#i am just a white girl who has been studying this music formally for less than a year

[carpathxanridge]

the scariest thing about asking people for things you thought were a total long shot is when they say yes and you have to actually follow through and do the thing!

[the-witches-you-couldnt-burn]

Like I did with you

So I’ve been procrastinating hard during my study break for my exams, but here have a song fic!

Ghost of you by 5SOS

Genius comments: The song tells the tale of a heartbroken lover who has lost his significant other – due to a breakup or even suicide/death – and is refusing to accept the fact that she is never coming back.

I didn’t feel like writing angst and whenever I hear this song I feel like ballroom dancing (and I have).

Also thank you to the lovely people on the Maribat discord server!

Ao3

The sequel ‘It started with a whisper’ is up!

————————

Gotham Academy implemented a new ‘Study Abroad’ program due to recent funding from a local humanitarian. This program gave the students of Gotham Academy a chance to study abroad in Europe and vice versa. Countries like Sweden, Greece, Germany, Ireland and more participated in the program; offering a multitude of high schools with many different courses.

And because of that very wealthy benefactor, his son got first pick on where he would like to study. This was 100% not a forced decision at all to subtly keep track of the happenings of Paris. With that the Ice Prince of Gotham took the City of Love by storm.

He had been at Collège Françoise Dupont for the past few months, and it’s been hell. The class he had been placed into was ripping apart at the seams. There were two students that the class gravitated towards; he observed some of the others meeting in secret, without the knowledge of their respective ‘leaders’.

The first student that held the majority of the class’ focus was Lila Rossi. She was a black hole with beady green eyes, who dragged who ever was in her reach to an agonising fate. Damian saw through her deceptions and rejected her flirtations. The students that followed her, ate up whatever lie she spat out. Rossi soon learned that lies about the Wayne family and Gotham wouldn’t fly with him.

“Really? You worked with Monsieur Wayne?” The pink clad girl, Rose, squeaked.

Damian had just walked into class on his second day at the hell hole and already regretted it. He shot a glare towards the large group, “Who ever told you that is severely misinformed. My father has never worked with a minor from Europe, due to potential rumours and allegations it could cause. It is not a threat but a promise if a lie of similar caliber is spread there will be a lawsuit.” And with that he walked towards his seat in the back, the Ice Prince had cast his decree, the class’ atmosphere had frozen over.

The second student was Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Those that surrounded her were Alix Kubdel, Chloé Bourgeois, Max Kanté, Lê Chiến Kim and the occasional secret appearance from Juleka Couffaine. They didn’t view Dupain-Cheng through rose coloured lenses, they were always grounded and opinions were respected. Damian, who was a loner without Jon at his side, was satisfied by himself; Marinette respected that and didn’t force him to socialise like Lila tried to.

So that leads us to this. He stood against a sidewall of the giant banquet hall, staring out at the crowd before him. Jon was walking to wards him with a can of sprite in hand. Jon had moved to Paris with him but had been placed into a different class. The boy who was the epitome of sunshine stuck around the Ice Prince, their friendship is an enigma to the Françoise Dupont students.

Jon’s face was flushed. He had just gotten a drink after dancing for the past hour. Tonight was the night of the Collège’s formal dance for their graduating class. Skirts of all colours and fabrics swirled, as their partners (majority of whom had matching suits) twirled them to the music.

Jon, gesturing to the crowd, asked him whether he was going to stand there all night or dance. Taking a sip of his drink a smirk appears on his face, “unless the great Damian Wayne is to much of a coward to dance.”

Here I am waking up

Still can't sleep on your side

Damian’s head snapped towards the taller boy, “Are you seriously using my ego to get me to dance?”

Jon raising an eyebrow, “Well?”

If I can dream long enough

The temperamental teen stormed off, grumbling about “Jon being as bad as Todd”. Scanning the room he search for a suitable partner, there was no way he would embarrass himself by dancing alone.

You'd tell me I'd be just fine

I'll be just fine

He spotted Dupain-Cheng stood off to the side, alone. She was draped in a layered white dress with black hemming. As he neared, he realised that the asymmetrical skirt was actually a light blush with her signature apple blossom flowers embroidered. She looked up at him and he straightened his stance, slowing his pace. Her sapphire eyes locked on to his, her bangs curled off to the side along with the rest of her hair in beach waves.

So I drown it out like I always do

She gifted him a small smile, a usual occurrence within her interactions with him. He offered his left hand, bowing his head slightly. “Dupain-Che—“ he cleared his throat, “Marinette. Would you do me the honour of joining me in this dance?”

Dancing through our house

With the ghost of you

Her eyes widened, not expecting the Arabian God of a teen before her to ask her such a question. She saw his temper during class during his spats with Lila and how he kept to himself without the presence of Jon. But here he was in a fitted Armani suit that made his green eyes glow, and hair messily slicked to the side. Marinette looked at his hand, glad that her makeup mostly hid her blush.

And I chase it down

“I am...” She paused to find the right word, “I am a bad dancer. It is better for everyone that I don’t participate.”

“I can think of nothing less appealing than an evening of watching other people dance.” A small gasp escaped from her mouth before she could stop it. She watched as his mouth twitch’s downwards before his facade returned with full strength. “If you do not wish, to I won’t force you. But if you’ll allow me I’ll guide you through the dance to make sure it isn’t an utter disaster.”

With a shot of truth

Marinette’s lips quirked, giggling as she took his hand, “Your funeral Damian.”

What had he gotten himself into?

The two entered the dance floor, taking up the dance support hold. Their dance had the basic steps of the waltz, with a promenade and many spins; some as a couple and some were just Mari. Damian soon found he enjoy watching the sparkles in her dress light up as she spun. It became even more enjoyable when he discovered that the dress was her own creation.

Dancing through our house

The two made quiet conversations during their dance. Damian pulled her closer by the waist as they repeated the basic steps, their bodies perfectly in tune with each other. “You are a fine dancer despite your protests”

With the ghost of you

Marinette tilted her head up at him, blinding him with a dazzling smile. Damian’s heart fluttered, the two always had a mutual respect but it seems to have grown into a fond appreciation.

From the tables scattered around the dance floor there was a blond, with his fist clenched. Lila had dragged him off of the floor as soon as Damian and Marinette made their debuts; together. The brunette was now off angrily gossiping to Alya and any other who’d listen. It was a hot topic between Lila and Alya that Marinette loved him, although now, as he watched her dance with Damian, he was unsure as to whether that was ever true. He sat there, glued to his seat, watching the spectacle before him.

Cleaning up today

Found that old Zepplin shirt

The two dancers didn’t notice that everyone had cleared off the floor to watch them. They danced in sync, no movement was made without the other following it. Adrien had realised awhile ago that even though he didn’t have romantic feelings for Marinette, he cherished her friendship. That relationship was now tarnished due to the path he took when he first revealed his knowledge of the deceptions. His father had forced him to keep Lila happy, even if it made him miserable.

You wore when you ran away

And no one could feel your hurt

He had lost her, and he was unsure as to whether he could gain any semblance of their relationship back.

We're too young, too dumb

To know things like love

Damian lifted his partner’s right hand and twirled her three times, they both were content within their own world. The two swayed before turning together and walking around the now open space.

But I know better now (Better now)

Marinette flushed as she realised what was happening around her, leaning towards her partner she whispered, “I think we’ve become an impromptu entertainment.”

Too young, too dumb

To know things like love

Too young, too dumb

Damian subtly gazed behind her seeing their peers in a circle surrounding them. He was on the inside looking out, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He whispered reassurances in her ear, he wished to finish the song before he released her from his embrace. The two drowned out their audience, focusing on each other and the beat of the song.

So I drown it out like I always do

Dancing through our house

With the ghost of you

And I chase it down

With a shot of truth

That my feet don't dance

Like they did with you

The melody slowly faded off as the last lines were sung. The two finished on a basic waltz step before swaying in each other’s arms. The music ends and there is silence, blood rushed to their ears and their breaths mingled.

The two stayed in the other’s embrace, face-to-face, staring. They broke out of their trance by clapping. Looking around Marinette saw many of her peers and most of the supervising teachers applauding their performance.

Their friends broke through the crowd, Jon patted Damian’s shoulder (retracting before he got bit) while Chloe and Alix pulled Marinette back to their table to discuss what Disney magic had befallen the couple. The bluenette glanced back at her partner, mouthing a silent goodbye.

The crowd dispersed but were still buzzing from their display. Marinette was bombarded with questions, not only from her friends, but from other students about her dancing with the demon. Her stuttered replies did little to quench the crowd’s thirst. Her face must be comparable to that of a tomato.

Damian, having noticed the building crowd and Marinette’s uncomfortable stance, broke away from Jon. The crowd parted like the red sea, unwilling to be the one to anger the Ice Prince.

He offered her his arm (to which she took) and escorted her out to the patio outside. She stayed entwined with him, as she looked out at the stray Parisian night; leaning her head onto his should. Here the two could breathe. Here the two of them could be their present selves, no ghostly facades needed. It seems they could drown out anything in the presence of each other.

Unbeknownst to them, Jon had recorded their dance, along with their previous and present interactions of that night. He thought for a second to use it as blackmail material but decided to just send it off anyways. Oh the chaos it caused.

[leejeongz]

first kiss with CIX

requested: yes, by anon

🔅thanks for requesting! i hope you like it 🥺 i’m so sorry it took so long, i wanted to take my time with it hehe🔅

a/n- from now on, i am not going to add gifs to reactions. i am aware that some gifs creators aren’t happy when people use them and so i don’t want to fuel their anger anymore as i can completely understand their point.

💙bx:

even though he was your boyfriend, you’d still never been to byounggon’s apartment. you’d always pictured what it would look like. probably lots of clothes, lots of colour, maybe some abstract art on the wall. he was always eager for you to come over but you didn’t want to intrude or overstay your welcome. plus you hadn’t been dating for that long and it just didn’t feel right yet.

“i’m going into town to pick up some stuff for lunch” you replied to byounggon’s whiney message asking what you were doing today.

“can’t you come over instead? i miss you” he replied in an instant. he must be bored, you thought, wrapping your favourite scarf around your neck and heading out.

you were closer to the shops than to your house when you felt a few droplets of rain splash onto your head, followed by many more. “a bit of rain never hurt anyone” you thought, continuing to walk. some time passed, your walking pace had gotten slower, your nose has gotten redder, and byounggon had gotten more anxious thinking you could be out there, catching a cold. a single clash of thunder and you were straight on the phone to your boyfriend. “okay i’ll come over now” you blurted out, half joking half not. he asked many times again and again just to confirm that you were indeed, coming over and until every sense of a joke had disappeared.

you arrived at his apartment looking like a drowned rat.

“cute” he patted your dripping wet hair as you entered. “there’s some clothes on the sofa” he shouted to you while shutting the door “you can change in the bathroom if you like. there’s a towel on the radiator too.”

you cautiously picked up the clothes and walked gingerly to his bathroom. while in there, you realised you didn’t even take in your surroundings, did it look like you’d imagined? you’d never imagined the toilet before so you couldn’t really say at this point but-. your thoughts were cut off by the sound of speakers crackling.

you went to see what the awful noise was, luckily you’d gotten dressed by this point but that didn’t even cross your mind.

“even cuter” he said, turning from his “music corner” to face you looking all cozy and warm in his oversized hoodie and sweats. you walked closer to him to see what song he was playing, it sounded familiar and less crackly than before.as you got closer his arms stretched out. the sleeves of his black hoodie covered his hands, which he soon pulled out to rest on your waist.

“can i kiss you?” he asked politely in a soft voice. you shyly nodded at him in response.

you leaned in and your lips met. his lips were a little chapped and yours weren’t in the best state either because of the weather, but it was definitely something you never wanted to forget. he didn’t rush it, but it wasn’t too slow either, it was filled with love and care. usually you’d curse the rain for ruining your plans, but today was an exception.

💛seunghun:

you weren’t even dating yet, but jfc everyone knew you would be soon. somehow you’d become friends with the popular guy, the one who sat with the IT girls for lunch, the one who could always be seen at festivals and concerts at the weekend, the one who everyone wanted to be with. it all started when you exchanged disgusted looks across the classroom when some delinquent said they ate banana on pizza, and from then, many snaps were sent, many seating plans were changed because he was “getting distracted” and he’d even started sitting with you and your friends some days for lunch, which the popular clique weren’t too impressed about.

you’d never been to his house before but that was about to change. you arrived at his front door and were greeted by two rather large dogs barking and a panicked seunghun. he hurried you upstairs since he gathered they could be pretty scary when you meet them for the first time. you sat on the edge of his bed after being told to make yourself comfortable.

here” he handed you his gaming controller “pick something to watch” you were quite relieved that he wasn’t going to make you play some weird game that you knew you’d lose at. instead you put on white chicks, which you had both seen numerous times before.

it wasn’t long before you both had gotten bored of the film and your phone battery was just a tiny red slither. footsie had been played countless times but you were enjoying each other’s company so you didn’t wanna announce that you were bored. before you knew it, seunghun had snatched your phone from your hands “i’ll charge it for you” he said, plugging it in.

there was nothing left to do other than mess with your nails. seunghun rolled onto his side and looked at you for a second before asking you “have you kissed many guys?” it was abrupt and you probably thought his intentions weren’t in the right place, but he couldn’t help what just came out of his mouth.

“a few” you responded. you picked at your nailed some more, staring at them like they were the most interesting thing in the world. “have you kissed many people?” you retaliated.

“some” he responded, rolling back onto his back. “do you maybe-“ this time he stopped to think before continuing “want one? from me i mean.”

you smiled to yourself before turning to face him. “sure”.

it didn’t last very long, his right hand was on your cheek while your left hand naturally found its way to the back of his neck. your cheeks were definitely bright red, but his temperature indicated that he was probably the same.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that for” he smiled, pulling away. “so is this our first date?” he asked outright

“do you want it to be?” you avoided the question, making him answer it. you definitely wanted it to be, but whatever you said you knew he’d tease you.

“no i thought i’d just kiss you as a friend” he rolled his eyes, going in for another.

🤍yonghee:

three dates in and you were pretty sure that you liked him, and that he liked you back. he’d taken you to his favourite cafe without even realising it was your favourite too, he’d taken you to a art gallery which was a pretty big deal, you thought, and you’d just finished your date at the park. you packed away all the empty boxes into your picnic basket to throw away when you got home and he helped, brushing hands occasionally which made your heart go crazy every time.

“this was really nice, i’m glad the weather didn’t change” he chucked, bringing his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. he looked at you for a reaction but you just smiled, not even looking in his direction. “you do feel the same way, right?” he asked, bewildered by your silence.

you finally glanced up at him “yes i do” it was quite formal looking back but at least you told him.

“then why the shyness?” he asked, almost saddened by your sudden change in character.

“because i didn’t wanna come off as too… much” you said. “i didn’t want you to see me go beetroot red either like now but here we are” you laughed, getting back to your normal self to get rid of the awkwardness.

“you’re so cute” he cooed whilechuckling, moving his arms to balance himself while he leaned over to give you a gentle kiss.

you didn’t fight it. it’s what you wanted since day one. but you were nervous and it was unexpected, you didn’t want him to think you weren’t enjoying it but you barely moved.

“was that too much?” he pulled back slowly, slightly embarrassed.

“no” you replied softly with an unmovable smile on your face. you looked back over to him, he had one eye shut and the other was squinting. you moved your head to block the sun and smiled widely at him. “can we do that again?” you asked innocently.

“please” he laughed a little, leaning in once again. this time you lead the kiss, proving to him that you felt the same way as him. his hand slowly made its way to your waist. you jumped slightly which made him smile into the kiss. your stomach flipped every time you realised what was going on and you were getting more flustered by the second, but of course yonghee found it adorable and it made him smile even more.

🖤jinyoung:

it was very rare that you and jinyoung got free time together, alone. you’re not even sure if you’d had any since getting together. you always had work to do or exams to prepare for or family matters to deal with. he was always dancing or studying or with his family too. you made do with the little time you had together but it always left you both wanting to share more intimate moments. you could only do so much on facetime.

“why aren’t you at school?” he asked in response to you showing up on screen in your bed. “are you sick? do you want me to come over? oh god are you skipping school?! i mean that’s cool but we all know… you lack… ya know… brain cells. you need to be there babe,” he joked while waiting for an answer.

“first of all, my lack of brain cells has nothing on my lack of taste when it comes to men. second of all, my school is closed because the heating is broken and it’s like -200°C. do you want us all to freeze to death?” you retaliated sarcastically.

“ideally” he replied, setting his phone down on the desk while he put a hoodie over his tshirt.

“well i was going to say you could come over since i’m home alone all day but i don’t think I want you to anymore” you fake sulked even though he couldn’t see you.

“no i’m getting ready now you don’t have a choice” he announced, picking his phone back up and heading outside of his shared accommodation.

he arrived at your door in no time.

“did you run?” you asked, watching him stagger his way up your driveway panting like a dog.

“no” he obviously lied. “well yes” he confessed “but only so i could do this”. he put his ice cold hands on your cheeks and started to lean in.

“the neighbours” you pushed him away slightly, pointing to all the houses on your street.

“fuck your neighbours, have they had to wait 600 years to kiss their girl/boyfriend?” with that, your lips finally collided. you soon forgot about the idea that people were watching and became fully immersed in the kiss. you’d wanted to make the move for so long, if you knew he was okay with an audience you would have done it in front of your friends.

it was the longest kiss either of you had ever had, undeniably the best too. it was innocent, yet hungry. passionate and sincere but hasty. everything you expected it to be and more.

💜hyunsuk:

not a single day passed where you didn’t think about kissing hyunsuk, but every time you tried, you always chickened out. it was the same whenever he tried to either. the mood was never right, you wanted to remember the kiss yet he’d always spring it on you at the most random times, that’s why you always pulled back or pushed him away.

today you were cleaning out some of your old make up, most of it had passed its use by date, some just wasn’t your style anymore and the rest you were gonna keep. hyunsuk being hyunsuk just wanted to be around you, so he came over and watched while messing in every little item on your desk.

“what about this?” you asked, holding up a sealed lip tint, knowing he wasn’t really paying attention to you.

“yeah that’s nice” he replied dismissively. you shook your head and threw the lip tint into the space you’d made on the floor for stuff to give to your friends.

“hey, why throw it there? i said it was nice,” he questioned. you were a little taken back, was he actually listening?

“when have you ever seen me wear that shade?” you retorted. you stared at his face intently before coming up with a fun plan. “i think it will look nice on you though, actually, can i put some on for you?” by this point, you’d embodied the pleading face emoji, he wasn’t gonna say no to that.

“only if i can put some on you after” you nodded, he’d forget about that anyway, you thought. he picked up the lip tint and passed it to you. you stood in front of him and puckered to show him what to do. he followed and you applied it gently. you hated to admit it but it did look really good on him, even though you’d only said it as a mindless joke.

“all done” you said, turning him on your chair to face the mirror.

“hmm pretty!” he spun back around to face you who was still crouched at his height so you could admire it even more. to your surprise, he grabbed your face and pulled it towards his. he planted one sticky peck on your lips before looking to see the mess he’d created. “not enough” he whispered to himself before returning his lips back to yours for longer this time. it was more intense. he seemed to throw himself into this one a bit more, and so did you. your lips moved together instinctively and your hands found their way over his shoulders while his steadied you are your hips.

“that was our first kiss, you know?” you asked once he’d pulled away and giggled a bit.

“wait really?” his eyes went wide and his hands were quickly removed from your sides. “i’m sorry, i got caught up in the moment, i hope it was okay” he rambled.

“it was perfect” you smiled “now here” you handed him a make up wipe “we can do it again after you’ve got that sticky mess from around your lips, okay?”

[faithbethhyden]

Today in another universe: Universe 669

It happen a month and so since Ruby meet William. Actually it felt like days because time flies with him and lately Ruby spend more time with William than Christina and this has been started to annoy the woman with the platinum blonde hair. The only thing that got her distracted was helping the kids of the neighborhood and the couple things she do in her business

"Christina?"

"Tell me, Dee" The woman flip a page of the book she was helping the girl with "Oh, chemical reactions. This is interesting"

"Are you mad at Ruby"

Christina for a second frown without lift her gaze from the book and shook her head before with her usual stoic and calm face look at Diana "No, why?"

"Dunno, when she come home to see me or hang out you just leave or ignore her"

"I..." she sighs "I don’t ignore her. I am just busy"

"Mom says you have fight over something maybe"

Christina breaking her peaceful gesture chuckle just for one second in sarcasm to then go back to serious "We haven’t. I can assure you that. Now let’s go back to finish this. You have your this exam in a week"

"I am already killing it"

"Do you?" Christina nodded doubting "Okay, let’s see if you can resolve this" she closed the book and taking a piece of paper she wrote a few problems and a few formulas then slide it in front of Diana "You have thirty minutes"

Diana with eyes wide open reading it shake her head a couple time "But this..."

"This is what the book and your notebooks says you have study already. And as you mentioned, you are killing it" Christina standing up looked towards the window making her watch spin to watch the hour

-"Heeeeellooooo. Where’s everybody?"- Letitia’s voice sound loud -"Diana?"-

Christina fixing her posture look at the door "We are in the kitchen"

-"Oh Christina!"

"I don’t understand this!" Diana point to the paper "Wh-"

——————————

William staring the long eyelashes of Ruby while this looked aside he went to hold her hand to call her attention back to earth squeezing it softly. Once he did, he curled the corner of his lips "You are far away today"

"Mmm?" Ruby move her gaze to their hands then to his face "Is it bad to feel this down because she’s not making a move, anything to have me back. And is not like I am playing a game like a kid"

William retrieved his hand "No. I thought Miss Braithwhite would go all in, for you. She’s being stubborn. To be honest, I think she’s jealous"

"Jealous?"

"She’s not talking to me either" William lifting his cup of tea to his mouth did a short sigh after taking a sip "She always has been good into hiding her feelings"

"Oh..." Ruby starting to overthink wanted to stand up

"I wanted to ask you something"

"Wait... you have never tell me why you call Christina, Miss Braithwhite"

William nodding smiles glad "Is because her position"

"Her position?"

"Her family is really wealthy and now that she’s the last Braithwhite. She is beyond wealthy. I like formalities"

"You are weird"

"Maybe I am" He tilt his head "Do you like weird?"

"I... am... not going to responde that" Ruby smiles cheeky

"I like you Ruby. But... I know I have to fight hard. Anyway. I want you to come to a party we are having tonight. I have send you the perfect gown. Is going to be a very formal night"

Ruby clicking her tongue rose her brows "And do you think I don’t have a -very formal gown- William?"

William please by her reacting lean forward in the table "I do know your taste, but this is a gift. From me"

Ruby feeling shivers running her spine automatically smile rolling her eyes "ass"

"Keep talking dirty and will kiss you when you less expect it" William replied fixing the cuffs of this shirt

Ruby laughs "You are unbelievable"

——————————

The people were coming over the house. The hired help for that day has place everything so perfectly for the cocktail that when the invitees entered the place they were amused. William met with Christina while this poured a big glass of white wine

"You look stunning"

Christina turn around in a flawless way with the glass in a hand and the bottle in the other "I know" she power walk out of the kitchen

William grow a funny smile following her with his sight as she go "You look good too, William" he sighs "Thank you Christina"

"Mr Davenport here you are. There are a man asking for you sir" A butler announced "Have you seen Miss Braithwhite?"

"I’d be right out. And please. Don’t bother Miss Braithwhite until Miss Baptiste is here"

"Alright, sir"

"Thank you" William pat twice the shoulder of the butler before go out

Ruby still in awe hearing soft jazz music drive humming the lyrics until arrive the house "Holy shit how many people these crazy two have invited" she wonder to herself stopping in the front of the house as a guy opened the door for her and a minute later this drove her car out giving her a token. Some people in the outside stared right at her like seeing a vision which make her confidence grow

Loud music, some people walking in pairs, other little groups having chats. Ruby did her step in the house. A butler help with the coat and she nervously began to walk around not knowing anybody also not knowing why the meaning of the party. She looked for William but he was nowhere to be seen. She accepted a glass of champagne and felt a tickle in the back of her neck not knowing why. She spin around catching the gaze of Christina that looked like frozen and mesmerized staring at her which made her gulp before take the first step towards the woman

"Hi" Christina greet almost in a whisper not believing who was in front of her eyes "hi" she repeated happy

"Hello you too"

"You are here" This time Christina hold the two hands of Ruby "How did you know?"

An old white scruffy man rested a hand over the shoulder of Christina seeing this make a quick gesture of disgust but turn it into her usual blank expression dropping the hands of Ruby

"Happy Birthday little Braithwhite"

Ruby realize why there was so many elitist people in there and more importantly that Christina didn’t wanted to be there but her

"Thank you, Edmund"

"Who is your friend"

"Miss Baptiste. This is Edmund Kean. From London. He was one of my father’s closest friends" Christina had to do her best to not puke in her mouth "Miss Baptiste here is a marvelous singer and an amazing song writer and guitar player. She’s very gifted"

"Such a big words for someone of c-" The old man notice the murderous gaze Christina was giving to him and she shut up "-I think I will find my daughter. She was eager to meet you. Little Christina. If you may excuse me"

"Ruby I am so sorry"

"Why this old piece of crap is so scared about you?"

"I don’t know" Christina did know "I am so honored you are here. How did you know?"

Ruby suspicious just nod but feeling shivers seeing Christina’s excitement showing it by her gaze "surprise"

"You look-" Christina sighs eating Ruby with her eyes "wow"

"You are not bad yourself"

"Come with me. I’m going to get you a drink" The woman said taking Ruby’s hand pulling her gently leading the way

William from far was watching everything with a glass of whiskey close to his mouth. He grin chugging down the alcohol

[kingofthewilderwest]

"#just because you have a bias about certain socioeconomic groups which tend to listen to country doesn't mean" // Yup. I tend to side-eye folks who are like "I like all kinds of music except country and [Insert a genre of music usually associated with Black creators like rap and hip hop]" You're not slick, ppl. I know what you're saying.

^^^^^^^^^ You hit the nail on the head.

It’s racial bias. It’s socioeconomic bias. It’s bias against people groups who have less respect and say in society.

From my tags on this post:

#don’t get me started on a long rant of the progressive side of country music and what’s been progressive FOR DECADES#from times near its BEGINNInGS#through the modern age#just because you have a bias about certain socioeconomic groups which tend to listen to country doesn’t mean#that that’s actually what the genre is or who the artists are#I could go for a LONNNNG time about this#a LONG time#some of the best protest songs I know of today’s current political situation#are country#or have like ya’ll forgotten about the folk revival#of the 1960s#or…#gahghfnfddhgnghfngh#I AM GAY AND I LISTEN TO COUNTRY#NYEH!!!!

Now. I understand disinterest in a genre because it’s not your aesthetic, but when people express their feelings for country, R&B, hip-hop, etc. …the dialogue isn’t casual “It’s not my thing.” The dialogue is a hateful, passionate retaliation.

Other genres aren’t treated like this. It’s normalized and encouraged to hate on country and rap. These genres are systematically treated with less respect and that disrespect culturally arose because these genres are associated with less-respected demographics. 

(Country music is associated with people of low socioeconomic status, for people who aren’t explicitly aware.)

Anecdotally: I’ve caught something interesting about anti-country music sentiment. Many people tell me they can’t stand the “twang.” Half the time, I’ve noticed that their internalized definition of “twang” isn’t the vocal technique; it’s that they can’t stand the presence of a Southern accent. And hooboy does that have TONS of sociocultural bias issues. As a linguist, I’ve read endless sociolinguistic studies about how Southern dialects are treated as “lesser,” and how speakers of the dialect are automatically judged to be less intelligent, etc. It’s not good, folks.

Sometimes, to help friends get out of their anti-country mindset, I’ve “tricked” them into liking country. See, genres like bluegrass grew closely out of Scots-Irish folk music. Often, we’re playing the same tunes on both sides of the Atlantic. So I play a few instrumentals, my friend goes, “Oh! I love Celtic music

The biases against those demographics color how people view the music. There’s endless things that can be said about hip-hop bias, holy shit. I won’t focus on that today because I don’t believe I am qualified to be a spokesman. Someone who understands that genre better, and other genres associated with the African-American community, and is African-American, would be a better human to listen to than me. I defer to their knowledge and experience. It’s hella important to understand what bias has been reflected against those genres.

But there’s just as much bias against country music, against another demographic. And I’ve found it wild how it gets treated on places like tumblr, which wants to stand up for underprivileged groups, but somewhat inaccurately associates country music as “anti-gay conservative evil white person music” rather than music of people historically of lower socioeconomic status.

Yes, some of the demographic that listens to country music or plays country music are bad apples. But like… thinking the music is JUST THAT is a huge disservice to what country actually is and who the music artists actually are.

The history of country music is one giant collaborative melting pot of people from many different cultural backgrounds. Broad West African influence. Mexican influence. Italian influence. German influence. Scots-Irish influence. Cherokee influence. More. Early record labels like OKEH foolishly separated “hillbilly music” (presumably white folk music) from “rhythm and blues” (presumably Black folk music) without understanding the constant racial, demographic, regional, and cultural cross-pollination that occurred between the musicians from country music’s origins. And while there ARE certain issues in country music’s past and present, and we can’t let those issues go forgotten, that’s far from the whole story. We shouldn’t romanticize issues, but we should acknowledge that this music genre has given us major strides too.

Country music is the banjo, brought from Africa, combined with the mandolin, brought from Italy, combined with the fiddle, brought from Ireland, combined with the guitar and the dobro and the accordion and the upright bass and the electric guitar and the electric bass and whatever instruments you want to put in there.

Country music is African-American musicians like DeFord Bailey, the first radio star ever introduced on the Grand Ole Opry (THE most revered country music hub out there), blues harmonica performer, playing to crowds decades before segregation was de-legalized. He toured with white Opry musicians who treated him as one of their own. It’s soul music genre pioneer Ray Charles producing a studio album entirely dedicated to country music hits like “Hey Good Lookin’” from Hank Williams. It’s country star Charley Pride, who despite the racism against him in the 1960s rose to fame and made audiences fall in love with his beautiful voice. It’s the African-American musicians who inspired many commercial country stars, like Arnold Shultz influencing Bill Monroe and the railroad workers inspiring Jimmie Rodgers.

Country music is stars like Johnny Rodriguez and Rick Treviño, singing country music in Spanish, and using obvious Latin flavors in the genre.

Country music is filled with badass women like the ladies who STARTED THE GENRE ROLLING IN THE FIRST PLACE, Sara Carter and Mother Maybelle Carter (whose guitar style is hugely influential to this day) and Maybelle’s daughters Helen, June, and Anita; the first female music manager in the music industry, Louise Scruggs; songwriters like Felice Bryant and Loretta Lynn; the most awarded female artist in Grammy history Alison Krauss; and powerhouses like Dolly Parton who stepped out of an over-controlling entertainer’s shadow to become a badass in all things like supporting the LGBTQ community, contributing to pro-transgender films ahead of their time, and starring in sex worker positive productions like “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.”

Country music is filled with activism. Johnny Cash showed a heart for those forgotten by society. He toured many times in prisons. Cash especially was an activist for Native American rights. He toured with Native American songwriters so audiences could hear their own words (I’ve been trying to find names but I’m having difficulties re-finding that information, so my apologies for not giving names of those who deserve to be mentioned). Cash released albums dedicated to exposing past and present injustices against the Native American people. He went on tours specifically to Native American reservations. 

And it’s not just Johnny Cash!

Country music is many stars from the Grand Ole Opry banding together to release AIDS benefit albums - big names like Alison Krauss, Willie Nelson, Marty Stuart, aurgh I’m too lazy to write them all, PEOPLE.

Country music is Earl Scruggs and his sons playing at the Vietnam War Protests.

Country music is tied in with the fucking folk revival of the 1960s, which was deep in left-wing activism and the Civil Rights Movement. Folk singers sang traditional Appalachian and English ballads alongside their own compositions, topical pieces protesting the current political situation. You can call one artist “folk” or “Americana” and another one “country,” but the influences were intermingling, and it’s why we have Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie and Joan Baez and John Denver and Pete Seeger owning a banjo that says, “This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender.”

Dammit, I have a full BOOK that discusses country music and political ties. 

There’s another book out there, which I haven’t read, that discusses the relationship between country music and the queer community, and how bias against country music is NOT as reflective of the listening demographic as we stereotype. I’ll take the word of one reviewer who said:

[Nadine Hubbs] explores country music lyrics, presenting a great deal of evidence suggesting that working class America is not inherently homophobic, but that as middle class cultural taste has changed to include formal acceptance of homosexuality, this process has included pinning homophobic ideas on the working class.

Country music is lyrics like this 1975 controversial song “The Pill”:

You wined me and dined meWhen I was your girlPromised if I’d be your wifeYou’d show me the worldBut all I’ve seen of this old worldIs a bed and a doctor billI’m tearing down your brooder house‘Cause now I’ve got the pillAll these years I’ve stayed at homeWhile you had all your funAnd every year that’s gone byAnother baby’s comeThere’s a-gonna be some changes madeRight here on nursery hillYou’ve set this chicken your last time‘Cause now I’ve got the pill

Country music is lyrics like this 2013 song that feels as relevant than ever:

If crooks are in charge, should we let them pick our pockets?If we don’t want trouble, should we not try to stop it?We could just sink into the quicksand slavery we’re born inBut fighting endless wars for greedy liars is getting pretty boringThey think they got us trained, so we’ll think we’re living freeIf we got time and money for junk food and TVBut it’s plain honest people never stand a chance of winning electionsThey just let us pick which liars take our rights away for our own protectionThe corporate propaganda paralyzes us with fearDestroying our ability to trustFear keeps us fighting with each other over scrapsStarving to death in the dustOrganized religion really helps you submitBut the meek are inheriting the short end of the stickFear surrounds compassion like a layer of moldAnd weakens our defenses so we’re too weak to be boldLife could be heaven, but this corrupted systemTakes away our rights, expects us not to miss themThe middle class is shrinking while the lower class growsIf we don’t wake up soon, we’ll have no class left to lose

Country music is Christians themselves criticizing the hypocritical Evangelical culture in the USA for the bullshit hatefulness stewing inside it:

Every house has got a Bible and a loaded gunWe got preachers and politicians‘Round here it’s kinda hard to tell which oneIs gonna do more talkin’ with a crooked tongue

And as that one post I just reblogged shows, there’s MANY queer country musicians out there producing explicitly pro-LGBTQ+ music.

I’m brushing over so much. I’m sorry for the simplification that goes with me doing such a pass-by overview. I’m sorry I’m focusing more on history than the present (I know more about the 1920s-1960s eras, so I’m talking from my strong suit). I hope the information is at least strong enough to get my point across.

There are definitely listeners and artists in country music who are uber-conservative white hateful Christians. Yes. I know why country music gets associated with that. But.

Country music is not ABOUT this uber-conservative white hateful Christian side. The genre is not “polluted”. It is a thousand voices from a thousand perspectives of people from many backgrounds and beliefs. And many of those thousand voices are old traditional songs that came from Black communities, or were composed by Mexican-Americans, or were performed by folk artists as part of a protest for equal rights. 

(Note: I’m *NOT* saying all Christians are bad or that different political angles don’t have merits. I’m Christian myself! And you don’t know my political party. I’m just trying to get the point across that country music isn’t ENTRENCHED in one questionable demographic.)

You don’t have to like country music. It doesn’t have to be your aesthetic. But if you find it fun to get in on society’s popular country hate roasting… please rethink this. The reason country music has been hated from its roots is because it’s associated with the socioeconomically disadvantaged.

I’m with you 100%, Ashley. When someone says they like all genres “except country music and rap,” I get a little leery. I used to be one of those people when I was younger. I had to learn to grow past those biases. But once I did, I realized there was so much I was hating on that I didn’t understand. Now, I hope I can help people overcome their own biases, such as ones they don’t realize they’ve had - for things like music.

Hi ya’lls. I’m queer and I love country.

P.S. If anyone has anything to add or correct, please feel free to add on! I’m doing my best but I do not know everything and would be happy to learn more, too!

[bonappetizzle]

Completeness

A/N: Back again. Thanks for the notes and response.

Pairing: Harry Styles x Black!Female Reader

Summary: Meeting the parents.

Word count: 1276

You bounce your leg nervously, sitting on the stone fence outside your house. You’d finally got the courage to introduce your boyfriend to your parents, but your dad had come home in a mood and it had you a little anxious. Your mother had calmed you a little, telling you to wait outside and breathe, while she calmed down your father and finished up dinner.

“Something on your mind?” You jump at the voice, holding a hand to your chest, as he chuckles.

“Don’t do that,” you knit your brows together, standing up to hug him.

“Hello to you too,” he smiles, you roll your eyes, before scanning his outfit.

“What are you wearing?”

“What do you mean?” He looks down at himself.

“You’re in formal-ware. You never wear this,” you giggle, flicking his tie.

“Well, I am meeting your parents. I want to make a good impression.” You nod, smiling. He sits down on your fence. “M’also scared shitless, can’t lie.” You raise an eyebrow.

“You’re scared?” You sit next to him. He nods, taking a deep breath.

“I want them to like me, m’scared they’ll make assumptions cause of the band and stuff and-” you kiss his cheek, making him pause. “Was ramblin’, wasn’t I?” You shake your head.

“No, you’re nervous and you’re voicing that. I think it’s cute. M’nervous too.” He whines, leaning his head into your shoulder. “You’re making fun of how I talk.”

“No, I’m not. I like how to talk.” You take hold of his hand. “We’ll get through this and things will go back to normal, just you know my parents. Just be yourself and it’ll be fine.” He looks up, looking into your eyes. “Yeah?” You nod. “Yeah, now take this off, it’s 1974 not 1953, my parents are traditional, but not like that.” You loosen his tie, pulling it off him, he chuckles, taking a few strands of his hair out from his bun, and undoing his first two buttons. “Better?”

“That’s my Harry,” you boop his nose with your finger, before standing up. “Ready?” He nods, taking a shaky breath.

-

“Mum, dad.” You poke your head into the sitting room, pulling Harry along with you. “This is Harry.” You both stand in the doorway.

“H-hello, Mr and Mrs Y/L/N, I’m Harry,” he introduces himself, smiling nervously. Your mum leaps up, smiling warmly at him.

“Hello, I’m y/m/n, nice to finally meet the boy who has my girl smitten.” He holds his hand out to shake hers but she hugs him instead. He relaxes a little, looking over at you. “Nice to meet you too,” he says as she pulls away, his eyes widening for a second, before pulling flowers out from behind him. Where’d he hide them?

“These are for you, Y/N said they were your favourite.” She smiles at him, and then at you.

“Thank you so much Harry, I’ll put them in a vase.” She takes the flowers, heading into the kitchen.

1 done, 1 to go.

You look over at your dad, who had been studying Harry. He stands from the settee, standing roughly Harry’s height, holding his hand out to him. “I’m y/d/n… it’s nice to finally meet you.” He says stoically, almost testing Harry. He takes your dad’s hand, shaking it. “Nice to meet you Mr Y/L/N,” your dad nods, your mother watching from the kitchen doorway. Your dad looks at you, then to your mother before chuckling. She laughs too, confusing both you and Harry.

“Your faces. S’like your toddlers in trouble.” He opens his arms up for Harry. “You gonna leave me hanging?” He raises his brow, before Harry hugs him. “Welcome, been waiting for y/n to finally introduce us. I’ve seen you two around town and been waiting for you to finally show your face.” He chuckles.

“What?” You look at him confused. He rolls his eyes.

“I’m on the police force, I may be busy but I’m not that busy. I do check up on you. I’ve also been called to watch over some of your shows,” he turns to look at Harry. “You’re quite the rock star, not my kind of music, but people like you. You got a backup plan in case it doesn’t work out?” Harry’s mouth opens a little, before your mother claps her hands together. “Dinner’s ready. How about we move this into the garden? Got the table set up out there, why waste a good day?”

-

“I’ll be honest,” your dad starts, wiping his mouth. “You’re not exactly the type of man I expected for my daughter. I know it’s a different time, but I’ve had to reserve judgement because of the way I was treated by people like you when I was your age, however, I can see that you’re a genuine man, though you could use a haircut.” He and Harry chuckle.

“I’m sorry for the way people treated you sir, I very much so disagree with racism, it’s not something that I can tolerate.” Your dad shrugs.

“It’s not your fault boy, though that is reassuring.” He takes a sip of his wine. “What are your intentions with my daughter? You’re a musician and I’ve seen how guys in your field of work move.” Harry clears his throat, looking at you before answering. “Well, I’d like to marry your daughter someday. I’m serious about her and I’d like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with her.” Your mother gasps, looking at your father.

“You love her that much?” He asks sternly. Harry nods.

“Yes. I do. She’s made me be a better person, and want to be better. I want to show her the world, give her whatever she wants and needs.” Your father nods, a small smile creeping onto his face.

“In that case… welcome to the family.”

-

“That went well,” Harry covers your shoulders with a blanket.

“Yeah it did.” You smile. You hadn’t expected your father to take so well to Harry. He’d even shown him his older collection of guitars. “I really like your parents.”

“They like you too, my dad didn’t take well to my sister’s husband when they first met. It was a couple months before dad even shared his whiskey with him.” Harry let’s out a loud chuckle.

“It was so strong.”

“That’s why he doesn’t share.” You lean your head on his shoulder.

“Your mum’s lovely too. Great cook, I see where you get your skills from.”

“If you ask I recon she’ll help you,” he leans his head on yours.

“M’not that bad a cook. I made you that chicken dish you said you liked.”

“It was alright,” you start. “I liked it cause you put effort in to make it better than how it tasted.” He sits up, looking at you with wide eyes. “So, you lied?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I did like it, it just wasn’t the best meal I’ve ever had.” He pouts.

“I’ve told the other guys about it.”

“They’re white too, doubt they’ll have too much of an opinion H,” He chuckles.

“Not all white people are bad cooks. But you may be onto something. Pete made this pasta dish when the band met at his the other week. Reminded me of one you made, but it was a lot less seasoned.” You tuck a stand of his hair behind his ear. “You’re gonna be a master chef soon,”

“International rock star, and top chef, you’re gonna be the luckiest wife in the industry.”

“Just the industry?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“You’re right, I meant the world. We’ll be the dream team.”

[thegreatantonchekhov]

Love

By Anton Chekhov

Translated by Constance Garnett

“THREE o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t sleep, I am so happy!

“My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. I can’t analyse it just now -- I haven’t the time, I’m too lazy, and there -- hang analysis! Why, is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? Is he in a state to do it?”

This was more or less how I began my love-letter to Sasha, a girl of nineteen with whom I had fallen in love. I began it five times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all over again. I spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel I had to write to order. And it was not because I tried to make it longer, more elaborate, and more fervent, but because I wanted endlessly to prolong the process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one’s study and communes with one’s own day-dreams while the spring night looks in at one’s window. Between the lines I saw a beloved image, and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at the same table writing with me, spirits as naïvely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully smiling as I. I wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had lately pressed it, and if I turned my eyes away I had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate. Through that trellis Sasha gazed at me after I had said goodbye to her. When I was saying good-bye to Sasha I was thinking of nothing and was simply admiring her figure as every decent man admires a pretty woman; when I saw through the trellis two big eyes, I suddenly, as though by inspiration, knew that I was in love, that it was all settled between us, and fully decided already, that I had nothing left to do but to carry out certain formalities.

It is a great delight also to seal up a love-letter, and, slowly putting on one’s hat and coat, to go softly out of the house and to carry the treasure to the post. There are no stars in the sky now: in their place there is a long whitish streak in the east, broken here and there by clouds above the roofs of the dingy houses; from that streak the whole sky is flooded with pale light. The town is asleep, but already the water-carts have come out, and somewhere in a far-away factory a whistle sounds to wake up the workpeople. Beside the postbox, slightly moist with dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter, wearing a bell-shaped sheepskin and carrying a stick. He is in a condition akin to catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but something between.

If the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the decision of their fate, they would not have such a humble air. I, anyway, almost kissed my postbox, and as I gazed at it I reflected that the post is the greatest of blessings.

I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with rapture at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its way through the folds of the curtain.

Well, to facts.... Next morning at midday, Sasha’s maid brought me the following answer: “I am delited be sure to come to us to day please I shall expect you. Your S.”

Not a single comma. This lack of punctuation, and the misspelling of the word “delighted,” the whole letter, and even the long, narrow envelope in which it was put filled my heart with tenderness. In the sprawling but diffident handwriting I recognised Sasha’s walk, her way of raising her eyebrows when she laughed, the movement of her lips.... But the contents of the letter did not satisfy me. In the first place, poetical letters are not answered in that way, and in the second, why should I go to Sasha’s house to wait till it should occur to her stout mamma, her brothers, and poor relations to leave us alone together? It would never enter their heads, and nothing is more hateful than to have to restrain one’s raptures simply because of the intrusion of some animate trumpery in the shape of a half-deaf old woman or little girl pestering one with questions. I sent an answer by the maid asking Sasha to select some park or boulevard for a rendezvous. My suggestion was readily accepted. I had struck the right chord, as the saying is.

Between four and five o’clock in the afternoon I made my way to the furthest and most overgrown part of the park. There was not a soul in the park, and the tryst might have taken place somewhere nearer in one of the avenues or arbours, but women don’t like doing it by halves in romantic affairs; in for a penny, in for a pound -- if you are in for a tryst, let it be in the furthest and most impenetrable thicket, where one runs the risk of stumbling upon some rough or drunken man. When I went up to Sasha she was standing with her back to me, and in that back I could read a devilish lot of mystery. It seemed as though that back and the nape of her neck, and the black spots on her dress were saying: Hush!... The girl was wearing a simple cotton dress over which she had thrown a light cape. To add to the air of mysterious secrecy, her face was covered with a white veil. Not to spoil the effect, I had to approach on tiptoe and speak in a half whisper.

From what I remember now, I was not so much the essential point of the rendezvous as a detail of it. Sasha was not so much absorbed in the interview itself as in its romantic mysteriousness, my kisses, the silence of the gloomy trees, my vows.... There was not a minute in which she forgot herself, was overcome, or let the mysterious expression drop from her face, and really if there had been any Ivan Sidoritch or Sidor Ivanitch in my place she would have felt just as happy. How is one to make out in such circumstances whether one is loved or not? Whether the love is “the real thing” or not?

From the park I took Sasha home with me. The presence of the beloved woman in one’s bachelor quarters affects one like wine and music. Usually one begins to speak of the future, and the confidence and self-reliance with which one does so is beyond bounds. You make plans and projects, talk fervently of the rank of general though you have not yet reached the rank of a lieutenant, and altogether you fire off such high-flown nonsense that your listener must have a great deal of love and ignorance of life to assent to it. Fortunately for men, women in love are always blinded by their feelings and never know anything of life. Far from not assenting, they actually turn pale with holy awe, are full of reverence and hang greedily on the maniac’s words. Sasha listened to me with attention, but I soon detected an absent-minded expression on her face, she did not understand me. The future of which I talked interested her only in its external aspect and I was wasting time in displaying my plans and projects before her. She was keenly interested in knowing which would be her room, what paper she would have in the room, why I had an upright piano instead of a grand piano, and so on. She examined carefully all the little things on my table, looked at the photographs, sniffed at the bottles, peeled the old stamps off the envelopes, saying she wanted them for something.

“Please collect old stamps for me!” she said, making a grave face. “Please do.”

Then she found a nut in the window, noisily cracked it and ate it.

“Why don’t you stick little labels on the backs of your books?” she asked, taking a look at the bookcase.

“What for?”

“Oh, so that each book should have its number. And where am I to put my books? I’ve got books too, you know.”

“What books have you got?” I asked.

Sasha raised her eyebrows, thought a moment and said:

“All sorts.”

And if it had entered my head to ask her what thoughts, what convictions, what aims she had, she would no doubt have raised her eyebrows, thought a minute, and have said in the same way: “All sorts.”

Later I saw Sasha home and left her house regularly, officially engaged, and was so reckoned till our wedding. If the reader will allow me to judge merely from my personal experience, I maintain that to be engaged is very dreary, far more so than to be a husband or nothing at all. An engaged man is neither one thing nor the other, he has left one side of the river and not reached the other, he is not married and yet he can’t be said to be a bachelor, but is in something not unlike the condition of the porter whom I have mentioned above.

Every day as soon as I had a free moment I hastened to my fiancée. As I went I usually bore within me a multitude of hopes, desires, intentions, suggestions, phrases. I always fancied that as soon as the maid opened the door I should, from feeling oppressed and stifled, plunge at once up to my neck into a sea of refreshing happiness. But it always turned out otherwise in fact. Every time I went to see my fiancée I found all her family and other members of the household busy over the silly trousseau. (And by the way, they were hard at work sewing for two months and then they had less than a hundred roubles’ worth of things). There was a smell of irons, candle grease and fumes. Bugles scrunched under one’s feet. The two most important rooms were piled up with billows of linen, calico, and muslin and from among the billows peeped out Sasha’s little head with a thread between her teeth. All the sewing party welcomed me with cries of delight but at once led me off into the dining-room where I could not hinder them nor see what only husbands are permitted to behold. In spite of my feelings, I had to sit in the dining-room and converse with Pimenovna, one of the poor relations. Sasha, looking worried and excited, kept running by me with a thimble, a skein of wool or some other boring object.

“Wait, wait, I shan’t be a minute,” she would say when I raised imploring eyes to her. “Only fancy that wretch Stepanida has spoilt the bodice of the barège dress!”

And after waiting in vain for this grace, I lost my temper, went out of the house and walked about the streets in the company of the new cane I had bought. Or I would want to go for a walk or a drive with my fiancée, would go round and find her already standing in the hall with her mother, dressed to go out and playing with her parasol.

“Oh, we are going to the Arcade,” she would say. “We have got to buy some more cashmere and change the hat.”

My outing is knocked on the head. I join the ladies and go with them to the Arcade. It is revoltingly dull to listen to women shopping, haggling and trying to outdo the sharp shopman. I felt ashamed when Sasha, after turning over masses of material and knocking down the prices to a minimum, walked out of the shop without buying anything, or else told the shopman to cut her some half rouble’s worth.

When they came out of the shop, Sasha and her mamma with scared and worried faces would discuss at length having made a mistake, having bought the wrong thing, the flowers in the chintz being too dark, and so on.

Yes, it is a bore to be engaged! I’m glad it’s over.

Now I am married. It is evening. I am sitting in my study reading. Behind me on the sofa Sasha is sitting munching something noisily. I want a glass of beer.

“Sasha, look for the corkscrew. . . .” I say. “It’s lying about somewhere.”

Sasha leaps up, rummages in a disorderly way among two or three heaps of papers, drops the matches, and without finding the corkscrew, sits down in silence.... Five minutes pass -- ten. . . I begin to be fretted both by thirst and vexation.

“Sasha, do look for the corkscrew,” I say.

Sasha leaps up again and rummages among the papers near me. Her munching and rustling of the papers affects me like the sound of sharpening knives against each other.... I get up and begin looking for the corkscrew myself. At last it is found and the beer is uncorked. Sasha remains by the table and begins telling me something at great length.

“You’d better read something, Sasha,” I say.

She takes up a book, sits down facing me and begins moving her lips.... I look at her little forehead, moving lips, and sink into thought.

“She is getting on for twenty. . . .” I reflect. “If one takes a boy of the educated class and of that age and compares them, what a difference! The boy would have knowledge and convictions and some intelligence.”

But I forgive that difference just as the low forehead and moving lips are forgiven. I remember in my old Lovelace days I have cast off women for a stain on their stockings, or for one foolish word, or for not cleaning their teeth, and now I forgive everything: the munching, the muddling about after the corkscrew, the slovenliness, the long talking about nothing that matters; I forgive it all almost unconsciously, with no effort of will, as though Sasha’s mistakes were my mistakes, and many things which would have made me wince in old days move me to tenderness and even rapture. The explanation of this forgiveness of everything lies in my love for Sasha, but what is the explanation of the love itself, I really don’t know.

NOTES

Lovelace: Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) was an English poet

[thedrowsydoormouse]

@anangelamuse-castiel-spnfam asked and I shall deliver!

1. Who was the last person you held hands with?

My boyfriend. He took me to the mall for dinner and shopping after my therapy!

2. Are you outgoing or shy?

Very shy but once you get to know me I’m a ball of chaotic energy!

3. Who are you looking forward to seeing?

Right now no one.

4. Are you easy to get along with?

I like to think I am.

5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you?

I would say my friend, Penny, but she’d probably be even more drunk than I am! So I think my friend, Daisy, or my boyfriend because they both have a background in medicine and would know what to do!

6. What kind of people are you attracted to? 

Cool people. And people who are unafraid to be nerdy about things they love!

7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now?

I should hope so! Or else something went seriously wrong!

8. Who from the opposite gender is on your mind?

I keep mentioning my boyfriend but that’s only because he’s sitting right next to me and just stole a slice of pizza off my plate!

9. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable?

Usually no! I’m very pro sex and pro discussing sex so it hopefully becomes less taboo and we can get some proper sex education.

10. Who was the last person you had a deep conversation with?

My therapist. And I immediately broke the tension with a joke that made her laugh so hard she cried!

11. What does the most recent text that you sent say?

 “I’m done.” I was waiting for my ride to pick me up from the hair salon!

12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now?

Monster by dodie, My Kinda Lover by Billy Squire, Hallelujah by Pentatonix, Rolling in the Deep by Gretta Van Fleet, Bottom of the River by Delta Rae

13. Do you like it when people play with your hair?

It depends on the person.

14. Do you believe in luck and miracles?

Luck yes. Miracles no.

15. What good thing happened this summer?

Technically it happened during summer (even though it happened in September but it was still Summer so it counts) but I met my boyfriend!

16. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?

100% yes! 

17. Do you think there is life on other planets?

There has to be. It’d be weird if there wasn’t. It may not be life like we know it but there is some form of life out there.

18. Do you still talk to your first crush?

No.

19. Do you like bubble baths?

I only take bubble baths!

20. Do you like your neighbors?

I hardly know enough about them to form an opinion.

21. What are you bad habits?

How much time we got?

22. Where would you like to travel?

I would love to go back to New York and to the Japanese Disney parks!

23. Do you have trust issues?

Yes.

24. Favorite part of your daily routine?

Food. Beautiful amazing food!

25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with?

My back. I have two weird scar type things on it that look nasty and I try to hide.

26. What do you do when you wake up?

Check the time an see if I can go back to sleep.

27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker?

Any lighter and I would literally glow and any darker and I wouldn’t be able to pull off the goth look so effortlessly so I’d say I’m pretty happy with my skin!

28. Who are you most comfortable around?

My close friends.

29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up?

Several of them have tried getting back together after we broke up only to find I had already moved on.

30. Do you ever want to get married?

I am married.

31. If your hair long enough for a pony tail?

It’s down to about my waist so it’s be weird if I couldn’t pull it into a pony tail! The comfort of it, though, is a whole other issue!

32. Which celebrities would you have a threesome with?

Margot Robbie and Brian Dietzen.

33. Spell your name with your chin.

No.

34. Do you play sports? What sports?

*laughs until I’m crying*

35. Would you rather live without TV or music?

TV. I need music to survive!

36. Have you ever liked someone and never told them?

All the time.

37. What do you say during awkward silences?

I usually crack a joke.

38. Describe your dream girl/guy?

Smart, funny, amazing in bed!

39. What are your favorite stores to shop in?

They’re pretty much all online!

40. What do you want to do after high school?

I’m already out of high school.

41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance?

Not everyone.

42. If your being extremely quiet what does it mean?

I’m distracted, people keep talking over me, or somethings seriously wrong.

43. Do you smile at strangers?

If it’s a kid or an old woman, yes. But never men.

44. Trip to outer space or bottom of the ocean?

Space. The ocean is terrifying.

45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning?

Food. Or having to pee.

46. What are you paranoid about?

A lot of shit! I’m a nervous, panic-y mother fucker!

47. Have you ever been high?

Yes.

48. Have you ever been drunk?

Yes.

49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about?

Yes.

50. What was the colour of the last hoodie you wore?

Black.

51. Ever wished you were someone else?

Nope! I love myself way too much!

52. One thing you wish you could change about yourself?

Nothing!

53. Favourite makeup brand?

I’ve been wearing a lot of Blackmoon, Milk, and Lime Crime lately.

54. Favourite store?

Total Wines.

55. Favourite blog?

Mine!

56. Favourite colour?

Deep red.

57. Favourite food?

Sushi!

58. Last thing you ate?

I’m currently eating pizza! That is if my boyfriend stops stealing my slices!

59. First thing you ate this morning? 

I actually didn’t get a chace to eat until dinner when I had a BBQ chicken salad.

60. Ever won a competition? For what?

Nope.

61. Been suspended/expelled? For what?

I was suspended in middle school for writing a burn book.

62. Been arrested? For what?

Nope!

63. Ever been in love?

Yes! 

64. Tell us the story of your first kiss?

I was a junior in high school and I was talking with one of my friends during Winter Formal and neither of us had ever been kissed so I just said “then kiss me” so she did and we spent the rest of the night making out.

65. Are you hungry right now?

I’m eating right now.

66. Do you like your tumblr friends more than your real friends?

Yes.

67. Facebook or Twitter?

Neither.

68. Twitter or Tumblr?

Tumblr.

69. Are you watching tv right now?

I’m listening to music.

70. Names of your bestfriends?

I have too many to list. I’d literally be here all night.

71. Craving something? What?

Pumpkin spice.

72. What colour are your towels?

I have a ton of towels and none of them match because I’m a human dumpster fire.

72. How many pillows do you sleep with?

As many as possible.

73. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?

Yes.

74. How many stuffed animals do you think you have?

I have no clue.

75. Favourite animal?

Cats.

76. What colour is your underwear?

Black.

77. Chocolate or Vanilla?

Chocolate.

78. Favourite ice cream flavour?

Dublin Mudslide from Ben & Jerry’s.

79. What colour shirt are you wearing?

Hot Pink.

80. What colour pants?

Teal.

81. Favourite tv show?

I can’t pick just one!

82. Favourite movie?

See above!

83. Mean Girls or Mean Girls 2?

The first one!

84. Mean Girls or 21 Jump Street?

Mean Girls!

85. Favourite character from Mean Girls?

Janice Ian!

86. Favourite character from Finding Nemo?

Bruce!

87. First person you talked to today?

My mom.

88. Last person you talked to today?

Not sure yet.

89. Name a person you hate?

Trump.

90. Name a person you love?

My boyfriend.

91. Is there anyone you want to punch in the face right now?

See #89. 92. In a fight with someone?

Usually.

93. How many sweatpants do you have?

I lost count.

94. How many sweaters/hoodies do you have?

I love being comfy.

95. Last movie you watched?

Spaceballs.

96. Favourite actress?

Margot Robbie.

97. Favourite actor?

Does John Mullaney count.

98. Do you tan a lot?

Never.

99. Have any pets?

A chubby puppy named Zorro!

100. How are you feeling?

Pretty good!

101. Do you type fast?

Sometimes, depending on how long my nails are.

102. Do you regret anything from your past?

Yes and no.

103. Can you spell well?

Sort of.

104. Do you miss anyone from your past?

Not really.

105. Ever been to a bonfire party?

No.

106. Ever broken someone’s heart?

Yes.

107. Have you ever been on a horse?

Yes.

108. What should you be doing?

Nothing.

109. Is something irritating you right now?How long this is taking.

110. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt?

Yes.

111. Do you have trust issues?

You’ve already asked this.

112. Who was the last person you cried in front of?

My friend, Sabrina.

113. What was your childhood nickname?

I hate them so I’m not putting them.

114. Have you ever been out of your province/state?

Yes.

115. Do you play the Wii?

Not anymore.

116. Are you listening to music right now?

Yes.

117. Do you like chicken noodle soup?

Yes.

118. Do you like Chinese food?

Yes.

119. Favourite book?

I don’t really read that much anymore.

120. Are you afraid of the dark?

No.

121. Are you mean?

I can be.

122. Is cheating ever okay?

Only if you really didn’t have time to study and you don’t get caught. (Hint: hide the cheat sheet between you’re thighs or up your skirt so that way if you do get caught you can pin it on the teacher being a perv.)

123. Can you keep white shoes clean?

I’ve never owned any so I have no clue.

124. Do you believe in love at first sight?

Yes.

125. Do you believe in true love?

Yes.

126. Are you currently bored?

Yes.

127. What makes you happy?

Food.

128. Would you change your name?

Yes.

129. What your zodiac sign?

Sagittarius.

130. Do you like subway?

No.

131. Your bestfriend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

I mean i hope they like me or else my marriage is about to get very awkward!

132. Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

You asked this one already.

133. Favourite lyrics right now?

Tell me again about how it hurts Being awfully loud for an introvert 

  134. Can you count to one million?

I’ve never tried nor had the time to try.

135. Dumbest lie you ever told?

It’s my dad’s signature.

136. Do you sleep with your doors open or closed?

Open just a crack.

137. How tall are you?

6′

138. Curly or Straight hair?

Mine is curly and I prefer curls.

139. Brunette or Blonde?

It depends on the person.

140. Summer or Winter?

Winter.

141. Night or Day?

Night.

142. Favourite month?

October.

143. Are you a vegetarian?

No but almost.

144. Dark, milk or white chocolate?

Milk.

145. Tea or Coffee?

Tea.

146. Was today a good day?

Yes.

147. Mars or Snickers?

Neither.

148. What’s your favourite quote?

“Fuck it.” - Me 149. Do you believe in ghosts?

This is the 3rd repeat question.

150. Get the closest book next to you, open it to page 42, what’s the first line on that page?

The only book I have near me is super tiny and doesn’t have 42 pages.

[sapphicscholar]

Guru! What's a tea dance? And I feel like I'm lacking gay history, and I know you're a good source of books. Now that I actually have the time to read them what do you suggest. My only queer history knowledge is Psychological History since that's my degree, which is all full of shit so! I need better books and history! Please and thank you!

So I’ll be honest about the tea dances part of the question, I know them primarily from my studies of Victorian literature and culture (I know, I know, I am the epitome of hip and cool and really shouldn’t rub it in so much), but tea dances are making a resurgence in gay (or at least gay-friendly) culture, so I’ll hit ya with what I know and give you a link on a more modern historical perspective. Basically they’re afternoon parties that were all the rage in Victorian England–seriously, it’s one of those things that got entire conduct books devoted to it just to ensure that you served the right kinds of food and didn’t embarrass yourself–and the tradition made its way over to America by the early 20th century. Anyhow, they were to be held in the afternoon (about 4-7 normally) and were less formal than traditional dinner parties, featuring buffet-style dining options and live music for dancing, which became the central focus of the later twentieth-century gay tea dances. Here’s an article on the history of the queer scene’s reclamation of tea dances. There are points in it that I suspect could be nuanced, but it’s still a pretty decent overview. In much more recent history, there’s been an increased interest in these dances once more–both as a name for a kind of Sunday afternoon/evening pre-party on the gay circuit scene of the 90s and early 00s and as a return to their more traditional roots as the main event but for an audience of primarily LGBTQ folks.

As far as books, ooh so many! But here are a few:

Randy Shilts, And the Band Played On (1987) – more a work of investigative journalism than anything, the work is a stunning indictment of the indifference of the US government during some of the worst years of the AIDS crisis, but it also provides a good bit of gay history. Shilts has a few other books, including a biography of Harvey Milk, and they’re pretty accessible reads.

Lillian Faderman does a ton of work in lesbian history, but her most notable/comprehensive works of history are Surpassing the Love of Men: Romantic Friendship and Love Between Women from the Renaissance to the Present (1981), Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers: A History of Lesbian Life in Twentieth-Century America (1991), and the co-authored Gay L. A.: A History of Sexual Outlaws, Power Politics, And Lipstick Lesbians (2006)

Leila J. Rupp is another fairly prolific author, though her topics vary more. A Desired Past: A Short History of Same-Sex Love in America (1999) is a short but pretty decent primer, and then there’s Sapphistries: A Global History of Love Between Women (2009), which is longer, but I find to be a better written work.

Hidden From History: Reclaiming the Gay & Lesbian Past (1989) by Martin Bauml Duberman, Martha Vicinus, and George Chauncey is a bit outdated when it comes to more current research, but with several different contributors, it’s got quite a bit of variety in topic. Plus Vicinius, who’s also written the very well done Intimate Friends: Women Who Loved Women, 1778-1928 (2006), and Chauncey, who wrote Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World 1890-1940 (1994), are both excellent, if very different, scholars of queer history.

Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold: The History of a Lesbian Community (1993) by Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy and Madeline D. Davis is one of the very few books that actually looks at working-class lesbian history (most of the others have a rather wealthy, white focus). Miriam Frank’s Out in the Union: A Labor History of Queer America (2014) also does some of that work, but she’s looking from the 1960s to the present and, I think you’ll be able to see quite quickly, the project is substantively different.

Queer Brown Voices: Personal Narratives of Latina/o LGBT Activism (2015), edited by Uriel Quesada, Letitia Gomez, and Salvador Vidal Ortiz, and Restoried Selves: Autobiographies of Queer Asian / Pacific American Activists (2004), edited by Kevin K. Kumashiro, take as their time period of study a much more recent history of activism, but they both focus on those non-white activists who are regularly overlooked in documentaries of Stonewall and the like.

Marjorie Garber, Bisexuality and the Eroticism of Everyday Life (2000) isn’t strictly history, but as a few people have put it, a comprehensive study of bisexuality was long overdue. Garber is also just fun to read in general.

Leslie Feinberg, though better known for Stone Butch Blues, and Susan Stryker both write trans history which is all too often a still underdeveloped field of study.

Karla Jay’s Tales of the Lavender Menace: A Memoir of Liberation (1999) is a memoir, but in the sheer amount of detail, it could just as well be listed under history. Jay tells the story of her involvement in the gay rights and feminist movements and the ways they clashed and failed each other (and succeeded as well!). There are a few nsfw moments, as there are in most queer memoirs, but it’s nothing particularly shocking.

Michael Bronski, A Queer History of the United States (2011) is an accessible, broad overview. There are certain sub-topics that don’t get much focus, as happens when one writes a relatively short piece on a broad topic, but it’s a good read.

John D'Emilio, Sexual Politics, Sexual Communities: The Making of a Homosexual Minority in the United States, 1940-1970 (1983) and, with Estelle Freedman, Intimate Matters: A History of Sexuality in America (1988) - the latter doesn’t focus exclusively on same-sex intimacy, but rather looks at how we’ve conceived of sexuality in general in a U.S. context.

And while we’re at it with thinking about all sexuality as something relatively modern (thanks, Foucault!), I’ll throw out Jonathan Ned Katz’s The Invention of Heterosexuality (1995) as another good one to read.

Anyhow, I could keep going since this is literally what I do much of my research in and hope to go back to teaching one day relatively soon, but I suspect this list is already much too long. Hopefully you’ll find something on here to be an enjoyable read!

[friendshipcampaign]

Study Session

Downtime fic between Voski and the Book of Teeth and Nightmares.

By the time the imp’s miserable thieving silhouette had faded to a dot on Soreth’s skyline, the front of the cave was essentially uninhabitable. Kriv kept fretting about the stolen ring, which meant Amaranth kept trying to comfort him between enraged tail lashes, which meant Stelly and all the other locals they'd somehow amassed here were even more on edge than usual, even while they took turns promising each other everything was going to be okay. Things were no better outside, what with Rooster pacing about glaring at the horizon and muttering darkly to her crossbow. She seemed less interested in reassurances and more desperate for an obstacle she could actually hit back for once.

So Voski hadn't presented one. Instead, she’d found Tavra perched with her crew on some nearby rocks being aggressively nonchalant again and persuaded the kobold mage among them to cast a quick light spell. She'd asked for white. She'd gotten a sort of washed out sickly orange instead, which in fairness was less harsh refracted off the ice and stone as she slipped past the others down the tunnel towards the cave’s back chamber. Voski still scowled at it, emanating from her oboe like the world’s dullest torch.

At first the spell’s range didn't matter much in the relative confines of the tunnel. A few of the wider curves may have been more dimly lit, but the nearer surfaces glimmered off each other more than enough for Voski to make her way through in a hurry. Then the walls and ceiling vaulted out and upward into the main cavern and the sphere of visibility around her grew unavoidably finite. She pressed a hand to the cold glassy wall and ducked left, guiding herself carefully around the edge of the room.

In a way it was silly they hadn't set up their hideout back here instead. But then again it was technically a little girl’s bedchambers, even if she wasn't dragon-shaped enough to need the whole space anymore, so some deference to privacy was understandable. Voski hadn't felt inclined to wander back here again since the last time in any case. If she was going to focus, though, it was her best option now.

She found a cluster of stalagmites to nestle in and slid down, back to the wall as much as jagged rock curvature allowed. The torch became a lantern when she set the oboe down bell-first, which freed her hands while she unslung her bag and fished out the Tome of Mynskay. Somehow it had snagged a quill between two of the teeth hammered into its foredge. Voski took it begrudgingly. She opened the book and skipped directly to the blank section at the back it used for correspondence, where she wrote:

Which planes does it work on?

The book’s answer bled sleepily out of the page. Did you miss a sentence? it wrote.

Pardon me; I eschewed the formalities, Voski scrawled back. Hello, good afternoon, this is certainly some weather we're having. On which planes does the spell reliably operate?

The Prime Material certainly has the best-established track record, the book replied. It was, Voski knew, incapable of yawning, but if it could have stretched its covers languidly it probably would have. Am I to take it we are no longer there?

You and I are, Voski reassured it, unless I died under a guardhouse today and this is all a sick joke. I am more concerned about the impact of long distance casting.

So the location of the soul? The text seemed to snap a little more uniformly into line when it materialized now, as if the book had finally conceded some scholarly interest. The only requirements are "free and willing." Planar geography is...well, not immaterial. It may take longer to summon. But the spell as written assumes the soul to be on the Astral Plane.

Voski considered the imp’s trajectory as it flapped away, Erwyn’s ring in its grasp, straight to the magic golden beacon blasting out from Soreth Castle where it had first slithered its way into this whole affair. And if it’s further?

Depending on where it is instead, you may experience some problems, the book replied. Not insurmountable ones if distance is the only variable. As long as the soul is intact and hasn't been imprisoned or fallen victim to a contract, it can be summoned.

Then it added, If something happened that could affect your casting, dancing around it won't help you. Where is your friend now?

Voski rolled a single annoyed spark between her teeth before answering. We've acquired a diamond. The soul may be--(she wasn't quite depraved enough to actually write out a dramatic ellipsis, but stalled enough in her word choice that the pause was most likely still felt)--in transit. And while it's too early and information is too limited to say for sure where he's headed, I think one of the Nine Hells is a distinct possibility.

The symbols in the book swirled thoughtfully for a moment.

Well, it wrote. That is a tricky one.

Voski agreed. If it helps, he certainly wasn't handed over willingly.

It does help, the book affirmed. If he were a devil's lawful property, nothing I can teach you would be able to change that.

The cave had been echoing softly with penstroke scratches since she'd started, but Voski had more time to dwell on the distraction while she weighed her response. As I said, we can't be certain that's his destination yet. It could be someplace closer, or more amicable, or the opposite of both. But the fact remains that our single greatest advantage in performing this rite without a skilled necromancer was the soul's proximity, and that may not be reliable anymore.

She sighed.

So what else can I do to even the odds?

There was a long pause while the book considered. Are there other power sources you can tap into? it asked. If you rely on your own and it isn't enough, things could go . . . poorly. You've been practicing the music, I assume?

In my ample and undisturbed leisure time, yes! Voski looped the last words so vigorously she nearly tore the paper. Then she slumped and curled a little closer around the book. My acquaintances may have access to another source. Using it is what ended so poorly for the patient. I would have to take care in applying it here.

You will have to take care in all aspects of this ritual, the book wrote, surrounding the words with stern red ornamentation.

Or painful grisly death, yes, noted. I'll spend some more time with the gesture charts. Voski set the pen down and drummed her claws absently on the page while glancing around the cave. At the light’s edge, she could just make out the spot where she must have been standing a few days ago, oblivious and in direct dragon eyeline. She thought about a flash of white light, then green, and a bone-deep chill inexplicably receding. Erwyn had meant well. He'd failed to think the syntax through. She picked up the pen again.

But if I were to tap into external power, when would the most auspicious time for it in the ritual be?

The penultimate section is the most taxing, said the book. And also when the consequences for failure would be most catastrophic.

Voski remembered those notes. A few included diagrams, with blast radii. As if they ever aren't.

Sometimes they're merely dire.

Is it fun for you, being the way you are?

The pages rustled under her grasp. I have to take my entertainment where I can get it.

I do have one more sincere question, Voski wrote, before seizing a section of still-fluttering paper and flipping back to a part of the ritual steps. In the third section, just before the actual soul calling begins, you make it sound as though someone could successfully complete the rite and still face (she paused again, and felt like a hack) objections. So does managing to bring a soul back always end as well for the caster?

The book rustled its pages again. Voski was certain that if the tome had been capable of it, it would have been laughing. Always? Don't be absurd.

The words didn't fade right away, but rather lingered in the background while the book formed the rest of its response. You're breaking some major laws. Flouting the whims of Death and Fate. That's why you need to get some sort of higher power on your side in case the Raven Queen takes umbrage and sends one of her Inevitables to straighten out the matter.

Fairly and impartially, I suppose, Voski scribbled.

As far as she's concerned, certainly.

I have to confess, I think you're the one coming out better off in this arrangement. I  paid for your lessons with some of my very best inks, and you've used them to illustrate a very narrow window for success.

Would you rather I lied to you? the book answered, decorating the words with grotesque golden flourishes. It continued in a looping cursive hand. In that case, of course everything's going to be fine. You'll get your friend back with no consequences and you'll end the spell feeling fresh and invigorated!

Point made, it reverted to its usual spiky blackletter. But if you want the truth instead of some rosy fantasy, then yes. The window for success is extremely narrow and the consequences for failure are steep. You're the one who wanted to work this ritual in the first place. If it's too challenging for you, you can always back out. But don't blame me just because raising the dead isn't all sunshine and rainbows.

Voski watched the page until it cleared itself again, taking the words wherever they went when they weren't useful anymore. Of course I don't mean to sound ungrateful, she wrote. You've stated the facts and clearly done everything in your power to prepare me, and obviously the forces at play here are beyond your control. Her wrist itched. She ignored it. But I can assure you, backing out isn't an option.

She continued in her daintiest hand. And I would hate for you to feel as though your contributions aren't valued! Which is why, in recognition of your labor, I'll be giving you a place of honor in the room when I conduct the ritual. We can find out how impressively this ends together.

Delightful, the book replied, entirely in Voski's expensive gold ink. She only slammed it a little on her way back to the spell guide.

[wildseedculturalgroup]

New Music from Black Magic Woman Santigold

Santigold’s latest work has me diggin’ through the proverbial crates. February 26, 2016 she released her third solo album, 99¢, which quickly sent me to Joan Armatrading and from there Grace Jones. Such is the ‘mind life’ of a DJ - we look back to better understand the now.

In the retrospective glance, I found a thread—a shared dance on the lines that connect UK new wave to roots reggae, and Caribbean punk—musical elements of the Black Atlantic coupled with rhythmic traces of migration. I understand Santigold and her place in music to be somewhat of an anomaly, but only when juxtaposed against pop artists who shine bright under the light of America’s marketable musical mediocrity. This is why I can’t bring myself to categorize her sound as alternative. In my world, pop culture doesn’t set the standard for what's normal, regardless of mass appeal and the conditioning of the public it requires. 

I was introduced to Santi White through her involvement with the artist Res. The album How I Do made it big on the low with only one breakthrough song: “They-Say Vision.” The song reached #37 on Billboard’s Dance Chart. There were no platinum sales or regular radio play for any other track.

It was an album that lived on the edge of the underground, but managed to make its way through the speakers of music heads across America and beyond. Res held her own as a vocalist and felt at home in the delivery and phrasing of the lyrics. How I Do, in all of its  soul cult classic glory was an important not-to-be-slept-on collaboration. Santi White was the executive producer and co-writer for the project and my learning of that information was colored by incredulity, like word? Well who is Santi White? And what’s this I hear about her romantic connection to Mos Def? There were rumors, ones I never felt compelled to confirm or deny, but upon falling in love with the album, I, like a number of listeners, squinted my eyes, the way that people do to increase their hearing, to understand the meaning behind the track Golden Boy. Was this a sonic calling out of Mos Def the celebrity versus Yasiin Bey the personal jerk? If nothing else, I felt humanized by his ‘complexity’ and impressed by Santi White’s emotional honesty. If the rumors were true, I appreciated Res’ performative role as a representative for the perils and pleasure of black love.

And would they love you if they knew all the things we know We've got these images We need them to be true Not ready to believe we're no more insecure than you

--Golden Boys

 I kept my ear to the streets of Santi’s musical movement, waiting for the release of her first solo album. When she finally dropped Santogold in 2008, I knew she had staying power and exciting force behind her creative process. The album made its mark, introducing us to the experimental nu-dub sounds of producer Diplo and pulling off that hard to achieve mature blend of electronic music and the one drop—accentuated by an unexpected black woman’s new wave voice floating between and on top.

Santi was born and raised in Philly and I’m quite sure that her ear caught wind of the regional rhythm that city is known for. Not only was she within listening range of the Philadelphia Soul sound and the masterful ministers of dance floor activism (Gamble and Huff), she grew up alongside the burgeoning Soulquarian movement, a ?uestlove led crew heralded as the founders of the annoyingly misnamed neo-soul music.

To be clear, Santi is a formally trained musician. She took her Philly soul education to one of the nation’s most prestigious music schools, Wesleyan University, and double majored in African-American Studies and music. I can feel how sonic cultural knowledge and intellectual curiosity show up in the vocal arrangement, drum patterns, and lyrics in her music. I’m equally moved by the fact that she dropped out of college to become an A&R rep for Epic Records—a proper nod to her anti-establishment punk roots. 

Between 2003-05 she worked with Bad Brains bassist Darryl Jennifer, placing herself in direct conversation with Black punk (pre Afropunk) royalty. Santi was the founding member and lead singer for the Philly based punk band Stiffed and she and Jennifer co-produced the band’s two albums.

This is a big deal! Black girls have existed on the margins of punk music/culture for years and we can trace Santi’s footprints to NYC’s and Philly’s underground early 2000s punk and post punk scene through her work with this band. Both Stiffed albums,  Sex Sells (2003) and Burned Again (2005), are now part of a Black punk archives, excavate at will.

It was on the east coast punk scene where she was courted by London based independent label Lizard King Records. This wouldn’t be the first time that the UK, while poking their heads into American underground culture, would find some of our brightest; see N’dea Davenport, Jhelisa, Carleen Anderson and early Detroit Techno pioneers for proof. The UK soul scene (Soul II Soul, Massive Attack, D’influence, etc.), drew influences from diasporic Caribbean riddims, continental African polyrhythms, and Black American funk. Santi fits well within this tradition—this transnational artist community. By 2006, she was offered a solo contract by Lizard King and was pushed even further along her path.

When we talk about Black Magic Women, a phrase first introduced to me through the music of Santana, I geek out thinking about the many worlds from whence this specific brand of sparkle can be found. 99¢ is exciting not only because it’s a well produced arrangement of captivating songs that speak to a range of emotions and human experiences, but also, as reactionary as it may seem, important because it challenges the limited engagement of Black women as brilliant musical creatures. That phenomenon of erasure leaves the American collective imagination about black women’s relationship to the creation of music, dull at best.

Fortunately, social media, the people’s platform, has given us so much access to unpopular Black magic women with hidden, but righteous art, ideas and intentionally developed talent. For decades we’ve been using independent media platforms as a vehicle to resist erasure, and as a tool to dismantle static ideas about beauty, gender and politics that echo out our voices as cultural producers.

Consistent with indie culture, a tradition where Santi is steeped, her latest album 99¢ is complete with interactive videos. The album cover boasts a pink background and has the artist shrink wrapped amidst a few of her favorite things, including: multiple keyboards, a pair of golden clogs, a disco ball, and a license plate with her name spelled out from Brazil. With a little homework I discovered that the license plate is a souvenir from her performance at the 2012 Back2Black Festival in Brazil, which implies that her album cover is, again, akin to a living archive. She also performed during the week of the album’s release at Jack’s 99 Cents store in NYC, a decision that seems directly related to the DIY approach found in the early hip-hop economic model. 

Santi White is functioning at capacity in an underworld, a world that must be sought out and unearthed. An underworld without super video budgets, automatic radio play,  a world where concerts' ticket prices will not exceed that of a car note.

Let's explore this further. I’d like to challenge you to think of Santi as a variation of Beyoncé, or better yet, think of them as variations of each other. While the two are read as polar opposites, it’s only because we’re not given much of an opportunity to interface with the large number of multifaceted Black women who make music. I would argue that both women stand in their craft with high levels of artistic integrity and did so for at least a decade before being ‘discovered’. Both women have a clear commitment to the mastery of technical skills. And while the distinction between the two are worth investigation, I’m moved by their collective drive and clear that the evolutionary aspect of their respective practices, the fine tuning of every part of the project, is largely ignored because they are Black women. People get real stingy when assigning the title genius to these particular bodies, and too generous in framing their work as naturally good versus ruthlessly perfected.

Collectively, Bey and Santigold’s work share impact - different scales of impact, but recognizable impact. That said, Beyoncé doesn’t have to be the standard against which all Black women are measured. I am very aware of her hyper-exposure, but the comparison between the two felt like an outlandish and therefore exciting way to think about how even the most visible Black women are unseen.

In 2012, a few years had passed since I’d heard from Santigold. This was after her first solo release, and I felt good that she didn’t rush into her next album. I’m not moved by the push to ride the buzz of first album success. I’d rather artists be given the space to carefully craft an album. I’m a student of the school of Sade, who averaged a new album every two-four years. In true Capricorn fashion Sade made us wait 8 years between between Love Deluxe and Lover’s Rock, then nearly another decade between Lover’s Rock and Soldier of Love. And I say yes! Let it marinate, experience life, take your time, do it right. By the time Santi’s “Master of my Make Believe” dropped March 1 of 2012, I felt good and ready, with just a slight bit of anxiety about her return. The wait between albums creates intimacy between you and the artist, it’s so precious. And the second album was indeed a demonstration of artistic investment.

So is the third - I like all but 1.5 songs on the 99¢ album. The half comes from a song on which I love her verse and the music on a track (“Who Be Lovin Me”), but that features a less talented emcee, iLoveMakonnen. To be fair to her, I have a low tolerance for guest rappers in general, most times it feels like a music industry ploy to expand the market. The other song I struggled with is the first single from the album, “Can’t Get Enough of Myself,” a necessary anthem for young people and people in general who are listening, but it left me wanting more or, to be honest, had me worried that she was abandoning her soulful punk core for some chart friendly shit. I wasn’t having it. After falling in love with the rest of the album I was able to engage the opening track from a distance and I plan to introduce it to my pre-teen niece, but I will probably forever start the album from the second track and dive head first into the dopeness of every other song on the project.

Santigold is an artist who comes from a lineage of fierce, independent, business savvy, cutting edge, socially conscious women who find a way to produce and not be (publicly) swallowed up by the by-products of success. Her presence in the music industry is no small thing, and when you check her ghostwriting credentials you’ll see she’s written for so many of your favorite people (Lili Allen, Ashlee Simpson and Blaqstarr to name a few). I’m a witness to her maturation, her growing global presence, and her interdisciplinary approach to the arts. Santigold embodies voices of the unsung.

She’s on tour now and I had the opportunity to see her Black excellence live at the Hollywood Paladium last week. But I have to admit, I was thrown off by the sea of white millenials that made up the majority of concert goers. They were there in force, mouthing her lyrics verbatim, dancing a step behind the beat, and representing the fact that she lacks the support of Black radio and the embrace of Black youth. It became more clear that Santi is one of those artists who is vulnerable to the belief that hers is not Black music, but from my gatekeeping position as an authority (DJ), my work here is to place her where she belongs, squarely between the tradition and the future of Black music.