Thank you, that's lovely. I think he's good looking too." He said and Hamish looked up, surprised, "I like your suit."

"Really? Um, I'm..." Hamish opened and closed his mouth but no sound came out.

"His name is Hamish. I'm Miriam. Sit with us." She ordered with a smile.

"He gave me his number." Hamish said.

"See? I like seeing people happy, occasionally." She said.

"What about you?" Hamish asked. He knew about her husband, that he'd been dead for a long, long time.

Miriam gave him a small smile and shook her head.

....

Hamish came down to Oxford, three weeks later with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine.

"Oh for me." Matthew smiled, almost taking the wine, "Thank you Hamish."

"No, for Miriam." Hamish said, walking past him and over to Miriam.

"Thank you!" She happily accepted the flowers and wine, "How'd it go?"

Hamish simply smiled knowingly and Miriam slapped him on the shoulder playfully.

"Come on, back to mine. I want all the details." Miriam grabbed her coat and bag, linking arms with Hamish. They said a brief goodbye to Matthew who stood very confused by the fact his two best friends had left him.

#a discovery of witches #hamish osborne #miriam shephard #requested imagine #matthew clairmont #all souls trilogy #adow fic

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saucerfulofsins · 3 years

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though i hate to not choose based on player number......these are good questions and i want to know your answers to 11 and 15

You are valid, player numbers are great, I suppose we need to convince some good players to start wearing 11 and 15...

11. 3 books that you would recommend everyone to read

The modern edition:

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. I love this book. I have seen some criticism from people doing classical studies, I think because it doesn't stick entirely to the Iliad, but... I don't care. To me, it is a very powerful retelling of the story of Patroclus and Achilles. I love the language used, I adore the way the story is told--everything is so careful and so poetic. Absolutely one of my favourite books ever. Buy a large pack of tissues too, though!

The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje. This is about the Canadian nurse Hana who cares for a badly burnt soldier in WWII, and slowly more people trickle into the abandoned mansion where they all live together; Kip, an Indian bomb defuser, and Caravaggio, a friend of Hana's father. They all have their own stories, and they try to put together the identity of the patient. I began reading this book over 10 years ago, and for some reason I never quite got through it. I'd pick it up, then stop again, and before last summer I'd had a bookmark stuck in the same place for at least 5 years. I decided to give it another try, and finished it in a few weeks time. It definitely required me to be in a special headspace, but again, the descriptions are poetic and almost magical and I very much loved the experience of reading it as well as the plot and the language themselves.

The Falls of the Wyona by David Brendan Hopes. I wasn't sure which book to put in third place, and I'm still not sure whether it deserves to be here. It is a story told from the perspective of a teenager right after WWII. It focuses on male friendship, but also describes a straight guy's perspective on two of his close friends falling in love with each other. Again, it is very poetic, the imagery is very vivid, and I felt like I could smell the water and the pine trees. The major issue I have with this book is that its ending is rough and includes queer death in a way that is incomparable to The Song of Achilles. It made me feel bad afterwards and I haven't actually re-read the book. I remember most of it fondly, but the ending left me angry and upset. I just... I don't know. I don't know.

15. 3 quotes that have a special place in your life

I am the master of my fate I am the captain of my soul NOT because of Tyler Seguin's tattoo lmfao. They're the final two lines of William Ernest Henley's poem Invictus. I'd known it for a long time, read it endlessly on bad depression nights, and then I ended up injured in an accident that suddenly transformed the line "It matters not how strait the gate" to also read "It matters not how strait the gait". I got these specific lines tattooed on my wrists, not so much because what was behind me, but as a reminder to look forward and keep going my own way, to remind myself I do have influence on my own life, no matter how shit the circumstances are.

Don’t you know when you have made a friend? We can wait another hour if you like. We can become friends then. Or we can wait until closing time. We can become friends then. Or we can wait until tomorrow, only that means you must come in here tomorrow and perhaps you have something else to do. Tell me, what is this thing about time? Why is it better to be late than early? People are always saying we must wait, we must wait. What are they waiting for? One of James Baldwin's characters says this in Giovanni's Room. I think about it a lot--I don't have many friends and I want them, but then, what constitutes a friend, what makes a friendship? I think it is easier online to not wait, but why do we impose that time on ourselves in real-life relationships?

Then he touched my side and locked my heart so softly that I hardly felt the key. This is an old quote. The original is from the first part of the Old French Roman de la Rose written c. 1230-1235 by Guillaume de Lorris: "lors la me toucha au costé / et ferma mon cuer si souef / qu'a grant poine senti la clef." To me, this feels like peak romance, it is... it is so soft, and amazing, and I tried to keep them out of this but honestly I can't, this just sounds like 1988 standing beside each other and not realizing they're in love because it wasn't falling hard or fast, it was just them locking into place.

#SORRY FOR THE LENGTH lol #long post #ask meme #alex #jordan-love #ty for asking!!!! these were fun to do

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dragonrajafanfiction · 4 years

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Serial Killers

The day of mobilization was unseasonably warm and bright. All the members of the execution department that were chosen to participate in the effort and passed the training gathered before a massive private jet off campus. It wasn’t just any jet. It was a jumbo ‘Beluga’ style aircraft, the type of plane that could house a plane inside its massive cargo hold.

It was an impressive sight but also a comical one, with its portly silhouette undercutting the awe of its humongous size. It looked like a plane that needed to go on a diet.

Grant Baldwin of the Executive Department stood in front of the line of students and read out rollcall. Every student shouted present when their name was called.

Brian’s heart quivered inside his chest as he came to the realization that this was it. There was no going back. He had made his decision to give his all to the mission. He’d said goodbye to Ru’Yi, he’d let go of his fascination with her father. When his name was called, he shouted out strong, “Present!”

The rollcall continued and he let out a breath. He hoped Ru’Yi wouldn’t cry if he never came back. It would be hard. A mission like this didn’t usually get follow up to next of kin. Childhood friends had no chance. He said a silent prayer to himself that she would be able to move on even without knowing what happened.

“Chu Meixiu!”

“Present!”

Brian’s eyes went wide and stayed that way. His gaze shifted without moving his head to the short female figure standing at the end of the row.

“We’ll be referring to this project as ‘Project Skyfall’ from now on. Grab your bags and line up orderly to board. We leave now.” Baldwin tucked the clipboard under his arm and walked away, avoiding Brian’s angry glare.

What was she doing here? Why was she here? Didn’t he say she wasn’t recruited?

As they lined up, on the tall stairwell, Brian tried to turn to look but Ru’Yi was hidden in the back. There had to be some mistake. They said that they didn’t clear her for this mission. They changed their minds? Were they crazy? She wasn’t at any of the training!

At the top of the stairs, Brian looked for Mr. Baldwin but he was standing in the cockpit talking to the pilot. Brian stared at him, trying to catch his attention, but was pushed from behind and urged to move by an impatient student.

The plane was massive but the cargo area took up most of the room. The passenger area was just like any other plane with rows of seats next to windows. Brian took his assigned seat and watched as Ru’Yi walked into the plane wearing the Executive Department uniform. It fit her well, her tie perfectly set about her neck like she’d been doing this for years.

As soon as she saw him, guilt and embarrassment filled her face. Brian knew how hard he was glaring. What in the hell was she thinking? She had no idea what she was getting into!

Another student in dark glasses sat next to him. “Dude, chill.” He said after one look, blowing a bubble of gum.

“What do you mean chill?” He hissed back. “She’s not supposed to be here!”

He turned to him and pulled down his dark glasses revealing a mocking brown eyed gaze. “Listen to you talk. She’s S-ranked. If anyone’s supposed to be here, it’s her.”

Brian pressed his lips together firmly unable to argue with that. He turned and stared at the back of the seat.

“She’s got you all shook up. I never thought I’d see the day.” He chuckled.

“This isn’t a joke. She’s not trained.”

The other young man shrugged his shoulders and stared at the onflight entertainment screen.

Despite Brian’s dismay at having his feelings out in the open, he couldn’t calm down. He leaned against the window and pretended to try to fall asleep.

The plane taxied down the runway, gunned its massive engines and took off towards the sky. Once they were at cruising altitude. Mr. Baldwin stood up in front of the group. “We’ll be landing on an Aircraft carrier in the middle of the Atlantic, 370 North west of St. Helena. There’s nothing out there but water and a massive storm system that is growing by the day.”

This Aircraft Carrier was commissioned by the West African Executive Department on the condition of absolute secrecy. You’ve all sworn to confidentiality. As far as you’re concerned, no matter what happens, this was a vacation. Anyone who is caught sending out any information on this mission will be immediately expelled. None of your names will go on record as part of this operation. You will be the unsung heroes of Cassell.”

A murmur went through the group. “I don’t owe any of you an explanation. However… because I understand you might have questions I’ll give you the one I can give.”

“Anjou died twenty years ago. Despite all his contributions to the secret society, people have already started to forget his legacy and his enemies have started to covet his secrets. As of today, only the select members of the executive West Africa Branch know of this mission. The awakening of a Dragon has not occurred for over twenty years and this may well be the last one. Everyone who’s ever wanted to be a dragonslayer will want to be on this mission. We’ve selected you, not only because you are the best, but you are the most loyal and experienced and proven to be discreet with information.”

Mr. Baldwin scanned the group who were now silent. “Let’s bring the era of dragons to a quiet ignominious end.”

With that statement, Mr. Baldwin turned and pushed away the curtain separating his section of the aircraft from theirs.

Brian could take it no longer. He stood up. He roughly crossed over his protesting seatmate and walked back to Ru’Yi’s seat. “Who signed you up? Was it Maranis? Fingel?”

She looked up at him with an owlish expression. “No one signed me up. I volunteered!”

Brian’s jaw dropped. “You wanna explain? What happened to ‘not wanting to kill anyone’? Not wanting to be a dragonslayer? All this stuff you told me before?”

Ru’Yi’s shoulders lifted and she leaned away from him. “I changed my mind.”

“Why?” He asked, incredulous.

Ru’Yi twined her fingers, meek and embarrassed. “I thought about what you said. That whole conversation we had. And I couldn’t just… stay behind any more.”

“What I said? Nothing about what I said was encouraging you to volunteer! If anything, I was happy you weren’t going!”

“But you told me the truth! You were honest with me!” Ru’Yi’s eyes grew dimmer. “Unlike my parents.”

Brian froze.

“Everyone here really respects my mom and dad. But the truth is, I’ve only known my mom as a mom and my dad as a tour boat operator. These people that slay dragons and fight to the death… they might as well be a fairy tale. What really got to me was… when you said my Dad wasn’t like the other dragonslayers you’d met. You were looking to me for answers to questions I didn’t even know were there. I felt like you knew my Dad more than I did!”

“You came here for such a… emotional reason? You could die and then where would that leave your parents?”

“I know.” She looked up at him, pleading. “It’s just… this is my last chance to understand them. I need to understand them.”

“Really? That’s it…?” Brian shook his head in dismay. “Alright.” He ran his hand through his hair and went back to his seat.

Ru’Yi sat back in her chair and let out a breath, suddenly aware of the tense awkwardness of the room. She gave her seatmate an apologetic look.

He gave her two thumbs up, his eyes twinkling behind a mop of overlong bangs that hung over his eyes like a sheep dog. “You did great standing up to him, honey! Did you see the look on his face?”

“Doesn’t feel great…” She murmured.

“Don’t take it so personal. He’s always been a bit of a jerk.”

“No he hasn’t.”

Her certainty shocked the man. “He hasn’t?”

“No. He wasn’t always like this.” Ru’Yi thought that maybe if she went on this mission she might understand him a bit more too.

“I didn’t realize you two went that far back.” The young man rubbed his chin. Then he laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll all do our best to make sure you come home safe and sound.”

The flight was long and uncomfortable and mostly silent. Executive Department members were supposed to be the highest trained of the force of Dragonslayers, but looking at this group, they mostly slept, read, or stared out the windows listening to earbuds. Despite their crisp and disciplined uniforms, they looked at the moment like a bunch of cats lazing in the sun.

She poked her seatmate, “Can I ask you something?”

“Huh? Oh sure? What’s up. The name’s Rodney Samuelson by the way.”

”Thanks Rodney… um… how long have you been doing this?”

“This, as in Exec stuff? This is my fourth year. I graduate next semester. And then I’ll get placed as an agent somewhere in the world! Hopefully somewhere warm!”

“Oh… so you’ll be doing more of this after graduation…” Ru’Yi said thoughtfully.

“Yep. The threat of dragons doesn’t end with dragons unfortunately. Until today, almost everything I dealt with had to do with other hybrids.”

Ru’Yi immediately felt a chill. “Unstable hybrids?”

“Yep.” Rodney’s expression softened but he didn’t mince words. “You’re thinking of that blind guy right? People like him? That's a normal mission. Didn’t Brian tell you this?”

“No, but I probably should have known.” She sat back.

“Brian’s very good at those missions.” Rodney lowered his voice. “We have authorization to use deadly force against them. But for him, authorization is almost like a command. If he can kill them, he will.”

“Does he enjoy it?” Ru’Yi asked numbly.

Rodney rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t say enjoy it. He’s just not affected by it. Violence doesn’t bother him like it does some people. He’s good at his job, but he’s one step away from psycho if that’s what you mean. Hate to burst your bubble.” Rodney grimaced.

“You’re fine.” She shook her head, but her expression was withdrawn.

“You don’t look okay.”

“I just remembered something he said to me. He actually did try to warn me about that.” Ru’Yi thought back to their first meeting. He’d said that if he hadn’t joined the Executive Department he would have been a serial killer. She’d thought he was making a crude joke.

“Wow…” Rodney’s jaw dropped. “I guess things are more complicated than they seem on the surface.”

Ru’Yi nodded. She thought back to her father who had seemed so kind and gentle, compassionate and caring. Her mother who would work so hard so that the genetically disadvantaged hybrid could have a life. That idyllic view in her mind suddenly was stained a shade of red.

The light in her eyes grew even dimmer.

#Dragon Raja #Fanfic #Class of 2032

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1921designs · 3 years

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Smuggler

“Then what are you complaining about?”

“About hypocrisy. About lies. About misrepresentation. About that smuggler’s behavior to which you drive the uranist.”

—André Gide, Corydon, Fourth Dialogue

I REMEMBER MY first kiss with absolute clarity. I was reading on a black chaise longue, upholstered with shiny velour, and it was right after dinner, the hour of freedom before I was obliged to begin my homework. I was sixteen.

It must have been early autumn or late spring, because I know I was in school at the time, and the sun was still out. I was shocked and thrilled by it, and reading that passage, from a novel by Hermann Hesse, made the book feel intensely real, fusing Hesse’s imaginary world with the physical object I was holding in my hands. I looked down at it, and back at the words on the page, and then around the room, which was empty, and I felt a keen and deep sense of discovery and shame. Something new had entered my life, undetected by anyone else, delivered safely and surreptitiously to me alone. To borrow an idea from André Gide, I had become a smuggler.

It wasn’t, of course, the first kiss I had encountered in a book. But this was the first kiss between two boys, characters in Beneath the Wheel, a short, sad novel about a sensitive student who gains admission to an elite school but then fails, quickly and inexorably, after he becomes entwined in friendship with a reckless, poetic classmate. I was stunned by their encounter—which most readers, and almost certainly Hesse himself, would have assigned to that liminal stage of adolescence before boys turn definitively to heterosexual interests. For me, however, it was the first evidence that I wasn’t entirely alone in my own desires. It made my loneliness seem more present to me, more intelligible and tangible, and something that could be named. Even more shocking was the innocence with which Hesse presented it:

An adult witnessing this little scene might have derived a quiet joy from it, from the tenderly inept shyness and the earnestness of these two narrow faces, both of them handsome, promising, boyish yet marked half with childish grace and half with shy yet attractive adolescent defiance.

Certainly no adult I knew would have derived anything like joy from this little scene—far from it. Where I grew up, a decaying Rust Belt city in upstate New York, there was no tradition of schoolboy romance, at least none that had made it to my public high school, where the hierarchies were rigid, the social categories inviolable, the avenues for sexual expression strictly and collectively policed by adults and youth alike. These were the early days of Ronald Reagan’s presidency, when recent gains in visibility and political legitimacy for gay rights were being vigorously countered by a newly resurgent cultural conservatism. The adults in my world, had they witnessed two lonely young boys reach out to each other in passionate friendship, would have thrashed them before committing them to the counsel of religion or psychiatry.

But the discovery of that kiss changed me. Reading, which had seemed a retreat from the world, was suddenly more vital, dangerous, and necessary. If before I had read haphazardly, bouncing from adventure to history to novels and the classics, now I read with focus and determination. For the next five years, I sought to expand and open the tiny fissure that had been created by that kiss. Suddenly, after years of feeling almost entirely disconnected from the sexual world, my reading was finally spurred both by curiosity and Eros.

From an oppressive theological academy in southern Germany, where students struggled to learn Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, to the rooftops of Paris during the final days of Adolf Hitler’s occupation, I sought in books the company of poets and scholars, hoodlums and thieves, tormented aristocrats bouncing around the spas and casinos of Europe, expat Americans slumming it in the City of Light, an introspective Roman emperor lamenting a lost boyfriend, and a middle-aged author at the height of his powers and the brink of exhaustion. These were the worlds, and the men, presented by Gide, Jean Cocteau, Oscar Wilde, Jean Genet, James Baldwin, Thomas Mann, and Robert Musil, to name only those whose writing has lingered with me. Some of these authors were linked by ties of friendship. Some of them were themselves more or less openly homosexual, others ambiguous or fluid in their desires, and others, by all evidence, bisexual or primarily heterosexual. It would be too much to say their work formed a canon of gay literature—but for those who sought such a canon, their work was about all one could find.

And yet, in retrospect, and after rereading many of those books more than thirty years later, I’m astonished by how sad, furtive, and destructive an image of sexuality they presented. Today we have an insipid idea of literature as selfdiscovery, and a reflexive conviction that young people—especially those struggling with identity or prejudice—need role models. But these books contained no role models at all, and they depicted self-discovery as a cataclysmic severance from society. The price of survival, for the self-aware homosexual, was a complete inversion of values, dislocation, wandering, and rebellion. One of the few traditions you were allowed to keep was misogyny. And most of the men represented in these books were not willing to pay the heavy price of rebellion and were, to appropriate Hesse’s phrase, ground beneath the wheel.

The value of these books wasn’t anything wholesome they contained, or any moral instruction they offered. Rather, it was the process of finding them, the thrill of reading them, the way the books themselves, like the men they depicted, detached you from the familiar moral landscape. They gave a name to the palpable, physical loneliness of sexual solitude, but they also greatly increased your intellectual and emotional solitude. Until very recently, the canon of literature for a gay kid was discovered entirely alone, by threads of connection that linked authors from intertwined demimondes. It was smuggling, but also scavenging. There was no Internet, no “customers who bought this item also bought,” no helpful librarians steeped in the discourse of tolerance and diversity, and certainly no one in the adult world who could be trusted to give advice and advance the project of limning this still mostly forbidden body of work.

The pleasure of finding new access to these worlds was almost always punctured by the bleakness of the books themselves. One of the two boys who kissed in that Hesse novel eventually came apart at the seams, lapsed into nervous exhaustion, and then one afternoon, after too much beer, he stumbled or willingly slid into a slow-moving river, where his body was found, like Ophelia’s, floating serenely and beautiful in the chilly waters. Hesse would blame poor Hans’s collapse on the severity of his education and a lamentable disconnection from nature, friendship, and congenial social structures. But surely that kiss, and that friendship with a wayward poet, had something to do with it. As Hans is broken to pieces, he remembers that kiss, a sign that at some level Hesse felt it must be punished.

Hans was relatively lucky, dispensed with chaste, poetic discretion, like the lover in a song cycle by Franz Schubert or Robert Schumann. Other boys who found themselves enmeshed in the milieu of homoerotic desire were raped, bullied, or killed, or lapsed into madness, disease, or criminality. They were disposable or interchangeable, the objects of pederastic fixation or the instrumental playthings of adult characters going through aesthetic, moral, or existential crises. Even the survivors face, at the end of these novels, the bleakest existential crises. Even the survivors face, at the end of these novels, the bleakest of futures: isolation, wandering, and a perverse form of aging in which the loss of youth is never compensated with wisdom.

One doesn’t expect novelists to give us happy endings. But looking back on many of the books I read during my age of smuggling, I’m profoundly disturbed by what I now recognize as their deeply entrenched homophobia. I wonder if it took a toll on me, if what seemed a process of self-liberation was inseparable from infection with the insecurities, evasions, and hypocrisy stamped into gay identity during the painful, formative decades of its nascence in the last century. I wonder how these books will survive, and in what form: historical documents, symptoms of an ugly era, cris de coeur of men (mostly men) who had made it only a few steps along the long road to true equality? Will we condescend to them, and treat their anguish with polite, clinical detachment? I hesitate to say that these books formed me, because that suggests too simplistic a connection between literature and character. But I can’t be the only gay man in middle age who now wonders if what seemed a gift at the time—the discovery of a literature of same-sex desire just respectable enough to circulate without suspicion—was in fact more toxic than a youth of that era could ever have anticipated.

Before the mid-1990s, when the Internet began to collapse the distinction between cities, suburbs, and everywhere else, books were the most reliable access to the larger world, and the only access to books was the bookstore or the library. The physical fact of a book was both a curse and a blessing. It made reading a potentially dangerous act if you were reading the wrong things, and of course one had to physically find and possess the book. But the mere fact of being a book, the fact that someone had published the words and they were circulating in the world, gave a book the presumption of respectability, especially if it was deemed “literature.” There were, of course, bad or dangerous books in the world—and self-appointed guardians who sought to suppress and destroy them—but decent people assumed that these were safely contained within universities.

I borrowed my copy of Hesse’s Beneath the Wheel from the library, so I can’t be sure whether it contained any of the small clues that led to other like-minded books. At least one copy I have found in a used bookstore does have an invaluable signpost on the back cover: “Along with Heinrich Mann’s The Blue Angel, Emil Strauss’s Friend Death, and Robert Musil’s Young Törless, all of which came out in the same period, it belongs to the genre of school novels.” Perhaps that’s what prompted me to read Musil’s far more complicated, beautifully written, and excruciating schoolboy saga. Hans, shy, studious, and trusting, led me to Törless, a bolder, meaner, more dangerous boy.

Other threads of connection came from the introductions, afterwords, footnotes, and the solicitations to buy other books found just inside the back cover. When I first started reading independently of classroom assignments and the usual boy’s diet of Rudyard Kipling, Jonathan Swift, Alexandre Dumas, and Jules Verne—reading without guidance and with all the odd detours and byways of an autodidact—I devised a three-part test for choosing a new volume: first, a book had to have a black or orange spine, then the colors of Penguin Classics, which someone had assured me was a reliable brand; second, I had to be able to finish the book within a few days, lest I waste the opportunity of my weekly visit to the bookstore; and third, I had to be hooked by the narrative within one or two pages. That is certainly what led me, by chance, to Cocteau’s Les Enfants Terribles, a rather slight and pretentious novel of incestuous infatuation, gender slippage, homoerotic desire, and surreal distortions of time and space. I knew nothing of Cocteau but was intrigued by one of his line drawings on the cover, which showed two androgynous teenagers, and a summary which assured it was about a boy named Paul, who worshipped a fellow student.

I still have that copy of Cocteau. In the back there was yet more treasure, a whole page devoted to advertising the novels of Gide (The Immoralist is described as “the story of man’s rebellion against social and sexual conformity”) and another to Genet (The Thief’s Journal is “a voyage of discovery beyond all moral laws; the expression of a philosophy of perverted vice, the working out of an aesthetic degradation”). These little précis were themselves a guide to the coded language—“illicit, corruption, hedonism”—that often, though not infallibly, led to other enticing books. And yet one might follow these little broken twigs and crushed leaves only to end up in the frustrating world of mere decadence, Wagnerian salons, undirected voluptuousness, the enervating eccentricities of Joris-Karl Huysmans or the chaste, coy allusions to vice in Wilde.

Finally, there were a handful of narratives that had successfully transitioned into open and public respectability, even if always slightly tainted by scandal. If the local theater company still performed Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, who could fault a boy for reading The Picture of Dorian Gray?

Conveniently, a 1982 Bantam Classics edition contained both, and also the play Salomé. Wilde’s novel was a skein of brilliant banter stretched over a rather silly, Gothic tale, and the hiding-in-plain-sight of its homoeroticism was deeply unfulfilling. Even then, too scared to openly acknowledge my own feelings, I found Wilde’s obfuscations embarrassing. More powerful than anything in the highly contrived and overwrought games of Dorian was a passing moment in Salomé when the Page of Herodias obliquely confesses his love for the Young Syrian, who has committed suicide in disgust at Salomé’s licentious display. “He has killed himself,” the boy laments, “the man who was my friend! I gave him a little box of perfumes and earrings wrought in silver, and now he has killed himself.” It was these moments that slipped through, sudden intimations of honest feeling, which made plowing through Wilde’s self-indulgence worth the effort.

Then there was the most holy and terrifying of all the publicly respectable representations of homosexual desire, Mann’s Death in Venice, which might even be found in one’s parents’ library, the danger of its sexuality safely ossified inside the imposing façade of its reputation. A boy who read Death in Venice wasn’t slavering over a beautiful Polish adolescent in a sailor’s suit, he was climbing a mountain of sorts, proving his devotion to culture.

But a boy who read Death in Venicewas receiving a very strange moral and sentimental education. Great love was somehow linked to intellectual crisis, a symptom of mental exhaustion. It was entirely inward and unrequited, and it was likely triggered by some dislocation of the self from familiar surroundings, to travel, new sights and smells, and hot climates. It was unsettling and isolating, and drove one to humiliating vanities and abject voyeurism. Like so much of what one found in Wilde (perfumed and swaddled in cant), Gide (transplanted to the colonial realms of North Africa, where bourgeois morality was suspended), or Genet (floating freely in the postwar wreckage and flotsam of values, ideals, and norms), Death in Venice also required a young reader to locate himself somewhere on the inexorable axis of pederastic desire.

In retrospect I understand that this fixation on older men who suddenly have their worlds shattered by the brilliant beauty of a young man or adolescent was an intentional, even ironic repurposing of the classical approbation of Platonic pederasty. It allowed the “uranist”—to use the pejorative Victorian term for a homosexual—to broach, tentatively and under the cover of a venerable and respected literary tradition, the broader subject of same-sex desire. While for some, especially Gide, pederasty was the ideal, for others it may have been a gateway to discussing desire among men of relatively equal age and status, what we now think of as being gay. But as an eighteen-year-old reader, I had no interest in being on the receiving end of the attentions of older men; and as a middle-aged man, no interest in children.

The dynamics of the pederastic dyad—like so many narratives of colonialism —also meant that in most cases the boy was silent, seemingly without an intellectual or moral life. He was pure object, pure receptivity, unprotesting, perfect and perfectly silent in his beauty. When Benjamin Britten composed his last opera, based on Mann’s novella, the youth is portrayed by a dancer, voiceless in a world of singing, present only as an ideal body moving in space. In Gide’s Immoralist, the boys of Algeria (and Italy and France) are interchangeable, lost in the torrents of monologue from the narrator, Michel, who wants us to believe that they are mere instruments in his long, agonizing process of self-discovery and liberation. In Genet’s Funeral Rites, a frequently pornographic novel of sexual violence among the partisans and collaborators of Paris during the liberation, the narrator/author even attempts to make a virtue of the interchangeability of his young objects of desire: “The characters in my books all resemble each other,” he says. He’s right, and he amplifies their sameness by suppressing or eliding their personalities, dropping identifying names or pronouns as he shifts between their individual stories, often reducing them to anonymous body parts.

By reducing boys and young men to ciphers, the narrative space becomes open for untrammeled displays of solipsism, narcissism, self-pity, and of course self-justification. These books, written over a period of decades, by authors of vastly different temperaments and sexualities, are surprisingly alike in this claustrophobia of desire and subjugation of the other. Indeed, the psychological violence done to the male object of desire is often worse in authors who didn’t manifest any particular personal interest in same-sex desire. For example, in Musil’s Confusions of Young Törless, a gentle and slightly effeminate boy named Basini becomes a tool for the social, intellectual, and emotional advancement of three classmates who are all, presumably, destined to get married and lead entirely heterosexual lives. One student uses Basini to learn how to exercise power and manipulate people in preparation for a life of public accomplishment; another tortures him to test his confused spiritual theories, a stew of supposedly Eastern mysticism; and Törless turns to him, and turns on him, simply to feel something, to sense his presence and power in the world, to add to the stockroom of his mind and soul.

We are led to believe that this last form of manipulation is, in its effect on poor Basini, the cruelest. Later in the book, when Musil offers us the classic irony of the bildungsroman—the guarantee that everything that has happened was just a phase, a way station on the path of authorial evolution—he explains why Törless “never felt remorse” for what he did to Basini:

For the only real interest [that “aesthetically inclined intellectuals” like the older Törless] feel is concentrated on the growth of their own soul, or personality, or whatever one may call the thing within us that every now and then increases by the addition of some idea picked up between the lines of a book, or which speaks to us in the silent language of a painting[,] the thing that every now and then awakens when some solitary, wayward tune floats past us and away, away into the distance, whence with alien movements tugs at the thin scarlet thread of our blood —the thing that is never there when we are writing minutes, building machines, going to the circus, or following any of the hundreds of other similar occupations.

The conquest of beautiful boys, whether a hallowed tradition of all-male schools or the vestigial remnant of classical poetry, is simply another way to add to one’s fund of poetic and emotional knowledge, like going to the symphony. Today we might be blunter: to refine his aesthetic sensibility, Törless participated in the rape, torture, humiliation, and emotional abuse of a gay kid.

And he did it in a confined space. It is a recurring theme (and perhaps cliché) of many of these novels that homoerotic desire must be bounded within narrow spaces, dark rooms, private attics, as if the breach in conventional morality opened by same-sex desire demands careful, diligent, and architectural containment. The boys who beat and sodomize Basini do it in a secret space in the attic above their prep school. Throughout much of Cocteau’s Les Enfants Terribles, two siblings inhabit a darkly enchanted room, bickering and berating each other as they attempt to displace unrequited or forbidden desires onto acceptable alternatives. Cocteau helpfully gives us a sketch of this room—a few wispy lines that suggest something that Henri Matisse might have painted—with two beds, parallel to each other, as if in a hospital ward. Sickness, of course, is ever-present throughout almost all of these novels as well: the cholera that kills Aschenbach in Death in Venice, the tuberculosis which Michel overcomes and to which his hapless wife succumbs in The Immoralist, and the pallor, ennui, listlessness, and fevers of Cocteau. James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, a later, more deeply ambivalent contribution to this canon of illness and enclosure, takes its name from the cramped, cluttered chambre de bonne that contains this desire, with the narrator keenly aware that if what happens there—a passionate relationship between a young American man in Paris and his Italian boyfriend— escapes that space, the world of possibilities for gay men would explode. But floods of booze, perhaps alcoholism, and an almost suicidal emotional frailty haunt this space, too.

Often it is the author’s relation to these dark spaces that gives us our only reliable sense of how he envisioned the historical trajectory of being gay. In Cocteau’s novel, the room becomes a ship, or a portal, transporting the youth Cocteau’s novel, the room becomes a ship, or a portal, transporting the youth into the larger world of adult desires. The lines are fluid, but there is a possibility of connection between the perfervid world of contained sexuality and the larger universe of sanctioned desires. In Baldwin, the young Italian proposes the two men keep their room as a space apart, a refuge for secret assignations, even as his American lover prepares to reunite with his fiancée and return to a life of normative sexuality. They could continue their relationship privately, on the side, a quiet compromise between two sexual realms. But Musil’s attic, essentially a torture chamber, is a much more desperate space, a permanent ghetto for illicit desire.

Even those among these books that were self-consciously written to advance the cause of gay men, to make their anguish more comprehensible to a reflexively hostile straight audience, leave almost no room—no space—for many openly gay readers. The parallels with colonial discourse are troubling: the colonized “other,” the homosexual making his appeal to straight society, must in turn pass on the violence and colonize and suppress yet weaker or more marginal figures on the spectrum of sexuality. Thus in the last of Gide’s daring dialogues in defense of homosexuality, first published piecemeal, then together commercially as Corydon in 1924—a tedious book full of pseudoscience and speculative extensions of Darwinian theory—the narrator contemptuously dismisses the unmanly homosexual: “If you please, we’ll leave the inverts aside for now. The trouble is that ill-informed people confuse them with normal homosexuals. And you understand, I hope, what I mean by ‘inverts.’ After all, heterosexuality too includes certain degenerates, people who are sick and obsessed.”

Along with the effeminate, the old and the aging are also beneath contempt. The casual scorn in Mann’s novella for an older man whom Aschenbach encounters on his passage to Venice is almost as horrifying as the sexual abuse and mental torture of young Basini in Musil’s novel. Among gay men, Mann’s painted clown is one of the most unsettling figures in literature, a “young-old man” whom Mann calls a “repulsive sight.” He apes the manners and dress of youth but has false teeth and bad makeup, luridly colored clothing, and a rakish hat, and is desperately trying to run with a younger crowd of men: “He was an old man, beyond a doubt, with wrinkles and crow’s feet round eyes and mouth; the dull carmine of the cheeks was rouge, the brown hair a wig.” Mann’s writing rises to a suspiciously incandescent brilliance in his descriptions of this supposedly loathsome figure. For reasons entirely unnecessary to the plot or development of his central characters, Baldwin resurrects Mann’s grotesquerie, in a phantasmagorical scene that describes an encounter between his young

American protagonist and a nameless old “queen” who approaches him in a bar:

The face was white and thoroughly bloodless with some kind of foundation cream; it stank of powder and a gardenia-like perfume. The shirt, open coquettishly to the navel, revealed a hairless chest and a silver crucifix; the shirt was covered with paper-thin wafers, red and green and orange and yellow and blue, which stormed in the light and made one feel that the mummy might, at any moment, disappear in flame.

This is the future to which the narrator—and by extension the reader if he is a gay man—is condemned. Unless, of course, he succumbs to disease or addiction. At best there is a retreat from society, perhaps to someplace where the economic differential between the Western pederast and the colonized boy makes an endless string of anonymous liaisons economically feasible. Violent death is the worst of the escapes. Not content with merely parodying older gay men, Baldwin must also murder them. In a scene that does gratuitous violence to the basic voice and continuity of the book, the narrator imagines in intimate detail events he has not actually witnessed: the murder of a flamboyant bar owner who sexually harasses and extorts the young Giovanni (by this point betrayed, abandoned, and reduced to what is, in effect, prostitution). The murder happens behind closed doors, safely contained in a room filled with “silks, colors, perfumes.”

If I remember with absolute clarity the first same-sex kiss I encountered in literature, I don’t remember very well when my interest in specifically homoerotic narrative began to wane. But again, thanks to the physicality of the book, I have an archaeology more reliable than memory. As a young reader, I was in the habit of writing the date when I finished a book on the inside front cover, and so I know that sometime shortly before I turned twenty-one, my passion for dark tales of unrequited desire, sexual manipulation, and destructive Nietzschean paroxysms of self-transcendence peaked, then flagged. That was also the same time that I came out to friends and family, which was prompted by the complete loss of hope that a long and unrequited love for a classmate might be returned. Logic suggests that these events were related, that the collapse of romantic illusions and the subsequent initiation of an actual erotic life with real, living people dulled the allure of Wilde, Gide, Mann, and the other authors who were loosely in their various orbits.

were loosely in their various orbits.

It happened this way: For several years I had been drawn to a young man who seemed to me curiously like Hans from Hesse’s novel. Physically, at least, they were alike: “Deep-set, uneasy eyes glowed dimly in his handsome and delicate face; fine wrinkles, signs of troubled thinking, twitched on his forehead, and his thin, emaciated arms and hands hung at his side with the weary gracefulness reminiscent of a figure by Botticelli.” But in every other way my beloved was an invention. I projected onto him an elaborate but entirely imaginary psychology, which I now suspect was cobbled together from bits and pieces of the books I had been reading. He was sad, silent, and doomed, like Hans, but also cold, remote, and severe, like Törless, cruelly beautiful like all the interchangeable sailors and hoodlums in Genet, but also intellectual, suffering, and mystically connected to dark truths from which I was excluded. When I recklessly confessed my love to him—how long I had nurtured it and how complex, beautiful, and poetic it was—he responded not with anger or disgust but impatience: “You can’t put all this on me.”

He was right. It took me only a few days to realize it intellectually, a few weeks to begin accepting it emotionally, and a few years not to feel fear and shame in his presence. He had recognized in an instant that what I had felt for years, rather like Swann for Odette, had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t even love, properly speaking. I can’t claim that it was all clear to me at the time, that I was conscious of any connection between what I had read and the excruciating dead end of my own fantasy life. I make these connections in retrospect. But the realization that I would never be with him because he didn’t in fact exist—not in the way I imagined him—must have soured me on the literature of longing, torment, and convoluted desire. And the challenge and excitement of negotiating a genuine erotic life rendered so much of what I had found in these books painfully dated and irrelevant.

I want to be rigorously honest about my feelings for this literature, whether it distorted my sense of self and even, perhaps, corrupted my imagination. The safe thing to say is that I can’t possibly find an answer to that, not simply because memory is unreliable, but because we never know whether books implant things in us or merely confirm what is already there. In Young Törless, Musil proposes the idea that the great literature of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Friedrich Schiller, and William Shakespeare is essentially a transitional crutch for young minds, a mental prosthesis or substitute identity during the formlessness of adolescence: “These associations originating outside, and these borrowed emotions, carry young people over the dangerously soft spiritual ground of the years in which they need to be of some significance to themselves and nevertheless are still too incomplete to have any real significance.”

It’s important to divorce the question of how these books may have influenced me from the malicious accusations of corruption that have dogged gay fiction from the beginning. In the course of our reading lives, we will devour dozens, perhaps hundreds, of crude, scabrous, violent books, with no discernible impact on our moral constitution. And homosexual writers certainly didn’t invent the general connection between sexuality and illness, or the thin line between passion and violence, or sadism and masochism, or the sexual exploitation of the young or defenseless. And the mere mention of same-sex desire is still seen in too many places around the world today as inherently destructive to young minds. Gide’s Corydon decried the illogic of this a century ago: “And if, in spite of advice, invitations, provocations of all kinds, he should manifest a homosexual tendency, you immediately blame his reading or some other influence (and you argue in the same way for an entire nation, an entire people); it has to be an acquired taste, you insist; he must have been taught it; you refuse to admit that he might have invented it all by himself.”

And I want to register an important caveat about the literature of same-sex desire: it is not limited to the books I read, the authors I encountered, or the tropes that now seem to me so sad and destructive. In 1928, E. M. Forster wrote a short story called “Arthur Snatchfold” that wasn’t published until 1972, two years after the author’s death. In it, an older man, Sir Richard Conway, respectable in all ways, visits the country estate of a business acquaintance, where he has a quick, early-morning sexual encounter with a young deliveryman in a field near the house. Later, as Sir Richard chats with his host at their club in London, he learns that the liaison was seen by a policeman, the young man was arrested, and the authorities sent him to prison. To his great relief, Sir Richard also learns that he himself is safe from discovery, that the “other man” was never identified, and despite great pressure on the working-class man to incriminate his upper-class partner, he refused to do so.

“He [the deliveryman] was instantly removed from the court and as he went he shouted back at us—you’ll never credit this—that if he and the old grandfather didn’t mind it why should anyone else,” says Sir Richard’s host, fatuously indignant about the whole affair. Sir Richard, ashamed and sad but trapped in the armor of his social position, does the only thing he can: “Taking a notebook from his pocket, he wrote down the name of his lover, yes, his lover who was going to prison to save him, in order that he might not forget it.” It isn’t a great story, but it is an important moment in the evolution of an idea of loyalty and honor within the emerging category of homosexual identity. I didn’t

discover it until years after it might have done me some good.

Forster’s story is exceptional because only one man is punished, and he is given a voice—and a final, clear, unequivocal protest against the injustice. The other man escapes, but into shame, guilt, and self-recrimination. And yet it is the escapee who takes up the pen and begins to write. We might say of Sir Richard what we often say of our parents as we come to peace with them: he did the best he could. And for all the internalized homophobia of the authors I began reading more than thirty years ago, I would say the same thing. They did the best they could. They certainly did far more than privately inscribe a name in a book. I can’t honestly say that I would have had even Sir Richard’s limited courage in 1928.

But Forster’s story, which he didn’t dare publish while he was alive, is the exception, not the rule. It is painful to read the bulk of this early canon, and it will only become more and more painful, as gay subcultures dissolve and the bourgeois respectability that so many of these authors abandoned yet craved becomes the norm. In Genet, marriage between two men was the ultimate profanation, one of the strongest inversions of value the author could muster to scandalize his audience and delight his rebellious readers. The image of samesex marriage was purely explosive, a strategy for blasting apart the hypocrisy and pretentions of traditional morality. Today it is becoming commonplace.

I wonder if these books will survive like the literature of abolition, such as Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin—marginal, dated, remembered as important for its earnest, sentimental ambition but also a catalogue of stereotypes. Or if they will be mostly forgotten, like the nineteenth-century literature of aesthetic perversity and decadence that many of these authors so deeply admired. Will Gide and Genet be as obscure to readers as Huysmans and the Comte de Lautréamont (Isidore-Lucien Ducasse)?

I hope not, and not least because they mattered to me, and helped forge a common language of reference among many gay men of my generation. I hope they survive for the many poignant epitaphs they contain, grave markers for the men who were used, abused, and banished from their pages. Let me write them down in my notebook, so I don’t forget their names: Hans, who loved Hermann; Basini, who loved Törless; the Page of Herodias, who loved the Young Syrian; Giovanni, who loved David; and all the rest, unnamed, often with no voice, but not forgotten.

TIM KREIDER

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trek-tracks · 5 years

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Tony-winning actress, writer, and humanitarian Phyllis Newman passed away today.

I worked - almost lived, basically - in Phyllis’ astonishing apartment in the Beresford, which shared a floor with Jerry Seinfeld’s and overlooked Central Park West, for a year in 2009-2010, doing an internship to accompany my MFA thesis at Columbia. The internship was a dream come true - they needed someone with archival experience and a passion for musical theatre to organize half a century of notes, photos, cards, and memorabilia, stuffed into every crack of the two floors. I remember essentially telling everyone else in my year to “back off” - this was mine.

Phyllis was married to the late Adolph Green, of The Revuers (with Judy Holliday) and Comden and Green, for decades. If Green sounds familiar, it’s because of the book to Singin’ in the Rain, and the lyrics/books for shows like On the Town (with its famous tune about the Bronx being up and the Battery down), Wonderful Town, The Will Rogers Follies, On the Twentieth Century, and many more. About the understudy role for Holliday in Bells are Ringing, Phyllis used to joke that it was the only time sleeping with the writer made it harder to get the part. She won the 1962 Tony for her featured actress turn in Comden and Green’s Subways Are For Sleeping as Martha Vail, with her memorable song “I Was a Shoo-In.” Apparently she was, because she beat Barbara Streisand that year.

Phyllis was a regular guest on talk shows, such as the Tonight Show (she told me she was the first woman to guest host it), and game shows like What’s My Line, due to her sparkling wit and sunny personality. She beat breast cancer and wrote a fantastic book about it, called Just in Time. She worked on all sorts of fascinating shows, including a vehicle called The Madwoman of Central Park West. Just about every star from the 1940s-1970s and beyond was her friend; they all sent cards and telegrams, and attended parties at her apartment. And it was my job to organize it all. (She was still giving those when I worked there - if I had known there was going to be a party with Alec Baldwin for The Actors Fund one day, I would have done better than wearing my casual, dusty archivist clothes to work. I think I was more presentable the day Glenn Close showed up.)

I went through hilarious cards from Stephen Sondheim (one, a Peanuts card featuring Snoopy, had “Happy Birthday” crossed out and “Fuck Off!” penciled in its place), and telegrams from Frank Sinatra, and photo after photo after photo of Carson and Comden, Bernstein and Bacall. My favourite thing was a picture of Groucho Marx, signed “To Phyllis - NOT Betty or Adolph.” My biggest shock was an original composition by Leonard Bernstein - in his own writing - possibly never copied, given as a gift to Phyllis and Adolph for their wedding, just sitting in a desk drawer. I almost had a heart attack carrying one of their original wedding photos, taken by Richard Avedon, to Kinko's to make a scan.

“There’s something about working in an apartment that’s suffused in glamour that makes even the most mundane tasks seem magical,” I wrote, back in 2009. “Knowing that probably half the stars of the past 50 years (and probably a larger percentage of theatre-makers) have partied here, worked here, generated ideas here for the classics of the stage makes every ride up in the elevator, every interaction, every rummage through dusty drawers contain some measure of awe…The apartment preserves a time when celebrity had that mid-century golden sheen of class. Its drawers are filled with original memorabilia of the coolest things imaginable, that its occupants haven’t seen in decades.”

“There’s a wonderful telegram, for the opening of Subways Are For Sleeping, or maybe Moonbirds, where a young Stephen Sondheim tells Phyllis that he’s more excited for her than she is. In a way, that’s what I’m doing - going through this world of my dreams that will never exist again; being more excited for Phyllis than she is, because she’s lived it. Though she is clearly super excited when I find things like photos from a forty-year-old production she hasn’t seen since they were taken, or her birth announcement (I love talking with her), she is still busy all the time - the Tony people call, or she’s organizing another evening of exciting benefit performances to fund health care for uninsured female artists. I am making files of Important Things, cataloging lives of wonder, lives more exciting that mine will ever be, with datebooks filled with soirees and names and numbers of modern gods…Maybe the golden veneer that shimmers all around this place will rub off on me one day. It could happen.”

I created file after file, and enormous finding guides of these treasure troves. She once told me that I was more than earning any of the credits Columbia was giving me for the internship. I definitely saw it the other way around - I was getting more out of my time spent in her world than any sort of school credit or monetary remuneration could possibly encompass. I was finding material for the publication of The Comden and Green Songbook. I was scanning photos and sending them to James Lapine for Sondheim on Sondheim, and finding the very best headshots to be approved by her to accompany press releases. I was helping her with her new websites, and her guest-blogging for Playbill, in which she was very kind to me:

“I have never thrown away anything in my entire life. Have you?” she wrote.

“I mean nothing….menus, invitations, notes, tickets, programs, (PLAYBILLS, of course). Clippings, diaries, notebooks, photos by the thousands, lists and more lists, clothes I’ll fit back into when I lose 542 pounds, hats, scarves, multi-colored boas, crayolas, old arrangements from nightclub days….I just stuffed everything into any available opening. But into this madness came a skilled archivist who is changing my life. She comes in four days a week. She has organized and unearthed amid the boas and rhinestones, some pretty interesting memorabilia of two lives whose passion was every aspect of The Arts.”

I was thrilled when she won the inaugural humanitarian Tony, the Isabelle Stevenson Award, for her work with the Phyllis Newman Women’s Health Initiative (or PNWHI - Pin-Wee, she'd say), which sought to provide funds for female actresses and artists who did not have health coverage, due to the precarious nature of the industry. I was enraged when her award was not shown on the Tony broadcast - what, after all, was more important than this?

Most of all, I got to spend time with the woman herself - never as much as I wanted, as her health was not ideal, but she was still a powerhouse. She was brilliant and self-deprecating at the same time. She would pin you with the sharpest look and say something wickedly funny. One day, for the life of me, I had no idea who some person in a picture was (I think it wound up being Andre Gregory, but I hadn’t seen My Dinner With Andre), and she didn’t either. “Sidney will know,” she said. “Oh?” I responded, uncomprehendingly. “I’ll call him, you describe it…Hi, Sidney,” she said, and suddenly, as she explained our predicament and handed the phone to me, I realized that I was on the phone with legendary director Sidney Lumet, a long-time family friend who lived just upstairs, with absolutely no preparation as to how to handle it. I think Phyllis found my reaction very funny; I just lived through it. “Sidney” died in 2011.

She told me to speak up for what I believed in, and to continue to write and follow my passions. She was incredibly supportive of female artists. I hope what I do today continues to honour her.

One day, a life-sized leg made of chocolate, saying “break a leg!” to celebrate her Isabelle Stevenson Tony win, appeared at the apartment. I thought it was a piece of statuary until it started to melt in the sun, and until a fellow staffer in the kitchen took a cleaver to it and handed me the foot to take home.

Never say that Phyllis didn’t let me get a foot in the door.

Working for Phyllis was like a dream. She was a legend, not only for her many, many amazing achievements, but for the era she represented. She was one of the last from that era, having been so young when she married Adolph - whom she always spoke about with so much love it was physically palpable. I was absolutely blessed to spend a moment in time - just in time - with her, and I’m so sorry that she’s gone. She changed my life a lot, and I can only hope that I helped her life a little.

Thank you, Phyllis. Rest in Peace.

#my life #not trek #phyllis newman #i'm sorry you're gone #most of these names will be lost on the truly young people of tumblr

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andyouweremine · 5 years

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So there was a slew of quickly canceled serialized mystery/thrillers in the late 00s/early 2010s and I think I honestly watched and enjoyed all of them? The big sadness of my life was that Traveler was never renewed, but I also watched:

Vanished (2006)

Kidnapped (2006) - which had Dana Delaney and Timothy Hutton???

Day Break (2006) - which had Taye Diggs and Moon Bloodgood and ADAM BALDWIN???

Jericho (2006) - kinda cheating because there was second season? but that was because of fans, not anything else.

My Own Worst Enemy (2008) - WITH CHRISTIAN SLATER

Persons Unknown (2010) - eh, this was one that was actually kinda bad but I did arguably watch it.

The Event (2010)

The last one was Missing (2012) which stared Ashley Judd and SEAN BEAN, who I don’t remember dying?

And it got to the point where I sort of started lumping these all together in this weird genre of “serialized thrillers no one is watching” that will end without answers to the questions they raise.

and it’s fascinating to me because I honestly kind of wonder if people just started making “mystery/thriller” TV without actually caring about what the answers were because it was just gonna get canceled?

Like in the post-2001 TV world, 24 was a huge king, and I really do think that a lot of shows were trying to see if they could pick up on its fanbase and success, without seeing good results. Arguably the most successful of the bunch was Prison Break, which I didn’t mention above because.... it was successful. (Kinda? Prison Break has this weird success to me because it kept ending but then never really going away? Four is the final season but wait no there’s a movie in 2009, but wait no there’s a revival series in 2017, but WAIT NO THERE’S A SIXTH SEASON POSSIBLY COMING???)

And Prison Break is weird because IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A MINI-SERIES.

So like the show that DID NOT have things planned out for seasons (and you can tell) has now become a strange Zombie show that won’t die while the above serialized thrillers all failed SO HARD most of them were canceled after like... two episodes, shifted to Fridays, or postponed until the summer to have their episodes burned off quickly.

I mean, Fox also keeps trying to bring back 24, first by trying to get a movie to work, and then with the limited run 24: Live Another Day in 2014, and 24: Legacy in 2017, the first of which was GOOD BUT MURDERED ONE OF MY FAVEs, and the second of which was... uhm. BAD. And it brought back LONG TIME FAN FAVE TONY ALMEDIA AND IT WAS STILL BAD.

Wheton’s Dollhouse (2009) should probably also be mentioned with the above, but it also randomly got a second season because Fox was like “hey we’ll give it more of a chance than Firefly even though it’s... neither as beloved nor as good?” but they did air it on Fridays in the death slot so???

And that’s just the shows who wanted to hop on the 24 bandwagon. We STILL have shows trying to be LOST, like ABC’s Manafest which is currently on its second season, but there were a LOT of science fiction shows in that 00s era that had limited success. FlashForward immediately comes to mind. Fringe was its own brand of successful, but never really tapped into the cultural phenomenon LOST was.

V (2009) was clearly trying to tap into that market (I mean it STARRED LOST ALUM ELIZABETH MITCHELL and FIREFLY ALUM MORENA BACCARIN), but with limited success. I think Stargate Universe (2010) was absolutely trying to capitalize on it.

AND THEN. MID 2010s, FINALLY WE HAVE THE ABILITY TO STREAM SERIALIZED DRAMAS/THRILLERS consistently and SUDDENLY THERE IS MORE SUCCESS and even shows that should theoretically be canceled are finding homes on streaming services and idk it’s just really fascinating.

By the end of the 2010s we’re seeing huge success with serialized properties, we’re also seeing a sharp uptick in quality because streaming services are asking for 10 episodes not 20, and it finally seems to be catching on that fans want closure and wouldn’t even START half the shows listed at the top of this post because some things just had CANCELED stamped over them before they even aired.

And now today everyone is wondering what is the next Game of Thrones, but I think Game of Thrones did something that none of the huge juggernaughts before it did and just gave its fanbase SUCH a middle finger that I don’t know that anyone WANTS another game of thrones. I think the fanbase is gonna scatter to other fantasy properties but will never unite again as a whole behind something like that until a bunch of smaller properties/series prove that yes, a series like GOT can be ended well.

Lost wasn’t the next 24, and GOT wasn’t the next Lost. Some random show will probably hit it BIG and it’ll be totally different than the huge influences that came before it. Such is life.

interestingly, though, after 15 million seasons, no one is talking about what the next Supernatural is going to be.

#kris watches tv #and has watched a lot of tv #and randomly had thoughts about it this morning

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paladin-lynx · 5 years

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Human SQUIPtober 2019, Day 7: Michael

Human SQUIPtober 2019 Day 7: Michael

Ships Involved: None

Setting: Post-musical AU where the SQUIP somehow returned as a human and was redeemed/rehabilitated by Jeremy (with the help of the rest of the squad), and lives with him having had nowhere else to go. He looks pretty similar to how he looked in Jeremy’s head, and physically he looks to be around college age.

Trigger/Content Warnings: None

Author’s Notes: (Late again, RIP me.) I’m going to be busy the next day or two, so I may not get to cover the prompts for the next few days. Or maybe I will. Who knows? I hope you enjoy this one! Apologies if any of my facts are inaccurate when Squip is rattling off information. I did my best to research. This one was really fun to write!

“Okay okay, um…Oh! When were the first headphones made?”

“1881, technically,” Squip responded without missing a beat, not even looking away from the screen as he guided his character to dodge a fireball. “They were used by telephone operators, but only had one earpiece and weighed over ten pounds. The first headphones that resemble what you know today were made in 1910 by a man named Nathaniel Baldwin. He made them in his kitchen and then sold them to the Navy.”

Michael let out a whistle, although when he looked out of the corner of his eye, Squip could see the slight crease in Michael’s brow from the fact that he had probably thought, yet again, that he could stump Squip. “Damn. So he’s the one I have to thank for my precious set?”

Squip huffed. “I suppose. Although he never patented them, since he considered them trivial.”

“Even though the Navy used them?”

“He patented certain parts of them, but not the way they were assembled. So yes, even though the Navy used them and told him he should get a patent. He may have just been an idiot with a few strokes of good luck.”

Michael laughed, having to pause the game to give himself a moment to recover. Squip couldn’t help breaking into a smile, setting down his controller to wait. He and Michael had become a very unlikely pair, considering all of the grief Squip had caused Michael when he was still in Jeremy’s head. Michael of course had taken a while to warm up to him despite Jeremy’s assurances that Squip had very intently turned over a new leaf, and Squip would have accepted it, albeit dejectedly, if Michael had chosen to avoid him at all costs.

But perhaps it was the fact that Jeremy was spending a lot more time with Christine that had drawn Michael and Squip, who both clung a bit too tightly to his companionship, together and had them warming up more to one another with each passing day.

Nowadays it was common, when Jeremy was off with Christine and Rich was up to only God knew what, for Michael to ask Squip if he wanted to hang out. Michael was usually the one to initiate since Squip didn’t want to impose – sticking to his manners as he tended to – but he had gotten better at every now and then asking Michael if he was free and if he could come over. They usually ended up just playing video games – as Squip seemed to have inherited a slightly tamer version of Jeremy’s obsession – and just chatting. Occasionally they’d watch a movie instead and Michael would wheeze in laughter as Squip felt the need to comment on everything happening on screen. Squip had become pretty at home in Michael’s house, even if it did often have a lingering smell of weed in the air. Michael’s mothers already fussed over him like he was another son, just as they did with the rest of Michael’s friends. It was nice, even if sometimes it was a little flustering.

But no matter what they were doing, the one constant was that Michael would always try to think up random, obscure questions to ask Squip in an attempt to find something Squip didn’t know. Even if he was no longer a supercomputer with extensive databases on everything known to man, Squip had retained a decent amount of his knowledge. Sometimes he needed to take a moment to wrack his brain for a specific fact, but thus far, Michael had yet to flummox him. Although he sometimes wondered if Michael would even know if he didn’t have an answer to one of his more random questions. Squip could make up a decently believable answer and Michael may very well buy it, although he felt that he would want Michael to have his victory should it ever come to pass. Even if Michael proceeded to gloat about it for the next ten years.

Today, they were playing Contra, since Michael as always preferred his older games. They did have their charm. He’d poked fun at Squip as he’d entered the Konami Code to grant them thirty lives, remembering when Jeremy had told him that a SQUIP’s way of syncing with other SQUIPs was with a play on the old cheat code. There had been some banter back and forth about Squip being able to take over Michael’s NES before they’d dove in, with Michael occasionally piping up with a question. Squip would never be Michael’s Player Two, as that revered title was reserved for Jeremy and Jeremy alone, but he liked to think he was relatively skilled. Video games were all about timing and strategy, after all. He’d settle for instead being the boys’ Player Three – sometimes even Player Four if they convinced Christine to give it a shot.

Michael finally sucked in a deep breath and calmed down, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch before he started up the game again, the pair of them easily jumping back into the 8-bit action. Their characters stuck close together, working in tandem to traverse through the oncoming bullets and leaping enemies. Squip knew that, unlike Apocalypse of the Damned, Michael and Jeremy had beaten Contra plenty of times, but it was such a classic that when they needed something to do, it was one of the games they fell back on.

“Ooh! I’ve got another one for you!” Michael chirped as they had to slow down, skirting past laser-beams. “What’s ‘I'm just one stomach flu away from my goal weight’ from?”

Squip blinked, brow furrowing at the screen as he took a minute to think. As the seconds ticked by without him giving a response, he could practically feel Michael squirming next to him in excitement. But then it dawned on Squip and he chuckled. “The Devil Wears Prada? 2006, directed by David Frankel?”

Michael groaned, sinking back into the couch cushions. “How do you remember all this stuff? Are you sure you don’t still have a computer stored away somewhere in your head?”

“Pretty certain.”

“Then how in the hell?”

To be completely honest, Squip wasn’t really sure himself. He seemed to be just as human as everyone else, at least in terms of appearance and capability, but he did have an exceptional memory with a lot of the information he’d had as a SQUIP stowed away in there. Of course, the brain had its limits and he couldn’t store absolutely everything, so it was inevitable that eventually Michael would find one of the handful of things he was fuzzy on. Until then, though, he continued to soar ahead in this little game of theirs.

He offered a shrug. “Natural talent? I am pretty amazing, even as a plain old human.”

“Narcissist,” Michael accused playfully, nudging his shoulder against Squip’s. “We all know that under that ego, you’re just a big softie.”

Squip snorted, rolling his eyes. “I am not.”

“You so are! You’re all squishy underneath that hard shell.”

Squip grimaced at the description. “Technically, all humans are exactly that.”

Michael blinked at him, like a startled cat, before he stuck out his tongue in a fake gag. “Gross, dude.”

Squip laughed, pulling his controller closer as he almost accidentally ran his character right into an enemy. “You started it.”

“Not really!” But Squip could hear the suppressed giggle in Michael’s voice.

After a little more laughter, they once again fell into comfortable silence as they focused on the game. Michael and Jeremy had a habit of moving this way and that along with the characters on the screen, and while Squip tended to sit rather still, every now and then he found himself wincing to one side to match what was happening in the game. The squad liked to point out all of the ways Squip and Jeremy had rubbed off on one another, which they tended to deny, not unlike the timeless sibling argument that no, they did not look alike. However, the similarities hadn’t gone completely unnoticed between them, although not all of them were positive. Squip may have gained Jeremy’s sense of humor and Jeremy may have suddenly become more interested in learning how to code, but at the same time Squip found himself having emotional slumps whilst Jeremy felt intense guilt about everything that had happened leading up to and during A Midsummer Nightmare. Everything was always a double-edged sword. Such was life, Squip supposed.

“…What would happen if you drank Mountain Dew Red like this?”

The question caught Squip off guard to the point where he turned his head to look at Michael, only to realize that he’d led his Contra character right off a platform to his doom. Not that it mattered, he had more than twenty lives left. But he still paused the game to properly address the inquiry, unsure if he’d heard it correctly. “I’m sorry?”

Michael shrunk into himself somewhat now that he didn’t have the game as a distraction, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should have even asked. Finally, though, he repeated himself, speaking more slowly: “What would…what would happen if you drank Mountain Dew Red now? You know, as a human?”

Squip set his controller in his lap so he could mull over the question. Ever since he’d come back as a human, he’d been avoiding Mountain Dew in all its forms, even the regular kind that would simply activate a SQUIP. Perhaps it was just an instinct ingrained in him from his programming, since, as human as he was now, he still had moments when he fell back into habits from when he’d been in Jeremy’s head. It was in his nature, after all.

In theory, since he no longer had any machine parts left in him – as far as he could tell – then no soft drink should have any effects on him that were different from what the Average Joe would experience. Squip had tried drinking alcohol a handful of times, upon the squad’s insistence, and even if he was a terrible lightweight, he’d reacted rather normally other than slipping into Japanese a few times. SQUIPs only had as much information on themselves as was necessary to function, so Squip had no idea if another SQUIP had become human before – were the others from the play out there, too? – and thus he really had no idea how anything would affect him in this new form. He had been playing it by ear from pretty much the second he’d awoken as a human.

So assuming he was, as he had called himself, a ‘plain old human,’ then there should be nothing negative that would happen to him should he drink Mountain Dew Red. But there was still that instinct deeply ingrained in his now-biological code that screamed at him to avoid the discontinued soda at all costs. It was too risky. But was it really?

Was it worth trying to find out?

Squip finally let out a sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “To be completely honest, I’m not sure. One would guess that nothing unusual would happen, but…well, my existence in itself defies logic, so it could still have some strange effect on me. Anything from a mild allergic reaction to…” He trailed off, feeling a shudder run down his spine as unpleasant memories resurfaced.

SQUIPs didn’t really feel, in either the physical or emotional sense of the word. That was what made them machines. But Squip was sure that what he had experienced as his world had crumbled around him and his connections to all of the students – and worst of all, to Jeremy – had frayed and ultimately snapped, energy forcefully blasting through all of his circuits, had been pain and fear and betrayal. To this day, he still wasn’t sure if his weak pleas for Jeremy to save him were genuine or just yet another manipulation tactic. He didn’t like to think about it, any of it. He wasn’t that thing anymore anyway. No longer a SQUIP, just Squip.

“…I’d have to drink it to know for certain,” Squip continued quietly, opening his eyes and wringing his fingers together as he stared at his lap. “But…I’m sure you can understand the risk of that.”

Michael nodded softly. “Yeah, I get it, so let’s, er…not do that. I don’t have much left of it, anyway.”

Squip raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the boy. “…Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking it. It was fated to be discontinued even without the SQUIPs’ interference, you know.”

“It’s not that bad! And Rich has drank it, too…”

Squip smiled a bit, picking up his controller again. “Naturally…Come on. We’re almost to the last stage.”

Michael nodded again, more eagerly, and turned back to the screen. “Right!”

And just like that, they fell back into their concentration, and Squip let the painful memories fade away, tucked back into the depths of his mind. It was silent up until they were just about to the final alien boss of the entire game.

“I just realized!” Michael suddenly exclaimed.

Squip turned to him curiously. “What’s that?”

He found Michael grinning at him, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “I found a question you couldn’t answer.”

Squip blinked once, twice, five times, before he broke into a warm, incredulous laugh and dropped his controller. He slung an arm around Michael’s shoulders and tugged the boy over, tousling up his hair as Michael squirmed and yelped in protest. “That was cheating and you know it.”

“There were never any rules and you know it!”

They devolved into laughter there on the couch, Contra all but forgotten as they continued to playfully bicker and shove at one another. It was at times like this that Squip couldn’t believe that just a few months ago, Michael could barely stand to look at him.

Now here they were, Players One and Three, every day becoming a stronger team.

#Human Squiptober 2019 #Be More Chill #BMC SQUIP #BMC Michael #i was so close to getting this done on time but then i had to freaking proofread and found so many awkward sentences lol #but these two are fun to write as friends #they just nerd out together #Michael Mell #writing #mine #BMC #SQUIPtober #lynx tales

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mrepstein · 5 years

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The Guardian Review (The Guardian - December 18, 1998)

‘The secret life of the real fifth Beatle’ by Jon Savage

'No one else had the flair, the panache, the wit that Brian had,' says Paul McCartney. So why did he die miserably and alone?

Jon Savage describes how Brian Epstein fell victim to drugs and the pressures of being a secret homosexual

From the day that he first experienced the Beatles at Liverpool's Cavern - "a vast, engulfing sound" - Brian Epstein devoted his life to their success and well-being. "He just had this vision," says Alistair Taylor, with whom Epstein made that lunch-time visit on December 9 1961. "Within half an hour, he wanted to manage them. He could see what they could become."

From that meeting came a cultural and social revolution. The Beatles changed everything and Epstein was the architect of that change. The statistics are staggering. By the end of December 1963, Epstein's acts - the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Billy J Kramer - had spent more than 30 weeks at number one in the 1963 UK charts; four months later, the Beatles held the top five places in the US top 40 - a hitherto unthinkable feat, and a coup not repeated since.

You'd have thought that managing the biggest group in the world would be enough - Elvis's manager, Colonel Tom Parker, couldn't believe that the Beatles' manager had more than the one act - but, during the next three years, Epstein continued to manage the enduringly popular Pacemakers and Cilla Black; he expanded NEMS (North End Music Stores, the Epstein family firm) into dozens of companies; he managed the bullfighter Henry Higgins; he produced the West End premiere of James Baldwin's Amen Corner; he ran a West End theatre, the Saville, which showcased Jimi Hendrix, Little Richard, the Four Tops and a wide range of rock and soul talent.

For all this achievement, history has not been kind to Brian Epstein. As a result of his premature death in August 1967, people regard him as a prime example of that old adage - "money can't buy you happiness". When his homosexuality became public after John Lennon's excoriating, 1971 Rolling Stone interview - the gloves came off. Subsequent accounts - most notably in Albert Goldman's book, Lives Of John Lennon - promoted ideas that have stuck; that Epstein was lousy at business, dominated by the Beatles, sad. Even Joe Orton had a pop in his diaries: "A thoroughly weak, flaccid type."

Yet, as ever, you have to consider who is doing the telling. Epstein rejected Orton's Up Against It script for a possible Beatles film, and Goldman's source for some of his factoids was Nicky Byrne, who was in litigation with Epstein for two years. The problem for anyone rash enough to approach the Beatles' story yet again - no matter at how oblique an angle - is that the myth has become so encrusted with assertion and counter-assertion that when you couch it in book form you have a problem of who to believe that is library-sized.

So, in making The Brian Epstein Story for Arena, director Anthony Wall and I decided to forget about all the books except Epstein's own A Cellarful Of Noise, published at the height of Beatlemania in August 1964. We didn't want theory; we wanted to talk to people who had been there, who had known Epstein. Because, for all the media fuss surrounding the Beatles, their manager has emerged as little more than a cipher in their story - yet his was a central role: as Paul McCartney says, "If anyone was the fifth Beatle, it was Brian, you know."

Our first port of call was Epstein's ghostwriter on A Cellarful Of Noise, Derek Taylor, who, despite his grave illness, received us with perfect grace. Taylor had been through the full white light madness of the Beatles' August 1964 US tour as their press officer; his own writings contain the most incisive accounts of the Beatles and their myth. "Brian was undoubtedly very impressive," he remembered, "A very soft appearance. He didn't look as though he did any exercise, but then a lot of people didn't then. I certainly didn't, and I was very thin. Cigarette smoking. So was he, nervy. Very well dressed, very good suit, lovely shirt: these were what made people different. The detail.

"It is extraordinary that he could be almost immediately acceptable to those four. The only way it could have worked is if it was absolutely right. It was on, in other words. It's no good pretending it works if it doesn't. But thinking big: that's what bound Brian and the boys together. They all did think big. When he signed them up in that office in Whitechapel he told them: "I think I could help you." He actually believed he could, and he was prepared to sit it out with them, with all their cheek and impudence. In a way they had a lot in common: just the vernacular was different."

To Epstein, the Beatles arrived as the answer to a question that had been gnawing at him for his whole life. Born on September 19, 1934, he was the eldest child of a prospering merchant family. Brian was mercurial, obsessive, and stubborn in pursuing his own path. His school days were disrupted by war and anti-semitism. His ambition to be a dress designer crumbled under family pressure. His dissatisfaction led him to an unsuccessful stint with RADA; his national service had ended prematurely with his discharge on "medical grounds".

By 1961 he was making a success of the family business, but was, by his own account, "a little listless and bored". The shadow here, which could not have been admitted when A Cellarful Of Noise was published, was his sexuality. Taylor explains: "He wouldn't have had anything in there that implied or hinted at homosexuality, because of the danger of jail after the Lord Montague thing (a prominent gay scandal in which three men were jailed in March 1954), which was a frightening, horrible witch-hunt only 10 years before. But he told me this after only a morning: and how well did he know me? Not well, but a bit. It was a risk."

It’s easy to forget now - when, despite pockets of resistance, there is greater public tolerance - just how off the map homosexuals were in the fifties and early sixties. Epstein's own thoughts on his life are contained in a document written for his then solicitor in the late fifties, notes for a defence against a charge of importuning: "I believed that my own willpower was the best thing with which to overcome my homosexuality. And I believe my life may become contented and I may even have attained a public success. I was determined to win through the horrors of this world. I have always felt deeply for the persecuted: for the Jews, the coloured people, for the old and society's misfits."

The truism is that Epstein's interest in the Beatles was fuelled by sexual attraction, and this may well be the case. A persistent rumour which can be neither proved nor disproved (as both parties are now dead), is that he had an encounter with John Lennon while on a spring 1963 holiday together in Barcelona, as imagined in the film The Life And Times.* Yet this is an essentialist argument: even if Epstein did feel a sexual pull, it could easily have been transmuted into the care with which he managed the group. Not every sexual desire has to be physically acted upon.

There was another element in their mutual bonding: for the first time in his life, Epstein felt as though he belonged. "A lot of stress has been laid on Brian fancying John Lennon," says pop manager Simon Napier-Bell, who encountered Epstein at the end of his life; "But I think it was far more being a loner and suddenly finding he was part of a group. I think that was much more what he was interested in, and that brought him into a broader group again than the Beatles."

According to McCartney, this theatricality was the key: "We had been playing together a little while and we were starting to feel that we were getting good. But we needed someone to push us and give us a few clues as to how we might go further. It became obvious that Brian was that person. He had a theatrical flair, having gone to RADA. He knew a lot of people. He was a great networker, so it became clear he would be very good for you. It is always very helpful having someone theatrical out front; there's got to be someone out there who says: 'That was really good" or 'When you moved over, they lost you. Don't do that next time.' It's a director: that's really what he was."

When the Beatles hit in the way that Epstein had predicted in 1962 - "One day they will be greater than Presley" - his showbusiness connections worked conclusively in their favour. Part of a London circle that included Lionel Bart and Alma Cogan, Epstein picked Alun Owen - well known for the play No Trams To Lime Street - to write the script for A Hard Day's Night, an inspiration for a whole generation of rock groups and still one of the best pop films ever. But then Epstein was already on record as saying that he thought pop music was an "art form", and he totally supported the Beatles' instinctive attempts to make it so - that empathetic quality which makes him the doyen of pop managers to the present day.

By the time it was becoming absolutely clear that the Beatles were like no other pop group, success had brought the problems of over-expansion. "He found it impossible to delegate all the time that I knew him," says Taylor. With this increasing pressure came crippling anxiety: as Epstein states in A Cellarful Of Noise, "When a disc goes badly or a business venture fails, I am the one that suffers most, for I hold myself responsible. It isn't the money that worries me; it's the failure."

"Brian was obsessed with controlling a situation," says his US attorney and close friend Nat Weiss, who met him in summer 1964. "Anything done outside his area of control brought a tirade of abuse. I think the image of Brian as a sort of very soft, sensitive person is not the case. He was very strong-willed. I remember one occasion when John Lennon refused to do an interview during a tour and Brian went nose to nose with him. He took his tie and said: 'John you're soft', and stared him down. And John backed away."

In the run-up to a famous death, it is possible to see signs of impending doom everywhere. Yet in Epstein's case, the storyline is finely balanced right up until the final act. "Brian was a man of many moods," says Weiss. "He was a very multi-faceted person. With the advantage of looking back 30 years now, I would say that he certainly had all the symptoms of someone who was manic depressive." This emotional roller-coaster was slowly exacerbated by the use of prescription and illegal drugs: principally amphetamines and barbiturates, doled out by doctors ignorant of or careless about their dangers.

By late 1966, several factors had put Epstein into a downward spiral. The Beatles were maturing and, after their decision to stop touring, had far less need of protection. The Seltaeb Beatles merchandising deal had gone horribly wrong and was dragging through the courts. His close friend Alma Cogan had died of cancer in October. And Epstein's one personal relationship, with a young bisexual called Dizz Gillespie, had ended in robbery and blackmail. "He began to feel like a liberated person but he was never able to sustain a long-term relationship," says Weiss. "He'd become depressed by the fact that he'd believe it was not him they wanted, but who he was."

Despite a suicide attempt in autumn 1966, Epstein remained positive and forward-looking. His musical interests were still acute: he boosted the Who, Cream, and Jimi Hendrix to Murray the K (a New York DJ) in early 1967, when all three were little known in the US. Friends disagree about its effect, but there is a case for saying that he found LSD - which he publicly admitted taking in June 1967 - beneficial. He was worried whether the Beatles would re-sign with him when his contract came up in September 1967 but, according to McCartney, "there was no question in our minds that we would stay with Brian. We didn't want another manager."

Epstein died alone in his bedroom at Chapel Street, Mayfair, on August 27, 1967, one month after the Sexual Offences Act partially decriminalised homosexuality, and one month after the death of his father, Harry. There is no reason to doubt the verdict of the inquest: "poisoning by Carbrital, caused by an incautious self-overdose". Little was known about the dangers of prescription drugs at that time: indeed, Epstein's is the forerunner of all those sixties drug deaths - when the limits of freedom were finally tested. It was a ghastly accident, the effects of which were immediate.

"It was a great loss to us and I know it really frightened us," says McCartney. "John got particularly frightened. I think he thought, 'Right, this is it. This is the end of the Beatles', and it kind of was. Brian's death opened the floodgates. It gave other people the possibility to come in, whereas before there had been no possibility. I think one or two of the other guys got quite enamoured with Allan Klein, but I never liked the idea, partly because I'd seen how Brian did it and no one else was going to stack up against Brian in my mind. No one would ever be able to do it as good because you couldn't have the flair, the panache, the wit, the intelligence that Brian had. They would just merely be money managers. Brian was far more than that."

* The Hours and Times

#Brian Epstein #Jon Savage #The Guardian #1998 #90s #newspaper

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 6 years

Note

any world in which you might be persuaded to write some agentcorp? that last ep with lena and alex at the deo gave me all the agentcorp vibes!!

A tag to the episode “Ahimsa”

—-

After the crisis passes, Alex can breathe again. She can slow down and think, and of course it means she the time to overanalyze what happened.

Kara’s plummet to Earth. The heart-thundering reality of watching her sister slowly dying. The blind, instinctive reach towards the only person who could help.

The flash of hurt when Alex thanked Lena for coming. The shutter of Lena’s gaze as she focused on the task at hand. The relentless toil to get the air scrubbed of radiation.

Their short exchange when Lena left– a brief farewell punctuated by an almost dismissive smile from Lena even as she was already turning away– now seems ominously perfunctory.

It’s that sinking suspicion that drives Alex to the Baldwin after leaving Kara’s apartment. When she knocks on the door to the penthouse suite, she isn’t sure what she expects.

Lena Luthor in an oversized sweatshirt and soft sleep shirts certainly isn’t it.

Alex’s brain short circuits somewhere around the wide frame glasses and doesn’t kick back in again until Lena arches an eyebrow.

“Can I do something for you, Agent Danvers?”

Blinking rapidly, Alex curls her toes in her boots to distract herself from the flush threatening to bloom across the back of her neck.

“Yeah– I mean, no! No, I was just, in the neighborhood, and–” Alex cut herself off, nipping the ramble before tumbled into unrecoverable territory. She takes a deep breath, releases it in a sigh and meets Lena’s gaze. “Are we good?”

Lena studies her with an indecipherable gaze. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

Through the sweatshirt Alex hadn’t noticed the hard set of Lena’s shoulders, but she does when they soften, just a bit.

Lena steps aside, and Alex accepts the silent invitation. She steps into the suite and casts a nervous gaze around the space, taking in the impersonal decor and uncluttered floor plan. It doesn’t look like someone’s lived in it for two years. It looks like a way station, a stop on the road to a final destination, despite the fact that– per Kara– Lena has been in the same room since she came to National City.

“Cake?”

With a jolt, she turns back to Lena, and follows the direction of her gesturing wave to the slice of cake sitting on a plate on a nearby desk.

“Cake,” Lena reiterates. “I have one every time I save the world. And since you meet the requirements today too…”

Alex doesn’t know what compels her to shrug. “Why not?”

Gotta be better than a bottle of scotch, right?

She shrugs out of her leather jacket too– partly in deference to Lena’s casual attire, but also because she’s suddenly sweltering.

Lena doesn’t speak as she hands Alex a fork, and they start picking bites of chocolate cake off the plate. It’s delicious, layered with mousse and a layer of raspberry jam, and Alex thinks she could make it a tradition of her own.

Way better than scotch.

But as their snacking stretches quietly, Alex realizes that Lena hasn’t answered her question.

Leaning back, she sets her fork aside. Lena doesn’t look up, and Alex takes a moment to study her. Once upon a time, she’d marveled at Kara’s ability to read Lena like a book. To Alex’s eye she was solid ice, but now… now she recognizes the detached affability, the front of relaxed congeniality. It speaks volumes, and tells Alex her gut had been right.

“So…” Alex asks slowly. “Are we?”

Lena pauses, and Alex can almost see her weighing the option of playing dumb. In the end, green eyes flick to hers. “Maybe I should be the one asking you that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You seemed… maybe not surprised, that I came to the DEO,” Lena says. She worries the last bite of cake with her fork, shredding it to crumbs. “But what you said certainly suggests you felt there was a chance that I wouldn’t show.”

Surprise blanks Alex’s brain, and in her pause Lena shrugs and leans back, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Supergirl and I may have our differences, but I’d hoped we’d been through enough together that you’d know I wouldn’t let her die because of them.”

“I did– I do! No, Lena, that was never–” Alex shakes her head. “No that’s WHY I called you. Because I knew you would. When I said those things, I… I was trying to express my gratitude, nothing more. I did a terrible job, clearly, but please believe me that I didn’t mean to imply…”

She trails off under Lena’s gaze. God, how does Kara do this? Talking to Lena is HARD when she looks at you like she can see into your soul. Or like she has some arcane knowledge of the universe– Alex, what the fuck.

“I was trying to thank you, because even though you were just doing the right thing, it was personal. So, so personal. To me. Supergirl is really important and before you showed up I was so scared that she was going to die on that table. You may have come to save her, but you also put my fears at ease. Because I knew you could save her– and I knew that you would.”

For a long moment, nothing happens. Alex’s confession hangs in air between them, absolution weighing as heavy as damnation. Then Lena blinks, and a slow smile curls her lips. She leans forward again, folding her arms on the edge of the table.

“We’re good,” she says finally.

Alex releases a breath of relief, sagging. Lena’s smile persists as she reaches again for her fork, fiddling by trailing the tines through smears of mousse.

“Does she know how you feel about her?”

“What?”

Lena’s smile turns devilish, and comprehension dawns with a jolt. “Oh! No! It’s not like that. At all. Really, she’s not.” Jesus FUCK why doesn’t Lena know yet? “Supergirl is family. Like a sister. Really.”

Nodding, Lena processes the vehement protestations. Then she lifts a curious eyebrow. “So then she and Kara…?”

Goddammit. “I… haven’t asked?”

Non-answer. It works.

“That cake was amazing,” Alex blurts, desperate to change the subject. Lena goes with it. Thank god.

“It’s one of my favorites.”

Then the conversation flounders. Lena resumes her uncanny study of Alex, and Alex knows she needs to retreat before she ruins inroad she’d just repaved between them.

“It’s late. I should go.”

Lena rises with her, and escorts her to the door. Just as Alex steps into the hall, she speaks.

“You know… the cafe where I get the cake does a great breakfast. If you’d like to try it sometime.”

Alex grins. “Sure. I’ll call Kara–”

“I love Kara to pieces, but that girl has a habit of consuming all the air in the room.” Lena meets Alex’s shocked blink with a soft, enticing smile. “And I think I’d like an opportunity to get to learn more about you, Agent Danvers.”

It’s not until Lena tilts her head that Alex suddenly remembers how to speak.

“S-sure…” She swallows. “I’m free tomorrow?”

Lena’s smile widens. “I’ll text you the address.”

“O-okay.”

“Good night.”

“Night.”

The door closes, and Alex stiffly marches into the elevator. Only there does Alex’s knees turn to jelly and she has to sag against the rail to keep herself upright. She grins, heart fluttering in her chest.

“Oh my god.”

What the hell was that?

Prompts are currently CLOSED

#prompt fill #anon #agentcorp #lena luthor #alex danvers #alex is dazzled #who wouldn't be?

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ritacaroline · 5 years

Text

Starshine Ch.6 Jimmy Page Fan Fiction

Sequel to In The Light.

“Alright, babe, I’m leaving. John’s waiting outside, I’ll see you in a few hours.” Jimmy called, as he exited the house with his guitar case in hand. Jill answered, “Ok, I hope it goes great.” She had invited a few friends over for swimming, so needed to pass, on joining him at his practice this time. Mrs. K. was busy

prepping a lunch and refreshments for them, for the poolside. Jill wore her orange swimsuit and a long swimwear cover up. Very relaxed. First one there was Clare, next guest to arrive was Nell. Clare and Nell had met briefly a few days prior, so they were glad to get a chance to chat and know each other better. Next, Alison arrived, Peter Grant’s girlfriend, then, Maureen Baldwin arrived. All went in the pool, laughing, swimming, enjoying the warm sun. Linda, Rob’s girlfriend, was also expected, but not till awhile later, since she had some responsibilities in town. Regarding the lunch, first Mrs. K. brought out a few pitchers of drinks. Pina Coladas, Iced tea, Margaritas. Fruit for the cup edges, crystal salt for the Margaritas. After all the women were a bit high, she brought out the food, in a basket with handles, for easy carrying. There were several different types of elaborate sandwiches, and some containers of various salad types, like macaroni salad, veggie salads, pasta salad.

Delicious deli type treats, pickles. The ladies enjoyed their food at the outdoor picnic table with a huge umbrella over it. And they loved the feast. The work was not difficult for Mrs. K. and she loved seeing the girls having fun. A few moments later, they caught a glimpse of Mrs. K. leaving through the gate. Jill called over, “Rebecca ! Why not come and sit for awhile ? Grab a sandwich with us ?“ Mrs. K. replied, “Oh no ! You girls relax and have fun. I don’t want to interfere or cause you to restrict your conversation due to me. But thank you.“

“Well, I don’t think you could cause that to happen ! But, it’s up to you, and come back if you change your mind. Or next time then.” Jill responded.

Lots of fun subjects were covered, little bits of gossip, comments about the men, movies they’d seen, lots of laughter. It was a great morning and afternoon for them all. More drinks, more swimming, more laughing. Soon, a couple of them had to go, but the fun continued awhile longer for the others, and Linda would be there shortly.

Meanwhile, at the studio in town, the men had completed a good solid two hours of intense practice. They’d also been rearranging various musical phrases to better the sound. It was quite a bit of diligent focusing for Jimmy, but he was happy with the results. At noon, they all drifted down the hall to the room that they used for the dining area. Some of them had a smoke, some had a quick lunch. At that moment, there were footsteps heard in the hallway, Jim wasn’t sure who it could be. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He also next heard female voices approaching the room, and soon the visitors stood at their doorway. They were four women, unknown to Jimmy. Quite attractive ladies. One spoke, a red headed young woman. She voiced, “Hey Rob. Thought we would take you up on your offer to drop by the studio. Any Wednesday at lunchtime, you said. Remember ?” with a huge toothy smile. Dripping in flirtation. Rob responded, “Ahh, yes, my love, Vanessa ! How lovely to see you. We just completed some heavy work, and were just having a break. A perfect time to have a little visit. Come on in !” Vanessa headed into the room, and waved her three friends in, behind her. Two dark haired ladies and a blonde. She introduced them, as “This is Molly, this is Kara, and this blonde lady is Glenda.” They all shook each other’s hands, and the girls already knew the men, just from magazines, albums, concerts, fame in general. There was a light discussion happening as the ladies sipped on soft drinks. Rob asked, “Vanessa, why not come with me, over to the sound wall room, where I practice my voice ? We can chat in there for awhile. How about it ? “ “Why certainly, darling. Point the way.” she answered, with a knowing voice. It indicated, “I’m up for anything.” though she didn’t say that directly. Jimmy was a little surprised, since he hadn’t seen Rob with any woman since he’d been living with Linda, his girl. Okay. It’s not my business, he thought. John Paul and John Henry stood, finished with their break. They had mentioned that they were about to resume the practice. The ladies asked, “Mind if we come along and listen ?” John Paul said, “Not at all, c’mon in, there’s seating in there.” So Molly and Kara stood and followed. However, Glenda, the blonde did not. Jimmy began to stand, to join the guys also. But she had purposely remained in the dining area, alone with just Jimmy. Sipping on a Dr. Pepper. In order to detain him from exiting, she immediately began asking him questions, regarding various songs of his, and other music questions, as she was laughing a lot, smiling heavily, and in flirt mode. Jim was kind, stayed the extra few minutes to answer her questions.

Rob and Vanessa, in the sound room, were enjoying each other’s company quite a bit. She mentioned to Rob, “Oh, by the way, my friend Glenda is insanely in love with Jimmy. That’s why I brought her along. I thought she’d get a chance to meet him, and, well, you know, whatever.” Rob responded, “Well, I doubt she’ll get a moment of attention from Jimmy. He just got engaged this week and he’s mind numbingly in love with his girl.” Rob was leaning his butt against a counter top in there, with his legs apart. And Vanessa saw that as her opportunity to approach him. They had met at a club several nights ago, and sort of hit it off. He didn’t hesitate to invite her then, to a neutral meeting place, their practice studio. He wasn’t necessarily attempting to cheat against Linda. But, alternately, he wasn’t opposed to a little non committal fun now and then. Maybe a little bit of kissing wouldn’t be so awful, he thought. Especially when encountering a woman as fascinating and delicious looking as this gorgeous red head. With a killer bod.

Vanessa slowly stepped closer to him, admiring and fondling his wild halo of golden curls. She stepped directly in between his open legs and leaned in right against him. She began a sweet gentle appreciation of Rob’s wet lips as her two hands gripped the sides of his slender hips. She seductively kissed him as she continued to massage his hips. It was so sensual, Rob didn’t have the

strength in him to stop her. It felt so wonderful having his lips engaged with this lovely creature, he nearly forgot he was involved with someone. He soon became helpless and all he could do was gently return her arousing gestures. Love the one you’re with, he had heard, was the fashion. So, in no time they were passionately kissing, in a hot slow romantic embrace. Rob was loving it, feeling her sweet tongue against his, and against his neck, he was licking her lips, feeling her hips deeply pressing and rubbing against his. The motion and touching was surely beginning to start some wood down below, which was far from controllable for him. Soon Vanessa had her delicate hand against his private area, caressing him. She slowly unzippered him and slid her hand right down the front of his jeans, for a better feel. He was in pure paradise, lost in her wet kisses and her hand massaging his jewels. His parts down south were now fully engorged, much to Vanessa’s delight. Suddenly, out of absolutely nowhere, a loud voice startled them right out of their entanglement. “Do you MIND getting your hand off my man’s dick !!??” shouted Linda. She had the look of a grisly bear about to attack. She had just dropped into the studio, delivering a lunch which she had just picked up for Rob, thinking he’d appreciate it. But, what she had just observed made her breathe fire and grenades. She really had faith in the belief that Rob was always loyal to her. However, he was caught just now like a deer in the headlights, frozen in shock, and guilt. He cared for Linda, and quite a bit. But he just happened to have a case of wandering dick at this particular moment. Linda made a fist and punched Vanessa in the shoulder, barely hurting her at all. But - did so, probably just for the drama, wanting to show she was also furious with this red headed tramp. However, Vanessa had not a clue that Rob was off the market. He hadn’t given any sign of that detail, to Vanessa. How was she supposed to know ? Linda looked incensed, as heavy tears rolled down her face. She screeched at Rob, “Go drown yourself, you cheating bag of shit !! Don’t ever come near me again !! I am so done with you.” Her voice was shrill as she struggled through her tears. Then, slammed the door harshly as she exited.

Linda decided to stomp her way through the hallway, to see if maybe Jill or Clare were present. Maybe she could get some comfort or a hug, or commiserate with either of them, on what a waste of airspace Rob was. Simultaneously, just down the hall, Jimmy and Glenda were mildly chatting. Just bullshit, Jimmy thought. Nothing interesting, he was just being polite. He was about to get going back to practice with John and Bonz. He stood up, and turned way behind himself, looking to see if he’d left his pick there. But, when he turned back around properly, much to his surprise, Glenda was right in front of him. An inch away. She instantly placed her two hands behind his neck and immediately, mashed her mouth onto his. He was caught off guard, confused, what’s even happening ? Why is this stranger in my face ? He had no intention of going anywhere near her, and he put his hands against her sides to push her off of him, ….however, it was just the exact moment that Linda burst into the room, crying. All Linda caught of the view in front of herself, was Jimmy and this unknown blonde, mouth to mouth. She just howled, “Oh my God ! Jimmy ! You pig !!” and turned away instantly. Thinking, “I was just at your engagement party this week !!” She began running toward the exit of the building. As she passed the room Rob had been in, he was in the hallway by now, attempting to explain his way out of this. Rob called to her, “Linda ! Don’t, .. don’t leave, it’s not,.. Oh Hell !!” She was thoroughly disgusted with all of them and just kept quickly marching, at this point. Couldn’t care less about hearing his story. Pouring tears. Once outside, she hopped into her car, and took off, leaving wheels.

Jimmy was now pissed off with this strange woman who had over stepped her boundaries. He didn’t even know her, had no interest in her, and certainly no intention of any move that may hurt Jill. Ever. He was way in love and hadn’t even noticed another woman in many months. He forcibly pushed Glenda away, she stumbled backwards but caught her balance and stood straight. He exclaimed, angrily, ”Great ! You’ve messed things up for me pretty well. Get your friends and get out ! “

Next ch. (7) https://ritacaroline.tumblr.com/post/184961652226/starshine-ch

Chapter Index for “Starshine” is located at bottom section of Ch.1 , click here : https://ritacaroline.tumblr.com/post/184383708541/starshine-ch-1-jimmy-page-fan

Link to “In The Light” - original fan fic - https://ritacaroline.tumblr.com/Fan%20Fiction

JimJam Mistresses @tremble-and-shake @ledoftherings @gimmeeshelter @adonna1964 @justanotherzosofangirl @starchild0985 @girlofthemoon75 @bonscottintheimpala @12909168 @jjullz @cherryfloyd @tenementcrazylittlefruitcake @save-me-from-the-gallows-pole @soy-laprincessa @marauderofworlds @ultrabitchystudentperfectionus @satanspizzadeliveryguy @misspenylane @zi-zidane @catherine0627 @pagingpage-the-original @amythesticon @strangerspassinginthestreet @ thezeppelinbeatles @pour-some-sugar-on-mee @carryfire18 @j-james-thlk @70shoney @strange-broo @page-daddy @nadianad1337 @yerawizardjimmeh @jimmyypagey @magnetacuddles84 @rock6880 @ledxzeppelin @kinkyspice @thelandofnevermore @my-golden-lion @itsblackbetty @magnetacuddles84 @luvejimmy @palenickelsaladparty @jennmarieetn

*Please advise if you would like to be tagged or untagged.

#jimmy page fanfiction #jimmy page fan fic #led zeppelin

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odinsblog · 7 years

Note

Look it’s fine that you want to ban automatic weapons, I agree with you. But saying that all white men and all Republicans who own guns are evil cultists is literally no different then saying that all black men are criminals, or that all feminists are extremists that hate men. You are sexiest, and just as disgusting as the things you hate.

[re: this post]

LOL. White people have turned “I’m rubber you’re glue” into a highly ornate art form. “Calling ME racist means you’re the real racist,” is practically a legal defense.

James Baldwin once said that white people are like children who are the victims of their own [white purity] brainwashing. And no matter how many times I’ve seen it, this childlike inability, this refusal to acknowledge anything non-flattering—but true—about white people (aka: white fragility) is really something to behold.

Anon seems to think that there are equal numbers of women and/or black people committing mass school shootings. This is another tepid version of, “Both sides do it equally,” which is a way to avoid responsibility by spreading the blame around. But I defy you to name 18 women who went on mass shooting sprees at their schools during the last six months. Or even the last six years.

And before anyone tries to go pin gun violence on “mentally ill” people, remember this: women and black people (which includes black women) are susceptible to mental illness too. But for SOME reason, those two demographics are wayyy under represented in random mass shooting sprees. Hm… Why do you think that is, anon?

Depending on where you get your stats from, white men make up something like 30-35 percent of the U.S. population.

The general profile of gun owners in America differs substantially from the general public. Roughly three-quarters (74 percent) of gun owners are men, and 82 percent are white. Taken together, 61 percent of adults who own guns are white men. Nationwide, white men make up only 32 percent of the U.S. adult population. Roughly three-in-ten (31 percent) whites own a gun, which is much greater than the rates of gun ownership among blacks (15 percent) and Hispanics (11 percent).And there is no demographic that owns AR-15s more than white men. (source) (source) (source) (source)

If you really want to decrease gun violence in America, the police should begin a Stop-and-Frisk program that targets white men.I could end here, because the point has been made: gun ownership and gun violence in America is disproportionately a white male problem.

But let’s continue. For example, try scrolling through the #gunblr tag on tumblr. It’s overwhelmingly young white men posing with their beloved phallic symbols, talking about their childish superhero fantasies where they would have rushed in and “saved the day” by adding even more unknown shooters into an already chaotic situation.

SN: Unless they are at point blank range, most police who fire their weapons in the line of duty have an astoundingly low 18 percent hit rate. Let me repeat that:According to a 2008 RAND Corporation study evaluating the New York Police Department’s firearm training, between 1998 and 2006, the average hit rate during gunfights was just 18 percent. When suspects did not return fire, police officers hit their targets 30 percent of the time. I know it goes against the “good guy with a gun” narrative, but police very often shoot innocent bystanders who they weren’t aiming at. But all of these childish, irrational and untrained gun nuts want you to believe that they’re special. That they would somehow remain calm, cool and collected and have perfect aim if THEY were suddenly under fire by a random shooter armed with an automatic weapon. (source) (source)

So yes anon, the gun problem in America is absolutely positively tied to men in general, and white men in particular. #ToxicMasculinity.

And finally, just for the record, I didn’t say “All Republicans who are gun owners are evil,” what I said was, “REPUBLICANS ARE EVIL,” whether or not they own guns. Sorry not sorry, but you don’t get to say you’re a nice guy™ when you’re the reason extremists Republicans keep getting elected into office.

If you support and vote for a homophobe, then yeah, you’re homophobic. You forfeited the “nice guy” title. And if you vote for a racist or a misogynist just because you like their stance on guns, then yeah you need to own that too.

#anon #ask #answered #guns #gun violence #mass shooting #gunblr #white terrorism #gun culture #2nd amendment #2a #gun rights #public safety #republicans are evil #toxic masculinity #domestic terrorism

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saleintothe90s · 6 years

Text

353. The final Cheers (May 20, 1993)

When I was little, I was mildly obsessed with Cheers. I watched it with my parents almost every day in syndication, before the news. I had the expanded TV Guide cover for the series finale on my wall above my bed the week this episode aired. Where they’re all trying to figure out Norm’s bar tab.

Right before I graduated from Mary Baldwin in 2010, I found a tape at the local library book sale, it was unlabeled. It just had the clip show and the finale on it, recorded off the NBC station in nearby Charlottesville, Virginia. I thought I accidentally got rid of the tape, until I found it again recently:

I uploaded the entire clip show and finale with commercials intact, in 13 parts, because that’s all Streamable allows are 10 minute clips. Although yes you can watch the finale on dailymotion, isn’t it more fun with the commercials? You get that real right before the Summer of 1993 feeling.

(1 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12)

*note, i’ve been told by my readers that streamable doesn’t work on mobile. I am so sorry about that. for some reason dailymotion doesn’t work for me anymore when I try to upload ?? Anybody else having this problem ?? Multiple question marks.

Four things about the clip show:

1. I am absolutely dead at the scene with Fraiser and his ivy vest, trying to Cliff Note Dickens with the gang.

2. Only Diane would wear giant shoulder pads, a suit, and a lace blouse with a collar almost up to her chin to her (almost) wedding to Sam.

3. Sam has grey hair behind the scenes at rehearsal, but you can tell in the makeup chair that they cover it up. Maybe with the stuff Doris used on Jay Sherman in the first episode of The Critic:

4. At the end, Bob Costas says, “CRANK UP THE VCR, THIS SHOULD BE A KEEPER!”

Notes for the episode

1. The crowd at the bar is watching the Cable Ace Awards. That was a thing back then, cable shows had its own award show because the Emmys didn’t recognize them -- the awards would be discontinued in 1997. The boys were looking for for Kim Alexis, but instead Diane won a Cable Ace!

2. “Oh, yes, the beginning of your political career. It started out as a small joke and turned into an enormous one.” - Frasier on Woody being elected to city council.

3. Rebecca is wearing about 50 yards of fabric. As we all did in 1993.

4. The first episode of cheers began with Champagne, (Diane and her Professor’s botched engagement) and the last episode of Cheers begins with Champagne (Rebecca and Don’s botched engagement).

5. The shot when Diane calls Sam looks like it was filmed six states away.

6. Carla’s major freakout when Diane enters Cheers.

7. I forgot that Diane and Woody knew each other, but they shared about 1 1/2 years together on the show.

8. The scene where Diane and Sam, and their faux spouses eat at Melville’s upstairs was so strange to me when I originally saw this when I was 9. Was this the only time we saw the inside of Melvilles?! I just remember it being so PINK. Rebecca finally said yes to Don, btw.

9. Binging with Babish needs to make the dessert Sam describes to Diane:

You know, it's just that they, uh, they have this great dessert here, but you have to order it for two.

What kind of dessert is it? Well, they start with ice cream.

I love ice cream.

Oh, no, but this is the best ice cream.

It's sweet, rich, creamy.

What do they do to it? Cover it with lots and lots of thick raspberry sauce all over.

All over? They can't stop themselves.

Sounds so sinful.

There's more.

More? What more could they do? Well, they heat up the raspberry sauce.

How hot do they get it? How hot would you like it?

10. Aw, Woody got Norm a job with the City of Boston.

11. Hanger-oner Paul is in this episode way too much. Paul looks kinda duck-like to me.

12. Sam, ain’t noone curr that you and Diane are getting married. It’s bizarre that Sam would just walk away from Cheers like that so suddenly.

13. Diane: The screenplay for which I was so extravagantly honored was based on your life.

Carla: You were my inspiration. Really?

Diane: Yes.It's the story of a resilient, hard working mother, bucking all odds to raise her six children.

Carla: Six? I got eight.

Diane: Good God! You breed like a fly!

Carla: Well, uh, this movie- people liked it?

Daine: They loved it, Carla.People were inspired by the plight of my heroine.

Carla: Yeah? Well, what happens to me? I mean, you know, to her, in the end.

Diane: Well out of the despair and frustration of her unmanageable life, she goes berserk and takes out a few people with an Uzi.

14. Sam and Diane’s airplane seats are gigantic. Sam is manspreading big time here.

15. Does Carla have BABY EARRINGS?! WE NEED CARLA BABY EARRINGS RIGHT NOW. SOMEONE PUT THEM ON ETSY.

16. Norm: Gonna go home to Vera.

Sam: Vera?

Norm: My wife.Maybe you remember her? That is her name, isn't it? See ya

17. Sam: Doc, help me out here, man. You want a fine cigar? Huh?

Frasier: I'd love to, Sam, but Lilith just called and she wants me to bring home Chinese tonight.I I hope she meant the food.She's been really weird lately and you know...

Speaking of Lilith, I wonder why she wasn’t in the final episode.

18. Aw, the sweetest scene is everybody coming back after pretending to be mad at Sam.

19. Rebecca’s outfit. She got married in that.

20. “Know what, Sammy, I love that stool! If there's a heaven, I don't want to go there unless my stool is waiting for me.”

21. I watched this with my parents when I was 9, when Sam said, “Sorry! We’re closed!”, 9 year old me began bawling. My mom took me to bed that night, and I was still crying, and she was like, “Cheers will still be on tv!”

Commercial notes

(for comparison, here are WICD’s commercials from Illinois.)

The Bud commercial with the guys rescuing the baby cows!

Ambush in Waco was a TV movie that was put together just a month after the Waco standoff ended. Tim Daly from Wings played David Koresh!

Mad About You ran a very special commercial where they watch Cheers, but Paul insists that he has never heard the Cheers theme song. Mad About You came on on Saturdays back in 1993!

There was a promo for the final episode of Saved by the Bell, and the first episode of the college years. Why do the boys look SO much older from the last episode of SBTB to the first episode of College Years? SBTB fans, help.

The reporter in the Channel 29 news report calls President Clinton “Mr. Clinton”... Mister? Look at that janky set. A faux plant and a broken computer.

Just like the Waco movie, there was a movie about Hurricane Andrew, which happened the previous Summer. I’m sure the people whose neighborhoods were blown away by Andrew really appreciated it.

“THE STARS ARE BACK ON NBC!!” “HEY! I NEVER LEFT!” Oh, yall know that Frasier’s dad, John Maroney was a guest on Cheers?

Oh god, Jay and Branford Marsalis. They didn’t get along. I found the entire Tonight Show episode on YouTube, where everybody gets drunk.

I want to thank everybody for all the notes I got on this post.

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raspberryjones · 7 years

Text

2017, In Review

If I am being honest, the #1 thing I will remember about 2017 is the one thing I want to forget about it: the rage and the hatred — specifically, my rage and my hatred. It had an intensity I’d never previously experienced, and hope never to again. But, of course, it is incorrect to place this emotion in the past. My anger has only slightly dissipated, and continues to burn every damn day. That said, it hasn’t just been a corrosive force, but a teaching tool as well, demonstrating that hatred born, suddenly and intensely, of a particular target and singular focus, can easily spread outwards, and will sooner or later turn back in on its source. Which is where I find myself now, exhausted and no better off.

I write this as a pre-amble to my list of favorite music/art because that is this year’s context - because this time around, the culture I admired, was inspired by and engaged with had to serve a (slightly?) different purpose. Or, maybe, a more intense one. There's always the question of how much a critical ear is guided by personal circumstances, and how much by social influence; it is a partner to the artistic process, always has and always will be. (One reason I continually dismiss the recurrent “end of criticism” jeremiads, because the doomsayers are merely writing obituaries for a particular process of thought or distribution system, rather than the art of the crit itself.)

But once I found some semblance of sea legs to ride through the current epoch — “some semblance,” because I believe not a single living creature shall escape The Now unaffected — I recognized a need for another critical way of looking at how/what we create, and at the purpose behind which we creatively consume. A way of seeing and hearing that not only anticipates the narrative but also lays groundwork for its next chapter. This is, of course, an imperfect measure, because culture doesn’t move in predictable directions, and almost any 20-20 prophet is likely to either be a speculator or a fool. Often, but not always.

Yet, if there was one underlying principle that guided me in 2017, it is to try and understand of what will come after the anger and the hate. Some of the answers were aspirational, some of them were reflexive, and others filled in important parts of the backstory that were missed because I was too busy paying attention to the shiny expensive things in the store window. Maybe it’s just an exercise of trying to steer the anger towards a more useful place.

(Image: Cauleen Smith, “I Have Nothing Left To Give,” flag at the Whitney Biennial 2017)

My 20 Favorite New Albums & EPs (alpha order): Beast, Vol. 1 & Vol. 2 (Pre-Echo) - Koen Holtkamp in Reichian techno mode Bitchin Bajas, Bajas Fresh (Drag City) - more here Brooklyn Raga Massive, Terry Riley: In C (Northern Spy) - back to the source Caterina Barbieri, Patterns of Consciousness (Important) - synth minimalism Celestial Trax, Nothing is Real (Purple Tape Pedigree) - if Dummy was now Delia Gonzalez, Horse Follows Darkness (DFA) - more here Earthgang, Rags (Spillage Village) - new ATLiens Four Tet, New Energy (Text) - more here Hampshire & Foat, Galaxies Like Grains of Sand (Athens of the North) - soft-focus apocalypse with improv Hypnotic Brass Ensemble, Book of Sound (Honest Jon’s) - brass as lense Ibeyi, Ash (XL) - now that’s what I call “pop” Jack Peoples, Laptop Cafe (Clone) - Drexciyan discoveries Jlin, Black Origami (Planet Mu) - more here Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith, The Kid (Western Vinyl) - more here Kendrick Lamar, Damn. (TDE) - legendary status Mr. Mitch, Devout (Planet Mu) - more here Ragnar Grippe, Sand (Dais)** - art-gallery percussion and minimalism UMFANG, Symbolic Use of Light (Ninja Tune) - ambient minimal techno turns Vijay Iyer Sextet, Far From Over (ECM) - when funk veers

(** officially a reissue, but originally a minutely pressed 1977 record, and its impact on me this year was oversized - possibly the single long-playing recording I most listened-to this year - thank you Adam.)

More (New LPs & EPs, Comps, Reissues): Alice Coltrane, The Ecstatic Music of Alice Coltrane Turiyasangitananda (Luaka Bop) // Banana, Live (Leaving) // Bjørn Torske & Prins Thomas, Square One (Smalltown Supersound) // Carlos Nino & Friends, Going Home (Leaving) // Call Super, Arpo (Houndstooth) // Colleen, “a flame my love, a frequency” (Thrill Jockey) // Courtney Barnett & Kurt Vile, Lotta Sea Lice (Matador) // Dawit, Loose Joints vol. 1 (Soundcloud) // DJ Python, Dulce Compañia (Incienso) // DJ Sports, Modern Species (Firecracker) // Dominique Lawalree, First Meeting (Ergot) // Hector Zazou, Bony Bikaye & Cy1, Noir Et Blanc (Crammed) // Hello Skinny, Watermelon Sun (Brownswood) // Hieroglyphic Being, Sarathy Korwar & Shabaka Hutchings, “a.r.e. project” (Ninja Tune) // Ifriqiyya Electrique, Rûwâhîne (Glitterbeat) // James Holden, The Animal Spirits (Border Community) // Jay Glass Dubs, Dubs (Ecstatic) // Joshua Abrams & National Information Society, Simultonality (Eremite) // Kelly Lee Owens, “s/t” (Smalltown Supersound) // Laraaji, Bring on the Sun (All Saints) // Les Filles De Illighadad, Eghass Malan (Sahel Sounds) // Moses Boys, Absolute Zero (Exodus) // Nicole Mitchell, Mandorla Awakening II: Emerging Worlds (FPE Records) // Pauline-Anne Strom, Trans-Millenia Music (RVNG) // Rainforest Spiritual Enslavement, Ambient Black Magic (Hospital Productions) // Roscoe Mitchell, Bells For the South Side (ECM) // Sudan Archives, "s/t” (Stones Throw) // Tom Rogerson & Brian Eno, Finding Shore (Dead Oceans) // Vorhees, Black Horse Pike (Styles Upon Styles) // Yasuaki Shimizu, Kakashi (Palto Flats) // Zara MacFarlane, Arise (Brownswood) // VA, Outro Tempo: Electronic And Contemporary Music From Brazil 1978-1992 (Music For Memory) // VA, Ron Trent pres. Prescription: Word, Sound & Power (Rush Hour) // VA, Ultimate Kwaito Hits (Universal South Africa)

Other Musical Year-End Summations I Produced or Contributed To: NPR Music: Our Favorite Dance & Electronic Albums of 2017 The Lot Radio: The Morning After Show - “The Year, After” episode Also: NPR Music: 50 Best Albums of 2017 NPR Music: 100 Best Songs of 2017

Three 2017 Playlists (Spotify): 2017 Raspberry Tunes - verse-chorus-verse, etc. 2017 Raspberry Trax - the dance-floor experience 2017 Raspberry Works - the “Morning After Show”/post-genre headspace

Seven 2017 Stories (I Wrote, Edited and/or Produced): Songs We Love: Ron Trent Shares Some Deep House ‘History’ (NPR Music) Philip Glass on Listening (and Composing) at 80 (Sonos) Give It Up For DJ Blackface (NPR Code Switch) Jazz Master, Humble Badass: Remembering Geri Allen (AFROPUNK) First Listen: Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith, 'The Kid' (NPR Music) How Vangelis’s Cult Blade Runner Score Became a Classic (Vulture) 'There Is No Done': Gavin Rayna Russom On The Dialogue Between Creation And Identity (NPR Music)

Maximum Impact (books, shows, songs, sites, memes): Anna Wise // Arthur Jafa, “Love is the Message, the Message is Death” // B+, “Ghost Notes” // Bandcamp // “Black Radical Women 1965-85″ // Black Thought, “Funk Flex Freestyle” // Bottle Tree, “Open Secret” // Cardi B, “Bodak Yellow” // Carl Craig, “Domina (Versus version)” // Christian Scott Adjuah (feat. Elena Pinderhughes), “Encryption” // Devin Allen, “A Beautiful Ghetto” // Discwoman // Detroit Gospel Reissue project // Four Tet summer residency @ Analog Brooklyn // Geri Allen RIP // Goldie, “Redemption” // Jamie 3:26, “Testify” // James Baldwin // Jessie Reyez // Jim O’Rourke, “Fast Car” // Kara Walker, “Sikkema Jenkins and Co. is Compelled to present The most Astounding and Important Painting show of the fall Art Show viewing season!” // Kamasi Washington & A.G. Rojas, “Harmony of Difference” // Kaytranada // Khalil Joseph // KH, “Question” // John Akomfrah // “The Left-Overs” // London’s “jazz” scene // Neva’s playlist // Prospect 4 New Orleans // Rashaad Newsome (at DLectricity) // Ruth Azawa // Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture // “Sonic Rebellion: Music as Resistance” (MOCAD) // South African house // The Lot Radio

#2017 #year end

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