#however i am aggressively open minded about style and genre most of the time so ill give anything a try :)

[bluesidedown]

So any of y'all got love song recommendations? Because ok I uh. I need to start taking my emotions actually seriously and hilariously my chosen method for practicing that is to listen to love songs and allow myself to actually feel things and relate instead of being like. Hmm that's a lil dramatic sweetie. And my difficulty is that all of the very few love songs I actually like and listen to are of the 'been married for 20 years' variety and not the 'falling in love rn' variety.

[stylesberries]

Love On Tour

Summary: Your parents are coming to meet him but you chose to keep it a secret.

Genre(s): fluff, a little smut

Word Count: 2.3k

Warning(s): this made me very soft, read at your own risk, peeps + mentions of sexual intercourse

You tossed and turned throughout the whole night, not being able to focus on sleep. The man next to you was desperately holding onto your body, making it hard for you to change the position you were in.

You were waiting for your mom to text you, saying that she and dad landed safely in Rome. They’d never been in Italy before. Harry was here touring with Fine Line. He’d never met your parents.

You put two and two together and thought that this was an amazing opportunity for you to finally introduce your boyfriend to your parents.

He, obviously, knew nothing about it. You knew that if you told him, he would freak out, and you wanted him to keep it together for the show and didn’t want him to get anxious for nothing. They already loved him from hearing stories you’ve told them about him.

Taking a glance at the screen of your phone, you saw bright numbers on it. 4:35 A.M.

They were supposed to land soon, so your tried your best to keep your eyes open.

“A glass of water would be great right now.” You thought to yourself, looking over to your side. Harry’s cheek was smushed into your side, and he kept subconsciously tightening his hold around you.

You carefully pulled your arm, which was squeezed between your warm bodies, and placed in on his back. Bringing your hand to his head, you started slowly playing with his curls, making sure not to accidentally wake him up.

“He seems fast asleep. If I get out slowly, he wouldn’t notice, right?” Debating, whether you should risk waking him up or just wait until he wakes up to get water, your dry mouth decides for you.

After grabbing a pillow that was laying next to your boyfriend, you started sliding out of his tight hold, gradually replacing your body with the pillow.

The bed creaked after losing contact with your body. Your eyes moved back to the bed, checking if your boyfriend noticed you missing.

As a little frown found its way on Harry’s face, wrinkles grazed the spot right between his eyebrows. You noticed his cheek being squished deeper into the pillow, and his hold around it tighten once again.

Standing by your bed in silence, you made sure to wait for a couple of minutes, to be certain that he was not woken up by you.

Turning around, taking a last glance at him peacefully cuddled in the pillows and blankets on the bed, you made your way out of your bedroom, down the stairs and into the kitchen to get yourself that long hoped-for glass of water.

Your tranquil walk back to the bedroom, now with a glass of water in your hand, was hindered by your phone ringing, echoing though the hall.

“Shit.” You muttered to yourself.

Running into the room, you hoped to be right on time to pick up the call before it wakes your previously peacefully sleeping boyfriend.

Unfortunately, you weren’t that lucky.

As you walked into your now-sunlit bedroom, the sight of your grumpy shirtless boyfriend caught your eye. He was holding your phone in one hand as it rang and rubbed the sleep out of his eye with the other.

“Mom’s callin’.” He managed to utter with a rasp in his voice.

Harry held out your phone to you, as his eyes grew heavy.

Taking your phone out of his hold, you picked up the call and heard your mom on the other side of the line.

“We landed, Y/N. Taking a taxi to your hotel in 10 minutes. People here are so nice.” She giggled in the end.

You would’ve too if you weren’t so exhausted from staying up all night to get a text from her. You started walking out of the room, to make sure Harry doesn’t hear her as well. Through your peripheral vision you could see the sleepy man fall back onto the pile of pillows.

“My poor baby.” You thought, as your mom went on about the flight and how excited she was to finally meet Harry.

“If he only knew.”

After your parents got on their taxi, they ended the call, telling you to get back in bed. To you it meant that you can finally cuddle your grumpy boyfriend.

Walking into your bedroom, you expected Harry to be sleeping. What surprised you was not only the fact that he was wide awake, but also the fact that he was standing by the window, looking outside.

“Baby, I’m so sorry for waking you up. Why don’t you go back to sleep?” Making your way to him, you watched as he slowly turned to face you. You walked right up to him and circled your arms around his waist. Positioning your chin on his chest, you looked up into his eyes. He lazily smiled down at you.

“Is mom okay? It’s quite early for her t’call, innit?”

He looked genuinely concerned, and suddenly you felt so guilty for keeping the truth away from him. It just seemed like the right thing to do in the moment.

“She’s okay, precious. Probably got confused in the time zones. We’re in a new place every week, after all.” You tried your best to brush it off. He seemed convinced.

“Oh, okay, lovey. ‘M glad she’s alright.”

You stood by the window for some time holding each other. Moments like these were the ones you longed for when he left touring with his debut album. They were the reason you were ready to study online, just to be by his side.

“He deserves to know.” You thought. He was going to meet them today anyways. “He won’t have time to get too nervous, right?” You kept debating on whether or not you should tell him the truth.

Your brows furrowed and your lips were pressed tight together. Harry took a look down at you, and his brows creased as well.

“What’s the matter with m’angel?” He gently cooed and moved closer to your face.

You were taken aback from your mental debates and smiled up at him.

“Nothing, nothing, baby. Everything’s okay.” You tried to quickly explain yourself. He didn’t seem convinced this time.

“Oh, come on. I know y’better than I know m’self. You’re in deep though, sweetie. Something’s botherin’ you. What is it?” He pushed your head into his chest and stroked your hair.

After being together for almost a year, Harry knew that you needed to be close to him to be able to speak your heart without feeling judged. So that’s exactly what he gave you.

“I won’t judge you. I promise, my love. Tell me what’s botherin’ you. Maybe I could help in some way?”

“God, I feel like a piece of shit. Why did I lie to him in the first place? He’s gonna be so mad.” Your mind swirled full of all the awful things that could happen after you told him you’ve been lying to him for two weeks. However, before your brain could stop you, your body made a sound.

“Parents.” You carefully start.

Harry focuses his eyes on you, to hear your soft voice.

“They’re here.”

Harry’s facial expression turns to a confused one. “Why are they here?” He thought.

“I wanted them to meet you.” You explain, as if reading his mind.

“What?” Harry is full-on shocked now, wondering why on Earth you hadn’t told him before.

You were afraid to let your eyes see him full of anger, so you pressed your face deeper into his naked chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why am I finding out just now?” Harry wasn’t angry at you. He was just shocked and confused, but in your head you thought he was in a rage with you.

“I-I didn’t want you to worry for nothing. I knew yo-you’d get anxious about meeting them for no reason.”

“What do you mean ‘for no reason’? They’re your parents. What if they don’t like me? Then you’ll leave. I can’t fucking be without you, Y/N. How do you expect me to be calm about meeting your parents?” He was now getting frustrated at you for thinking that lying to him was an answer. He was frustrated, but even now he wouldn’t raise his voice at you. You made an agreement after your first fight to figure out your disagreements in a civil way. No yelling. No throwing shit. You weren’t kids having fits. You were two mature people figuring out their shit without getting aggressive about it. That’s what made you respect Harry so much. No matter how mad he was, he always kept himself together.

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. You’d get anxious, when, in reality, they already love you. You’d get nervous for nothing. I wanted you to enjoy the tour without constantly worrying about meeting them.” You tried your best to get your point across, while still being pressed against his chest.

Harry didn’t say anything for a while, probably thinking it through. His hands found its way back into your hair and started playing with it.

“What if they won’t like me when they get to know me better?” You could feel the notes of insecurity and genuine fear in his voice. You finally ripped yourself from his body and took his face in your hands, making him look at you.

“They will only love you more, Harry. You’re the kindest, sweetest, the most loving and caring person I’ve ever met. You love me so dearly, and you always put me first. What else could they ask for in their daughter’s boyfriend?”

“Could you also add the fact that I fuck you well to the list?” Harry slowly spoke up, as his lips found their way to your neck. You were relieved to hear him joking. You laughed through a moan and pressed his head deeper into your neck.

“Do you? Sorry, I think you’ll have to freshen the memories for me to add it to the list.” You tease him, knowing exactly what follows.

Harry lets out a growl and picks you up immediately, swapping your places and pressing you against the wall.

“Let’s freshen the memories then.”

Throughout the whole day, while Harry was fidgeting around, getting ready for the concert, you were texting your mom, telling her exactly how and when to get into the concert hall.

Harry was now in his make-up chair getting his hair styled one last time. He looked at one particular spot through the mirror, while you stood next to him.

“Baby.” You mentally scolded yourself for telling him anything about parents coming to the show.

Harry kept staring at the spot, until you called out for him two more times, coming closer to his face with each time.

“Yes, love?” He asked in such a way, that made you look psychotic.

“Harry, you’re stressing out again, I’m not blind, okay?” You fold your arms and sit across his lap after the hair stylist leaves you two in the room alone.

His arms automatically find their way around your waist, just as your head does in the crook of his neck.

“You’re right. ‘M stressin’ out. Can’t help it. Want everything t’go well. It’s very important t’me. It’s our future, princess.” He spoke with such adoration that it made your heart flutter.

“They will love you. Wanna know why?” You asked.

“Why, angel?” He pressed a kiss on the crown of your head and breathed in the smell of your shampoo, closing his eyes in pleasure.

“Because I’ve never been happier.”

After sending Harry to the stage, you joined your parents in the balcony. Before doing so, you made sure to give him a good luck kiss and tell him that he shouldn’t feel like he has to act differently on stage. You gave him the old just-be-yourself speech and watched him walk onto the stage.

“Y/N, you’re finally here, we’ve missed you so much, love.”

Your mom hugged you, before letting your dad to do the same.

“Yes, dear. We took it for granted when you were back home. It’s so empty without you.” Dad kissed the top of your head and smiled at you.

“The music is so nice. Makes me want to dance.”

Your heart was full of pride in your boyfriend, who was now jamming to Golden on the stage.

Throughout the whole concert, your parents only shared a couple of words, fully mesmerized by the music playing and the young man dancing and jumping around the stage.

“What a wonderful young man that is.” Your mom said.

Your mind couldn’t find any other reason to why your mother referred to Harry as “a wonderful young man” other than the factthat she had no idea who on Earth was prancing around in front of them.

“With a great sense of humor, I must add.” Your dad mentioned.

You were so close to laughing out loud at their nescience.

When the concert was over, you made sure to text Harry straight away.

You: They love you.

Harry: It’s probably just because they know we’re already dating. They just don’t want to hurt your feelings.

You: Oh, trust me. They love you.

“Dear, the concert is over and Harry still hasn’t shown up. I know he’s a sweet boy, but it’s not polite to be so late to a meeting with your girlfriend’s parents.” Your father nagged, folding his arms.

“I have to agree with your dad.” Your mother seemed just as disappointed in your boyfriend.

“I’m sure he was busy.” You didn’t want to explain further, trying your best to keep a straight face on. It was extremely hard, especially when you were passing a huge sign with ‘HARRY STYLES: LOVE ON TOUR’ written across it.

Let’s just say, your parents’ faces were priceless when they saw you go up to the ‘wonderful young man’ they were gushing about and gave him a peck on the lips.

© all right belong to stylesberries. do not repost or modify.

[ceo-of-daichi]

Characters ~ Iwaizumi Hajime x Fem!Reader

Summary ~ Marrying the love of your life was honestly nerve wracking, will his best friend be able to help. Will everything go as planned?

Genre ~ So much fluff your teeth might rott

Warnings ~ Too much fluff, Wedding day jitters

Word Count ~ 1.7k

A/N ~ So my last Iwa fic did a lot better than expected... its actually close to 100 notes which is CRAZY. So here is another!! Thank you @tedwardos for proof reading it!! My next fic will be Daichi and might even contain smut because i am h word 25/8. 

ALSO IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO MY GENERAL TAGLIST SEND ME AN ASK!

Your wedding day. A day for you and the one you pledge yourself to for life. However with that also comes a hell of a lot of stress, wedding day jitters and just general nervousness. You were currently feeling all of these emotions as you sat as still as you possibly could on a chair while a makeup artist worked on your face. Having not gotten much sleep the night before she was furiously concealing under your eyes.

‘I thought they tell brides to get their beauty sleep the night before their wedding,’ she angrily states as she pounds at your under eye with a beauty blender.

‘Yeah they do, but i had trouble sleeping…’ Chuckling nervously as you remember the events from last night, biting your lip lightly. 

‘Anyway I'm sure everyone has trouble sleeping the night before their wedding, it's nerve wracking you know’ You shake away the previous thoughts in your head as you speak.

‘I wouldn’t know i have never been married’ As she said this you suddenly began to feel awkward as you let her finish your makeup.

Sitting back in your seat the makeup artist holds up a mirror so you can see the finished result. Your skin looks flawless, like it had been photoshopped almost, not a slight line in sight. The bags under your eyes, completely gone. The eyeshadow she had gone for was a red/pink smokey eye, complimented by a pair of gorgeous lashes and winged liner. Your breath caught in the back of your throat as you looked yourself over, you were sure this was the best you had ever looked in your life.

‘Well don’t you look ready to be wed’ Oikawa pointed out as he walked in, a big smile adorning his features. He looked more handsome than usual, wearing a navy blue tux and waistcoat with a golden tie.

‘Says you… I love the tie…’ You smiled as he straightened it and did a pose, before making his way over to you, carding his hand through your hair.

‘Well i’m glad you chose gold and white for the theme, i think gold is my colour’ 

‘Yeah I agree, have you got any idea what you want to do with my hair’ You ask him curiously. Last year he had revealed he was quite good at styling hair, and you thought why not save yourself some money, letting him do yours for your wedding.

‘I actually have the perfect style in mind [y/n]-chan! Don’t worry about a thing!’ As he started to run a brush through it, he sighed deeply. Closing your eyes due to the relaxing feeling, he must have realised you were most likely nervous. Which you definitely were.

‘While I'm doing your hair, spill everything’ He almost demanded, but you were thankful, the next 40 minutes you told him everything. 

How you were worried you would regret it, even though you loved Iwaizumi with all your heart, marriage is a big thing. Maybe you should have waited? Most marriages end in divorce, what if you and him are in that percentage. What if you tripped down the aisle and embarrassed yourself? Let's put it this way… there were a lot of what ifs. Oikawa did his best to calm you down, and reassure you and surprisingly he was good at it.

By the time he had finished your hair you were feeling a lot more relaxed. The style he had chosen was pinned up at the front, with small gold flowers at either side transitioning from your hair to the veil perfectly. However he had left the back and bottom sides out so they flowed over your shoulders and down your back, in perfect corkscrew curls. 

‘It’s...It’s stunning Tooru…’ You smiled wide as you looked at the style, it worked perfectly with your dress.

‘Well I got to make sure my best friend's fiance looks amazing for their wedding, don’t you think?’ He returned your smile, admiring his work. 

‘I’m glad Hajime has you… even though he aggressively shows it, he really appreciates you. Now go before you make me cry and ruin my makeup…’ Trying to control the floodgates that almost opened, you gave him a soft smile as he left.

Taking a deep breath, you got up from the chair that had been your home for the last couple of hours. Slowly making your way over to the full length mirror you finally got to look at yourself, all elements finally coming together. It took everything in you not to cry, you had really picked the perfect dress. Lacey full length sleeves that stopped at your shoulder, before curving their way into the dress, leaving your chest and collar bone area exposed. As you looked down, the way the soft white material hugged your hips before poofing out slightly over your bum, made your heart warm. The length itself wasn’t overly long, just enough to scrape the floor, but not enough to be picked up. It was your dream wedding dress.

This is when it hit. You were marrying the love of your life in the next 10 minutes. Hajime. Your very reason for existence will be standing at the end of the aisle waiting. This one thought made your heart beat out your ribcage, he will be there waiting as always. He was always so patient, always understanding. People just saw him as cold, and incapable of complex emotions, but you saw the real him. He let you in.

It was then that you heard a gentle knock at the door, your dad. You had a short conversation before he linked arms with you. Handing you a beautiful bouquet, to hold as you walked down the aisle. Leaving the room it was a short walk down the corridor to a set of double doors. The bridesmaids had already walked down, everyone was where they should be. It was finally time, your veil softly placed over your head as the doors were opened.

Walking through the double doors everything went in slow motion. The aisle and room were decorated with navy hangings and golden ribbons. Each chair had a white lace covering, with golden flowers to accent. As you admired the room, your eyes finally met his. Your breath hitching, he looked handsome as ever. His navy tux matching Oikawas, however, his tie was white with golden flowers embroidered on, smiling so brightly he could light up a room. Suddenly all your worries and fears disappeared and all you could think about was him, and how this was the right decision.

As you reached the end of the aisle, you handed the bouquet over to your maid of honor. Before your father handed you over to Hajime, telling him to look after you. Smiling at him brightly you could see the tears slightly welling in his eyes, making you follow suit. You couldn’t cry though, not yet. 

‘You look beautiful [y/n]...’ He whispers in your ear as you walk up to the vicar, making you blush lightly.

‘And you look dashing Hajime’ Returning his compliment you notice a slight perk in his lips.

That's when the ceremony began, the vicar saying everything he had to say, then came vows. The bit you were almost dreading, you had memorised everything you wanted to say to him. But when he looked you in the eyes, would you be able to recite it? Slowly but surely the time came, Hajime went first.

‘[y/n]... Since I saw you across the hall that one school day, I knew I had to make you mine. Since the faithful first date, to the many days that followed, I fell deeply in love with you. After that I knew this was it, you were the one I wanted to have all my firsts with. I’m so glad you let me experience them with you, and now standing here with you. I want to let you know how much I care, I hope you will have me. So being here with you right now, I promise to love you for you, I promise to cherish and protect you.In sickness and health. Forever and always. I love you [y/n]. Till death do us part.’

His tears had slowly manifested themselves throughout his beautiful vow, and yours had started slowly falling down your face as well. He really was someone you wanted to be with forever, your heart felt so full as you took a deep breath and started your vows.

‘Hajime… I knew from the first date we went on, when you took me to the little coffee shop in town. I knew that I wanted to be with you for a long time, did i predict i would marry you? No, I don’t think anyone thinks about that at that age, however being up here with you now I know I made the right decision. I love you with all my heart, and I promise to be spontaneous, to cherish all the time we have together. I promise to dream with you and always be your biggest fan, till death do us part. I love you Hajime, forever and always.’

By the time you had finished reciting your vows, you were sobbing. This was it. It was you and him now against the world. Smiling through your tears you noticed he was crying just as much as you were. Meant to be. Made for each other. Soulmates. That's what your friends had said, and as you both stood with each other you realised they were right.

Slipping your wedding bands on you couldn’t help get lost in your thoughts. The future seemed so bright with him by your side. So much to experience and he would be with you every step of the way. Looking up at him he lifted your veil, seeing your slightly smudged makeup due to the tears he couldn’t help but smile. 

‘You may now kiss the bride’ The vicar stated as he finished off the ceremony. You looked up at Hajime but you couldn’t wait too long before pressing your lips onto his, in a passionate kiss. Letting all your emotions that you felt drain into it, you could feel him smiling against your lips as he did the same. You couldn’t wait for a future with him. Forever and always.

Tags: @bb-noya @iwaxme @vventure @ardorwrites-hq-mha @super-noya @stcrryskies @scorpiosanssexy @sugawarasimp @watermelonsugawara 

[spectrumed]

1. piano

The brain is a musical instrument. How it sounds all depends on who is playing it. The keys, the strings, the tubes, the circuits, none of them make noise on their own. Some may argue (some very aggressively) that every instrument has one exact way that it should be played. That there is one correct way to play the piano, and then there’s several incorrect (deviant!) ways to play the piano. But a classically trained pianist will not play the piano in quite the same way as a self-taught jazz pianist will play the piano. Sure, the latter does employ some stylings unique to them. They have an idiosyncratic way of playing that makes their sound highly notable, possibly even sought after. While the former, the classically trained musician, they’ve been taught to minimise many of those quirky individual traits that could, potentially, distract from the classical compositions that they will be playing. In jazz, music is carried by unique characters and a strong sense of individualism. In classical, music is carried by tradition, norm, and history.

It should not be understood that the classically trained musician plays without soul or passion. While we, in the western world, have become more and more infatuated with the idea of the self-made artist, the amateur who makes their way to success and stardom solely through will, and quite often a manic compulsion to create, there is no wrong way to play an instrument. However you make it work, whatever sounds you are able to produce, you are playing that instrument. You are channeling your inner essence into the music you are performing, no matter what genre you belong to. No-one plays their instrument the exact same way, for certain, but everyone is playing with what they’ve got.

How do you think? You’re used to being asked “what do you think?” But how do you think? Do you see pictures in your head? Do you experience an inner monologue? Are you riddled with anxiety? Have you ever hallucinated? Do you think that you think good, or do you think that you think bad? If we return to our metaphor of the brain as a musical instrument, what sort of music do you think you’d play? Sure, there’s the classical world, and the jazz world, but of course, that’s hardly the music most people will listen to nowadays. Do you think in pop songs? Or do you think in big heavy metal epics? Or maybe what you are is a maniac for dance music. You may find like-minded friends who like the same kind of music as you do. I think that there is a correlation between what music we like and how we perceive the world. Does listening to a certain song send you back? Does a certain tune evoke memories that you may have thought were long since gone? I know that there are some folks out there who say that they do not care much for music, and while I don’t doubt that they absolutely do feel that way, I can personally not imagine where I’d be without my trusty set of headphones and my phone loaded up with a wide library of music I like. It seems to me that music is primal. Almost as if only by understanding music, can one come to understand consciousness. To nab a song title from Jethro Tull (the band, not the agriculturalist,) life is a long song.

But I do admit that I come from a biased perspective. Music means much to me. I’m no musician, but I think that partly stems from a desire to not see “how the sausage is made.” I’d like to be able to listen to a composition without feeling compelled to analyse it, or to study it. I’d rather eat the sausage without having to wonder what bits of the animals this meat came from. Is that the taste of a spleen or a testicle? There are plenty of other things in life to dissect and tear apart just to examine. Perhaps what I wish is to maintain an arcane approach to music. Perhaps I am too enamoured by the idea of the musician as a mystic able to tap into an elevated state of being, some spiritual realm divorced from our own. That look on the guitarist’s face when they successfully manages to convey just the right emotional tone perfectly with that solo. The frisson you feel when the song reaches its climax. That thing we call the sublime. To explain it, well, it simply feels like you are making something splendid mundane. It seems to rob it of its power. Or… Well, maybe that’s not it all. Maybe all I want is just a moment or two when I can relax and avoid thinking about things. For a moment, I’d just like to forget that I’m a person.

The world is so loud. Really, I can guarantee you that if you didn’t have those natural mental filters that we all have, you’d go insane. Every little sound. Every little bit of stimuli. It would all overwhelm you. It would burrow deep into your consciousness, and it would refuse to leave. Ever tried to fall asleep while hearing the dripping water from a leaky tap? Drip, drip, drip. Know how impossible that feels? Well, imagine if you had that feeling always, imagine if all noise felt that visceral and in-your-face. Lucky you’ve got those filters. Turns out, not everyone has them. I don’t. It fucking sucks.

Music is lovely, because music is organised. It has structure. You can listen to a song, remember it, and then follow along as you’re listening to it a second time. Music follows a pattern. There is a logic to patterns. But the everyday noises that surround us do not follow a pattern. Let me tell you, birds are infuriating animals. Sure, their individual little songs can be nice to listen to, but when all the birds of the forest come together, they don’t perform as an orchestra. No, they’re all just doing their own solo piece, completely oblivious to the sounds going on around them. I’m thinking that nature could have done well with a conductor. Someone competent to create order. To make it all just that bit more peaceful. I don’t have those filters others take for granted. I can’t ignore sounds. And that makes the world feel so loud.

It is neat to imagine the human brain as a musical instrument. You can imagine that seasoned player, that old session stalwart who’s played on all the most famous pop hits throughout the decades, and you want to imagine them playing with grace and finesse and showcasing all the amazing sounds that the instrument can produce. But the brain isn’t really some marvel of biological engineering. It’s not intelligently designed. It’s actually just a piece of meat hiding underneath layers of bone, skin, and hair. It’s a complex bit of meat, admittedly. It’s hard to understand exactly how the brain does work. But if you were to open up a person’s cranium, rather than feeling awe, you’d most likely feel grossed out. This thing that we’re supposed to think of as a miraculous product of millennia of evolutionary progress, it looks… Well, it looks awfully pinkish, and wrinkly, and frankly unpleasant.

We’re all mortal beings, made from squishy flesh and blood, scraped together from all that was available at the time. Sure, we may dream and fantasise about one day achieving those heights we aspire towards, to become that perfect superman, whose cognitive abilities put them on par with the mythological titans of the past. But really, we’re all just trying to do our best with what we’ve got. You may not be able to play the finest of Mozart’s many symphonies, the instrument that you’ve been given just simply isn’t up to snuff. Even if all you can play is Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, that shouldn’t weigh on your value as a human being. And besides, that’s still Mozart you’re playing.

I will undoubtedly get back to discussing music in later instalments of this blog. It is truly a major part of my world, and without the joys I associate with it, I would be in a far worse place. But I think that, ultimately, what I wish to arrive at, is the fact that our sensory perceptions have a significant impact on how we piece together our sense of self. While it may be an unnerving thought to consider, what would happen to our understanding of ourselves if we one day were to lose one of our major senses? I am sure that many people could go without their sense of smell. Humans have long since abandoned smell as a dominant sense. To a dog, on the other hand, to lose its sense of smell would be devastating. It would lose part of what it means to be a dog. For humans, we enjoy the scent of freshly baked bread, the whiff of somebody’s perfume, or the bouquet of some pricey bottle of wine. But that’s nothing to what dogs get out of their sense of smell. To a dog, its sense of smell is its world. Is a dog even a dog if it can’t sniff around? Do you think dogs ever take their sense of smell for granted?

I do not think that humans are what we eat, but I suspect that we may be what we perceive. Our consciousness does not exist independently of the world that surrounds it, but rather, it is formed by the outside stimuli it receives on a constant basis. The fury of noises, lights, smells, all kinds of impressions, it shapes you. It is what our memories are built on. I am not at all certain that there exists anything more to the mind beyond that. I doubt that we’ve got some immutable soul hidden underneath it all. Humans are the collection of thoughts and ideas that we’ve attached ourselves to throughout our lives, and naturally, if you’re neurodivergent, that process is going to happen differently to most. At times those differences will be large enough that it can create real conflicts with those others around you. Effectively, to be neurodivergent is to suffer constantly from culture shocks. To me, it is natural to loathe the cacophony of birds in the summer. Their screams feel like piercing needles embedding themselves into my skin. But I try telling that to others, and I’ve yet to find anybody who agrees with me.

So, am I just wrong? Am I mistaken? Am I a freak? Why can’t I just be like everybody else? Why must I be such a buzzkill? I can’t even enjoy birdsong, I really must be a pain to be around. How did it come about that I just can’t be normal? Normal. I want to be normal. It is and it will likely always be grossly underrated to just be normal. Normal people don’t know how good they have it. They’re just too normal to be able to perceive it. When you’ve never been without it, you don’t know what it is to miss it. Normalcy. Having a normal brain. Having others see you as a normal person. Only if you didn’t have it, would you know how great it is. Do you sometimes wonder if dogs know how much they’d miss their sense of smell if they ever were to lose it?

Then again, there is no such thing as normal, is there? If you were to take the world’s most average person, then that person would be abnormal. To be a person is to be unique. We’re all special snowflakes. Aren’t we?

You may not play your instrument in a conventional manner, but who’s to say what manner counts as conventional? It’s all just so arbitrary. Who’s to say you can’t play an acoustic guitar as a drum? Who’s to say you can’t treat your piano as a percussion instrument? Smack your cello with a flute, if you’d like. Isn’t it just delightful when you see a unique performer who is able to play their instrument in a way you could never before have conceived it being played? The novelty of it all. The absolute joy of being exposed to something different. Of seeing something that can barely be believed. You love things that are unusual, and you think people who are different should delight in being different. Surely, it is better than being normal and boring?

But is it all that bad to be boring? And you may love what’s different, but when it comes down to it, despite your positive inclination, you still perceive it as being the other. It is not you. It is not mainstream, it is underground. Secluded. Deviant. Those who truly do struggle to fit in with society, to be just like everybody else, they are constantly faced with these little reminders that they just don’t belong. They are humans (at least they think they are humans,) but they’re not like other humans they know. For as much as they get told that they should embrace their quirky nature as simply being who they are, it is hard to know what it is like to be not normal, when all you’ve ever been is normal. Sure, for a performance or two, it’s fun. It’s fun to get the attention, to be seen as having something others don’t have. But then, at the end of the day, all you want is to be able to fall asleep, without the birdsong outside your window keeping you awake.

[pokkop15]

(Ok so I was a fool and had had a lot of this meta written up yesterday and instead of saving it as a draft while I watched critical role, I, like a fool, just left all the tabs open and then went to bed after the episode. Then firefox crashed in the night and everything was lost. Press F to pay respects I guess cause here I go again.)

First off, Aradia is best girl and I am so happy she's RELEVANT again. I had a whole preamble the last time I wrote this post, but I can't remember what it said other than mentioning that this is gonna be a long post beneath the cut and that I have other metas that will kind of overlap with what I'm saying in this one so I will try to keep my discussion of the narrative styles of the The Prince and The Muse to only what is relevant to this post and to what is RELEVANT. Also previous metas should be reblogged directly before I post this to make it easier to check them out before hand or to reference them more easily.

The main points of focus will be: The differences between how the two Time gods interact with The Muse and her narrative, as well as the general level of metatextual awareness of characters within Candy. | The juxtaposition of the Knight and the Maid. | The possible suppression of the Ultimate nature of The Knight, and by extension The Seer. | The Muse's unique state of power and presumed Awakening | I swear there was more but I flat out don't remember what they were.

One last thing. I am a rambly motherfucker so if you haven't read my previous metas, here's your warning to expect a very long and very chaotic mess of a post beneath the cut. Also for anyone confused anytime I emphasize someone as 'The Class' it's referring to their actions as a potential narrator and as an Ultimate Self. For example, the difference between The Muse and the Muse is that 'the Muse' would be for character moments like when the dead cherub possessing Jade's corpse in Candy is just talking with Davebot and Aradia, while 'The Muse' is for when talking about her influence over the narrative. (There's a lot of different ways I put emphasis on words or phrases, but “The Class” was the one I felt really might need clarification)

I find it interesting how Davebot acknowledges and shows distaste for The Muse interjecting her narration and thus inhibiting his ability to live in the moment. I find this interesting because as an Awakened god of Time, he is simultaneously living in every moment but as a Knight, and as The Knight, he is also intrinsically separate from those moments as he is the Ultimate One who Wields Time. Aradia on the other hand is the Maid of Time, who while almost assuredly having reached the pinnacle of her god tier after the hundreds of years we now know her to have lived, is not ascended to her Ultimate Self. As a Maid, Aradia literally embodies her aspect. As such she doesn't worry about living in the moment because she is the moment. Because of this Aradia is more prone to just accept, agree, and repeat the sentiments The Muse dictates in her constant exposition. However, despite acknowledging the narration, Davebot still ends up being incredibly passive in the face of it. Even though he has an Active class and is a dreamer of the Active moon, Dave himself has always come off as an incredibly passive character to me in a lot of ways. (Even the aspect of Time itself and its heroes are specifically denoted as incredibly Active in the {official and Canon} extended zodiac test [which means its contents are NECESSARY, RELEVANT, and TRUE]). Always acting under the direction of other characters, subject to The Lord's rule over Time, and constantly struggling with his seeming lack of control. Here, even after reaching his Ultimate Self, he still only makes passive-aggressive remarks instead leaving the flow of the story and the big decisions to others. (In my last post I went into deeper detail about the nature of, and relationship between Aradia and Dave's classes and how that affected their sessions, but I can't remember what the tie in was unfortunately so for now I'll leave it at this and move on)

Among the human players of sburb, the Strilondes have always been the most genre savvy and possessed the most awareness of the narrative and its' influence, (although Dave was never near the levels of Dirk and Rose). But up until this upd8, direct interactions with the narrative have been few and far between in Candy (at least as far as I can recall). I mentioned this in my previous meta as being a result of The Muse being the type to inspire characters to action whereas The Prince is far more heavy handed in is dictation and rarely attempts to hide his presence in the narration these days. But we see here once again, that not only is The Muse bad for the people under her influence, she's also just really not good at constructing a story. She relies too heavily on tropes and cliches, on plot contrivances; she tells too much and doesn't show enough, (something that should literally be her greatest strength as a Muse). Yet despite this, Davebot and Aradia are seen multiple times to interact with her dictations directly and Aradia even points out on page 284 that she is aware of The Muse “observing (their) every action and noting its relevance : )” (the emphasis on 'relevance' being mine). As such we can infer that it doesn't take an Ultimate Self to recognize The Muse's narration. But if not that, then what? If it was just pre-disposition of character that let them notice, then between her own abilities and self awareness, surely Candy!Rose would have by now, but she hasn't. Then is it proximity? Maybe The Muse is getting complacent and starting to unknowingly imitate The Prince and his methods? Or is it because both Davebot and Aradia are Heroes of Time? The aspect opposite The Muse's. After all, The Muse did express that the way (either Aradia specifically or that the both of them) experience time is “woefully unfamiliar” to her. Perhaps that makes it difficult for her to write a story that resonates with them fully. Whatever it may be, all the information up until this point doesn't come to a head so much as it is something that I believe to be RELEVANT.

With that, let us switch gears while keeping the previous information in mind. As I said before, in spite of all the active components of Davebot's Mythological Role, his character has often been passive. And the precise story beat I want to focus on right now is his Awakening to his Ultimate Self. Candy!Dave was out on patrol with a wife who he loved, but who also had very much always been the driving force of their dynamic. He was pulled to the ancient bunker by the narrative where a hologram of Obama expertly guided him through a conversation like a true politician, somehow knowing a lot about Dave while at the same time withholding “classified” information as if that word had any meaning without a country or government holding Obama accountable. (Unless of course Obama was still answering to someone... *Cough cough*the authors*cough cough*). Look, all of this is me saying that Obama was a leftover contrivance of The Prince that The Muse utilized for her own means. Dirk was a skilled programmer and engineer. He had a deep understanding of how to build AIs that could easily impersonate someone. He had an even deeper grasp of how to manipulate Dave. Dirk built the bots. The Bots. The bots that are supposedly NECESSARY for one to Awaken to their Ultimate Self and survive. And yet even if that is TRUE, it isn't true. The Prince claims he was a special case but his powers are of the soul, not the body. And it is the body that breaks down. And we know that Rose really was suffering in her path to Awakening, but I will remind you that her poor condition was first established through narration that we know was under the control of The Prince. Further more it happened prior to the Meat/Candy split, in which the Canon still possessed TRUTH, which is why it still remained RELEVANT in Candy (and it was obviously NECESSARY in Meat for reasons about to be discussed). Both Rose and Dave ultimately played a passive role in their Awakenings, guided to their Ultimate Self by another even though they are both Active players. I believe that The Prince established these rules about Ultimate Selves and built the robot bodies as a way to give him an upper hand against the two characters most likely to overtake him. Because to reinforce a point from a previous post, Rose is the only full on published author among the players and Dave himself has written comics and presumably screenplays for his films, making them the two people who might not only do a better job than The Prince or The Muse, but just do a flat out GOOD job. The Seer especially, which is why The Prince went through the extra effort to disrupt her sense of self as she was coming into her Ultimate Self. If these two had played an Active part in their own Awakening and without The Prince’s influence I think they both would’ve been quite capable of giving The Prince a run for his money. But the humans are not the only players in this game...

As I've already alluded to, Lord English (The Lord), was almost certainly his Ultimate Self. Awakened and Empowered by the treasure (a juju so powerful that it enabled John to retcon things in a way that overrides the timeline instead of splitting it, and it did so without even granting him its actual power). When The Knight awakened, The Muse described it has having all of Time flow through his consciousness, allowing him to experience every instance of his own self. Conversely Jade described that her Ultimate Self would be “like... one ultimate self distributed across multiple bodies. so in multiple places and states at once. every jade that exists is like a light being shined through a thousand cracks in the timeline.” (Hey remember those cracks in the universe that had light peaking through them? Idk, seems RELEVANT if you ask me.) So if we reasonably assume that ones aspect heavily affects how one's Ultimate Self first Awakens and how it operates than that means there will be similarities between those who share aspects. If Awakening for a Hero of Time is an experience of everything that ever has, is, or will happen to a version of themselves, and Lord English possessed a juju that allows one to retcon and not split, than the combination of those powers would make it so he could be the singular instance of himself while at the same time always be “Already Here” than there is truly no difference between Lord English and the theoretical Ultimate version of himself. And since the Muse consumed Lord English at the end of Candy, granting her the power to punch a wormhole in the black hole. This is also presumably where she gained the power to “...exist in several narrative structures at once” (pg 286) (also see the above explanation of Jade's Ultimate Self for why that is RELEVANT). Because of this, we can assume that The Muse is just as indistinguishable from her theoretical Ultimate Self as The Lord was. But these powers and this simultaneous existence is not without consequences because the Muse's collapse at the end of this chapter is almost assuredly a result of Meat!Jade's rebelling against The Muse in chapter 6 (specifically the action on page 167/168). And finally, to tie this back to the imposition of bodily destruction to those who Awaken their Ultimate Self, it is worth noting that The Muse does not possess a body of her own to be destroyed. Instead inhabiting the body of various Jades.

Alright, so once again sorry if you thought there would be some big culmination to this post, and hey, what pumpkin?

[justtheendoftheday]

Night of the Living Dead (1968)

“They’re coming to get you, Barbra.”

When the bodies of the recently deceased begin coming back to life to try and kill and eat the living, a group of strangers take refuge inside an empty rural home.

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Fright: 1.7 / 5  Barbras

For me the most unsettling moments of fright are near the beginning when the attacks first start occurring. Sure, packs of the undead banging on your door is a creepy idea, but the potential for some stranger to suddenly attack you is just so much more real.

I feel like this was probably a very frightening movie when it came out, but time has dulled its blade a bit. For devotees of the genre Night of the Living Dead probably doesn’t even cause a blip on their fear radar. But for less desensitized viewers I think it probably walks a nice line between being spooky enough to creep you out a little, but tame and dated enough that it won’t keep you up all night.

It’s easy to look back on this one and not remember any big scares. But that’s probably just because the movie isn’t really into big scares. It prefers to charge the atmosphere of a scene with spooky tension. Who will live? Who will die? What’s going to happen next?

Gore: 2.3 / 5 Butcher Counter Scraps

This one is tough to measure. Old school gore gore rarely measures up to modern standards, and the whole movie is in black & white (which always makes things seem a little less visceral to me). So by modern zombie movie standards this one is pretty tame.

On one hand there certainly is a bit of gore, but on the other hand it is generally used to suggest that something rather gruesome occurred instead of actually showing it happening.

For instance, they never show anyone getting bit or pulled apart or anything like that. But they do imply that such things have happened and then show the ghouls eating “human flesh.” Yet it’s pretty obvious to an adult viewer that the actors are just creepily munching on a prop arm or some meaty bit acquired from a butcher shop.

There’s also a couple of quick shots of a slightly decomposed skull.

For the most part the only gruesome things you actually see being done to people are things like getting shot or stabbed.

Jump Scares: Very few

There are a couple of potential startle moments, but they are a bit tame by today’s standards. I didn’t notice any really aggressive jump scares to speak of.

Review:

Night of the Living Dead is a film that goes beyond the confines of its spooky premise to work as a powerful metaphor for its time. While its depiction of women is unfortunately quite bland, the way it deals with race is incredibly interesting. It’s a movie that delights in creating tension more so than going for aggressive scares. While certainly tame compared to modern zombie films, it remains a really fun movie that establishes the heart of a Romero-style zombie movie: a group of survivors who are forced to question whether the real terror is being alone outside with the zombies or inside together with the other survivors.

Thoughts:

Ah, Night of the Living Dead, one of those cinematic classics that everyone has at least heard of even if they’ve never seen.

Is it just me or is anyone else always wary of “classics?” So many of them turn out to be quite boring, or dated, or—worst of all—problematic. And sure, they might have made a big impact on the field, but that doesn’t mean they’re inherently great art, especially decades down the line.

And yet sometimes you’ll watch a so-called Classic and you totally get it.

Oh! Yes, this is why everyone keeps talking about this one.

One of my favorite things about the Horror genre is that so much of it is built up from a foundation of independent works and passion projects. And so much about what makes this movie a classic is because it was made by a bunch of film nerds who just wanted to make a movie. The only limitation placed on them was the scope of their imagination and the confines of their budget.

And that is exactly what allowed it to work outside the usual studio box and synthesize something new.

Here is a movie that has lots of gore (unusual for the time), was shot in black and white (also quite unusual for the time), and it cast a handsome black man as the main character and definitive hero of the movie (very unusual for the time).

Now keep in mind that movie was made in late 1960s America! A time where institutionalized racism was clashing against the force of a powerfully determined and ever-growing civil rights movement. To see a black man being portrayed as the hero—let alone one who heroically fights against white bodies—was almost unheard of in the cinematic pop-culture of the time.

Romero has said that his script hadn’t called for a black man to be cast in the role of Ben, but Duane Jones was chosen for the role simply because his audition had been the best. And while it’s easy to believe that Duane Jones aced that audition (because he’s friggin’ phenomenal in this movie), it’s hard to imagine that they would have even considered casting a white dude in the role. If they had gone that route it would have fundamentally changed the nature of the story (which is just a nice way of saying that it would have ruined everything).

But luckily for us the creators were open-minded enough to cast the role without race in mind. And because of that Night of the Living Dead was able to (inadvertently) tap into the energy of its time. It’s charged with this backlash against American racism. Ben is literally surrounded by white people that want him dead. They either want to ignore his humanity and simply consume him, like the hordes of ghouls do, or they want him dead for threatening the status quo (like Mr. Cooper does inside the house). And in spite of everything he still sticks his neck out to protect the people around him.

In spite of how well it’s held up over the years, for a modern audience one part hasn’t aged especially well: its depictions of women. Now don’t get me wrong, it never goes for the overt sexism that many horror movies manage to. And yet its female characters still manage to be the most bland characters in the film.

The lack of depth is on full display in their depiction of the film leading lady: Barbra. She starts out well enough, but for the vast, vast majority of the movie she is reduced to a hollow character. She is near catatonic most of the time and even when she’s lucid she tends to just ramble on, only partially aware of reality.

If that wasn’t bad enough there are only 3 other women in the movie and their characters almost never step outside the frameworks of The Wife, The Girlfriend, and The Daughter. All the female characters seem to exist only to add depth to the male characters who are the actual movers and shakers of the movie.

(Although in her defense I will say that Mrs. Cooper’s occasional scathing remark to her idiot husband are highly enjoyable.)

The first time I saw this film was in high school and I had heard it hyped up so much that I ended up thinking it was all a bit silly when I first saw it. While I’m sure it was more shocking to see during its time, by today’s standards it is a rather quiet movie. But when I ended up giving it another try, I found that the quietness is one of my favorite things about it.

One of the little details I love is how they use cricket sounds throughout the movie. In spite of all the horror and death we witness, nature continues unabated. It’s as if to say the world doesn’t care about these people’s situation. That little sound that evokes quiet peaceful summer nights is twisted here and it adds this brilliant extra layer of creepiness.

One of the things I’ve always loved about Romero’s zombie movies is that they are always focused on the survivors, not the zombies. The ghouls are slow and stumbling, their only real threat is if they catch you unaware or you let them overpower you with their numbers. The real source of danger is always shown to be the people you’re locked up with.

After all, in these modern times what is more frightening: the masses pounding on your gates or the people you find yourself locked in with?

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Content warnings: I didn’t notice anything particularly triggering in this one, but let me know if I missed something!

After-credits Scene?: None.

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Directed by: George A. Romero

Written by: John Russo & George Romero

Country of Origin: USA

Language: English

Setting: Butler County, Pennsylvania, USA

Sequel: Dawn of the Dead (1978)

If you liked this you might also like: Dawn of the Dead (1978), Day of the Dead (1985), The Last Man on Earth (1964), Shaun of the Dead (2004)

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Context Corner:

Night of the Living Dead may be the great grand-daddy of the modern zombie movie, but many might not know that plenty of zombie movies existed long before it was ever made. The first zombie movie being the 1932 film White Zombie starring Bela Lugosi as an evil witch doctor named Murder Legendre [100% serious. That really was his name].

However, these original zombie movies were very different things from what we consider zombies today. These pre-NotLD films were generally based around second-hand ideas of zombies as seen in Haitian folklore (and misattributed to the religion of voodoo). They featured dead bodies that were reanimated as mindless tools of their master or living people put into a zombie-like trance, not autonomous creatures on the hunt for living flesh.

The closest precursor to Romero’s vision of zombies was seen in the fantastic film The Last Man on Earth, a 1964 picture starring Vincent Price and based on the novel I Am Legend by Richard Matheson. There a plague sweeps across the country and the infected dead return to life as a type of vampire-esque zombies.

Fun Fact: In spite of its influence on the zombie genre the word “zombie” is never used in Night of the Living Dead. The undead are referred to only as “ghouls.”

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“So long as this situation remains, government spokesmen warn that dead bodies will continue to be transformed into the flesh-eating ghouls. All persons who die during this crisis, from whatever cause, will come back to life to seek human victims.”

[zydrateacademy]

Review - The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild

I never cared much for Zelda. My gaming life began with the likes of Unreal and Quake, later exploring the more intriguing worlds of Morrowind and Final Fantasy X. I was late to the nostalgic craze of Mario, Metroid, Pokemon and the likes of Zelda itself, though my brother would always gush about them as the years went on, while I delved into the Elder Scrolls and Assassin’s Creed franchises as my typical “favorite games” listing. Yet on a fateful evening outing with the family, I found myself with a brief demo of Breath of the Wild. Having a controller in my hand for the first time in probably a decade, I fell in love with the brief ten minutes I had with Link and his new world. It became an immediate Christmas wish, which was immediately fulfilled by my family within weeks of this request. My family was very excited that I wanted to try a Zelda game at all. So let’s get to it.

Link immediately awakes as much of a blank slate as I am, with nothing but amnesia and a female voice (quickly revealed to be Zelda herself) to guide him. We’re given something called a Sheikah Slate which looks like the lore’s own version of a Switch or iPad, and it basically serves as the game’s major MacGuffin that powers most of your abilities, map systems, and everything else. Apparently it’s an important device, as every major character and city leader immediately recognize it. From what I can understand in context, the device was in the possession of a team of champions that apparently died a hundred years prior. They fought against “Calamity Ganon”, the game’s major antagonist. You’re shown the castle off in the distance, but in the beginning Link is stuck on a massive plateau, and you need a wind glider to make it off alive. The old man helping you trades one after you learn the game’s four basic abilities, and the whole plateau serves as the tutorial. We get a stasis ability (for locking objects in a time field, of which you can manipulate its momentum), two different bomb types (one that rolls and a square for better control depending on terrain), a cryogenic that allows you to create ice blocks over water (which I often use to cross rivers) and a magnet (which does exactly what you’d expect it to). Other than the open world Dark Souls-esque combat, they serve as the game’s primary mechanics and they’ll each be used to solve every puzzle and find every chest throughout the game.  Sadly the game neglects to teach you how to cook, and I had to resort to google for that. Seems like it’s an oversight, but it’s one of the more fun mechanics, throwing a bunch of your gatherings in a pot to eventually see what might happen. It encourages experimentation which I enjoy, but if all else fails, throwing five durians or bananas in a pot will go a long way in of itself. The world opens up very quickly, as is usually advertised and mentioned in reviews. You can, in theory, immediately haul towards Calamity Ganon itself if you’re sneaky enough. I’m sure some YouTubers have already cleared it (quick research tells me it can be done in around 40-50 minutes), but more casual players would likely be crushed instantly. Instead you’re given several tasks, such as taming four Divine Beasts, massive mechanical creatures that roam Hyrule. They’re currently controlled by Ganon but you can retake them and they’ll all help during the final fight.

Beyond that, the world is ours. I admit I was feeling a bit dry of this genre after having around a thousand hours on Skyrim and a few hundred on the various Fallout’s, it’s a literal breath of fresh air as I found myself with a very simple goal: nab all the towers. In typical fashion more expected from the likes of Ubisoft, there are several towers to climb that unlock the maps of entire regions. I don’t mind this so much as it helps me get the lay of the land as well as a clear goal on the outset. I’d be very lost without them.

I have never been used to Zelda’s style of gaming but I have taken full advantage of the tools the game has given me. Chief of which being the open world itself. A vast majority of my gameplay has mostly been collecting different armor sets so that I can better face a variety of situations and weather conditions, and there’s a ton of gameplay to be had with that goal alone. In the first town that you are directed towards, there was a fairly expensive (for a starting player) stealth suit. I farmed some enemies which helped a lot in learning how to use a controller again, and the stealth bonus helped me nab some DLC armor which I used for a majority of the early to mid game, dozens of hours due to their helpful bonuses. While looking to afford that initial outfit, I ended up running into a shrine or two, and found a little tree pixie (called Koroks), which help to expand my inventory. The simple goal turned into its own micro-adventure and that’s something I very much appreciate about this game, though that does have a problem attached to it, which I’ll mention later. If my readers know me, then you know I’m a stealth player. Hilariously there is a stealth mechanic on this game with a little noise meter next to the minimap but the game wasn’t really built for it. You can sneak in enemy camps while they sleep and steal their weapons but it’s not always an ideal tactic. There’s no clear indication of detection ranges so if you alert an enemy, all you’ll see is a question mark on their head and you have very little to do with that information. A bush does not conceal me, for example, for the simple fact that it’s not considered a ‘solid object’ by the game’s standards.

That does lead to another problem. The stealth mechanic is part of the alleged “play your way” that doesn’t always work. In terms of exploration, it might. There’s a lot you can do, like plugging balloons on bombs to make them float around, or throw metal weapons at enemies during a lightning storm. There’s so much to do with the world itself, but I found very little purpose in doing any of that except for water cooler conversations of “stuff I managed to do”. You CAN use a leaf weapon to blow the enemy off the cliff, but why bother if you can two-shot them or even use one of your infinite bombs to accomplish the same goal? So why would you want to waste to much time and potential health and food items finagling with the controls which you could just press Y a couple times and make the problem go away? Not that I mind the combat over much. It has the usual fare of dodge, parry, block, flurry and a variety of charge attacks that can be kind of fun to use. I like how enemies often have their own large variety of weapons and that will change how they fight. A lizard with a bow will very often try to keep at a range from me, doing a backflip which causes me to sprint to close the gap, only for them to do it again when I try to take a swing. The same enemy type with a spear however, can be quite aggressive poking me at a range, but staying at just the right distance to piss me off. It’s a lot of fun, though. I was rather afraid of puzzles upon my initial interest of this game, and has been a large part in keeping me away from the franchise. They tend to make me feel stupid if I take too long to solve them, but there is an extra level of “hurrah!” when I manage to figure out exactly what I need to do. There is another complaint attached to this however. As I completed a few dozen shrines (there’s something to the effect of 120 total) I noticed the rest usually require some gimmick to find or unlock. There’s one I’ve yet to discover because I need to be on a platform during a blood moon, the game’s respawn mechanic. The problem is, you can’t force those and they show up roughly every three hours of game time. So I imagine one of my last shrines will be me standing on that damn platform while I watch Youtube or play something else.

There’s also a few puzzles that demand use of the motion controls, which can be incredibly fickle and frustrating. Some are better than others but I found it to be more annoying than anything and I hope they minimize that mechanic in the future. I’ve still had to resort to video guides. The Divine Beasts act as the game’s “major” dungeons preceding a boss fight, and to get to the boss, their entire body acts as a mobile puzzle. One of them has three cylinders in its midsection that can turn four times and there was far too much going on for my brain to handle. I managed to do the flying beast and water elephant on my own (with some pointers from my brother but not to a full on guide’s extent) but some of their innards are just a bit too complex to me. The other complaint that I alluded to earlier, is world density. Yes, there’s a lot of nooks and crannies that will often hide a shrine, treasure, and a variety of weapons and upgrades. It can be profitable at times to simply pick a direction and start running, but this only works to a point. Between my position and my current goal (a tower, an armor piece, a town) there might be a single shrine, maybe two, on my way to find. There was however, a lot of pointless running. I heard a Let’s Player mention that they suspected the world was built first and was just filled it in with things later. Frankly, it shows. Yes it’s cute to find a stump or pile of leaves just slightly out of place, hiding a Korok creature but once you get back to running there’s a lot of open plains, fields, and vertical mountains to climb with very little to do in between and nothing to show for it except a padded hour count.  There was some controversy over the durability of weapons. I barely had much of a problem with it. Jim Sterling infamously bashed it which earned a fair amount of ire (which is not foreign to him) and even tried to negate the common compliment of “It forces you to adjust your strategy!” Still, I’m inclined to agree with that defense. Relying on a single type of weapon could make the combat stale pretty quickly, but there’s still some high level weapons I wish stuck around for longer. I did manage to acquire the Master Sword which is a permanent weapon that can run out of ‘energy’ and gives itself a ten minute cooldown but that’s very much a late-game item to acquire. Before that you’re basically stuck with a horde of guardian axes and knight’s claymores. I have run into the odd situation of having two or three weapons left but I discovered that shrines respawn during blood moons, so I simply found myself in those “Major Test of Strength” shrines which give you a single enemy with predictable attack pattern, serving as a miniature boss fight to help you get used to the combat mechanics. They drop two or three fairly decent weapons and a lot can be done with them. It’s just another thing to do in a fairly enjoyable game.

I also wanted to compliment the game’s way of leveling itself up. It’s essentially tied to story progress and Divine Beast slaying. Each mob has a few different variations, color coded for your convenience. Usually starting brown and going up to blue, then black and others. Each harder than the last, usually just wielding more powerful weapons and having a fair amount of hitpoints. Since a lot of my gameplay was exploring, getting towers and collecting armor, the game never advanced too quickly for me. I’d have a few scattered harrowing fights but the game did a good job of making sure I could take my time with it. The early game throws a few blue Moblins at you which are fully capable of one-shotting your measly four hearts, but I feel that was a sort of observation test for a player to absorb. It forces you to think about what your facing, change weapons and strategy. In practice, it just made me terrified of the color blue for a while. The game only starts throwing the tougher enemies at you once you defeat the bosses accompanying the four Divine Beasts. As the game’s major dungeons, completing them is often a test of everything you’ve learned and is as good a marker as any for “this player is ready for tougher enemies”. I am very pleased with this kind of development, as my first ten hours was spent killing jello blobs and bats for their parts so I could sell them and afford more arrows. The game never really went “Okay, time for the tough stuff” when I’m still using a wooden goblin spear. I don’t expect I would get much out of the game’s Master Mode, serving as a sort of New Game Plus except without anything you’ve earned, and is basically just a Hard Mode. The DLC has plenty more to offer which I will explore eventually but it sounds difficult, and I’ve never been any kind of Hard Mode player. Still, I was afraid of this game and I’ve been doing just fine in it so the DLC may not be as intimidating as I think. In conclusion, I’m having a lot of fun in it. It may not have lasting replayability (though I can think of a few ‘corrections’ to my early game to help things along) and after so long, I find there’s very little to actually find as I climb snowy mountains and angrily wait for a thunderstorm to pass. I’m far from done with it though, not while I still have goals in mind. I do have my sights on beating this one, and for a newer-aged millennial gamer, finding a Zelda game that I actually enjoy is an accomplishment on their part. I understand BOTW is a major genre shift for the franchise, and I hope they continue the trend if they want me as a returning customer. Until then, this game is very, very good.

[dustedmagazine]

The Dusted Mid-Year Exchange: 2018 Edition, Part 1

In our fifth annual switcheroo, Dusted writers review each other’s favorite records, venturing out of the genres where they feel most comfortable to wrestle with excellence outside their frame of reference.  As always, assignments were made at random with the only rules being: a) you can’t review your own pick and b) you can’t review something you’ve already written about for Dusted.  

Unlike in past years, there was no clear favorite in 2018, although artists including Marisa Anderson, Olden Yolk, DJ Koze and Kacey Musgraves made multiple lists.  And perhaps most heartening, a number of writers amended their mid-year favorites after listening to other writers’ picks.  We hope you’ll also be able to find some new favorites among the artists we highlight.

Today, we’ll run the first half of the mid-year blurbs (alphabetically) from Marisa Anderson to Joelle Leandre & Elisabeth Harnik.  We’ll cover the second half of the alphabet tomorrow, then close our feature with individual writers’ best of lists through the first half.

Marisa Anderson — Cloud Corner (Thrill Jockey)

Cloud Corner by Marisa Anderson

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Who recommended it? Eric McDowell

Did we review it? Not yet, but it’s assigned.  

Ben Donnelly’s take:

"Slow Ascent" is one of the titles in Anderson's latest batch of profound electric guitar explorations. It's a good phrase to summarize her career and style, hiking higher with each release, wandering further from the trails. For the second time, she's tracking a few extra instruments into her miniatures without disrupting the solitude, keyboards and acoustic strings mostly matching the cracks and chime of her main axe. Her fingerpicking has a fractal aspect, where intricate and rapid patterns can create a cycle that's relaxed and gradual, as on the title track and other lilting numbers. "Lament," a slide blues with a dissipating tempo and skeletal keyboard notes is forceful in its minimalism. She's becoming a master of small contrasts. Nowhere better than the closer "Lift,” where folks sounds step aside for a plucky scale that spirals up, offset by sweeps that sound like brushing the harp of an open-lidded grand piano, but take focus as a harmonized electric. Her brilliance is ever more in focus.

 The Armed — Only Love (Throatruiner)

ONLY LOVE by The Armed

Who recommended it? Jonathan Shaw

Did we review it? Yes. Jonathan Shaw said, “The Armed will likely be delighted by the divisive responses Only Love generates.”

Ian Mathers’ take:

You almost wish for anyone who’s potentially up for the Armed’s pummelling, exuberant, often frantic, tremendously maximalist take on hardcore and assorted associated genres to come to the record totally blind, and not just because “Witness” comes leaping out of the gates so forcefully. It can be fun to start digging around and register all the distancing tactics, purposeful obfuscation, sense of play, and weird links (to everything from Converge to, err, Rubicam and Young), but the visceral impact of Only Love is powerful enough that all that context should be saved for later. It’s one thing to start filling in context, it’s another thing to hear something as ferocious and compelling as “Role Models” (“NO INS! NO OUTS!” yell-chanted in a way I’m pretty sure even little kids would find appealing, if you could sneak this synth-spiked bomb past their parents) in the context of trying to figure out the game, if there is indeed a game here. After the roiling chaos of the first few listens subsides the sheer number of hooks packed inside these songs really settle in your mind, anchored by Ben Koller’s incredible drumming (possibly commissioned on false pretences) and just as adept at etching out a multi-part climax like the seething “On Jupiter” as just full-on sprinting on the likes of “Heavily Lined.” And then there’s “Fortune’s Daughter,” maybe the strongest earworm I’ve encountered yet in 2018. Who are the Armed and what are they up to? It’s not that I’m not interested in the answer to that kind of question, it’s more that as long as they keep making records as good as Only Love I’m happy to believe whatever they tell us (or don’t).

 Bardo Pond — Volume 8 (Fire)

Volume 8 by Bardo Pond

Who recommended it? Jennifer Kelly

Did we review it? Yes, Jennifer said, “The sound, vast and muscularly monolithic as ever, seems more like a demon summoned periodically from a ring of fire than the product of any sort of linear development.”

Isaac Cooper’s take:

Like fellow travelers Yo La Tengo’s There’s A Riot Going On, Bardo Pond’s Volume 8 is stitched together from jam excerpts and spare parts, but unlike Riot, Volume 8 is remarkably cohesive and propulsive. Even at its droniest and spaciest, there is no shortage of momentum or sense that Volume 8 is a collection of barrel scrapings to tide over the diehards; it stands with any of Bardo Pond’s releases. The guitars on “Kailash” and “Flayed Wish” howl and wail like Lear on the heath, while the rhythm section pushes on, determined as Sisyphus. Two shorter pieces, “Power Children” and the gorgeous solo guitar piece “Cud,” act as a brief respite before the entropic and monstrously heavy closer, “And I Will”. Musical improvisation is one of the best means we have of tapping into the murky world of the unconscious, and Volume 8 demonstrates that while there’s plenty of chaos and darkness down there, it’s also the source of inspiration and transcendence.

 Cut Worms — Hollow Ground (Jagjaguwar)

Hollow Ground by Cut Worms

Who recommended it? Ben Donnelly

Did we review it? Not yet...

Patrick Masterson’s take:

“Amid all the noise nowadays, there’s precious little that still makes me feel the way those peoples’ songs do, and aspiring to reach that level is a big part of what makes me do this to begin with.” This is Cut Worms’ Max Clarke in a charmingly earnest Medium interview last fall on some of his biggest influences – John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Lou Reed. Maybe you’ve heard of them; maybe you’ve heard of the level of cultural influence they have exerted on us all. And if you’ve heard the Alien Sunset EP that was released just after the interview ran, you’ll easily be able to see where Clarke was coming from in the time that he spent putting the homespun eight-track wonder together, splitting halves between Chicago and his current Brooklyn home. It’s a beautiful record that doesn’t overplay its hand, choosing instead to let the simplicity of his natural ear for a melody do the talking despite the humble recording quality. He was never going to reach the mythical heights of his influences plying away at that trade forever, of course, but his art was all the better for sounding so self-assured in its limitations.

Hollow Ground, however, is a Trojan Horse of the most exhausting variety. Those same reference points – the Beatles, Dylan, solo Reed – still apply, only here they spring forth in an aggressively augmented form with a backing band and a more fleshed-out sound that’s like saying, “Alexa, give me every pop music trend of the 60s at once” or, more accurately, like listening to someone too young to have experienced the decade but old enough to be familiar with its most basic cultural signifiers play an album’s worth of icons. How do we know? Check the new versions of Alien Sunset’s “Don’t Want to Say Good-Bye” and “Like Going Down Sideways”; they’re wholly different, coldly unlovable remakes of the intimate originals. Even his lyrics feel unconvincing; Clarke uses the pet name “baby” on 60% of the songs here, which, look: I don’t need to stare into a wordless void with Bill Basinski to feel something and there’s an evident surplus of genuinely touching heartache present, but that’s an affectation of the most irritatingly trite variety.

For a certain kind of person, Max Clarke is the perfect person; for that person, Hollow Ground will resonate simply, perfectly. I am not that person. I will never listen to this again – likely not individual songs, certainly not in full. Does that seem unduly harsh? Does it feel too personal? Does the cut worm forgive the plow? Guess we’ll see. Ask again when there’s a follow-up.

  Sarah Davachi— Let Night Come on Bells End the Day (Recital)

Who recommended it? Bryan Daly

Did we review it? No

Bill Meyer’s take:

Sarah Davachi puts out albums often enough that it’s hard to catch up, so please cut Dusted some slack for not getting to Let Night Come on Bells End the Day until now. The Canadian composer and multi-instrumentalist has followed All My Circles Run, an all-acoustic minimalist chamber piece, with an overdubbed solo recording for electric organ, acoustic piano, Mellotron and synthesizers. Like some ecclesiastic initiate, she has followed a solitary path to arrive at a place that is one with the cosmos. Her slow-morphing tones, incremental melodies, and exquisitely voiced harmonies don’t just sound like they should be played in a chapel; they erect a virtual space around the listener that only lets the ineffable through.  If Andrei Tarkovsky was still around, he might be writing a movie to wrap around these sounds.

  DJ Koze — Knock Knock (Pampa Records)

Who recommended it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? Yes. Jennifer Kelly said it “has a humid, organic air, even its most rigorously electronic tracks seething with jungle-y vitality and caressing warmth.”  

Ian Mathers’ take:

Like a lot of his peers, DJ Koze has been active and prolific for years without ever putting out that much in the way of “proper” albums, which probably goes some way towards explaining why Knock Knock, only his third, sounds so relaxed, confident and casually accomplished. With stellar vocal turns by everyone from Lambchop’s Kurt Wagner to folkie José González to Róisín Murphy (who’s rarely put her imperious purr to better effect than on the two perfectly-matched tracks she’s on here), 16 tracks in total and a lengthy running time, Knock Knock feels like a bit of a Statement from the producer. Which makes it maybe even more impressive that some of the best stuff here (like the sad jam “Pick Up” with its perfectly deployed vocal sample, or the almost-Avalanches style “Baby (How Much I LFO You)”) is just Koze without a high-profile guest vocalist. The whole thing has a friendly warmth and subtle propulsiveness that makes for compulsive listening; if this isn’t Koze at the peak of his powers, it sure feels like it could be.

 Tashi Dorji and Tyler Damon — Leave No Trace: Live in St. Louis (Family Vineyard)

Leave No Trace: Live In St. Louis by Tashi Dorji & Tyler Damon

Who recommended it? Isaac Olson

Did we review it? Yes, Isaac said, "While these performances are undoubtedly chaotic, they never feel purposeless.”

Justin Cober-Lake's take:

That guitarist Tashi Dorji and percussionist Tyler Damon have a limitless supply of ideas isn't surprising, but it's remarkable how well they've organized them into sensible packages on Leave No Trace: Live in St. Louis. Neither of the quarter-hour tracks here are exactly linear, but they do progress both coherently and unhaltingly. “Leave No Trace” offers the most noise, with the first half of the piece continuously crescendoing. The disappearance of one artist or the other simply means the soloist has more volume to cover. The pair spend the last two minutes together, Damon crashing away while Dorji sounds like two guitarists fitting blips together.

“Calm the Shadows” works differently. While not a suite, the song comes in sections, with Dorji and Damon filling in an outline as they go. The pair respond to each other, and work mutually on an unpredictable but discernable path. The slow build to the noisy section lets the chaos function as a thesis statement with the back half of the track the understanding of what to do with it. Dorji's pointed playing through that section answers the early rumble without making anything easier. Damon's sounds complete the thought. When “Leave No Trace” works so hard to slowly heap sounds before smashing through it all, the effect is amplified but the control of its predecessor. Dorji and Damon are a few albums in now and, while there wasn't much doubt from the start, they seem to be working in a rare place right now.

 Holland/Parker/Taborn/Smith—Uncharted Territories (Dare2 Records) 

Who recommended it? Derek Taylor

Did we review it? Not yet.

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

It feels like a math puzzle. How many distinct ensembles including duos, trios and quartets can be formed out of four musicians?  But hearing it in practice as master bassist Dave Holland, free jazz titan Evan Parker, pianist Craig Taborn and drummer-vibe-ist Ches Smith assemble and disassemble into improvisatory groups is quite another thing. “Trio No Tenor” on disc one takes a luminous shimmer from jangling metallic percussion, abstract interpolations of piano and the shape-shifting tone of plucked, hanging bass tones. “Duo Bass Tenor” on disc two is far more fluid and contemplative, as long bowed bass notes underline the fluttering explorations of sax; its two old friends finding space in each other’s musings, darting in to challenge and interject and locating points of agreement even in occasional dissonance. The quartets, though, are the most astonishing, (I like #5 from Disc 2), as extraordinary, unruly energies careen off one another, extemporizing, reacting, reaching over and in between each other in a dense mesh of sound that seems, nonetheless, uncrowded and precisely choreographed. Only three cuts were composed ahead, the rest worked out in two days of live improvisation. Uncharted indeed.

 Quin Kirchner — The Other Side of Time (Astral Spirits)

The Other Side of Time by Quin Kirchner

Who recommended it? Bill Meyer

Did we review it? Yes, Eric McDowell said: “ Kirchner sidesteps novelty and navel-gazing by putting pyrotechnics second to, well, music.”  

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

Kirchner leads from behind on this sprawling two LP solo debut, his drumming feverishly hot but held in check so that others — saxophonist Nate Lepine, bass clarinet player Jason Stein, trombonist Nick Broste and Matt Ulery — can take the spotlight. Interplay between the two reed players is intricately, acrobatically fine. In opener “Ritual,” Lepine jets off with Stein in hot, asynchronous pursuit, Kirchner executing a furiously syncopated undertow, part samba shuffle, part continually exploding roll. “Brainville,” the Sun Ra cover, swings and swaggers, bass and drums in arch, stylized conversation. Kirchner is, maybe a drummer’s drummer, but this is not a drummer’s record, except on two lovely, timbrally varied “Drums & Tines” tracks, where layers of kit rhythms and kalimba intersect in fascinating geometric patterns. Kirchner clearly reveres another band leader whose instrument didn’t always occupy the top of the mix; Mingus’ “Self-Portrait Three Colors” cuts the drums to brush-on-snares, while giving Broste a chance to wail, the two reedists to evoke lush dance-hall sensualism, the bassist to pluck out dark blots of body-moving tone. Kirchner is not the façade, but the architect and also the guy who holds up the building.

 Joelle Leandre & Elisabeth Harnik — Tender Music (Trost Records)

Tender Music by Joelle Leandre / Elisabeth Harnik

Who recommended it? Eric McDowell

Did we review it?  No

Isaac Olson’s take:

The best part of listening to improvised music is hearing the moment when the musicians lock in and the music takes on a life of its own, when the thrill of discovery dissolves the boundaries between performer and audience. There are many such moments on Tender Music, an improvised set from bassist Joelle Leandre and pianist Elisabeth Harnik. A few examples: the swelling tension that emerges at the one and a half minute mark of “Ear Area I,” the rising anxiety and tentative conclusion of “Ear Area IV”’s final minute, and the march that closes out “Ear Area VI”. Between these peaks, Leandre and Harnik evoke Cecil Taylor, Morton Feldman, blues, bop, classical and more, sometimes all within the space of two or three minutes. Fortunately, Leandre and Harnik are attentive enough players that their restlessness never comes at the cost of coherence. Leandre and Harnik are formidable soloists whose use of extended techniques coax ear-tickling, unexpected timbres from their instruments, but it is when they’re playing together, and more or less “normally,” that Tender Music is at its best, that the melodic and rhythmic invention of both players shines brightest, and that they’re able to speak to each other, and to us, most clearly.

[etymologv]

dear mother of penguins

genre: oneshot, almost drabble-like, fluff, slight angst (but really, mostly some schoolgirl fluff lol). Hamilton references.

pairing: highschool!kim taehyung x reader

word count: 2.3k+

summary: A series of interactions with Kim Taehyung, someone you never understood enough, and possibly never will.

(a/n): this was my first ever fic and short story that's not for a school requirement and I just really felt like writing this, edited a bit from the original version from my main blog. enjoy! :)

Taehyung. He has always intimidated you without even trying to. He was tall, or at least much taller than you were. He was popular for being and having basically everything everyone else seemed to look at—good looks, an angelic voice, brains, and good humor. Maybe a little too much humor though. But deep inside, you knew you loved it.

Decent. That was how you described, maybe rated him in eighth grade when your best friend of two years Irene asked you what you think about him, because everyone just liked him. You found that part odd though, because you’ve known him for two years and you have always thought that he was decent at best.

Math. It was a math project in the first semester of tenth grade that made you talk for the first time. You’ve had interactions before, but those interactions didn’t even reach the point of interacting enough for them to count as actual conversations. And for the first time, you thought, maybe he isn’t as intimidating as you had always viewed him.

“Ah, I’m lucky,” you hear him whisper as Mr. Jung announced the pairings for the project. He was even smiling. You almost blush.

At around nine in the evening, he contacts you in the form of a Facebook message, the first of your Messenger conversation.

Taehyung: Helloooo im starting w page 5 and working my way up, can u start w page 1??haha

And so you did. After finishing two pages, you read his messages on his progress and oh my goodness he has finished three pages and apologizing for doing almost nothing?! Though you didn’t mind. You were even amused.

Fresh linen. You noticed that that was how he smelled while you were checking each other’s work. Attractive, you thought to yourself.

Glances. You found yourself stealing glances only to see him already looking at you.

Fast forward, your English teacher announces that your project for the year is a stage play. And of course, everyone wanted Taehyung to be the male lead character.

He deserved it though, he had this soothing voice that could have this aggressively ambitious vibe to it if he wanted to. Perfect for Alexander Hamilton. You even thought he sounded a bit like Lin Manuel-Miranda.

You ended up having the role of his mistress. Who would sit on his lap grabbing his hair, his face buried to your shoulder. Now, let us tone that down before you experience problems in breathing and just talk about the part where you would cup each other’s left cheek. Your innocent high school heart gets on the verge of exploding just with the thought of your scenes.

After your first weekend practice for the stage play, you had snacks. And a whole pack of ice cubes for some reason.

After the war, I went back to New York, a-after the war I went back to New York-

Non-stop. That was the song that was playing when he ended up in front of you, cupping both cheeks instead of one. Neither of you said anything. Staring. There was just staring.

This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation-

Your heart was thumping violently, pace increasing each discernable unit of time. You were scared, scared of how you looked, if you blushed. You were scared that however you reacted would give you away. You looked down and tried to play off the looking-down as something cute by swaying your head with his hands still on it. Left, right, left. He removed his hands. Neither of you said anything, and both of you just joined your classmates in the game they were playing using the ice cubes.

You felt something. You felt it. No matter how many times you tried to reason out what happened with it simply being part of practicing. Hell, the song where you were supposed to do that wasn’t even playing.

After some minutes, you ran to Jimin to give him a detailed report on the interaction. Sometimes you regret telling one of his closest friends about how you like Taehyung a lot, but Jimin was that kind of person who would smile at you and support you on your almost-nonexistent moves, as he puts it.

The next week, he laughed maybe a little too loudly at a joke you said.

I hid the letter and I raced to her place-

You ran to each other, his arms grabbing yours. You insist that you had nothing to do with your husband James Reynolds knowing about your affair. And then you whispered, “You know, this does look very similar to In Time. I’m basically draining the time you have left right now.” He let go of your arms and started laughing. Really loudly. While walking around and eventually banging his right fist against the wall for more laughing support. It was very Kim Taehyung to laugh at whatever whenever, but you couldn’t help but think this was maybe a little too much. Still, you liked it. A smile forms on your lips. His boxy smile, that signature Kim Taehyung smile, that was going to be the death of you.

Later that day, Jimin and Taehyung started paper mache-ing their way to making guns for props.

“Can you help Taehyung with the gun he’s working on? You can tear the newspapers for him. If you want.”

Ah, Jimin. If you looked closely, you would have seen how his eyebrows bounced up and down slightly. Breathe in, breathe out. With a careful small quick smile, you nodded.

You grabbed the lifestyle section and sat on President Washington’s chair. Or Alexander Hamilton’s. Depends on which song you look at. Can you even look at songs? What are you even saying? Breathe in, breathe out. He chose one of the chairs for Non-stop, which was very much beside yours.

And you were talking. After 15 minutes, you still were. At first, it was just about music taste and all that jazz (and sometimes you hate your humor for having puns even in your narrations), but the topics somehow got deeper. It felt amazing. He intrigued you, he seemed like someone that’s unreachable, in the sense that he wasn’t the type to go below the surface.

“Is Supreme close?” You were curious. He was part of Supreme, the dominating social group of the school, but part of you didn’t feel like the group was healthy for each other. Damn, a lot of people even thought their name itself wasn’t good for them. A couple, both sides members of Supreme too, suddenly went awkward because Supreme kept pushing them together. Jongdae, also a member, posted an unfunny meme of Taehyung’s picture even though Taehyung wasn’t laughing anymore. Maybe they just didn’t have the word limits in their vocabularies.

After some seconds, he replied, “I guess so, yeah, I mean we do hang out sometimes, eat lunch as a group, watch movies and shit like that.”

“I mean, close, like open to each other, like you’d share what you’re feeling, joke around but know each others’ limits, and ‘shit like that’?”

Taehyung looks up. “I guess I can’t say everyone’s comfortable with everyone. You see, we’re like a network of units of close friends. The girls have their own thing most of the time too.”

You’re reminded of how many times the thought that he keeps everything to himself without any form of release has crossed your mind. You just feel it when someone’s down. And whenever you feel that he is, nobody asks him if everything’s okay.

You find yourself wanting to be the one he opens up to.

You stand up and make your way to Jimin to refill your cup of glue solution. When you come back, Taehyung is sitting your chair, chuckling, “Thank you for the chair. You can go sit on my hand-me-down-much-less-comfortable one.”

And suddenly you were both laughing full on, both wondering why, but still laughing.

“Oh, and hey, let’s exchange numbers? For stage play matters?” He looks like he’s trying to hold back laughter, but you take his phone and enter your number anyway. He adds a contact to your phone as well.

The next weekend, he was late to the practice, but maybe it’s you who came early since aside from you, there were only five people.

To Taehyung

Heyheyhey where are you?

You text him. There was no reply.

“Have you realized anything yet?” was the first thing he said when he arrived.

“What is there to realize?”

“Well. Maybe I entered one less digit than I was supposed to in your contacts.”

Taehyung that little…  “Yah!” So that was why.

Taehyung with his hair down, parted in the middle. That would make you melt faster than the sun can.

The day before the stage play, he had his hair down, parted in the middle. And dear mother of penguins he looked amazing. Breathe in, breathe out. Do not fangirl in front of him. “You look nice with your hair down,” you manage to tell him without melting because you would like to reiterate—dear mother of penguins he looked amazing.

But dear grandmother of penguins, he styled his hair like that for the whole week.

Summer. It was one summer three am when he messaged you with only your name in it. You replied as soon as you woke up, which was eight hours later.

You: Hi, sorry for replying late, what’s up?

Taehyung: Ah, nothing, I’m sorry

Taehyung: Again im sorry

You: What for? everything ok??

Taehyung: Nothing, sorry again

The next day, you message him.

You: Henlo

Taehyung: I heard that greeting was for stinky people?? Stop greeting yourself HAHAHA

You: YAH!!!

You: >:<<<<<

Taehyung: Anyways

Taehyung: Yesterday when I chatted you

Taehyung: I said it was nothing because I was drinking with Yoongi at that time haha

A beat. Your heart just skipped a beat.

Nana. In the middle of the first semester of twelfth grade, you noticed that he’s been with Nana a lot recently. Nana getting into his car with him. Nana spending lunch with him. You’d try to avoid selfish thoughts, but you can’t help but notice how you’ve been talking much less. And not so long after it was confirmed. You were beginning to sound like a thirteen year old whose crush won’t like her back at this point, But she was everything you weren’t. Fair skin, bright eyes, long legs. She screamed the societal standards of beautiful.

But you can’t forget how she broke Jimin’s heart, and how Taehyung’s could be broken too.

Watch. That was all you could do. Watch and see what happens. You’d accept it if they’re happy. Though that would hurt you, you would somehow accept it and learn to be happy for them as well. If he gets hurt, then you’d be there, and when he heals, you’d still be there. You would cry with him and recommend both sad and uplifting songs and crack the corniest of the jokes with him. You were still young, and it wasn’t sure if your feelings for Taehyung would fade or not. But you would watch. You would be open to other possibilities, because whatever happens, happens.

Twelve years after. It was twelve years after you graduated from high school that you first saw him in person again. You entered different universities, and just… lost touch. The last time you heard from him was when he messaged you saying that he was going to delete his Facebook account because his parents told him to, but he didn’t mention his new number.

You were absent-mindedly munching down popcorn when Jimin called your name. He was at the food counter, arguing with the staff because he was pissed that they were out of cheese powder, and put barbecue flavor powder instead on your shared extra-large bucket, without telling either of you about it. He was extra mad, because he planned everything for the string of activities for your honeymoon. You both wanted cheese, you both loved cheese and knew it, but you didn’t mind barbecue. Except he did, because it was an extra-large bucket that is not cheese. He was so mad to the point that he wanted to talk to the manager, but the manager was on leave, and the owner of the movie house was there instead.

You stood up, walked to the counter, and instantly froze when you saw the reason Jimin called you. There he was, Kim Taehyung, hugging Park Jimin. He was the owner, and you have no idea why you haven’t seen each other when this movie house was where half your dates with Jimin took place. Seven years of frequenting the place and not noticing at all? Was this the first leave of the manager in seven years? Didn’t other customers with worse tempers have complaints?

“Hi,” was all you could say.

“Hi, it’s been so long. How are you?”

You run to them and join the hug, and after pulling away, you say, “As much as I would like to talk to you right now and catch up, the movie we’ve been planning on watching since the trailer came out is starting in fifteen minutes and I’m sorry.”

“Coffee? The three of us? After the movie?” He offers.

After the movie, you catch up. He tells you that his parents gave him this movie house as a gift when he finished college. And that he took a business management course. And that he and Nana broke up after five years of going on and off. You tell him that after seven years of being with Jimin, you got married about a month ago. Your husband adds that this movie date was part of your honeymoon which you’re not supposed to know how long it’s going to be because he’s got it all planned as a surprise, and that he’s still upset about the popcorn flavor, but of course he’s joking and Taehyung knows that. What he didn’t tell you was that he has seen you and Jimin several times, but he didn’t want to show himself. Watch. That was all he could do. He knew that he was special to you, but he also knew that Jimin was much more than that. You looked much happier, you were much happier. He figured that showing himself might confuse you, and he didn’t want to risk that. He believed that you and Jimin were strong, but he still wanted to wait for the right time. Though the right time never seemed to come.

And there he was, watching you two leave the café, smiling at how being in a fight with the cheese powder supplier gave him peace.

[theteenagetrickster]

21 Savage's R&B Love Affair Is A ReflectIon Of The Evolved "Gangster Rapper"

In November of 2019, artist 21 Savage spoke to hundreds of Atlanta students about the dangers of gun violence. The speech was part of Fulton county’s “Guns Down, Heads Up” program. An initiative to curtail the rising number of illegal firearms in the community. During a local news feature, he explained that urging area youth to be wise in not resorting to guns was his mission. However, his single “Immortal” which was released just 20 days prior had a different message. “Brand new Mac-90 with the drum attached, you a shit talker we got drums for that. Tryna fist fight boy you dumb for that. You gone catch a bullet in yo long for that.”

Can a hardcore rapper grow as a person, as a man, as a member of his community - yet still let his music promote the darkness of his past? 

What happens when a man with a troubled past embraces his mortality and refuses to wallow in the same mentality that resulted in the very pain he once sought to escape?

Is society receptive to the duality of a black man finding the silver lining in his suffering, dealing with the convolution and weight of surviving life in the hood? 

If you never cared to learn more about 21 Savage you may have these and other questions. Yet, given the effort, you’d quickly find that the man behind the microphone is more complex than can be understood simply by taking his music at face value. It requires a fair analysis of the environment in which he was born. The environment he references in music. Through his words, though sometimes corrupt, Savage has constructed a platform. In the 27-year old’s maturation, he continues to use that platform to make a change, perhaps the only way he knows how. This while still healing from a past that likely haunts him.

Patrisse Cullors, Co-Founder of Black Lives Matter presents 21 Savage with an award at the NILC Courageous Luminaires Awards, October 2019 - Jerritt Clark/Getty Images for NILC

In an interview with Genius, 21 Savage said, “Words are powerful. You have to be mindful of how you use them. I’m a rapper, so yeah, I’m going to rap about certain shit - but that’s entertainment. That’s music. That’s my past life. When it comes to what I’m doing in these streets as like a man. Fuck a rapper. Just me as a man and what I stand for, don’t throw dirt on that because that’s like a big accomplishment.”

21 Savage leaped onto hip-hop’s proverbial stage, the light finally shimmering on a sound once dimly lit in almost hidden crevices of SoundCloud. If The Slaughter Tape catapulted Shéyaa Bin Abraham-Joseph onto that stage his soon-to-follow EP Savage Mode was the crowd surfing frog splash off of it. The hip-hop community had embraced him. Each project he’s released since has pitted him deeper and deeper into the modern-day pop-culture lexicon. The Slaughter Tape featured a hardcore, gritty production style, heavily fleeced with 808s and a dark ominous undertone. Listening to the early Savage catalog feels like you’re walking into the belly of the slums. His menacing voice and catchy ad-libs rattle your eardrums from start to finish as he uniquely tells his story.

Back in the early days of his emergence, 21 Savage was lauded for his hardcore street, oftentimes violence ladened lyrics. Praising the gang lifestyle and endorsing problematic behavior. Behavior young men feel forced into because of the realities of living in a socioeconomically challenged neighborhood. As time fell through the hourglass on 21 Savage’s career, his tune has started to shift. Both in his outward demeanor and in his music. Perhaps it even softened.

On his most recent album, I am > I was, he goes in-depth about the tumultuous relationship with his father, losing loved ones and the pain of heartbreak. As the title would suggest Savage’s second studio album signifies a turning point in his life. Seeking to be a better artist and a better man than he once was. For his endeavors in proliferation the rapper was rewarded with a Grammy nomination for Rap Album of the Year.

“I just feel like I’m becoming a better person. My music is just getting better. Learning the game better, learning how to move, learning how to create - everything’s just growing.”

 “I might rap about a lot of stuff, but that’s just a reflection about what I’ve been through. But in real life, everything I do is positive.” 

For someone who has been through so much, it’s great to see a man able to freely express himself. His ups and downs. Both his unrestrained joy and his pain. On a 2018 Breakfast Club interview, Savage admitted that “sometimes he cries” when reflecting on the passing of a friend. DJ Envy followed his statement up by saying “the fact that you said you cry is good because a lot of people will never admit that they cry.” The Atlanta-raised rapper then says “That Jeezy and Keisha Cole song, "Dreaming," I don’t care where I’m at if that song comes on I’m going to cry.”

It was here that we realized 21 Savage, like many of us, uses music to mend emotional scars - which would explain his love affair with singing R&B. Music often acts as an emotional ointment, just as 21 Savaged described in this interview. It helps us to process our traumas. For black people, music is sometimes the only therapy we ever had. In many cases, it is the only way we were able to process the things we went through. Have you ever been to a party or a gathering and that classic R&B song plays that calls up so many emotions? We, as African-Americans, don’t simply experience music - we escape into it. Losing ourselves in the words and the melody. Hoping for a momentary fix from reality. For black men, we deserve the chance to be free of the stereotypes that chain us to a nonexpressive mascot-like existence.  

21 Savage at his "Hot Boyz" Birthday Bash, October 2019 - Carmen Mandato/Getty Images 

In the same interview, Savage admitted that he had been to therapy. Imagine a 90’s gangster rapper talking about therapy in a radio interview. As we’ve become a more conscious and progressive community in hip-hop, much of the facade has melted away and we accept these men as human beings who have experienced real things that take a toll on them - not these beacons of hyper-masculinity. We see evidence of this in today’s “gangster rapper.” 

Savage speaks on this candidly in his writings:

“I done did a lot in these streets and that’s facts. PTSD like I came from Iraq.”

“I lost all my friends countin' bands in the Bentley coupe

Diamonds on me doin' handstands, Rosé on my tooth

If she wanna dance, let her dance for the money, ooh

I don't need no friends if you really wanna know the truth.” 

In the Summer of 2018 Savage began frequently posting himself singing on Instagram’s Story feature. He sang everything from The Weeknd to R. Kelly to SWV. Bellowing his heart out. The selection a testament to his wide range of musical tastes. This past Summer the rapper claimed “I’m singing R&B this time on tour,” in an Instagram post. Savage stated that singing clears his mind. So, these internet karaoke sessions may be part medicine, part liberation. Signs of his internal cultivation. 

Men are freer now to express themselves. To be open with their feelings and show a softer side. 21 Savage is an example of this. We as a society have moved toward allowing men the opportunity to be human. To be tender and vulnerable creatures, while still endorsing their masculinity. Breaking down the barriers of masculinity has been tougher than knocking down the Berlin Wall within the tribe of hip-hop. Misconceptions of male identity have long contributed to a hyper-aggressive culture of male behavior. Many times men are incredibly pensive because they’re asked by society to partake in this play where their role is merely the beast. 21 Savage's exterior may present a hardcore gangster rapper. Now we’re seeing a softer side of Savage. Growth is the companion of time and 21 Savage isn’t the same person that scrapped and crawled his way out of the trenches. He’s a greater version of that.

21 Savage’s journey exemplifies the dichotomy that exists in rap. He wants desperately to help his community and his actions show that. But his music is still filled with violence and belligerence. The Grammy nominee’s infatuation with R&B is a sign that he’s torn about the content in his music. On one hand, it propelled him to stardom, on the other hand, it goes against the things he seems to stand for. But the stories in his music make up who he is. Without the horrors of his past, Savage may not be here to share the journey.

Savage takes his fandom of R&B to the next level by more frequently singing on his music, too. Issa Album explored this on tracks "Facetime" and "Special." In "Special," thanks to auto-tuning, he gifts us with a silky vocal arrangement. On his 2019 album, I am > I was, 21 Savage had a few tracks on which he sings in a contemporary R&B style. He later hopped on several prominent R&B remixes; Jhene Aiko's "Triggered," a song in November with Alicia Keys and Miguel titled "Show Me Love," as well as Normani's "Motivation." There may be more of an audience for 21 Savage ballads than there were for former generations of gangster rap. In what many call the golden era of hip-hop, for two decades, gangster rappers really carried the genre. But I would argue, few of the most influential artists in the past 10 years have been hardcore rap artists. Gangster rappers have had to evolve and adjust with the times in order to survive. 

21 Savage isn't alone either. Other rappers known for abrasive style and content like NBA YoungBoy and Kodak Black are showing their more vulnerable sides nowadays. Last year Kodak released HeartBreak Kodak, a project filled with songs of love's enmity. HipHopDX called the album "808s & Heartbreak meets the trap." Needless to say, it was heavily R&B influenced. NBA YoungBoy made waves with his release of "Dirty Iyanna," Michael Jackon’s "Dirty Diana" reimagined. The track features YoungBoy singing feverishly in auto-tune under the iconic baseline. Social changes and advancements in technology have made creatives that never would’ve sung in generations past empowered to give it a shot.

21 Savage gives out a plate of food during his YMCA Thanksgiving Dinner, November 2019 - Prince Williams/Wireimage/Getty Images

It's a proverb of the duplicity that exists in hip-hop and the evolution of the "gangster" rapper. Savage has several different community initiatives where he focuses on giving back. From hosting charity dinners to giving away school supplies in his old neighborhood. After his run-in with ICE and threat of deportation, Savage is now even advocating for immigrant children. It also highlights the line between art and reality. To quote 21 Savage one final time, “This is art, so how the fuck you gone tell me how to express myself - it ain’t no right or wrong way to be a hip-hop artist.”'

If you liked this, check out:

This content was originally published here.

[ejsponge61]

Eminem’s Legacy

           Marshall “Eminem” Mathers has been making rap music for over twenty years, and for the duration of his career, he has consistently been a controversial figure in music. Many are put off by his often violent and misogynistic lyrics in songs like “Kim”. Some claim that his music has never lived up to the heights he reached on his 2000 hit album, The Marshall Mathers LP. Even within the rap community, he has gained many critics in recent years, claiming that his musical style is outdated by today’s standards. But despite these criticisms, he is still one of the most successful rap artists of all time, an, despite being in his mid-forties, he continues to challenge himself when creating his new music. One of the best examples of this is a track from his 2013 sequel, The Marshall Mathers LP 2, “Legacy”. In this track, he paints a picture of who he became inspired to purse his career, and just how much that career has changed him.

           In the intro, there are several rhetorical phrases. “Tell me where to go”, “Tell me what to say”, and “I’ll say it all for you” are all phrases that imply that whoever saying them needs direction and guidance. However, to whom these phrases are referring to nor who are speaking these phrases are never said outright, lines later in the song might shed some light on those questions.

           In the first verse, he puts us in the listener in the shoes of his childhood self, and he writes from this younger perspective for the first two verses of this song. Once in the verse proper, he uses the imagery of “Martians” and “twisted experiments”, which lets us know that he felt that he did not fit in with those around him. Due to the lack of guidance and the feeling of being a social outcast, the next logical conclusion is distain for authority, to which he is “defiant often”. This is shown in the next lines by him “flying off the handle” at his mom and claiming that, despite his clear issues, he feels he doesn’t need an outside figure like a psychiatrist to aid him. Now the next line can be taken in two different ways. “I’m outside chalking up drawings on the sidewalk” can either be taken literally (as in he is actually drawing on the sidewalk) or you can interpret it as him “chalking up” his problems to trivial excuses. He then uses more imagery with the lines “talking to myself” and “hiding off in the corner somewhere quiet”, and he further paints the picture of a social outcast. Then he reveals what specifically has him in tears that day: he was shoved in a locker because he supposedly “eye-balled” another student. This verse sets the scene of the troubled childhood that Marshall experienced, one full of school bullying and a lack of parental support, and it will be the context that the second verse builds upon.

           Before going into the second verse, we first get the refrain, or hook, or the song, where we get more rhetorical phrases. “I’ll be your savior from all the wars that are fought inside your world”, with wars being a metonymy for the clashes with his mom and bullies, and “Please have faith in my words” are phrases that seem to be from a different perspective than the introduction. While the words of the introduction seem to be from someone who’s lost, these words seem to be from someone who not only has the answers they seek, but wishes to share them. However, the next lines seem obvious. As the title of the song implies, this story of childhood pain and uncertainty is Eminem’s legacy, but how his legacy is received by the world is no up to him. He addresses this with the lines “There’s no guarantee, it’s not up to me, we can only see”.

           We are put back into the perspective of a young Marshall Mathers at the beginning of the second verse. He discusses the quirks of his mind, asking “Why am I so differently wired in my noggin?”. And then he talks more about his parental issues, specifically how his dad left him early in his life. The next few lines in which he talks about his bicycle contain some of the best examples of enjambment in the whole song. In fact, he breaks the entire sentence, in which he talks about his bike, between three lines.

“I bike ride through the neighborhood of my apartment complex on a ten-speed which I've acquired parts that I find in the garbage, a frame then put tires on it”

            This technique serves to better highlight the rhyme scheme, but also, these words allude to the poverty that Mathers experienced in Detroit, which was an additional stress for him growing up. Though, despite money being scarce, he could own a Walkman, which lyrics in the second verse allude to. It is this this Walkman that leads to an epiphany he has near the middle of the verse. “I think a light bulb just lit up in my conscience” indicates the moment in which he realizes that the “rhymes [he’s] been jottin’” could help him change his unpleasant situation. As the many references to other hip hop artists throughout his musical catalog indicates, including references the rap groups Onyx and A Tribe Called Quest in this very song, Mathers is a student of the genre. This love for hip hop inspired him to start writing himself, and in the next lines, he claims that these rhymes are giving him enough confidence to be a bit more bullish. Now, instead of resulting to silence, he instead chooses to “Grab hold of [his] balls, like ‘That’s right, fight’s on, bitch!’” This is a major change in behavior that only intensifies in the final verse.

           In this verse, we no longer find ourselves in the shoes of an adolescent Mathers, but rather a modern day, adult one. After reflecting on his insecure self, and gaining confidence in himself, he now looks at the fact that he’s “differently wired” as “awesome”. He attributes his unique way of thinking to his ability to write complex rhymes “connect lines, like crosswords”. The next few lines go into how he uses the words from his enemies as inspiration to return with words even more vicious, as evidenced by other songs of his. Further through the verse, he uses a pretty long football metaphor to describe how he sees himself and his competition.

“Me against the world, so what? I'm Brian Dawkins

Versus the whole 0-16 Lions offense

So bring on the Giants, Falcons, and Miami Dolphins

It's the body bag game, bitch, I'm supplyin' coffins

‘Cause you dicks butt kiss, bunch of Brian Baldingers”

           Here, Mathers uses different players and teams within the National Football League to describe his battles with those who wish to challenge him at rap. He compares himself to Brian Dawkins, who is known for his aggressive style of play, such as throwing Michael Vick 20 yards in one tackle. He compares his competition to the offense of the Detroit Lions, who lost all 16 of their regular season games in 2008, implying that none of his competitors can measure up to him. Furthermore, he mentions the New York Giants, Atlanta Falcons, and Miami Dolphins, teams that have had more success in the league, to imply that he is up for more worthy opponents as well. Brian Baldinger is a former NFL player and current Fox telecaster. Marshal’s use of his name here is meant to act as a symbol of the critics he still gets despite proving his talent, like how Baldinger critiques NFL players in his current telecasting job. The verse goes on to describe how Eminem has been talented for many years by referencing his time signed to Rawkus Records in 1999, and then claims that anyone who questions the quality of his work can, well, go do something impolite. Then, at the end of the verse, he uses the phrase “I’m me, and I’m the Fire Marshall, and this is my…”, which is a double entendre. Not only is “Marshall” Eminem’s actual name, but this also references a nickname given to him by his friend and common collaborator, Royce Da 5’9. He started calling Marshall this because when he raps he would “shut shit down” with his “fire” (a slang term meaning “hot” or “awesome”) lyrics, like how an actual fire marshal would shut down a venue in the case of a fire hazard. And finally, at the end of this line, he uses enjambment once again, by having the end of his verse trail off into the refrain once again to end the song.

           Now, with the full context of the song, we might be able to figure out to whom and from whom are the introduction and chorus are aimed to. It is open to interpretation, so I will share mine. In the intro, I believe that is a young Mathers, desperately looking for something, or someone, to give him direction, or something to do. This ties into many of the themes of misguidance within the first verse, which this introduction precedes. In the chorus, I believe that it is hip hop itself speaking to Mathers. The genre of hip hop is personified because it is what eventually gives Mathers the confidence to change his situation, and do so more drastically than he ever expected. This interpretation would also align with many rappers before him personifying hip hop itself in a similar way, such as Common in his 1994 track, “I Used to Love H.E.R.”.

           This song may not be Eminem’s most revered work, but it clearly contains much of the autobiographical details, personification, metaphors, and enjambment that have made him such a juggernaut in music. And as this song spells out, none of it would have been possible if not for his passion for hip hop leading him to rise out of the poverty and abuse of Detroit.

[devilishdewitt]

“Ladies of Burlesque”, March 2019.

~The Eternal Disclaimer~

It is hereby declared that this little nook of the world wide web shall be devoted to the praise & critique of the art of burlesque, specifically in Russia.

Let it also be known that I am first and foremost a benevolent force, and every single criticism is documented solely for the purpose of evolution, growth and inspiration, darling.

Never forget - it is fantastic that the burlesque scene in Russia has grown so much in the last few years. Brava, ladies! As a fact and a statement, it is absolutely fabulous.

However, I volunteer to wear the heavy crown of expertise, having seen many a show in many a place, and having a keen eye for detail and a heart hungry for that wow factor. I always come with an open heart, am quite easily entertained, and know how hard the craft is - I can overlook many a fault when there’s stage presence, charisma and that fire of passion. Oh, and self-irony.

 All is sickly without self-irony.

Without further ado, onto our beautiful first show!

“Ladies of Burlesque” is the creation of Anja Pavlova, a shining star on the Berlin scene who descends into Moscow in attempt to elevate the world of Russian Burlesque.

The Venue

Quite splendid. Conveniently located minutes away from Taganskaya metro station, Dorfman karaoke drowns in luxury (it is painfully evident in the ludicrous lavatories). An atmosphere of glamour is immediately created - the view is good from all seats, the stage is well-located, the lights are a bit mad, but tolerable.

It is absurd for a Muscovite to complain about the price of anything, but the money demanded for the simplest things is aggressively silly.

The Wait

The producer of the show, who chose the somewhat childish moniker Konfetki, was at the door, checking the lists and being wonderful. She is delightful, but good God, please dress her better. The ensemble she chose did not fit the venue nor the atmosphere. She is gorgeous - let her outfit be gorgeous, too!

The magnificent lady selling pasties was exactly that - magnificent.

 I wish there was a lady like that everywhere I went.

The Performers

Anja Pavlova is undoubtedly a ray of jazzy 20’s sunshine. “This is the show of my dreams”, she announces, and you can tell it’s true - she is simply glowing. She clearly knows what she’s doing and she loves it completely. However, at times her beaming adoration for the performers seemed over the top - especially when her words were far from the truth.

When one thinks of a chorus line, the mind is immediately alight with synchronised wonders, radiant smiles & fascinating costumes. That is how Anja introduced the Ladies of Burlesque Chorus Line.

But oh boy, it was a spectacle for all the wrong reasons. The costumes do not flatter the ladies at all and look quite sloppy. They were saved by the gorgeous headpieces and smiles, but the moves…seemed incredibly random. Rare moments of synced movements provided some sense of relief, but over all, for chorus line dancers, they have an abominable sense of rhythm and don’t dance that well. The girls seem very nice, but don’t have the oomph & electricity to really capture the audience. Also, they left in what seemed to be an embarrassed hurry. Never!

Also, you’re doing a burlesque show & you’re not cinched? Girl, bye.

As a wise professor used to say, “It’s not about the size, it’s about the line”. Take care of that silhouette, mademoiselle!

Then came the singer, Marie Weinberg. If only she was as good as our charming host promised…remarkably, her stage presence was close to nil. Both of the dresses were gorgeous, but she should’ve worn the green one first - the black & diamanté ensemble should’ve been saved for dessert.

The choice of songs was excellent, but she did nothing with them. Her version of “Oops I Did It Again” was surprisingly charmless. One mustn’t even do much to make it a hit, it’s all there - the dramaturgy, the humour, the irony, but somehow she managed to make it gloriously bland.

I was bored! At a Burlesque show! Nonsense.

Does she have a good voice? Yes.  

Does she sing well? Yes.

Is she entertaining? No.

Does she know what do with an audience? No.

Do I want to see her again? No.

On to the deshabillants!

In general, I want to say that most of the acts were extremely similar. I know, I know, this is Burlesque, the main mechanism is quite predictable - but it seemed like 90% had a version of a wrap-around dress with pretty much the final look underneath. It is so fun to play with expectation in this genre, and somehow most of the performers completely overlooked this opportunity. However, this is only the beginning. Everyone started somewhere!

Ellisha Fox, I salute you. I can’t even imagine the amount of raised eyebrows and hurt pseudo-masculine egos you had to encounter on your path. His style is reminiscent of glorious anime characters, his moves are impressive, and those heels!! Those heels!!!! Good Lord, he’s a superhero!!

However, a pinch of self-irony would not ago astray. Perhaps, for a future act. I’d recommend taking a leaf out of Jett Adore’s book - specifically the Zorro act with which he travelled all over the world as part of Dita’s show.

Still, Ellisha had one of the best acts of the evening, Bravo!

If we were to speak about lack of self-irony, Tamasina Beansun is the queen of it. Her acts have excellent ideas - the Eve one she showed at last years’ Moscow Burlesque Festival, or the Little Red Riding Hood she presented this time - but her performances are so self-absorbed, at times one feels like he’s the third wheel. Like a party for one that you somehow found yourself in. And sure, it can be a style choice, but it’s not working. Sometimes it simply becomes vulgar. And it’s not a question of confidence, for it is always felt.

This is not the case. Simply put, she does not need the audience. Her self-indulgence feeds every appetite that she herself has.

Her Siberian Prime ally, Katerina Sahara, is an exact opposite. She loves the audience and it shows. Her acts range from witty & ironic (The Bunny), to majestic & mesmerising (the newest addition, The Dragon). Her moves are hypnotising, she always looks impeccable. She knows her worth and yet is the first one to laugh at herself. I must admit, her Dragon act amazed me. It was so well thought through, so gorgeous, utterly hypnotising. I often use her Bunny act as an example of brilliant Russian Burlesque. Can’t wait to see what she does next.

The Stage Kitten, our charming engineer, was quite good. I do wish she had a bigger moment though, you know, the moment. Also, perhaps it would be wiser to opt for a pair of more comfortable heels - the chance of a fall loomed over her in a quite a terrifying way.

Jeva Noir. I was particularly excited to see her, as I remember how sad she was at last years’ Moscow Burlesque Festival, sharing that they didn’t include her in the programme. Well, I must admit I can see why.

Does the act have an idea? Oh yes.

Is she gorgeous? Absolutely.

Is the costume marvelous? Quite.

The music? Good.

But something just didn’t click. Nerves? Perhaps. Some of her moves seemed forced & mechanical. In Burlesque, every move has a meaning, a purpose, a storyline to unveil. Also, a better wig is strongly advised.

If it is not a wig, better hair care is strongly advised.

Radmila Rocky Zombie got somewhat lost amongst the midst of performers. I was looking forward to this voluptuous beauty, but didn’t really get much. Caravan is a fantastic song, and she definitely has the skills, but something just didn’t work. There was no “wow” moment. I have a strong desire to see her other acts, this one seemed quite bland.

Well, Anja Pavlova is a treasure and a wonder. Not many leading ladies can shift between MC & performer with such ease & elegance. Her performances are a time machine, she exudes excitement. It is a treat to watch her.

However, when she gushed over the “kinky Burlesque” of Blanche De Moscou as something wildly original, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was convincing herself. In an industry where Dark Burlesque & Fetish Burlesque are huge, kinky Burlesque isn’t novel at all. Not even a little bit. Also, what was kinky about her number? A small demonstration of a few rather tame objects? The mask in the end? The spilling of the milk on her dainty bosom?

Blanche is a true enthusiast and her entrance look for this act is jaw-dropping. But the transformation that takes place in this performance can be made bigger, better, bolder.

THE FINALE

The show has a signature atmosphere of luscious elegance. It may not be thoroughly consistent, but it’s very clear that Pavlova knows what she wants and is working to fully fulfil her dreamy fantasy.

Perhaps if she were more strict and demanding, the results would be even more fabulous.

✶✶✶✶

[fyrapartnersearch]

Looking for partners that will allow me to write some pre-made character ideas that I have!

Hello! My name's Rain, and I'm a 21-year-old who has been roleplaying for approximately 6 years (but only in the most recent 4 or 5 have I really been "serious"). After being dragged by the ankles (although not without a struggle) into a hellish chasm of personal issues that has kept me from writing, I’ve finally managed to work everything out and am now itching to get back into the roleplaying-game! I'm hoping that I can find some good partners to satiate my cravings, and hopefully I can satiate some of yours too. I'm particularly looking to write some ideas that I have for characters. If you emailed me in the past and I didn’t respond, shoot me another email! Like I said, I had some things get in the way, so I’d be up for rekindling a past roleplay or picking up planning where we left off.

I can write replies ranging anywhere from 500-1200 words average - I know that's a rather big window to call my "average", but I don't want to make it sound like that's my strict length. This equates to around 3-8 paragraphs, but that obviously will vary depending on the size of the paragraph. I can certainly go upwards from 1200 and have gone on to posts with 2000+, however that's usually too much for most people. Essentially, I'll write the same amount you write so that it's not over or underwhelming. Let me know your range and I'll adapt! Although, if you would be willing to write 1500+/2000+ words a post, then you’d earn quite a bit on bonus points from me.

In terms of writing style, I write third person, past tense, multi-paragraph to novella. HERE are some samples of my writing! The first was an intro so it’s quite long, and the second is from the same roleplay as the first. The third is from a separate one.

I'm also putting this up front - my schedule's a bit wonky. There will be some days where we can go back and forth multiple times with multiple posts each and there will be some days where I can't reply at all. I'll try my best to let you know in advance if there will be a period of 2+ days where I can't reply, but things happen. My activity rate is partially dependent on interest level as well - if I'm really into and excited about our roleplay, I'll be able to reply more often!

On a similar note, I'm on the east coast (EST) if that's an important factor for you.

I'm open to playing multiple characters if that suits your fancy, or, if you'd rather just play one each, that's fine by me as well.

For relationship pairings, I do all different kinds: romantic/sexual, platonic, familial, and antagonistic. I think it's fine to mix and match all these different kids because they can make for some interesting character interaction! As for the gender pairings of the characters, I'm mostly looking for m/f, but depending on the idea/character I may do m/m (but please, make sure you ask first!).

Regarding the above, I very much prefer the female role in m/f pairings but of course in m/m pairings I will play a male. I also find it interesting to write against more dominant male characters for heterosexual pairings, but that's certainly not required. I can totally get behind a shy sweetheart of a guy as well! In the end, it’s your character, so it’s up to you! I don't usually double in terms of each partner playing one male and one female, either - I know that is a deal-breaker for many, so I apologize for that. I may be willing to double in certain cases, but I’m not easily convinced - however, if you think you have mastered the arts of persuasion, then by all means, try to persuade me. I’m open to it.

I'm smut friendly as well and don’t mind including it in my roleplays, but it's really dependent on the content of the story itself. I don't necessarily want a story that is focused solely on smut, but I wouldn’t mind having it play a part (whether it’s small or large, that’s for you to decide). Going along with the NSFW theme, I'm all for most kinks - you name it, and more likely than not I'll be willing to write it, but I would still rather you check with me first. The only ones that I won't do and can't be convinced to do are pedophilia, necrophilia, bestiality, anything with body fluids, feet, pregnancy/lactation, vore, and gore. Everything else is fair game. Note that of those, gore and only gore is fine when not employed sexually (i.e. if the characters are fighting or in battle or are doing something violent of the sort, then it is totally fine). If you’d like to include smut, ask me for my list of kinks and share yours with me as well!

I use face-claims for all of my characters and only use realistic images.

I'm only interested in roleplaying over email at the moment. My email is ofliliesandfoxgloves@gmail.com.

What I'm Looking for in a Partner

Now that we've got those basics out of the way, there are certain things that I would like out of a partner that hopefully someone can provide!

Be 18+, please. I know I'm technically on the younger end of the adult spectrum but I still feel uncomfortable roleplaying with minors (especially because some of my plots can contain smut).

I would prefer if you were female, just because I am more comfortable roleplaying and writing with someone who is the same gender as I am, but that isn’t a requirement, as I don't want to totally limit the partners that reach out to me and potentially miss out on a fantastic male, nonbinary, etc. partner just because they aren't female.

I'm looking for someone who can at least mirror or match my minimum post length, so no fewer than 3-4 paragraphs or 500 or so words. Again, if you want to write longer replies that span the 1500+ word range, than that would be even better!

I would like if you wrote in the third person. Tense doesn't matter - write present or past, that's up to you. But I won't roleplay with anyone who writes in the first or second person, as it is a little weird to me.

If you can get me at least one post every other day, I'd be happy! If you can get me more than that, even better! Also, let me know if you're not going to be able to reply for a prolonged period of time so that I'm not sitting on my hands wondering where you went.

Likewise, if you want to drop the roleplay for any reason, just let me know! I won't be mad if it's not working out, I just don't want to be ghosted by someone who doesn't want to continue and instead never replies again.

If you can play multiple characters, that would be wonderful, but again, it's certainly not a requirement.

Use realistic face claims for characters, please! No anime or cartoons, but if you are an artist that has a more realistic style and would like to use your own art, then that is fine by me!

When you email me, let me know which things listed below interest you/you would want to include! Tell me a little about yourself and the way you write as well (including whether or not you would like to include smut in the roleplay as well as your limits if it's the latter).

Also, if you have an idea that I haven't listed, ask/tell me! I'm very open to suggestions!

Roleplay Information/Characters

On to the part that you've actually wanted to see! I’m not quite sure what to call this section, but it’s essentially a summary (more like bullets) of some characters that I already have ideas for that can be used in various different scenarios and plot-lines. They are in no particular order. If you are willing to let me use one of these, that will earn you major bonus points with me! Let me know if you are interested in any and I can elaborate. Most of them don’t have names yet (and the ones that do are subject to change) because I am very picky with names, aha, but I’ll think of those later. There obviously aren’t many of these at the moment, but there will likely be more of these added in the future. Anything with a plus (+) is one I am really dying to use! If you have an idea for/an already made character that you think would pair well with any of these, please describe them to me! Or, alternatively, if you have any characters you’ve been dying to use, let me know! Perhaps I can create a character to write opposite them. I'll note what type of relationship I would be interested in writing for a particular character (romantic/sexual, platonic, familial, or antagonistic) as well; we can also combine some of the four (like a romantic/sexual and antagonistic would be fun). I’m up for fluff or action or anything in between, so let me know what you want!

i. anny // female // early to mid twenties // heterosexual // asian // american // laid-back; quiet; passive-aggressive; collected, sly; manipulative; understanding; charming; grew up wealthy, still is wealthy, doesn’t bring up financial situation much; has danced in various genres since she was little, still does; english major, cognitive science minor; plays the violin; dislikes uncleanliness; editor.

ii. olson // male // mid twenties // bisexual, prefers men // caucasian // american // + // bitter; sarcastic; serious; aloof; intelligent; private; defensive; lost hearing in his early childhood, received cochlear implants in late adolescence, speech still sounds “different” from a hearing person’s; knows American Sign Language (ASL) and English; film/television production and mathematics double major, art history minor; likes maps; doesn’t particularly like physical contact; photographer [note: would prefer to write him against a character who is hearing and able to talk rather than another character on the mute/hard-of-hearing spectrum].

Contact

That's all I can think of at the moment! Again, if there's anything else not listed that you've been dying to try out, let me know! More likely than not, I'll say yes and jump right on board. Shoot me an email at ofliliesandfoxgloves@gmail.com with your interests and a little information about yourself (ex: average post length, activity, etc.). If you shoot me a message just saying a pairing you were interested in without telling me about yourself, then I won't be as inclined to reply since I don't know if our styles would match up! So please, tell me about yourself - I promise I won't bite!

[jaytury-blog]

10 Signs You Were An Emo Kid

So one thing we’re all guilty of is going through childhood phases that we’re pretty embarrassed to talk about. Whether that being the geeky kid that essentially fantasized over Warhammer figurines to the kid that liked to eat the whiteboard pen in class. We’ve all been there guaranteed, and along the way we’ve picked up and dropped some pretty weird habits and traits. But I’m not here to reminisce about the stickmen animations I used to create on PowerPoint, that’s for another time. This article is aimed more towards those little cliques we found ourselves in during our early school years; cliques which pretty much evolved and shaped our tiny little fragile minds. Our worlds soon opened up and offered things we never even knew existed, whether that being a new weird friend or a music genre that sent shivers down our spines for the first time. It’s true, at some point during our tween years most of us ventured into certain factions, sometimes not by choice, but by fate. Cliques are forever changing and for the life of me I can’t keep track of what they are these days. Something about roadmen and plastics maybe? That rings some sort of bell anyway, who knows? But if you were like me and facing secondary school in the mid-2000’s, then you were most likely left with a choice of two factions, both of which stood at complete opposite ends of the scale. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present, the Chav, and the Emo. Sworn enemies until the dying days of the earth. Perhaps you were one of these and can openly admit it and even laugh about it. Or maybe you’re just too ashamed to confess that this phase was in fact a part of your development as a teen. Maybe you’re in denial. I won’t judge you. The fact is, these factions were a real thing back then, and although the Chav outlived the Emo, we can still learn to laugh and reminisce about those crazy scene days that once ruled our lives each day. So let’s do that. Let’s talk about the old days and what defined ‘The Emo Kid’ May I present to you, 10 Signs You Were An Emo Kid 1. YOU HATED EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING So I’ll start off with the obvious one here, and that is that you most likely hated everyone you knew, minus your other Emo comrades of course. I’ll just come out and say this, but did you hate your teacher? Your parents? Your pets for no particular reason? Did they do something you didn’t like, regardless of how little it was? Was their smiles too wide for your everyday mundane life? If you answered yes, then great – you were on your way to Emo-hood. However this one was strange, because deep down I know you probably didn’t hate everyone, but simply because you had the persona of a gravestone and came off as friendly as a brick wall you just kind of stuck with the hatred of positivity. Ever see the Emo kid that always smiled? No? That’s because they weren’t a real Emo kid. A real Emo kid would have kept their heads down, muttered obscenities at anyone breathing that wasn’t one of your friends. You hated everyone through and through, and regardless of what the world had done, you made sure THEY were the problem, not you. 2. THE FRINGE Oh, the fringe; the trademark of the Emo kid that everyone had. You probably reached this point early on and decided if you were going to make it with the opposite sex then you needed to rock the cringe fringe 24/7. Day in, day out you would style your hair for hours, straightening it and burning the hell out of the ends until it was just long enough to cover one eye. The longer your fringe, the cooler you were. That’s just how it was for some reason. It of course, being like your personality, had to be blacker than the soul and thicker than moose’s blood. Your fringe was your baby, and if you wasn’t spending at least half the day correcting it and keeping on top of obscuring one eye then you weren’t a very good Emo kid. Hair was everything, plain and simple.

3. THE STUDDED BELT AND RED SKINNIES

That, as well as the other insane things you used to ‘rock’ like the fingerless gloves or black and

white chequered hoodies.

Whatever you wore, you made sure it was branded with Blue Banana, because that’s essentially the only retailer that did awesome enough stuff for your Emo requirements.

If you were a guy, you thought you could pull off guyliner better than any chick you knew, and no matter the occasion or how far away from your bed you had to go that day, you made sure your eyes were thicker than a pandas regardless.

Before leaving home you made sure you had AT LEAST two studded belts, both diagonally crossed and fastened through only one hole on your jeans.

As for the girls, a not so sturdy pair of fishnet stockings were on the essentials, oh, and also a spare pair to cover your bloody arms for some reason.

Bracelets and bracelets, so many damn bracelets filled your skin right up to your elbows, and why? Maybe to cover the…*cough cough*

Moving on.

4. YOU CAPTIONED EVERYTHING WITH ‘RAWR!’

To this day I still don’t understand it, but maybe you do.

Back in the day when Bebo was alive and everyone used to obsess over mirror selfies with their Sony Ericsson phones, the dinosaur was an iconic thing to the Emo kids.

Don’t ask me why, I don’t have an answer for it.

You used to hold one hand out like a claw and have a mouth like Clint Eastwood, slightly open and aggressive like you were about to annihilate a herbivore.

Each photo had to be angled perfectly just so you’d see the several lip piercings you gathered over the last year or so, and if you could sneak in a tongue piercing somewhere you were at the peak of your image, truly.

You also made sure to ‘own’ everyone else’s photo’s too, which never actually accounted for anything at all.

Thought someone was hot? Comment ‘I own this’ and some incredible thing happened. Nobody knew what the thing was, but it happened alright.

You owned the hottest pics of the day, and it literally meant zilch. Congratulations, you achieved nothing.

5. EMOTION WAS EVERYTHING

If you weren’t a tween basket case going through a mental breakdown for two years straight then you weren’t an Emo kid.

If you broke a smile more than twice a day you were considered one of the happy kids with a happy life and make-believe fairy parents. But if you were a true Emo then you honestly believed your life was the worst thing ever in existence. The world could collapse beneath our feet and it still wouldn’t even put a dent in your day-to-day life.

If you weren’t fighting off the make-believe depression you tried so hard to land yourself with then you were trying to find it, just so you could fight it all over again.

Every day was an emotional rollercoaster for you, and so long as you walked in your Vans shoes, the black cloud would slowly follow behind.

Everything was just terrible, utterly bloody terrible.

Cat died? Terrible.

Girlfriend left? Terrible.

Bus late? Terrible.

No mayo on your sandwich? Terrible.

Your life was just terrible, wasn’t it?

6. THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

So nine times out of ten we dated someone in our social circle, because deep down we felt the connection more and the sparks ignited slightly easier knowing they were just as Emo as you were.

Maybe it’s because you saw them every single day and considered them a friend already, and for that reason, a relationship was on the cards.

Chances are you dated a few people in your group, because let’s face it, when you’re fifteen and open to experimentation for the first time, you’re willing to just go out with everyone to get an idea of how everything works.

Like there was always that one quiet kid who was into the dodgiest stuff that caught you off guard, and if you ever found yourself in a relationship with that certain individual then you’ll know exactly what I mean. It’s weird.

But then there’s the one that got away, the other half of the jigsaw that quite literally ‘rocked your world’ and completed your black little heart. We’ve all been there, I know we have.

A decent length for a relationship back then was about five or six months, but to you that was like an eternity. It was so sacred that everyone knew about it. You were the ‘in couple’ of the crowd. Just how you liked it.

But kids being kids things eventually went spiralling out of control and plummeted to the ground, making you realise how screwed up your world was all over again.

Things ended for a crazy reason you could laugh about these days, but back then you felt like your whole world had come crashing to the ground.

Initiating Emo breakdown number eight thousand and twenty-one.

7. YOU HAD FOUR BANDS ON YOUR MP3 PLAYER

I’ll give this one a straight shot in the dark and you tell me how close I am to hitting home, okay?

Ahem, *cracks fingers*

1. My Chemical Romance

2. Panic At The Disco!

3. Fall Out Boy

4. Linkin Park

Yes? No? Spot on?

Well that was me anyway, and I know for a fact you had at least one of those bands on your crappy little MP3 player at school. Those and a few songs you heard from friends but didn’t quite know the band, so just referred to them as ‘songs that speak to me on a personal level’.

You and a million other Emo kids.

The lyrics were identical to the pain you were feeling on a day to day basis, and if you felt the warm throbbing in your heart when the first piano note of Black Parade played, then you were a part of the 95% of Emo kids that felt the passion for the music aspect of the scene. This was your go-to anthem when somebody asked what music genre you were into. Period.

You were the frontman of the Black Parade every day of the week.

8. YOU PROBABLY HUNG OUT UNDER A BRIDGE

Now I’m not saying you were a gremlin that loitered under a bridge, but you probably did have a hangout spot similar to that, didn’t you? Perhaps the town square that consisted of two benches and a pound shop. Maybe a church cemetery to match the dark aura you surrounded yourself in?

For me it was the town square, which funnily enough consisted of two benches and a pound shop. It was cheap and convenient, and I spent more hours sat there loitering than I did in my own home. If I had spare time, I was there. Smoking, drinking, and overall being a general public enemy to the elderly and working generations.

Shock horror it later budged to the nearby cathedral, because we eventually discovered that the more death surrounding us, the more Emo we were.

If it rained you’d find me cupped under the roof of a Debenhams store, sat in line with thirty other kids thinking we were the coolest dropouts in the county.

We later on figured out we weren’t. We were just a nuisance and an inconvenience for those trying to gain access to the doors of Debenhams.

But maybe this rings true for you as well? Did you have one of these hangout spots? Did you have an Emo home away from home?

9. BEBO. MSN. TUMBLR.

Tumblr, Tumblr, Tumblr – this was your life indoors. This was your second-life where you could break out of your shell without actually having to interact with anyone. If someone asked you you’re hobbies, you’d tell them ‘Tumblr’ and nothing else.

It was a place for you to express yourself through various captioned pictures and dark gruesome quotations. It was your way of saying, “I’m edgy, so what?”

If your Tumblr wasn’t plastered with pictures of Pete Wentz or Gerard Way then you weren’t cool, because those guys were heroes in your books. They were the definition of ‘Rawr’ or something along those lines.

Bebo was of course where it all started, before Facebook became the in-thing and dominated the social market. It was a place to share ‘luv’ and post your classic mirror selfies to the world. You probably had some edgy black profile theme with sparkly skulls and chessboard patterns, right? That’s because you were Emo, and you wanted the world to know it.

MSN was basically Facebook Messenger or WhatsApp except it had all those old quirky school features like webcam chats and classic emoji’s. Plus the cool thing with MSN was you could just have some crazy name like ‘Dark Life <3 Girlfriend <3 RAWR!’ and nobody batted an eyelid. That was just the norm, and it was perfect.

If you spent all your time indoors flicking between the three tabs of the above sites, then there’s a strong chance you were a textbook Emo kid.

10. YOU DESPISED THE CHAV KIDS

If like me you cringed at words like ‘Bruv’ and ‘Danz’ then you probably shared the strong hatred towards the Chavvy kids in school. Unfortunately they took up about eighty percent of the playground, and sadly for the Emo kids, they were unavoidable when trying to go about your day in peace.

You know the kids I’m talking about. The ones who usually wore tracksuits and hand-me-down Reebok classics. They’d usually try and boot a football in your direction if they so much as saw your fringe wave in the wind.

They’d be there when you crossed the field, they’d be there waiting outside your classroom, and they’d be there when you left the school gates at the end of the day. They were always around, doing whatever it took to ruin your day and boast to their mates.

To put it short, they were vile creatures that took pleasure in making your day even worse than it already was.

The Chav’s and the Emo’s were two factions always at war with one another. Two complete opposite ends of the scale. Different music, different hobbies, different vocabulary – everything.

You skate, they kick a ball. You bang your head to MCR, they punch the wall to N-Dubz.

Everything about the two factions was messy, and although they often say opposites attract, this was a case that never would come close without starting a fight.

Chav kids were what made school days so gruelling and dark, but you pushed through in whatever way you could. You stuck by your friends and mocked them from behind the filter of a cigarette. You said nothing and kept your head down, but whilst the fire was dimly lit, the coal was most definitely still burning.

In the end, the Chav outlived the Emo, but I’d like to say we had the last laugh. Because whilst we were socially beneath them in school, we managed to climb above them and realise a phase was just a phase and it was time to grow up in the end. We weren’t thirteen anymore. We were getting older and the greying hairs were inevitable.

The masses of Blue Banana clothing died out and became just like everybody else; mostly suits and ties sadly enough.

The Emo within may not hold as strong a presence anymore, but deep down I know some of us sure as hell still rock out to Black Parade on a regular basis. It’s a piece of us that’ll never die.

The Chavvy phase continues to grow, sometimes into people’s late thirties and beyond.

But the Emo kids will always be able to smile knowing full well they aspired to be more.

The Emo kid may have died in reality, but it will never for once be forgotten in our hearts.

…That is something a true Emo would say. *

So, were you an Emo kid?

Share your memories from this beautiful era below and allow the dark child within you to re-emerge for a while.

Emo kids unite!

- J Tury

[hal-film]

How The Shining disorients the audience

Stanley Kubrick’s 1980 adaption of Stephen King’s The Shining misdirects, disorients and disturbs the viewer, straining your grasp of a setting that seamlessly changes stylistically, rendering the audience incapable of navigating their way through the labyrinth that is the Overlook Hotel.

Being one of the first dozen films to use the Steadicam (invented by Garrett Brown), the camera angles glide, arc and sweep fluidly through the heavily stylised hotel, allowing you to observe the surroundings Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson), Wendy Torrance (Shelley Duvall) and Danny Torrance (Danny Lloyd) are subjected to during their stay while Jack is writing, using the location as a catalyst to work more efficiently through the “tremendous sense of isolation that” is “exactly what I am looking for”, Jack tells Mr. Ullman (Barry Nelson). By the camera shots being so stable and moving so slow at times, you are able to soak up every aspect of the setting and become immersed by how stylistically designed the location is, however this is then contrasted as you lose your bearings, the style of the hotel seeming to change style, the layout of the doors resulting in the rooms needing to overlap with one another or lead to suspension in mid-air; this superficially plausible location at first glance soon becomes a labyrinthine structure with winding corridors and paradoxically constructed rooms. Losing your bearings, Jack’s unravelling sanity is vicariously passed on through the construction of the film rather than the character of Jack.

It is hard to spot a definitive moment in which the audience notices that Jack is fundamentally unsound in comparison to how behaviour at the beginning of the narrative, rather we endure the peculiar symptoms through the abstract technical construction of the film, as what can be described as “ghosts” of the hotel start to emerge, one of the most obvious and sudden to interrupt the narrative being Lloyd (Joe Turkel), a barman. On Jack’s second visit to the bar, the room is filled with an outdated congregation that I would assume to be from 1921 (due to the black and white photograph at the end of the film features the same congregation and says the photo was taken in 1921). Fitting with the aspects of Jack’s fantasy previously mentioned, Jack’s bourbon is free of charge, another unsettling aspect of the sequence, however as the scene progresses, what we find is that Jack is hostile, unpredictable and though he does not snap into a violent splurge, it could be anticipated. As he dances to the music being played in the background of the gathering with his much-appreciated beverage, he bumps into a waiter, who we later discover is Delbert Grady, spilling the drinks he was carrying over Jack – expecting him to react violently, the passive aggressive nature of his reaction further keeps the audience waiting for Jack’s inevitable psychological collapse. Grady offering to help clean up Jack results in the tense playful banter of Jack saying “looks like you may have got a spot on yourself there Jeevesy old boy” before patting his back and getting some of the advocaat on his back. The next stage of this scene plays with the audience as Jack asks what Grady’s name is. Once this is unveiled, the audience feels tension and second-hand scepticism as the dots are connected and Jack begins to press Grady about how he was the caretaker and murdered his family. The main way in which this disorients the audience is that the composure of Grady is trustworthy and controlled, however Jack’s volatile and unpredictable demeanour results in a very gothic style of narrative whereby the narrator (character we are aligned with in this case) is unreliable – as gothic conventions have been the foundation of horror literature, this is a very classical style of character development.

Abandoning the Proppian narrative formula, The Shining adopts binary opposition as a means for creating a story around a set of consequential and, at times, seemingly directionless events, however these two sides are challenging for the audience to endure, as the opposition is between Wendy (the protagonist) and Jack (who becomes the antagonist). We are in allegiance with Wendy but alignment with Jack, causing the binary opposition causing the viewer to be aligned with who we morally oppose, however this can be interpreted as the “preferred/dominant reading”.

The subject matter of The Shining is distant to reality, the fiction in The Shining being based on a very subjective perspective and one that echoes ghost stories and paranormal experiences. With this perspective in mind, the film uses these themes as a way of operating within its own reality; the film features shots like a man in the dog costume performing oral sex on a man in a tuxedo (which has been speculated to be a former owner of the hotel in the book), and the reoccurrence of the supernatural appearances and disappearances of the twins, Young Woman in Bath and seamless metamorphosis into Old Woman in Bath. Once these traits of the film are accepted, the viewer can be open to being subjected to these impossible occurrences and is able to revel in the nonsensical, impossible even design of the hotel. The genre “torture porn” is normally considered a subgenre of horror and relies on the sadism of watching someone else’s discomfort, however it can also relate to the masochistic pleasure of receiving a ‘negative’ feeling. In The Shining, this is more to do with disturbing visuals than gory visuals. Jack Nicholson’s improvised yelling of the phrase “Here’s Johnny!” through the splintered and cloven door is a phrase that was used by Ed McMahon to introduce Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. With this context, it is a far more disturbing phrase to yell and will also resonate differently with American (predictably) viewers. As The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson ran from 1962-92 and was a popular, friendly show, the audience will have positive connotations of the phrase “here’s Johnny”, so when being said by a murderer to his wife who he is attempting to murder, all positive connotations are tarnished and it becomes disturbing. This serves the use of an intertextual reference, relating to reality therefore forcing the viewer to add a personal side to their viewing. Even if the viewer was not aware of this phrase, the fact jack refers to himself as “Johnny” (Carson) is still very verbally disorienting and will cause the viewer to doubt their memory and what they thought they knew: the name of the characters.

A film that depicts a real event can abuse its subject matter by using music as a means for evoking the preferred emotion by the filmmakers, however with a film where the subject matter is not as tangible as one portrayed in a period drama, there is no subject matter to abuse and music can be used as a way of setting the tone, or an artistic way of reflecting the emotions the characters may feel. Using a high pitched, screeching string section the phrases played are uncomfortable and motifs accompany reoccurring pieces of footage, like high pitched strings being edited together with steady shots of Danny dribbling saliva out of his mouth and shuddering violently. At times, these sequences will also include Hallorann (Scatman Crothers) staring with a pained, fixed expression – this would be because both Danny and Hallorann can “shine”. This makes Danny and Hallorann clairvoyant and telephathic though this is portrayed as a painful experience, as the strings suggest. You are allowed to see what they see and the music used can be seen as either a sound-based representation of the sensation they feel like being telepathic or the sound they actually hear, as the string sound accomplished in the soundtrack is relatively abstract and difficult to tell what it is.

Most films create a paradox of fiction where the viewer is aware what they are witnessing is not real and that the characters are purely fictitious, however still become invested in the story. This applies to The Shining in a slightly different way since the feelings the film creates are legitimate, the tricks the editing plays on you and way the soundtrack accompanies the visuals and the tension, though you know is fake, exists in the minds of the characters, many of which do not exist. Delbert Grady, for example was real but wasn’t alive at the same time as Jack, so by viewing a very abstract perception of the world the film becomes a different experience to many others that depict real, far more tangible forms of reality.

[lalobalives]

  *An essay a week in 2017*

As of Friday morning, just before posting this essay, 9 days after putting out the call for the #52essays2017 challenge, there are 445 members in the Facebook page who have committed to taking on the challenge. That doesn’t include the many who are doing the challenge on their own. People have called it a movement. I think of that line in the hip hop song: “I’m a movement by myself but I’m a force when we’re together…”

One friend informed me that by year’s end, there will be 22,000+ essays out in the world as a result of this challenge. My response:

People have encouraged me to consider an anthology at year’s end. (I’m focused on what’s in the headlights right now…) Another said this is sure to change the literary landscape in the next five to six years. What?! 😳 … Where am I? I’m still somewhat in shock. I’m taking it all in. I’m trying to support these writers and still focus on my own writing and teaching and mothering and and and… 

I’m thinking about the questions I’ve been fielding. A woman asked me how much time I spent each week on the essays. She said she’s not good at time management so she wants to structure her time to make this happen. Another asked for tips on how to write a structured essay as opposed to a stream of consciousness. I’ve been asked for tips on how to organize topics for each week, what’s the difference between a blog and an essay, is a blog less prestigious or less intellectual, and who said so?

I have to confess, if I thought about all these things, how long it would take me to write each essay, how I would structure it so it didn’t read like a stream of consciousness, what made it an essay and not a blog post, I wouldn’t have gotten through the Relentless Files 2016 challenge. This just isn’t my process and it never has been.

I know people who have to map out their stories before they sit down to write them. My comadre did a book treatment for the historical fiction novel she hasn’t yet finished. She’s mapped out every chapter, down to the T. This works for her, she says. It gives her structure and parameters to work with. Me? That would drive me absolutely insane. I wrote my two novels without doing this at all. I just had these characters talking to me. I listened and wrote.

The other day I read an interview with Roxane Gay on Goodreads where she says: “I definitely get into a kind of trance—I just lose myself, and I become immersed in the story and the setting and the characters. When I’m done, I sort of wake up to the world around me.” I can relate to this kind of “losing myself in the writing” style/process because sometimes I go into a zone and I don’t realize what I’ve written until I come out of it. And let me tell you, there’s always magic on the page when I resurface. That’s how I wrote my first and second novels. And that’s a lot of what happened this past summer when I was working on the memoir. 

So much of the Relentless Files challenge was to remind myself and recapture that…the writer who wrote without abandon, who didn’t worry about what people would say or getting it “right,” or publishing. The writer who channeled. The intuitive writer who went with what came and let the story tell itself. I wanted to remember and (re)learn the writer who was wide open to mystery, who trusted that the story was there and would reveal itself, because the truth is, it always has and always does.

***

My mind keeps going back to a writer who asked what’s the difference between a blog and an essay. I admitted that I don’t consider myself a blogger. I write essays and memoir and fiction and even poetry, but I’m not a blogger. She asked: “Do you think blogging has a ‘lower status’ or that you use a different part of your brain?” The truth is I never really thought about any of that. I started a blog a few years back but didn’t really start using it until I came back from my VONA 2012 residency with Mat Johnson, set on working on my voice. My blog felt like a safe place to practice and work since it was mine, my space, my platform. I never thought to differentiate between blogs and essays. When I started the Relentless Files challenge, I knew I was writing personal essays and referred to them as such. Why not blogs? I’m not sure. Or maybe I am subconsciously aware that in the literary world, bloggers are looked down as “not real writers.” Maybe I succumbed to the snobbery. I’m not sure. But I definitely want to look at this because I know what it’s like to not be considered a real writer because of my chosen genre. Do you know how many times people have dared to say that creative nonfiction requires less imagination than fiction? Listen, I’ve written two novels and I don’t know how many essays and short stories. I know that’s bullshit.

***

El Olvido by Judity Ortiz Cofer

It is a dangerous thing to forget the climate of your birthplace, to choke out the voices of dead relatives when in dreams they call you by your secret name.

It is dangerous to spurn the clothes you were born to wear for the sake of fashion; dangerous to use weapons and sharp instruments you are not familiar with; dangerous to disdain the plaster saints before which your mother kneels praying with embarrassing fervor that you survive in the place you have chosen to live: a bare, cold room with no pictures on the walls, a forgetting place where she fears you will die of loneliness and exposure.

Jesús, María, y José, she says, el olvido is a dangerous thing.

***

Something called me back to bell hooks’s collection of essays remembered rapture: the writer at work. I’ve read the book so many times, annotated it so much, that these days I just go back to the lines and paragraphs I highlighted and put stars next to. I read my notes in the margins.

In childhood, hooks kept a diary which she says was “for me the space for critical reflections, where I struggled to understand myself and the world around me, that crazy world of family and community, the painful world. I could say there what was hurting me, how I felt about things, what I hoped for. I could be angry there with no threat of punishment. I could “talk back.” Nothing had to be concealed. I could hold on to myself there.

However much the real of diary-keeping has been a female experience that has often kept closeted writers, away from the act of writing as authorship, it has most assuredly been a writing act that intimately connects the art of expressing one’s feeling on the written page with the construction of self and identity, with the effort to be fully self-actualized. This precious powerful sense of writing as a healing place where our souls can speak and unfold has been cricual to women’s development of a counter-hegemonic experience of creativity within patriarchal culture. Significantly, diary writing has not been traditionally seen by literary scholars as subversive autobiography, as a form of authorship that challenges conventional notions about the primacy of confessional writing as mere documentation (for women most often a record of our sorrows). Yet in many cases where such writing has enhanced our struggle to be self-defining it emerges as a narrative of resistance, as writing that enables us to experience both self-discovery and self-recovery…

We know that poetry does not save us, that writing does not always keep us away from death, that the sorrow of wounds that have never healed, excruciating self-doubt, or overwhelming melancholy often crushes the spirit, making it impossible to stay alive. Julia Kristeva speaks about women’s struggle to find and sustain creative voice in the chapter “I Who Want Not to be,” which is part of the introduction to About Chinese Women. There she addresses the tension between our longing to “speak as women,” to have being that is strong enough to bear the identity writer, and the coercive imposition of a feminine identity within patriarchy that opposes such being. Within patriarchy women has no legitimate voice. Her voice is either constructed in complicity or resistance. If the choice is not radical then we speak only what the patriarchal culture would have us say. If we do not speak as liberators we collapse under the weight of this effort to speak within patriarchal confines or lose ourselves without dying. (writing from the darkness)

We do not write because we must; we always have a choice. We write because language is the way we keep a hold on life. With words we experience our deepest understandings of what it means to be intimate. We communicate to connect, to know community. Even though writing is a solitary act, when I sit with words that I trust will be read by someone, I know that I can never be truly alone. There is always someone who waits for words, eager to embrace them and hold them close.” (women who write too much)

In “writing to confess,” hooks speaks of how influential Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet were to her as a young would-be writer.

I have never heard any critic belittling the confessional nature of these letters. Diverse readers seem to all agree that these letters have enriched our understanding of writing, of creative process. In recent years as women of all races/ethnicities and men of color embrace confessional writing as a way of coming to voice, whether through autobiographies, memoirs, letters, diaries, etc., mainstream critics aggressively devalue such writing… Feminist insistence that “the personal is political” did encourage many women to engage in existential self-reflection about the meaning of life, especially in relation to sexism and male domination… The growing body of confessional writing by women coincided with the proliferation in mass culture of the talk show as a place for personal confession. Since these shows are designed to appeal to a predominately female market of the topics for discussion are appropriated from cultural narratives that were initially validated only within feminist circles, narratives about child abuse, domestic violence, rape, sexual harassment, abortion, etc. Patriarchal mass media’s appropriation and popularization of these topics helped create a cultural context where confessional narrative has been trivialized, made to appear solely a gesture that is self-serving and exhibitionist. This trivialization has led to an overall devaluation of any confessional narrative.

In actuality, writers who make use of personal confession do not share a common style, standpoint, or intent. This is true for women writers as men. Yet sexism tends to ensure that women’s writing is often approached as though it is all the same–“every women speaking through one voice.”

In The Last Generation, Cherrie Moraga urges us to celebrate confession. “All writing is confession. Confession masked and revealed in the voices and faces of our characters. All is hunger. The longing to be known fully and still loved. The admission of our own inherent vulnerability, our weakness, our tenderness of skin, fragility of heart, our overwhelming desire to be relieved of the burden of ourselves in the body of another, to be forgiven of our ultimate aloneness in the mystical body of a god or the common work of a revolution. These are human considerations that the best of writers presses her fingers upon.”

As Kelly Sundberg writes in Brevity: “I am worried about having to constantly assert my legitimacy as a literary writer, simply because I often write about my experience of trauma. I am worried about the notion that writing about trauma is somehow easier (or less than) other writing… The story is important, but it must also be written with craft, and with nuance. I have no desire to always write about trauma, nor have I always written about trauma, but I am fatigued by the notion that narratives of trauma are rewarded simply on the merits of the struggle that one has endured. I had a traumatic experience, and perhaps that did gain me entrance into a club—a club of women’s pain—but that traumatic experience did not make me a literary writer. My hard work and my craft are what have, hopefully, made me into a literary writer.” (“Can Confessional Writing Be Literary?”)

What I do know is that whether I’m a writer or blogger or both, I am a literary writer. I write. I write a lot. And yes, my shit is literary. I write and shape my stories. I worry about craft. Sometimes too much, hence why I started the Relentless Files challenge a year ago–to get out of my own damn way. 

***

I’ve been thinking a lot about my own writing and my motivations. I’ve learned that it’s important that we writers ask ourselves why we write and come back to this question now and then.

It was my sister flipping out on me on Christmas that brought me back to this question. Not because I doubted myself or even for a minute considered what she said was true, that my writing is bullshit. A fellow writer’s questions about the difference between blogging and personal essay writing, made me go deeper.

I started telling stories before I knew how to write. When I finally told my mother a few years ago that I’m a writer, she told me a story about when I was in Pre-K. The teacher complained that I was always distracted during storytime. Instead of sitting quietly on the rug in a circle to listen to her read, I wanted to roam around, take the books out of the shelves and skim through them. When my mother asked me what was wrong with me and why I couldn’t behave, I shrugged and said: “I already know how the story goes, mom…” “Really?” she challenged. “Then tell me the story.” Mom says my face brightened. She says I stood up and started: “Once upon a time…” and I proceeded to tell a story I made up on the spot. I was animated and excited, and when I was done, I said, “The end.” She didn’t say it outright, but my mom was telling me that I’ve always been a writer.

Then mom dug into the bottom shelf of a bookshelf she’s had in our living room since we were just kids. I noticed the Compton’s Encyclopedias she bought from the door to door salesman, and paid off little by little. The same ones I used for so many projects and that entertained me on so many rainy, sad days when I was growing up. Mom took out a yellow page legal pad, it’s pages curled at the edges. The papers were scrawled with her cursive. Mom presses on the pen so hard, you can feel the letters on the back of the pages like braille. She let me read some of the pages: stories of her childhood in Honduras, going to the Rio Cangrejal, how her grandmother Tinita mothered her. When I finally looked up, my mother was watching me. She took the pad out of my hands and said, “When I die, this is yours.”

I get this writing gene from my mother.

***

The other day I was on my deck talking to a writer friend who I’ve witnessed transform and evolve. She shared, “I feel like I’m finally ready.” “Word,” I said. Then I challenged her to join the #52essays2017 endeavor. I told her to do it for her. That she didn’t have to share what she wrote, that the purpose really is to help her get out of her own way, as she’d said she’s committed to doing this year. “I believe in you,” I said. She said, “You really gonna make me cry right now?” And just then a hawk soared overhead, so close I could see the brown and white feathers on its belly, the red on its tail. I was so taken aback at the timing, I shared it with my writer friend. In the two months I’ve lived in my new place, I have yet to see a hawk from my deck, though I’ve scanned the sky for them. I believe that birds are messengers from the gods, intermediaries to the spiritual world. They’ve brought me so many messages in the past so I know this one too was a message.

I thought about the work I do. I thought of the writers I’ve worked with over the years, young and old. I thought about how in that moment, I was sharing and building with a writer, holding up the mirror so she could see herself, see what I see–a strong, powerful woman with a pen that’s calling to her. If I’ve done anything right in my life it’s this: I’ve inspired people to create and make magic of their life stories. I’ve done this by being my authentic self, all Bushwick-bred Loba, fierce and loving, relentless and unfuckwithable.

In that moment, I remembered why I do this work, how I know it is one of my life’s purposes, my dharma, if you will. And I remembered how I quit my fulltime editing job in 2010 to do this work. I did it as a single mom. That’s how much I believe in this work. It’s something I take great pride and care in doing, and that I know comes with great responsibility.

  ***

I  watched a P.O.P Video that was posted on the VONA/Voices page earlier this week. In it poet Willie Perdomo tells of once watching a guy from his neighborhood in East Harlem walk the span of a rooftop ledge. Perdomo shares that writing poetry to him is like the risk and balancing of walking on that ledge, what’s required to prevent a fall… I think we all have images we circle back to in our work that serve as metaphors for why we write. For me that image is my mother tending her garden in the backyard. This was early 1980s Bushwick, just before crack ravaged our neighborhoods. The poverty had already sank its teeth deep. Our apartment was falling apart, the walls flaked, giving my brother and me asthma. There were rubble and trash strewn lots for blocks. One of those lots was next door. For two years, my mother took it upon herself to till the bit of soil in our backyard to plant a garden.

The yard was partly paved. A fence covered in chipped red paint separated the paved area from where mom planted her garden. This area was separated in two by a paved pathway which led to a red ladder that went all the way up to the third floor. Clothes fluttered on the clothes lines that stretched from the ladder to the apartments above. On the left side towards the back was the plum tree I started climbing when I was five. I’d stretch out on one of the thick branches and watch mom work.

Mom wasn’t the Martha Stewart kind of gardener with a sunhat, gloves and gardening apron. She was third world, an Hondureña from La Ceiba. She didn’t have those luxuries where she came from and she didn’t have them here. She planted in her bata or simple shorts and a t-shirt stained with sofrito and dirt.

Mom threw the mounds of trash she collected from the yard over the falling apart plywood fence into the junkyard next door. It took days for mom to weed and till the soil that had been packed by years of snow and sneakers. First she pulled out the weeds and got on all fours to yank out the stubborn ones whose roots clung hard to the earth. She then used an old shovel she found in the basement to till the soil. With her right leg, she pushed the shovel into the ground to bring up the dark soil underneath. Squirming earthworms came up with the mixture. The sweat dripped from her nose. Mom wiped her brow with her forearm, looked up at the sun and closed her eyes, a small smile curling the corners of her lips. Then she got right back to work.

The right side she tilled right up to the gate that separated our yard from the yard of the building behind ours. The left side she toiled up to the base of the plum tree.

Then mom went out and bought the seeds. I don’t know how she figured out what she would plant or how she would arrange the seeds, but she was deliberate in her choices. I watched from the plastic covered couch in the living room, pretending to watch TV. She laid the envelopes of seeds out on the wooden table my second mom Millie built and lacquered when we first moved into the apartment when I was three. Each packet had a picture of the potential inside: peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, squash; herbs like peppermint, rosemary, thyme and recao; flowers like sunflowers and geraniums.

She brought the seeds, still in their envelopes, into the yard. She separated the rows by furrowing a shallow hole between each. Then she used her index and middle finger to make small holes. She put seeds into the holes and packed the soil down with her palm. She did this softly, handling the seeds with a tenderness I envied.

The herbs and flowers went in the rows closest to the gate that separated the garden from the paved section of the yard. The vegetables followed. Tomatoes first then the peppers, squash and pumpkins.

In the mornings, Mom stood by the window, staring out at her garden while she sipped her coffee. She cursed when she saw garbage thrown out the window by a tenant. “Estos desgraciados. Por eso es que no tienen na’.” She climbed out the window, picked up the trash and tended to her garden.

Some days, when the sun beamed down hard and rain didn’t come, Mom connected her long green hose into our kitchen sink and pulled it out the window into the yard. She’d water her plants herself, screaming at me to lower the pressure if the water shot out too hard.

I watched her smile as the tomatoes and eggplants came in. When she turned them over in her hand, I imagined her talking to them in her head, encouraging them to grow and flourish. The sunflowers grew so tall, mom got old shoelaces and tied the stalks to the fence to keep them from toppling over.

One day, mom was making dinner when she sent me out to the yard to get tomatoes and peppers. “I need them to make sofrito,” she said. Small piles of onions and garlic lay on the cutting board on top of the table. The day before I’d noticed that the tomatoes were red and green. I turned to see if mom was watching before I touched them, turning them over like I’d seen her do. They were firm to the touch.

I gasped at the scene that greeted me. The rats from the junkyard next door had feasted on mom’s vegetables. Peppers and tomatoes were scattered about, bitten into in chunks. I could make out their teeth marks on the flesh. A few hung limply on the bush. I gathered what few I could and climbed back into the apartment.

“Mami,” I said almost in a whisper. “The rats ate them. These are the only ones left.”

Mom slammed down the knife she was using to chop cilantro and stomped out to the yard. She cursed and yanked up some of the bushes. I ran to the room and hid. I didn’t come out until she called me for dinner.

After two years mom brought her plants into the house where she could protect them.

Excerpted from “They Call Her Saint” a chapter in my memoir A Dim Capacity for Wings

My mother built that garden in resistance to the landscape that surrounded her. It was her way of making beauty and love out of the devastation that was Bushwick, Brooklyn in that era. She gave up after a while, deeming her efforts futile.

I am still in that garden. I am still in up in that plum tree watching my mother and telling myself stories. My writing is my resistance to the devastation that has surrounded me, the trauma of my childhood and being an unmothered woman. In the journey I have become relentless. The difference is that I’m not giving up. Not now. Not ever.

Relentless Files Week 54 (#52essays2017 Week 1) *An essay a week in 2017* As of Friday morning, just before posting this essay, 9 days after putting out the call for the…