#i am not a news source!!! you know who is who wrote about this??? marianne levy + josh kaplan in the Jewish Chronicle!!

[mamcollection]

Artist Gina Beavers Satirizes Our Insatiable Appetite for Personal Beauty in Her New Show at Marianne Boesky

Makeup as Muse: Gina Beavers

November 28, 2020

Despite my art history background and general love of art, I am less than eloquent when writing about it.  Nevertheless I will continue soldiering forward with the Museum's Makeup as Muse series, the latest installment of which focuses on the work of Gina Beavers in honor of her recent show at Marianne Boesky Gallery. Beavers' practice encompasses a variety of themes, but it's her paintings of makeup tutorials that I'll be exploring.  Since I'm both tired and lazy this will be more of a summary of her work rather than offering any fresh insight and I'll be quoting the artist extensively along with some writers who have covered her art, so most of this will not be my own words.

Born in Athens and raised in Europe, Beavers is fascinated by the excess and consumerism of both American culture and social media. "I don't know how to talk about this existence without talking about consumption, and so I think that's the element in consuming other people's images. That's where that's embedded. We have to start with consumption if we're going to talk about who we are. That's the bedrock—especially as an American," she says.  The purchase of a smart phone in 2010 is when Beavers' work began focusing on social media.  "[Pre-smart phone] I would see things in the world and paint them! Post-smartphone my attention and observation seemed to go into my phone, into looking at and participating in social media apps, and all of the things that would arise there...Historically, painters have drawn inspiration from their world, for me it's just that a lot of my world is virtual [now]."

But why makeup, and specifically, makeup tutorials?  There seem to be two main themes running through the artist's focus on these online instructions, the first being the relationship between painting and makeup.  Beavers explains:  "When I started with these paintings I was really thinking that this painting is looking at you while it is painting itself. It’s drawing and painting: it has pencils, it has brushes, and it’s trying to make itself appealing to the viewer. It’s about that parallel between a painting and what you expect from it as well as desire and attraction. It’s also interesting because the terms that makeup artists use on social media are painting terms. The way they talk about brushes or pigments sounds like painters talking shop."  Makeup application as traditional painting is a theme that goes back centuries, but Beavers's work represents a fresh take on it.  As Ellen Blumenstein wrote in an essay for Wall Street International: "Elements such as brushes, lipsticks or fingers, which are intended to reassure the viewers of the videos of the imitability of the make-up procedures, here allude to the active role of the painting – which does not just stare or make eyes at the viewer, but rather seems to paint itself with the accessories depicted – literally building a bridge extending out from the image...Beavers divests [the image] of its natural quality and uses painting as an analytical tool. The viewer is no longer looking at photographic tableaus composed of freeze-frames taken from make-up tutorials, but rather paintings about make-up tutorials, which present the aesthetic and formal parameters of this particular class of images, which exist exclusively on the net."  The conflation of makeup and painting can also be perceived as a rumination on authorship and original sources.  Beavers is remaking tutorials, but the tutorials themselves originated with individual bloggers and YouTubers.  And given the viral, democratic nature of the Internet, it's nearly impossible to tell who did a particular tutorial first and whether tutorials covering the same material - say, lip art depicting Van Gogh's "Starry Night"  - are direct copies of one artist's work or merely the phenomenon of many people having the same idea and sharing it online.  Sometimes the online audience cannot distinguish between authentic content and advertising; Beavers's "Burger Eye" (2015), for example, is actually not recreated from a tutorial at all but an Instagram ad for Burger King (and the makeup artist who was hired to create it remains, as far as I know, uncredited).

Another theme is fashioning one's self through makeup, and how that self is projected online in multiple ways.  Beavers explains: "I am interested in the ways existing online is performative, and the tremendous lengths people go to in constructing their online selves. Meme-makers, face-painters, people who make their hair into sculptures, are really a frontier of a new creative world...It’s interesting, as make-up has gotten bigger and bigger, I’ve realized what an important role it plays in helping people construct a self, particularly in trans and drag communities. I don’t normally wear a lot of make-up myself, but I like the idea of the process of applying make-up standing in for the process of self-determination, the idea of ‘making yourself’."

As for the artist's process, it's a laborious one. Beavers regularly combs Instagram, YouTube and other online sources and saves thousands of images on her phone. She then narrows down to a few based on both composition and the story they're trying to tell. "I'm arrested by images that have interesting formal qualities, color, composition but also a compelling narrative. I really like when an image is saying something that leaves me unsure of how it will translate to painting, like whether the meaning will change in the context of the history of painting," she says.  "I always felt drawn to photos that had an interesting composition, whether for its color or depth or organization. But in order for me to want to paint it, it also had to have interesting content, like the image was communicating some reality beyond its composition that I related to in my life or that I thought spoke in some interesting way about culture."  The act of painting for Beavers is physically demanding as well: she needs to start several series at the same time and go back and forth between paintings to allow the layers to dry.  They have to lay flat to dry so she often ends up painting on the floor, and her recent switch to an even heavier acrylic caused a bout of carpal tunnel syndrome.

But it's precisely the thick quality of the paint that return some of the tactile nature of makeup application.  This is not accidental; Beavers intentionally uses this technique as way to remind us of makeup's various textures and to ensure her paintings resemble paintings rather than a photorealistic recreation of the digital screen. "The depth of certain elements in the background of images has taught me a lot about seeing. I think I have learned that I enjoy setting up problems to solve, that it isn't enough for me to simply render a photo realistically, that I have to build up the acrylic deeply in order to interfere with the rendering of something too realistically," she explains.  Sharon Mizota, writing for the LA Times, says it best:  "Skin, lashes and lips are textured with rough, caked-on brushstrokes that mimic and exaggerate wrinkles and gloppy mascara. This treatment gives the subjects back some of the clunky physicality that the camera and the digital screen strip away. Beavers’ paintings, in some measure, undo the gloss of the photographic image."

Beavers also uses foam to further build up certain sections so that they bulge out towards the viewer, representing the desire to connect to others online.  "Much of what people do online is to try to create connection, to reach out and meet people or talk to people. That is what the surfaces of my painting do in a really literal way, they are reaching off the linen into the viewer’s space," she says.  This sculptural quality also points to the reality of the online world - it's not quite "real life" but it's not imaginary either, occupying a space in between.  Beavers expands on her painting style representing the online space: "It’s interesting because flatness often comes up with screens, and I think historically the screen might have been read like that, reflecting a more passive relationship. That has changed with the advent of engagement and social media. What’s behind our screen is a whole living, breathing world, one that gives as much as it takes. I mean it is certainly as 'real' as anything else. I see the dimension as a way to reflect that world and the ways that world is reaching out to make a connection. Another aspect is that once these works are finished, they end up circulating back in the same online world and now have this heightened dimensionality – they cast their own shadow. They’re not a real person, or burger, or whatever, but they’re not a photo of it either, they’re something in between."

Let's dig a little more into what all this means in terms of makeup, the beauty industry and social media.  Beavers' work can be viewed as a simultaneous critique and celebration of all three.  Sharon Mizota again: "[The tutorial paintings] also pointedly mimic the act of putting on makeup, reminding us that it is something like sedimentation, built up layer by layer. There is no effortless glamour here, only sticky accretion.  That quality itself feels like an indictment — of the beauty industry, of restrictive gender roles. But an element of playfulness and admiration lives in Beavers’ work.  They speak of makeup as a site of creativity and self-transformation, and Instagram and other social media sites as democratizing forces in the spread of culture. To be sure, social media may be the spur for increasingly outré acts, which are often a form of bragging, but why shouldn’t a hamburger eye be as popular as a smoky eye? In translating these photographs into something more physical, Beavers asks us to consider these questions and exposes the duality of the makeup industry: The same business that strives to make us insecure also enables us to reinvent ourselves, not just in the image of the beautiful as it’s already defined, but in images of our own devising."

This ambiguity is particularly apparent in Beavers's 2015 exhibition, entitled Ambitchous, which incorporated beauty Instagrammers and YouTubers' makeup renditions of Disney villains alongside "good" characters.  Blumenstein explains: "So it isn’t protagonists with positive connotations which are favoured by the artist, but unmistakably ambivalent characters who could undoubtedly lay claim to the neologism ambitchous, which is the name given to the exhibition. Like the original image material, this portmanteau of ‘ambitious’ and ‘bitchy’ is taken from social media and its creative vernacular, and is used, depending on the context, either in a derogatory fashion – for example for women who will do absolutely anything to get what they want – or positively re-interpreted as an expression of female self-affirmation.  Beavers also applies this playful and strategic complication of seemingly unambiguous contexts of meaning to the statements contained in her paintings. It remains utterly impossible to determine whether they are critically exaggerating the conformist and consumerist beauty ideals of neo-capitalism, or ascribing emancipatory potential to the conscious and confident use of make-up."

More recently, Beavers has been using her own face as a canvas and making her own photos of them her source material, furthering her exploration of the self. "Staring at yourself or your lips for hours is pretty jarring. But I like it, because it creates this whole other level of self,” she says.

This shift also points to another dichotomy in Beavers's work: in recreating famous works of art on her face, she is both critiquing art history's traditional canon and appreciating it, referring to them as a sort of fan art.  "I think a lot of the works that I have made that reference art history—like whether it's Van Gogh or whoever it is—have a duality where I really respect the artist and I'm influenced by them, and at the same time I'm making it my own and poking a little fun. And so, a lot of these pieces originated with the idea of fan art. You'll find all sorts of Starry Night images online that people have painted or sculpted or painted on their body. It comes out of that. And I just started to reach a point where I was searching things like 'Franz Kline body art,' and I wasn’t finding that, so I had to make my own. Then it started to get a little bit geekier. I have a piece in the show where I am painting a Lee Bontecou on my cheek, that's a kind of art world geeky thing—you have to really love art to get it."

Ultimately, Beavers perceives the intersection of makeup and social media as a force for good.  While the specter of misinformation is always lurking, YouTube tutorials and the like allow anyone with internet access to learn how to do a smoky eye or a flawlessly lined lip.  "I think for a lot of people social media is kind of like the weather. We don't have a lot of control of it, it just is. It gives and it takes away. There's no doubt that it has connected people in ways that are great and productive, allowing people to find communities and organize activism, it can also be a huge distraction...I approach looking at images there pretty distantly, more as a neutral documentarian, and I come down on the side of seeing social media as an incredibly useful, democratic tool in a lot of ways," she concludes.

On the other side of social media, Beavers is interested on how content creators help disseminate the idea of makeup as representing something larger and more meaningful than traditional notions of beauty. "I was super fascinated with makeup and all of the kinds of costume makeup and things you can find online that go away from a traditional beauty makeup and go towards something really wild and cool...I also had certain paintings in [a 2016] show that were much more about costume makeup, that were going away from beauty. That’s the thing that gives me hope. When I go through makeup hashtags on Instagram, there will be ten or twenty beauty eye makeup images and then one that’s painted with horror makeup. There are women out there doing completely weird things, right next to alluring ones." In the pandemic age, as people's relationships with makeup are changing, "weird" makeup is actually becoming less strange. Beavers' emphasis on experimental makeup is more timely than ever.  I also think she's documenting the gradual way makeup is breaking free of the gender binary.  She says: "I mean with makeup, and the whole conversation around femininity and makeup—I think for a long time when I was making makeup images, there were people that just thought, 'Oh, that's not for me,' because it's about makeup, it's feminine. But it’s interesting, the culture is shifting. I just saw the other day that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez did a whole Instagram live where she was putting on her makeup and talking about how empowering makeup is for trans communities...some people see make-up as restrictive or frivolous, but drag performers show how it can be liberating and life-saving."  Another point to consider in terms of gender is the close-up aspect of Beavers's paintings.  With individual features (eyes, lips, nails) separated from the rest of the face and body and removed from their original context, they're neither masculine nor feminine, thereby reiterating that makeup is for any (or no) gender.

All I can say is, I love these paintings.  Stylistically, they're right up my alley - big, colorful and mimicking makeup's tactile nature so much that I have a similar reaction to them as I do when seeing makeup testers in a store: I just want to dip my hands in them and smear them everywhere! I also enjoy the multiple themes and levels in her work. Beavers isn't commenting just on makeup in the digital age, but also self-representation online, shifting attitudes towards makeup's meaning, the relationship between painting and makeup, and Western art history.

What do you think of Beavers's paintings? 

[rockandrollstorytime]

Rock and Roll Storytime #6: The Rolling Stones Against the Establishment (Or: The time 3/5 of them went on trial for drug posession)

Let’s face it, I think every now and again, we all have those moments where we’re glad that we live in the time and place we do at this very moment. This particularly goes out to the musicians, who seem to get in trouble for drugs less frequently nowadays, in favor of worse charges... 

But that wasn’t always so. 

Once upon a time, the threat of rock stars getting long prison sentences for first time offences was very omnipresent, and this story is about that bygone era. A time and a place where even a hint of subversive behavior meant that adults lost their shit and went on literal moral crusades. 

Enter Sgt. Norman Pilcher, or, as John Lennon called him in “I Am the Walrus”, Semolina Pilchard. He was a detective in his 30′s and was dead-set on getting drugs off the streets, which meant that, invariably, he primarily set his sights on rock stars. His list of arrests includes Donovan, John Lennon, George Harrison, Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, and Brian Jones. He would’ve nabbed Eric Clapton, but Eric bolted out the back door as soon as he heard there was someone at his doorstep with a “special delivery.”

For now though, we’re just going to focus on the Stones, and how this whole drug trial business may have accelerated the decline of one of its members. 

Given how trying to get rock stars busted for drugs was practically a sport in 1967, the now-defunct tabloid News of the World decided to capitalize on this by publishing a three-part “story” entitled, “Pop Stars and Drugs: Facts That Will Shock You.” In it, the tabloid alleged that many popular musicians of the time were not only doing drugs, but also holding drug parties at their homes, including Donovan, Pete Townshend, and Ginger Baker (R.I.P). Part Two seems to have primarily targeted the Rolling Stones, and it was alleged that Mick Jagger had taken several Benzedrine tablets, displayed a bit of hashish, and invited his companions back to his flat for a smoke, one of whom just so happened to be an undercover reporter. As it turns out, the person in question was actually little Brian Jones, who was being way too casual with his drug use. Mick tried to sue the paper over that one. 

I just want to ask, how the hell did they mix up Mick and Brian? One’s blond and has a cherubic face, and the other’s brunette and has massive lips!

In either case, like with how Donovan was arrested and charged after the first issue came out, the article attracted the attentions of authorities, and in particular, one Semolina Pilchard. News of the World was also more than a little interested in avoiding a major lawsuit, even to the point of allegedly wiretapping and paying off informants (it’s shit like that which is the reason why they ultimately became defunct in 2011, after a phone hacking scandal). Ultimately, on February 12, 1967, eighteen police officers raided Keith Richards’ home, Redlands. Mick, Keith, and an art dealer friend, Robert Fraser were arrested and charged with amphetamine possession, allowing his home to be used for the smoking of cannabis, and heroin possession respectively. 

In addition, salacious rumors started to swirl around that Mick was found eating a Mars Bar out of Marianne Faithfull’s... nether regions. Truth of the matter is, while Marianne was only wearing a fur rug, there weren’t any orgies taking place. She even wrote in her autobiography, “The Mars Bar is a very effective piece of demonizing. It was so overdone with such malicious twisting of the facts. Mick retrieving a Mars Bar from my vagina, indeed! It’s a dirty old man’s fantasy – some old fart who goes to a dominatrix every Thursday. A cop’s idea of what people do on acid.”

Their manager, Andrew Loog Oldham, was supposed to help these kids figure out what to do about the impending drug trials, but instead, he fled to America, leaving his role to Allen Klein (Andrew was fired in September). Lawyers told Mick, Keith, and Brian that, essentially, since they were the most visible of the Rolling Stones, to not talk to the press and even to temporarily leave the country. And so, Mick, Keith, and Brian (bringing along his girlfriend, Anita Pallenberg) set off for Morocco. This is something I’m going to have to go into more detail about another time, but suffice it to say, it ended with Anita leaving Brian for Keith and Brian being stranded in Morocco for about two days. 

On May 10, Mick, Keith, and Robert were marched into court where they were formally charged with the aforementioned charges. Mick and Keith decided to plead not guilty, Robert pled guilty, and all three elected to undergo trial by jury. That same day, twelve officers raided Brian’s home, and though he allegedly tried to clean up the place before the coppers arrived, they still managed to find a “purple Moroccan-style wallet” with cannabis in it. Needless to say, Brian and his friend, Prince Stanislaus “Stash” Klossowski were also arrested and charged with drug possession. On June 2, they were formally charged in court and elected to undergo trial by jury. However, Brian decided to plead guilty, a move that would come back to bite him in the ass later on. 

Starting with Mick, Robert, and Keith’s trial, the odds were against them from the very start. For one thing, the judge they were up against, Judge Leslie Allen Block, was notoriously unforgiving. Given that two of the people on trial were Rolling Stones, it quickly became apparent that the people running the show would very much be gunning for long jail sentences. It can also be argued that, since Pilcher knew what press would come if he made some high-profile celebrity arrests and didn’t arrest anyone with a status lower than Donovan, it could easily be argued that he was only making these arrests to gain some serious cred for his task-force. Going back to the original point though, at one point, as Mick’s trial was wrapping up, the judge even told the jury to dispel any notion of reasonable doubt. 

The last time I wrote this, that sounded seriously ethically dubious, even considering that the usual phrase here would be “innocent until proven guilty” (though it usually plays out the other way around, it seems). Well, I did eventually ask my mom about it (she’s a paralegal and she knows a thing or two about U.S.A. law), and she said that it would depend on the case and if the reasonable doubt presented was excluded by a previous court order. 

Granted, I know that’s dealing with U.S.A. law and that I can’t find anything saying that there was a court order barring reasonable doubt, but I guess that’ll have to do. 

In either case, on June 27, Mick was found guilty of illegally possessing Benzedrine (despite the fact that it was purchased legally in Italy), but because Keith’s trial hadn’t begun yet, Mick and Robert were sent to Lewes Prison overnight. 

Keith’s trial began in earnest the next day, and Keith really didn’t help his case when he said, “We are not old men. We are not worried about petty morals.” However, the trial remained unfinished at the end of the day, so Mick and Robert (who were being held in a cell under the courtroom) were escorted back to Lewes. 

The trial finally came to a close on June 29, and all three of the defendants were summarily sentenced. Mick was sentenced to three months for the aforementioned drug possession charges, Robert was sentenced to six months for heroin possession, and Keith was sentenced to twelve months for allowing cannabis to be smoked in his home. Additionally, all three were fined. Mick was sent to Brixton and Robert and Keith were sent to the notorious Wormwood Scrubs. 

By today’s standards, these would definitely be considered harsh sentences, and might not even happen the same way (I’ll save more of these details for the ending). Back then though, surprisingly, there was actually quite a bit of support for the Stones and not just from fans. Even newspapers that had once viciously mocked them, voiced their support. In fact, William Rees-Mogg, a well-known conservative, wrote an article for The Times called “Who Breaks a Butterfly Upon a Wheel” in which he criticized Mick Jagger’s sentence, essentially saying that the only reason he got three months was because of his being a Rolling Stone, and that had he not been, the consequences would have been much less severe, considering he was a first-time offender. The Who also voiced their support for the Stones, saying “The Who consider Mick Jagger and Keith Richards have been treated as scapegoats for the drug problem and as a protest against the grave sentences imposed on them at Chichester yesterday, The Who are issuing today the first of a series of Jagger-Richards songs to keep their work before the public until they are again free to record themselves.” The New Law Journal wrote, “The three-month prison sentence on Jagger for a first offence, and the introduction at this trial of evidence about a girl in a skin rug are two disturbing features of the case.” Some fans even protested outside News of the World’s headquarters, including Keith Moon’s girlfriend (later wife), Kim Kerrigan. 

However, there were still some sources who agreed with the judge’s decision. In particular, Charles Curran wrote for the Evening News: “I hold that people who break the law ought to be punished. The law that Jagger and Richards broke is not a trifle either. For it seeks to prevent people from using dangerous drugs for fun... Look at Jagger and Richards. Each of them is a millionaire at twenty-three. How does it come about that they are so rich? Their wealth flows from the fact that they are manufactured pieces of wish-fulfillment... Their lives tend to represent, in reality, what their admirers’ are in fantasy. So as long as the pop idol sticks to bawling and wailing- well, we can put up with that. But once he starts to add drugs to his drivel, society must take immediate note of it.”

The next day, Mick and Keith were released on appeal, and went to appeals court on July 31. Years later, Bill Wyman wrote, “The appeal was on five grounds: (1) That the evidence made a cornerstone of the case by the prosecution was wrongly admitted. The evidence of the girl, her dress or undress, was ‘wholly inadmissible’; (2) That if it was held to be admissible, the evidence should have been excluded by the discretion of the judge, because it was so prejudicial; (3) That the chairman misdirected the jury about what the prosecution had to prove as to the meaning of the word ‘permitting’; (4) That he failed to detail the lack of evidence regarding the knowledge of the cannabis drug; (5) That he failed to put fully the defence to the jury.” Keith’s sentence was completely overturned, while Mick was sentenced to a year’s probation, though he wound up spending another night in jail. 

Robert, who ended up serving his full sentence, apparently alleged that everything at Keith’s house that night had been his, and that he’d been taking heroin pills for an upset stomach (sort of like how Kurt Cobain claimed to be on heroin because of a stomach condition that may well have been psychosomatic). 

With Brian’s trial, it is important to note that, as I’ve said, he didn’t really take the affair as seriously as he could have, Also, there’s the fact that Allen Klein, in a misguided attempt at trying to protect Brian, told him to stay away from the other Stones as much as possible, which had the effect of isolating Brian from his band even further at a time where he needed them most. In fact, according to Stash (who was later acquitted), “Brian was not OK within a month of us getting busted. I was at Robert Fraser’s apartment when Brian came in, and, much to my horror, he proceeded to hit about twenty objects, banging into the walls and ricocheting across the room like a ping-pong ball. That was the terrible effect of those downers. He took them because he felt alienated, worried, and it was the only way he could isolate himself into some kind of security blanket. It was a one-way street. He had a disaster written in neon lights all over him and none of us could do anything about it.”

In fact, Brian was in such dire straits, he wound up being admitted to the Priory Clinic for psychiatric analysis on July 5, and was discharged as an out-patient on July 12. When his trial finally came around on October 30, he admitted in court to possessing cannabis without authority, but denied that he’d used cocaine or methedrine. His defense pleaded with the judge not to send him to jail, since he’d taken responsibility for the cannabis (the prosecution was more willing to accept that Brian might not have known about the stronger drugs) and that Brian had a nervous breakdown after the arrest and had suffered greatly. In fact, Detective-Sergeant David Patrick said that, while all drugs were serious, the amount of cannabis found was relatively small, and Brian’s psychiatrist said that his client should be hospitalized rather than imprisoned, and that Brian wouldn’t be able to handle prison. 

However, it all came to naught, as the judge, Reginald Seaton, sentenced Brian to three months in jail for cannabis possession, nine months for allowing his home to be used for smoking cannabis to be served concurrently, and a fine, stating, “I have given your case anxious and careful consideration. The offence of being the occupier of premises and allowing them to be used for the purpose of smoking cannabis resin is very serious indeed. This means that people can break the law in comparative privacy and so avoid detection for what is a growing canker in this country at the present moment. No blame attaches to you for the phial of cocaine, but there are people who come to this sort of party and that is how the rot starts, from cannabis to hard drugs. You occupy a position by which you have a large following of youth, and therefore, it behoves you to set an example... Although I am moved by everything I have heard, I would be failing my duty if I did not refer to the seriousness of the offences by passing sentence of imprisonment.” Brian ended up spending the night in Wormwood Scrubs, where, apparently, guards threatened to cut off the long, blonde hair he was so proud of. 

Looking at pictures of Brian right after his initial arrest and right after his sentencing, the toll that these proceedings took on his physical and mental health becomes quite clear. 

As with Mick and Keith’s sentences, Brian’s conviction caused an uproar. Eight people were arrested as a peaceful protest practically turned into a riot, including Mick’s brother, Chris. In addition, The Daily Sketch wrote, “...dishing out a nine-month sentence is as likely to turn a pop star into a martyr as to deter his fans. Besides, if the Appeal Court later reduces or quashes a harsh sentence, as happened in the case of Jagger, the authority of the law is lessened.” Similarly, The Sun (yes, the same guys who botched their coverage the Hillsborough Disaster and got largely banned from Liverpool) wrote, “Such a sentence, far from convincing young people that cannabis (hemp) is harmful, is too likely to make a martyr of this wretched young man and invest it with false glamour.” 

Brian, though shaken, was released the next day on appeal. What helped his case, though, was when Judge Block made a rather tactless statement: “We did our best, your fellow countrymen, I, and my fellow magistrates, to cut these Stones down to size, but alas, it was not to be, because the Court of Criminal Appeal let them roll free.”

Though Block later claimed he was being sarcastic, Les Perrin issued a statement of his own: “In view of Brian Jones being on bail it seems deplorable that a member of the judiciary should so contravene the normally accepted practice in a case being sub judice, as to joke and poke fun. He made an unprecedented observation both on the trial he conducted at Chichester, and the subsequent findings of the Court of Criminal Appeal. Is this the kind of justice Brian expects? Is this man typical of those who hold the title, the high and esteemed office to try and sentence people? How can the public believe, in the light of this utterance by Judge Block, that the Rolling Stones can get an unbiased hearing? His statement smacks of pre-judgement, a getting-together, ‘to cut the Stones down to size’ because of who they are. It is a pity that he did not observe the ethics of sub judice in a like manner to Mr Jagger, Mr Richards, Mr Jones by remaining silent.”

At the appeal on December 12, Brian’s doctors again said that he had become potentially suicidal as a result of the trial, and its effect on his mental health. When all was said and done, his sentence was reduced to three years’ probation under the condition that he pay a £1,000 fine and that he receive psychiatric help, with the judge saying, “Remember, this is a degree of mercy which the court has shown. It’s not a let-off.”

Later on, Stash would note, “An artist can be hounded into a state in which his mental health will deteriorate and that’s what happened to Brian, I’m sure. I was very angry and blamed the authorities, but ultimately, an individual has to blame himself.”

On December 14, Brian’s chauffeur found him collapsed in his flat and called 999. After an hour, Brian walked out, against doctors’ orders that he should stay overnight. He went straight to the Priory Clinic, and the next day, went in to the dentist to get two teeth pulled due to having a raging toothache. Brian later said that the collapse had been a reaction to the trial. 

And even so, that is not where the story ends, though I honestly wish it did. On May 21, police showed up at Brian’s door again, this time being led by Detective-Sergeant Robin Constable. Once again, police found cannabis, and Brian was utterly distraught, saying such things as “This can’t happen again, just when we’re getting on our feet”, “Why do I always get bugged?”, and “Why do you always have to pick on me?”

Speculation exists to this day that this second search was a carefully orchestrated plant, but whether or not it was will likely never be known for certain.

While the substance was taken away for testing, Brian found himself being dragged to the courthouse shortly before 10 AM. You can probably imagine the press had a field day, and by this point, Brian was completely mentally drained. 

Brian appeared in court on June 11, 1968, where this time, he pled not guilty to the charges of cannabis possession. By this time, there was a new procedure under the Criminal Justice Act, preventing the need for evidence to be given in detail in court (which was a provision that hadn’t been present the first time around). Brian also elected to once again undergo trial by jury. 

Brian’s second trial occurred on September 26, 1968. He was also looking very sickly; his skin was pale, he’d gained weight, and the bags under his eyes were more pronounced now than at any other time in his life. Brian was charged with illegally possessing 144 grains of cannabis, and once again, he entered a plea of not guilty. Brian’s defense was that he’d been staying in the flat that actress Joanna Pettet had moved out of just two hours before while a house that he’d recently purchased was being decorated. Pettet later claimed that she’d left the ball of wool there, but denied any knowledge of the cannabis found inside it. Brian also claimed to have been receiving medical treatment since the last trial, and his doctor said, “Nothing suggested to me that Jones was playing around cannabis. If I put a reefer cigarette by this young man, he would run a mile.”

Chairman Reginald Seaton (the same guy at Brian’s first trial) in his last address to the jury said that the burden of proof should rest with the police, considering that all that was found in Brian’s flat was the cannabis, but no evidence that it had been smoked. Despite this though, the jury returned 45 minutes later to pronounce Brian guilty. Luckily for him, Seaton took pity on him, only giving him a fine, stating, “I think this was a lapse and I don’t want to interfere with the probation order that already applies to this man. I am going to fine you according to your means. You must keep clear of this stuff. You really must watch your step. You will be fined £50 with 100 guineas [£105] costs. For goodness sake, don’t get into trouble again or you really will be in serious trouble.” 

Of this second trial, Brian himself later said, “When the jury announced the guilty verdict, I was sure I was going to jail for at least a year. It was such a wonderful relief when I heard I was only going to be fined. I’m happy to be free. It’s wonderful. This summer has been one long worry to me. Someone planted the drug in my flat, but I don’t know who. I will state till my death that I did not commit this offence.”

The rest, as most would say, is history. Brian continued to spiral out of control, losing interest in the Stones until he was eventually fired on June 8, 1969, and replaced by Mick Taylor. Twenty-five days later, Brian drowned in his backyard swimming pool at the tender age of 27, becoming one of the first members of what would eventually be dubbed the “27 Club.”

I do have a theory that Brian’s death was primarily caused by sleeping pills and alcohol, maybe even some combination of heart failure, liver failure, and/or undiagnosed epilepsy exacerbated by the side-effects of some of the drugs he was allegedly prescribed right before his death, but that, dear readers, is another story. 

Meanwhile, the Stones are still rolling and Mick and Keith are still alive (obviously), the latter of whom celebrated his 76th birthday while I was writing this, by some miracle. 

While I was unable to ascertain whether using one’s home for drug abuse still carried the steep penalties it did in 1967, I was able to find UK law regarding drug possession. Sentencing largely depends on the quantity of the drug and whether or not there was an intent to sell, but amphetamines and cannabis can still land you with a fine and a jail sentence of up to five years. 

If there is a silver lining to be found in this whole mess, Pilcher was eventually found guilty of perjury (though not for possibly planting dope on rock stars), and was himself sentenced to four years in prison for claiming a drug smuggler was innocent and had served with the police (not true in the slightest, as he was actually caught red-handed in the act of selling). 

What can I say? Karma’s a bitch. 

Sources:  https://www.gov.uk/penalties-drug-possession-dealing http://www.timeisonourside.com/chron1968.html http://timeisonourside.com/chron1967.html https://stewarthomesociety.org/blog/archives/1813 https://groovyhistory.com/sgt-pilcher-stories-narc-arrested-mick-jagger-john-lennon-keith-richards-george-harrison https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/inside-allen-kleins-role-in-1967-jagger-richards-drug-bust-43267/ https://wbig.iheart.com/featured/lisa-berigan/content/2017-07-05-rolling-stones-jagger-remembers-drug-arrest/ https://dangerousminds.net/comments/simon_wells_the_great_rolling_stones_drugs_bust https://rulefortytwo.com/secret-rock-knowledge/chapter-11/redlands/ http://www.rockonrockmusic.com/the-redlands-police-raid-jagger-keith-richards-jailed-for-drugs/ http://blog.bathroomwall.com/police-raid-keith-richards-redlands-home-in-sussex-for-drugs/ https://www.nme.com/photos/the-great-rolling-stones-drug-bust-1402298 Faithfull: An Autobiography by Marianne Faithfull Stone Alone by Bill Wyman Life by Keith Richards Brian Jones: The Untold Life and Mysterious Death of a Legend by Laura Jackson Brian Jones: The Making of the Rolling Stones by Paul Trynka https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_Pilcher https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Fraser_(art_dealer)

[suzie-guru]

Strange Magic FanFic - “Between the Shadow and the Soul”: Chapter Ten

Chapter 9

Two years. It’s been two years since I updated this story. I can’t believe it. 

Well, I can believe it, but good God, I wish it hadn’t been so long - you can blame it on starting then pulling out of Grad School, grandparents on both sides of my family falling seriously ill, losing not one but two jobs, dealing with/caring for the mental illnesses of both family and friends, and then as a grand finale, my own dealings with the ever delightful demon known as depression. It’s been a hell of a ride, with emphasis on “hell”. There were times where I was positive I would never be able to write again, let alone return to this story...

...but, slow as it has been, slow as it is doubtlessly going to be in the future, I wrote it. Word after word became sentence after sentence, then page after page...and now here we are.  

I just want to say I would have never been able to do it without the support and love and care and wisdom that you have provided. And I mean ALL of you. I know that in the grand scheme of things, updating a fanfic doesn’t mean that much, but...this story is incredibly dear to me. The thought of finishing it is what keeps me going though some very dark times. So please know that I am so desperately thankful to those of you who bore the waiting with patience and offered me support and kindness and love during the hellish periods I’ve gone through these last two years. As I have always and will always say, the Strange Magic fandom is the BEST fandom. I love you deeply and dearly, darlings. 

I want to dedicate this chapter to my dearest friend @dainesanddaffodils , whose birthday it is today (and which she shares with a certain Goblin King according to my own personal head canons for Strange Magic). Tangy, my darling, my bestie...you are one of the best things to ever happen to me, and I am so much the better having you in my world. You’ve been a never ending source of kindness and compassion, sweetness and support, and this Chapter couldn’t have happened without you. Happy Birthday, sweetheart - you make my heart sing <3 

And now...on to Bog and Marianne’s reunion. As always, I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Ten

The sky curving above the Border was a blue so soft and sweet the desire to reach out for it was not a mere, fleeting fancy but a need. 

The thought of fingers curling up through the air with cautious craving was one every heart harbored, the soft, sifting warmth of the soil churning up beneath feet banishing the memories of frost flashes and sudden snows. All the while, the sky stayed true and blue, only a few curls of clouds crossing it as the sun stayed steady in its warmth. The bud of Spring was starting to blossom, and the fingers that curled to the sky were brushed by a wind that had no bite of Winter but a teasing and tender warmth, twining around them, purring and perfumed. The scent was one of damp, dark soil freed from the iron freeze of Winter, grass growing victoriously verdant after suffocating under snow, and the sweet scent of blooms opening onto a new world, their perfume as delicate as the very petals they unfolded. With a patience and readiness each had carried since a seed, flowers turned their faces to the sun, welcoming the returning warmth of the sunlight as it spread over them.

And as always, none welcomed the dearly missed sun more so than the primroses.

They bloomed tall and proud and beautiful as ever, light and shadow playing over tender, newly opened petals delicately fanning out and fluttering in the warm wind. The sunlight fell upon the blooms with a gentle generosity, a radiance reserved for their best beloved. One little primrose seemed to nod its head in gratitude, the silken blush of its pink petals bobbing gently before tipping up once more to the bright beams and the soft sweet blue stretching high above it.

The heavy blade sliced through the stem with a satisfying thwack, and the silken petals fluttered once more as the flower fell to the earth like a star, splaying upon the dirt, softness spread over the soil with innocent beauty.

Bog took a particularly vicious satisfaction in spearing it with his scepter, ripping and rending the pliant lushness of the petals – and all magic they contained–beyond repair. Once done, he looked down upon it with triumphant contempt, his sneer of victory close to a snarl. Ensorcell the soil with your miserable magic, ye damn thing.  

Done with the act – which felt cathartically close to retribution – he shook the mangled mess free from his scepter with a contemptuous growl and seized a handful of plush moss, wrenching it free with such violence that clods of earth tumbled between of his clenched claws. With rough strokes, he wiped any sticky residue that lingered, scowling all the while. Like hells he was going to have the symbol of his rule carry the scent of the damned things. Probably could rub it down with some mud as well…

Although what with how said mud had only come to be from the earth thawing, it would still make his mind move back to Spring…

Bog sighed and let the moss fall to the floor of the Forest, looking around him with fatigued vexation. Like he had to think of any damn thing to be troubled. Hells, he was bloody surrounded by every single sight of the season—

There was a sudden cry above him. “Sire, watch out!”

Bog looked up just in time to get a face full of primroses, a multitude of toppled stalks showering down from above, the petals pattering upon him like pink, perfumed rain.

With a snarl of incandescent irritation, Bog tore them off him with such savagery he felt the swipe and scrape of his own claws across his scales. This time he didn’t bother with his scepter, grinding the blasted things beneath his heel, mangling any magic before kicking them away so hard several pebbles and a spray of soil accompanied them. He then turned his face to the top of the Border, the blue of his eyes venomously bright as they slit in a glare.

The goblins perched atop of the primroses watched him with wide eyes and frozen features, their breath bated by the prospect of the brutal bout of ferocious fury that their King was no doubt only moments away. A few traitorous glances revealed the doomed perpetrator, and Bog turned his glower upon them.

Thang swallowed at the sight of his King, before licking his lips. When he spoke, his lisp even more pathetic than usual. “…Sorry?”

Bog could feel the roar of rage forming in his throat, a hard and bitter and ugly thing, the beginnings of his growl scraping up his gullet like a hard and harsh stone. Beneath his cloak, his wings began their tell-tale twitch of temper, gnarled knuckles taut as he gripped his scepter, his claws scrapping along it, several new nicks resulting. Staring up from beneath a murderously furrowed brow, Bog gave Thang the full force of his glare as he bared his fangs, ready to unleash all the hells he could summon—

—and then suddenly the fire of his fury was snuffed out in a strange swirl of smoke, and with a sudden and aching intensity, Bog felt enormously empty. What does it bloody matter?

He sighed, his wings falling limply down his back, and passed a scarred palm over his face and the scales of his scalp. When he spoke, his mutter was low and rough and tired. “Bloody be more careful, Thang.”

He turned his back on their stunned faces and strode off down the Border, trying to ignore both the whispers he had left in his wake and how the Forest was beginning to thrum with energy, the glow of growth and greenery gradually coming back overhead and underfoot. Instead, he focused upon the crunch of his feet over leaves long dead and the slide of his cloak over grass now gray. But even the garment was a reminder, simply bat wings now, no need for insulating moss what with the warmth slowly but certainly coming back to the air. And though leaves long dead and gray grass was on the ground, tender new growth far outnumbered them, buds hanging heavy on branches in soft clusters.

There was no use denying it – soft and slow as it was, the season was a seed now flourishing fast. Spring had come back.

But she hasn’t…

Bog scowled and swatted down another primrose bobbing boldly in the breeze, the twist of his heart robbing him of any satisfaction in watching it fall. To steal a phrase from his mother, that was the bloody bitter seed in the midst of all the flowering fruit, wasn’t it?

He had never welcomed Spring. Well, perhaps when he was younger, before the bloody Potion had come into his life. But Bog was a creature of hardness and habit, favoring control and certainty in a world of chaos. And foolishly – so foolishly –  he had let himself slip away from the comfortable contempt of this season, all because it had carried the promise of seeing her again…

And now it was bloody Spring and everything was turning bloody green and bloody blooming, especially those bloody, blasted primroses, and she still wasn’t bloody here, and he was about bloody ready to bloody molt—

“Impetuous.”

The hiss of the word, a dagger drawn from the sheaf of memory, pierced him clean through, the echo of that infernal creature’s voice stopping him with a sudden and sickening halt, before Bog groaned in self-disgust. Bloody proving her right, aren’t you?

Hells, but he was pathetic. A few days – or weeks, not that he was so callow as to be counting – denied of the return of the fairies from their Migration, and he was back to the surly, stroppy youth of yore, green to governing and impatient to the point of irritation. You’re starting your bloody sixteenth year of ruling, git. Try and bloody act like it.

Never mind that in all those years he had never had to be separated from someone like Marianne. God, even after falling in love, he hadn’t had the pain of being parted from Fen—

Bog bit his lower lip till the rust of blood welled up under his fangs and passed his tongue over the wound. Logically, he knew he was being a fool. Logically, Bog knew that such a journey would take time, the path back home just as consuming and demanding the same caution and care.

But hearts and logic never kept company, and his was apparently fixed to sulk over any and all delays. Bog scowled, feeling the burn of shame. Fine thing for a King to do.

Especially when there was the all-too-likely fact that unlike her first journey, Marianne had to keep the company of the golden dolt for this one. Any pains he suffered paled in comparison to that, and Bog found himself not only gripped by impatience but by wretched worry for her. Let her be alright…

Had those been the sole factors in his frustration, Bog would have content to claim them, beat them back, and leave it at that. But—

Concern a King can claim, and impatience was always in your blood. But there’s another beastie in your breast that clawing at you, fool—

Bog twitched his head, cracked his neck so that the noise of it echoed off the trees, and began to walk once more, his scepter swinging by his side, his strides long. Yet try as he might, he couldn’t walk away from that poisonous voice of old, tunneling into his thoughts like rot through a tree.

Fear is something no Goblin should carry, least of all the King of them. And for all your pining and whining—

Bog bared his teeth, a snarl tucked behind them, but the voice kept on.

—you’re afraid to see her once again.

This time Bog did snarl, the sound of it so harsh it was a wonder the tender new leaves around him didn’t shred under the sound of it. Him, afraid? Load of rot. Fear was another instrument of chaos, and he had bloody well beat that back, hadn’t he?

Bog scoffed, his certainty making it stronger. Besides, even though it was bloody impossible and wasn’t the case, it wasn’t because he had a strange sort of…fear over seeing Marianne again.

Because he didn’t.

At all.

Bog scowled and gave his scepter another savage swipe, another stalk sent toppling and another primrose felled. He paid it no mind even as he ground it beneath his thorny heel. Gods be good, he was the thrice damned King of the Dark Forest, he could bloody well do what was expected of his position, that of reaffirming the connection and communication that existed between his Kingdom and the Fairy Kingdom included.

Bog stopped his stalking to mutter a curse and scrub a harsh hand over features that felt harsher still. It seemed so bloody simple when put like that: ruler meeting with ruler to reaffirm diplomatic goals and gains, the King of the Dark Forest meeting once again with the Queen of the Fairy Kingdom. Hells, it wasn’t like it wasn’t the bloody truth.

But…

Bog sighed, low and long, before planting his scepter into the ground. No one else in sight, he turned away from the Border to let himself lean against a tree, his claws scrapping over the knotted bark mindlessly. The few clouds in the sky curled around the sun, causing it to disappear and coldness to creep back a bit as Bog let his eyes stare out beyond the Border, the blue of them unseeing, the depth of them deep with thought.  

It was…part of the truth. A seed split in two but giving the same bloom all the same. He was a King and she was a Queen, both throwing their lots in with the other, and he had no true dread contemplating the likelihood of continuing such a path once they had reunited.

Reunited…

Bog closed his eyes and passed a hand over the scales of his scalp, the gesture no longer harsh, but weary.

He was King, aye. But…

It was not it was not the thought of a Queen whose return sent his heart racing.

It was Marianne.

The fact was even after everything, after all he had devoted to the diplomacy, all he could give a damn about was having her back.

And gods, how that made him burn with shame. His guts twisted at the dismay and disgust he could so easily see on her face if she found out he felt so, what with how dear the diplomacy was to her…

Bog gave another curse, this one far more heart-sore. If they had kept it to only being King and Queen, to only being connected by diplomatic communication, perhaps he wouldn’t be acting so—

Awash with such—

Bog’s sigh was a shredded thing as it passed through his fangs, any curse befitting his state beyond his ken, and he sagged against the tree trunk, the bat wings of his cape barely protecting his back from the bite of the bark. Gods.

What was the worst, what was the absolute bloody worst, was that his damned heart, that was supposed to be too sore and scarred for fluttering, couldn’t seem to decide if it was avaricious in anticipation or aching with anxiety. Bog would have clawed it out from beneath his carapace if he hadn’t needed the stupid thing, so riddled by nerves was it.

But…gods help him, how could he not be? When there were so many things that could go wrong…

He had spent so much time thinking of her, dreaming of seeing her, his thoughts had become nothing so much more than a cyclone of concern, the whirl of them sharpened with cynicism, cutting his soul to the quick.

What if it isn’t everything you want? Do you even know what you bloody want, you fool? You could come off as too eager to see her—

But then if you come off as too cold—

Bog pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing. Then there was Marianne to think about, good gods—

What will her reaction be? What if she has no reaction? The letter showed she missed m—our talks, but what if she misses the memory of them more?

…Gods, what if I disappoint her?

Bog closed his eyes as pain lanced through him at that. It was ridiculous, not to mention the worst kind of traitorous to even harbor such thoughts. But the thought that truly shamed him, made him yearn to rip his heart out over the sheer offense of what it betrayed was that…

Bog sighed as he dropped his head, the aching weight of shame making his heart so very heavy.

…was that the possibility of everything going right only served to make him far more terrified than the thought of everything going wrong.

He...he was not one for whom things turned out right. Dearly held dreams did not come to be for him.

They never do for hideous beasts. Why would you be the exception, ye old fool—?

Bog closed his eyes against the voice, but could not keep back his sigh. Old. Gods, but he felt it now. He couldn’t remember a Winter weighing on him more, making him feel every ache in his bones. And now with the passing of his thirty-fourth Spring so soon to come, he could only wearily resign himself to more.

He had felt so young with her…

And now such a feeling felt impossibly beyond his reach now, as far away as she was right now…

Even with the sky so blue, the wind so warm, Bog grew cold. Hells…even with the warmth of this wretched season keeping the cold at bay, who was to say that Winter could not come again? He had awoken many mornings to snow falling on the day of his birth, a shock to the tender shoots and roots. He had taken bitter satisfaction at Spring being staved off so savagely, but now…

Another fall of frost, another casting of coldness…it all just keeps her away.

Bog sighed once more, the sound of it gusty and deep as it rolled from him, like the wind that had so howled over the Fields this Winter, bitter-strong in its song as it cut to the very bone.

Then…

Ever so faintly from the Fields came a sound, one that was lilting, lifting with the light of the sun, the soft strumming of strings almost like sunlight in that it was felt before it was heard.

Bog lifted his head, bewildered. Music…?

With a wariness he knew to be ridiculous, Bog cautiously stepped away from his tree to come closer to the Border, the tangle of vines thickened with ones long dead and new growth. With the dexterity of his youthful adventures he hadn’t quite managed to lose, Bog climbed the thicket, relishing the burn such activity put in his chest, the roughness of the vines beneath his hands, thankful he hadn’t simply flown.

When he finally made it to the top, the Fields stretched before him, no longer barren of life but still nowhere near the state of bloom that came with the height of Spring and stretched into the sultry days of Summer. The green growth carpeting the land was tender and soft, some parts still hidden by stubborn snow. The looming gray shape of the Fairy Palace was no longer stark against a stretch of snow, patches of velvety green lichen spattering it as if some of the Forest had come over with all the diplomacy work…

Still, the sight of it sent a stinging sort of longing through him, and Bog averted his eyes, allowing them to wander, searching for the source of the song.  They came to rest upon the Elf Village, and his heart gave a queer ache at the song drifting up from the huts and houses, the melody softly building in its strength, carrying all the closer to him.

“Here comes the sun doo do doo do… Here comes the sun… And I say it’s all right…”

The tune was simple and sweet, the voices carried the slow certainty of a blossoming bulb. Though Bog could not see from such a distance, he could easily imagine the look of happiness upon each face of those who had been so beset by snows and sleet, their faces beaming as surely as the source of light they sang for.

And strangely enough, the sun did seem to be getting stronger, clouds fleeing from it, no longer able to keep back its the warmth…

“Little darling, it’s been a long, cold lonely winter… Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here…”

Bog found himself leaning against one of the trees of the Border quite without realizing it. He would have wondered at falling into such a state of entrancement, but those lyrics...

The longest, loneliest Winter in his memory, but now…

“Here comes the sun doo do doo do… Here comes the sun… And I say it’s all right…”

Goblins had no such songs. Frankly, no goblins had ever welcomed the return of the sun. The return of warmth, yes. The return of freedom from freezing frost and stupor from snows, undoubtedly. But to welcome the light that pierced the foliage and fortress of their Forest? Darkness was theirs, and while sunlight did not blister or burn them as legends of the Light Fields said, it was not something they sought, let alone sing about. Sunlight was not a cause for disdain or distaste, but it was one for distrust.

Likewise, Bog could confess that he held no reason to begrudge sunlight, excepting for the fact that it revealed him in all his hideousness, hard features made harsher still under its strong rays. Darkness was kinder to him, always had been, but the sun was not his enemy – it only aided its blossoming.  

But now…

“Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces… Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here… Here comes the sun doo do doo do… Here comes the sun… And I say it’s all right…”

Now…Bog was tempted to see it as a herald. Or, at the very least, the song it inspired was. One that served as a reminder, a beam of warmth that fell across the darkness of his mood, the coldness of his loneliness, bringing him out of both:

Cold as it had been, long as it had stretched…Winter would retreat. Had retreated.

And aye, the primroses rose tall and triumphant, yet so did the sun, beaming and bright and beckoning other blooms into blossom, other growth into gloriousness, covering them away.

And the higher it rose, the sooner she would be back.

“Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…”

While impatience was a weed in the soil of his soul, and anxiety and nerves would cause his claws to curl across any and all surfaces…no matter how long a day stretched, each one would end.

And with each falling of the night and rising of the sun…slowly but surely, his wait would lessen.

And her welcoming would come closer…

“Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear…”

Bog felt an odd sort of tugging at his mouth, a strange sort of squeezing in his heart, and gave an exhale that felt curiously close to a laugh. Gods, but what wonders a single song could wrought. To be fair, he had been a long time without such music. Almost as long as he had been without such light…

“Here comes the sun doo do doo do… Here comes the sun… It’s all right…”

The song faded to a soft and sweet close, and for the first time in gods knew when, Bog looked to the sun with welcome. After so long away, it had returned, bringing warmth and wonder in its wake, slowly burgeoning seeds and song.

And soon…she would be back as well.

Bog smiled, the sun falling on his face, and closed his eyes as he imagined how it would fall across wings, iridescently purple and indescribably welcome.

“It’s all right…”

The sun continued to shine, the greenery grow lush, the sky beam bright and blue, and Bog wreaked the primroses, all the while keeping his eyes on how other stalks in the Forest and the Fields grew stronger, stretching up to the skies with each passing day.

Any time he could claim as his own he spent it along the Border, eyes watchful and ears open for any more songs. After that first day with the primroses, he had had the idea of sending a group of goblins to the Elf Village to see if any further assistance was needed. Purely pragmatic, really – not only did it establish that his people wouldn’t cease in their attentions to those the fairies had left behind even with Spring returned, but it also might provide him with news on when to expect Ma–the Migration party to return.

If the reports were to be believed, the Village’s inhabitants had been truly touched by such dedication, obviously unused to a concern that continued even when a duty was done. Unfortunately, they had no news to give aside from assuring his company that the return of the fairies was not be off at all. “As soon as the flowers fully flourish, that’s when fairies fly back to the Fields, sire!”

Bog was dearly tempted to send a swat his lackey’s way when told such flowery tripe instead of an actual sodding day, but seeing as Thang was merely reporting, the blame didn’t truly lay at his webbed feet. But of bloody course this is the time he doesn’t bungle a message—

Still, a message was a message. Bog managed to temper his first instinct into a glower that had sent the smaller Goblin stumbling backwards in his hasty retreat, before concentrating on just what such words meant. When the flowers fully flourish…

Gods, it was as good as a riddle, and he hated riddles. His care towards the primroses that day had been particularly rewarding.  

Now Bog fell back into his throne, closing his eyes and drawing his claws across the arms of it, the drag of them falling into the telltale grooves he had put there before. Day after day after day…

It was a new day, yes, and a new day meant a new nightfall and one day closer, but his temper was like an old root now – tough but twisting with each turn of time, bearing the burden of each passing slowly but surely. Gods, how much longer could he truly take—?

The throne room was full of his subjects, all of them bringing him reports from across the Kingdom, each one talking over the other in a tangle of tales, a meaningless mess of noise that Bog had no desire to sort out. No desire, aye, but damn well a duty.

With that in mind, Bog drew himself up, head already aching. His office didn’t carry a crown like that of the Fairy Kingdom, but heavy was the head indeed. Right.

His voice cut through the throng of voices like a blade through a tangle of roots, the slam of his scepter on the floor punctuating it. “Enough.”

The goblins immediately fell to silence, and Bog made his glower a mighty thing, sweeping it over the throng of their faces. “If ye want waste mah time with arguments, Ah’ll show ye an argument of mah own.” His claws scratched meaningfully along the length of his scepter, and he noted their collective gulp with a grim satisfaction before planting it back by his side with a heavy thunk. “If some o’ ye are inclined to make some sodding reports, step forward.” He marked each of his words with a thud of his scepter, eyes narrowed. “An’. Do. So. One. At. A. Bloody.  Time.” He leaned back. “Boil, yer first.”

There was a grumble across the crowd, a few goblins groaning audibly as Boil stepped forward with an officious air, small eyes squinting in pleasure at holding power and positon, no matter how small. Bog tried not to sigh. Gods, but how he wished this windbag’s uncle didn’t hold such sway with the Elders.

Boil rolled back fat shoulders with complacent importance. “Ahem. My dark and dreaded Sire, I bring news—

“—FROM THE BORDER!”

Brutus thundered into the room, his weighty gallop sending down dust from the ceiling what with how the walls quaked, the throng of goblins likewise sent to the floor from the tremors. While Brutus tried to come to a halt, he only achieved it in form of running headlong into Boil, who flew across the room before a tree root caught him in the gut, the blow knocking him bug-eyed and windless.

Bog quickly covered his mouth with his claws, desperately trying to smother a snicker. Hells, that’s one way to deal with a windbag—

Hoping that his voice came off as rough with irritation instead of restrained laughter, he issued the necessary commands. “Moldia and Fleasley, take him to a healer. Bit of a lie down for ye, Boil.”

Boil groaned in response as he was led away, and Bog turned his attention to Brutus, his tone dropping into a scold. “Brutus, how many times have I had to tell ye not to run in the Castle?”

Brutus licked his lips and looked properly abashed. “Lost count, Sire.”

Bog sighed as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, noting how the walls of the throne room now had several new cracks in them. Hells, now Hedgwort would be badgering him again. “Ah’d think it’d be enough to bloody stick.”

Brutus nodded, his great head bobbing up and down. “Stick this time, promise. But news! News from the Border! Flowers flourish fully!”

The crowd muttered and murmured in confusion, but Bog stilled. “…What?”

“Told to tell you! Flowers flourish fully, petals spread under sun! Elves gathering for ceremony!”

“Ceremony?” Muggon questioned, his eyes narrowed in confusion as he exchanged baffled looks with Stuff, even as Bog sat frozen on his throne, eyes wide and fixed on Brutus, his heart—

“For fairies!” The large Goblin looked around the room before shaking his great head, clearly disgusted at such slow understanding. “Flowers flourish—”

“Cheese and rye!” Thang finished wonderingly, understanding dawning in his eyes.

Stuff swatted at his head. “It’s fairies fly, mud-for-brains.”

Bog stood suddenly, his heart hammering and his voice a rasp. “They’ve come back.”  

“Fairies approaching!” Brutus nodded, cheeks plump with his pleased grin. “Ceremony to happen! Elves told to tell you—!”

He was cut off by the babble of the crowd, the Throne Room becoming a cavern of chaos, voices tangling once more into a tempest of noise.

For once in his rule, Bog paid such chaos no mind. It was understandable, given how his whole head and heart had flooded with need, the force of it sending his heart into a beat that was making it very hard to inhale.

Now, she’s coming now, if you go now you can finally finally finally see her—

Lost in the thrill of such thoughts, Bog was only dimly aware that his scales had begun to flair, his wings thrum, limbs tensing for takeoff—

“Impetuous.”

The clarity of that achingly familiar and always dratted voice cleaved through his heedless excitement like a sword through mist, and Bog reluctantly forced himself to settle. It wouldn’t do to fly off without a company. Besides, Brutus was still speaking, his gravely tones at odds with the childlike beam he sported.

“—said that Forest folk can come, but not all. Just few. Just how Bog King usually does it.” Brutus looked at Bog pleadingly. “Know too big for dragonflies, but can come to party, right? Since I brought message, yes?”

“A party, huh?” Moldia, back from tending to Boil, leaned at the doorway and scratched at her fronds, looking both intrigued and wary. “I wonder if they expect us to bring something. Fairies like that kind of stuff, baubles and glittery things—”

Fletcher snickered. “They would be a fan of anything that showed them their reflection.”

Farrow snorted. “Nah, that’s just that King of theirs.”

A ripple of amusement ran through the crowd, but Muggon shook his head, annoyed. “Surely there’s not enough time for that, we only just got the news that they’re coming back—”

Vexspur groaned, her trunk wilting with the exhale. “If we had spent even the smallest bit of time gathering our reports into a more organized state instead of leaving it off, we could’ve presented them—”

“The primroses had to be taken care of!”

“So what, we should slack off on presenting a good image to the Fairy Kingdom?”

“Careful, Nettles, you might get mistaken for a Fairy if you’re that image obsessed—”

“Watch your mouth!”

“Watch your ego!” 

“Stop using Fairy for an insult, we’re supposed to be beyond that—!”

Bog took to the air in a thrum of wings before landing on his thrown forcefully, causing the structure to rock back and forth with a bang, the bone clacking with each movement, slamming his scepter into the arm of it to steady himself.

The goblins immediately silenced themselves, looking up to their ruler with eyes wide with both wariness and wonder over the impressively fierce figure he cut, standing so upon his throne.

“Who,” Bog announced in an effectively low growl, “does nae want their head on a stick?”

Thang was the only one to raise his hand with cheerful obliviousness. The rest of the goblins side-eyed each other nervously before raising their own hands in a cautiously rippling wave.

Bog cut his scepter to Muggon, who immediately snapped to attention. “Muggon, get the dragonflies harnessed and saddled, then take a count of how many wish to go, ye can only take so many. Brutus, ye leave to meet us there, let them know we’re comin’—”

Brutus beamed before rushing from the room in a rumbling run, and there was an immediate turmoil of voices, fierce denials of wanting to go and frantic desires to, all rising to the roof in a clamoring clash.

Bog banged his scepter down, his voice a bark. “Silence, or Ah’ll scupper yer skulls.” The harshness of his glare was as fierce as it was false, so very false when he felt so – when his heart was so—

She’s come back—

Fighting for control over the burn in his breast, the ache of anticipation in every bit of his body, Bog snapped his fingers, claws clicking. “Stuff an’ Thang, ye’ll come with me.” If ye dawdle, Ah’ll kill ye was kept behind his teeth, but just barely. Each second that passed demanded another poisonous pinch of patience that he simply did not have, not when he knew she would be there and soon, so very soon, so would he—

Only if ye make it on time, ye dolt.

Bog forcefully brought himself back and took to the air, the thrum of his wings nothing to the excited beat his heart. “Moldia, to my mother. Let her know Ah could nae wait.”

Never mind that there would be all kind of hells to pay when his mother got ahold of him for leaving her, especially when a party was involved—

Then best be off now, hmm?

Bog dove over his company and seized Stuff and Thang by the scruff of their necks, Stuff giving an indignant howl and Thang plaintively wailing that he hadn’t done anything. The crowd beneath commenced once more in their clamoring, called for more instructions.

Bog merely shot over them, grinning with fierce anticipation and something suspiciously akin to joy. “WHO WANTS TO GO TO A PARTY?”  

The day blazed forth beauty, the slowness of Spring’s bloom finally rewarded through a bounty of blossoms that spread over the land in riots of color, the green grass of the Fields lush and long, swaying in rippling waves in the warm wind. The sun and sky were so bright Bog would have cursed them any other time, but now he only spared a thought for the warmth of the wind on his wings as he sped over the Fields, Stuff and Thang keeping close behind on their dragonflies. It felt just like the trips he had made before, although the past rush of anticipation was nothing compared to what he was seized with now, his scales threatening to flare from the sheer excitement, almost distracting him from his flight. Gods, but he had to get a grip on himself—

If he could see him now, soaring over the Light Fields with such frank fervor, his father would have most likely been aghast, or the very least stupefied if he was inclined to be kinder. Bog nearly snorted at the image of his so easily imagined expression, the grave growl of his voice. “Yer one song short from bein’ a bludy Fairy, boy.”

Any other time, the memory of those words would have stung, but now Bog could only laugh, the brief exhale of it still sweet. Only fer today, Da.

Though gods knew how long he would stay in such a state, now that she had come back to him—

Bog rolled his eyes impatiently, dodging a particularly tall poppy. Hells, not to him. She had come back, aye, but to her Kingdom, that was all. He wasn’t about to be so trite as to think himself special—

Bog’s frantic fervor dimmed a bit at that. Gods, let her be pleased to see him—

Let her be as happy as I am—

Bog grimaced, biting back a worried glower, gripping his scepter determinedly as he flew past another poppy, his speed causing it to snap back after he passed. There was a faint thwack, and Thang cried out, but Bog easily ignored him. It would be enough to see her, he told himself sternly. Just to know she was there, that she was back, that was enough.

Aye, but it wouldn’t hurt if there was a bit more than just that—

Bog bit the inside of his cheek, the salty gush of iron and sting of pain a sharp reminder. Dearly held dreams did not come to be for him. He wasn’t about to forget that. He wasn’t about to be a bloody boy and build his hopes up only to be disappointed if they didn’t come to be. Hells, but that wasn’t any kind of fair to Marianne.

Yes, the Winter had been a long one and the wait, gods, the sheer bloody wait had been utterly intolerable, but he wasn’t about to place that at her feet, what with everything else she had to manage—

“Sire!”

Stuff’s cry brought Bog back to his flight, and he quickly looked around to see where they were. His heart gave a jolt when he saw the buildings of the Elf Village loom before him, a thick crowd already amassing below, a song rising up to them, wordless but strong. He had heard of this tradition, the songs that the Fields sang only at such pivotal moments, the original words lost to time but still weighty with meaning for ceremonies like this, a crowning or a—

A coming back…

Bog dove, barely paying any mind to the sounds of Stuff and Thang struggling to get their steeds to follow with the same speed. It looked like they were congregating around a stage, one of the many he had been told they used for their Spring and Summer gatherings and performances, the hubbub of the crowd loud and cheerful, frank excitement on the face of each of the elves, brownies and pixies he could see. Even with how the gradual gratitude over the Winter for their aid, Bog could only hope the presence of his people wouldn’t take away from the spectacle they were so obviously anticipating…

He needn’t have worried. Now nearing, Bog saw that Brutus was in the midst of them, and noted with amused amazement that several Elf and Brownie youths had taken to climbing him like some sort of living boulder, happily dangling from his arms and neck, perched upon his mighty shoulders and thick skull. For his part, Brutus seemed utterly content, beaming benevolently as the children chattered and giggled and played, happily sitting in the square as the parents in the crowd milled around him. Bog shook his head in wonder. To see those that had once whispered rancid rumors flavored with fear about his people now allowing their babes to sport with them, watching a Goblin keep their company with fond indulgence…!

Marianne will be so pleased.

Biting back a smile, Bog swooped around a tall wheel that rose into the air and flew over the crowd, his eyes searching back and forth. Would that he knew one of the elves more than just in passing, one of them could be comfortable telling him where she would be, if she was already there—

Cries of surprise filled the air at the sight of him, and though some spoke of sudden shock, it was swiftly followed by calls of welcome, warm and sincere. Bog spared himself a moment to wonder over such a profound change the Winter had wrought before he heard it. “Your majesty! I mean, ah, Bog King, sir!”

Bog spun around, his eyes narrowing and then widening at the sight of the small Elf who had spoken, his shock of hair black hair and red head gear fashioned from the wings of a ladybug immediately familiar to him. The brother-in-law.

Bog touched down on the stage at once, striding to where the Elf was. “Ye’re back. Where are the—?”

“Yeah, she told me you might be impatient,” the Elf – gods, what the hells was his name? – chuckled. The sound was a touch nervous as he took in the dark, scaly beast of a King before him, but his smile was sincere as he continued. “I’m the first of the party to get here, I’m always sent on ahead a few days earlier to check out the Village, make a list of the damages done.” There was profound gratitude in his brown eyes as he looked up at Bog, earnest. “And there’s none. I can’t thank you enough, sir! The Village always falls into disrepair, and now it looks even better than before, it’s incredible—”

Bog waved away the thanks impatiently, his wings rattling with his fierce feelings. “If yer here, they can’t be far behind. Where are they?”

The Elf made to reply before another voice rang out from the crowd. “Sunny! Pip says he sees them just starting to cross the eastern tree line!”

The Elf – Sunny, right, that was it – immediately brightened and turned to the throng of his people, who hadn’t paused in their song. “Right, folks! We can head on over now!” He looked back to Bog with eager excitement, ready to share the happiness. “You can follow us, we know the best way to get there.”

Bog was torn between gritting his teeth and keeping his wings from buzzing from eager elation. “Where?”

“To the main royal garden! That’s where they always have the reception area. The pixies ought to have finished setting up by now, that’s what they do, it’s the brownies job to get the Palace all ready—”

The crowd had already begun to move, still singing their song. What with that and how Bog’s wings thrummed as he took to the air again he had to raise his voice to make sure he was heard. “Stuff, Thang, you follow me and then double back to guide the rest of the party behind us.” He looked to Sunny, nodding his head to Brutus. “Can some of yours wait with him to guide any stragglers?”

The young Elf nodded and then quickly and guiltily bowed, obviously still unsure just how he was supposed to treat this strange new King. “Yes sir! I mean, yes sire, sir! I mean—”  

Even in the midst of his impatience, Bog had to roll his eyes with a smirk. No doubt his brother-in-law demanded the upmost formality, the ass. “As long as ye dinnae call me dirty rotten Goblin, yer fine.”

The Elf started and then laughed, the action making his eyes crease into a happy squint. “I can do that, sir. I’ll get Pare to wait back by the Border to make sure y’all are accounted for. That good?”

Bog tried to nod but gods, this waiting wasn’t any kind of kindness to his heart, the anticipation of it all a nigh unbearable ache. He couldn’t take much more. He tried to keep any of this out of his voice as he looked to the trees, the thick foliage hiding anything from his eyes. “They’ll be here soon, aye?”

But there was a new slant to the Elf’s smile as he looked up at the King of the Dark Forest, commiserating and kind. “Yeah, they will. I hated waiting to see Dawn when she got back from Migration too, sir—”

Bog would have asked what the hells he meant by that, but there was a sudden surge in the song, a crescendo of cries. “Here! They’re here!”

Bog spun around, his heart in his throat, and sure enough, there were several small shapes above the line of his land, tiny specks swirling and twirling over the swaying treetops. They were too far away to see clearly, but Bog fancied there were flashes of color now and then from the sun falling across fluttering wings.

Suddenly it was very hard to swallow. I’m going to be see her, finally see her—

It was a good job that his wings didn’t stutter as his heart did then. Gods, but after all this time, the moment had finally come. Please don’t let me make a ruin of it—

“This way, your majesty!”

Snapping back to reality, Bog trained his eyes on the Elf as the little fellow made his way through the crowd, who parted before him to let him lead at the front. Bog swiftly followed, before realizing that the whole company was earth bound and therefore kept a much slower pace than his wings allowed him, meaning he would have even longer to wait. Bog grit his teeth, resisting the urge to claw a hand across his face in frustration. Gods be sodding damned.

By the time the Fairy Palace finally came into view, Bog was near about to have a headache what with how he had ground his teeth, and was severely tempted to ditch the party entirely and find the main royal garden himself, manners be damned. It was only when he saw the gardens the crowd was aiming its track towards did his heart jolt – the same garden he and Marianne had talked by on that rainy day so long ago. Those were the main royal gardens?

“Nice, aren’t they?” Sunny called up to Bog with a grin. “Perfect place to hold the reception too, what with it being right below the ballroom balcony!” He then turned back and raised his voice. “It looks great, girls!”

Bog turned as well and saw that he was addressing a veritable swarm of pixies, their movements a swirl of motion and color as they flew to and fro between the small courtyard and the pavilion of the sprawling gardens, both of which they had transformed into veritable bowers of blooms and blossoms, the arches of the high windows garnished with garlands woven with bluebells, poppies and buttercups, their colors popping against the stone of the boulder. Likewise, the walls in the courtyard were hung with the blooms as well, while thick clusters of lilacs and freesia stood about to perfume the air. Several butterflies had already come to drink freely from the sweet blooms, and dipped in drunken dances across the space, their wings so like the heralded fairies that Bog had to squint to make sure he wasn’t mistaking them for the other. A small stage had been erected near the front of the pavilion, and Bog saw a small clustering of brownies fuss about a table bearing a frankly enormous spread of food and drinks that was no doubt for the refreshment of their long overdue court.

Bog would have been impressed - or perhaps nauseated - by the sheer spread of wealth had he hadn’t been so busy scanning the sky then, his eyes tracking back and forth as he touched down to the ground. Surely they would have made it by now—?

“Sire!” Stuff and Thang were both clambering off their dragonflies, Thang gaping about at the embellishments and elegance about him. Stuff waved to Bog, her face just holding back a grimace at the unapologetically Fairy décor – even with being a professional, apparently there was only so much her Goblin sensibilities could bear. Her voice held a subtle edge of pleading. “Shall we double back now, BK?”

Bog was about to reply when there was a sudden crescendo of song from the elves and the sky. What the hells—?

The three goblins only had a moment to look up before the rush of song crashed over them, like a wave rushing over the shore or the sun breaking out from behind a bank of clouds. Suddenly the sky above them was filled with countless beings, their wings spangling sunlight and casting the ground beneath them into various rainbow tones as the brightness of the day shone through their wings. They dipped and danced in their descent, all singing sweet and strong, and the elves broke into wild cheers – the fairies had returned, and true to form, it was done with colorful aplomb and a multitude of the sweetest of splendors. The song from the elves rose again, and the fairies echoed it back, wordless and wonderful.  

Bog swiftly grabbed Stuff and Thang by the scruffs of their necks and retreated to the nearest patch of plants that would shield them from the onslaught of such songs, his head already buzzing with it. His time with at the Fairy Palace had given him some immunity to the constant use of songs in Fairy culture, but he was made of sterner stuff than either of his lackeys. Even as he deposited them at the base of some towering stargazer lilies that could serve as their refuge, Thang and Stuff were both holding their ears, Thang actually whimpering.

Bog would have rolled his eyes, but even he wasn’t that callous – his people preferred the darkness and shadows for a reason, after all. Sunlight and songs weren’t poisonous to those of the Dark Forest as the prejudices of the Fairy Kingdom had thought them to be, but singing their own songs amongst their people was a matter of willing participation and therefor something else entirely. The elves singing had been similar enough to their own that it wouldn’t trouble them. But now with the fairies back, it was like being subjected to an onslaught of blinding sunshine without any warning.

Bog spared no time in issuing his orders. “Get back to the Forest. If you see fit, collect the beeswax and pine sap for ear plugs.” He didn’t know how long the singing would last, after all.

The two of them nodded and quickly ran back to their steeds, the look on their faces profoundly grateful. Bog watched them go, their dragonflies dodging the flight of the fairies, before turning to the stage, making sure to keep himself beneath the shelter of the lilies as he watched it intently, his heartbeat picking up once more. That would be the space she would appear, he was sure of it—

Already were fairies touching down, embracing each other, greeting the elves and the brownies with friendly but formal waves. The pixies were not so restrained, and many bunches immediately flew to their favored persons to shower them with clamoring affection, causing those fairies to halt their songs in order to laugh and return such nuzzling. Bog spotted the little yellow one, Daffodil, shower a young blonde Fairy with gleeful little kisses, and could only hope she wouldn’t spot him.

Then—

In the midst of the greens and yellows and pale blues shining upon the ground, there was sudden flash of purple, and Bog’s heart nearly seized—

And there she was.

Marianne gracefully touched down upon the stage with her sister, the sun striking across her brow and the golden-green band of her crown, making her dark locks gleam and her skin glow. She wasn’t singing the song of her people, instead wearing an expression of furrowed concentration, looking around her as her sister twirled across the stage in a delirious dance of happiness. No doubt she was taking stock of the situation, making sure all was well.

And why wouldn’t she, thought Bog, determinedly ignoring how his heart was now thumping with positively painful thuds in his chest. Hells, but to be back after so long, of course that would be her first concern, not some silly song or—

 —or looking for him—

He couldn’t help himself, stop himself from watching her, each flick of her fingers as she tucked her hair behind her ear, the path of her hands as they smoothed at her top, each tilt of her chin as her head moved back and forth to take in the spectacle of their homecoming, her eyes – those eyes, gods, but to see them again – searching over the crowd. The Elf was up on the stage now, rushing to embrace his wife, and the young Queen smiled softly at the sight of them as they twirled around in their bliss at being back together, at being home, even after spending their Winter together.

A few feet away on the stage, the golden oaf had landed and was immediately greeted with a hail of cheers, causing him to laugh loudly, throwing his head back with the gesture, his armor and crown gleaming. He waved a hand over at Queen Marianne to come over to him, not even looking to see if she obeyed. Her soft smile fell for a resigned eye roll and a slight pull of lip that could have been a grimace as she turned to walk towards her King.

All this Bog saw, drinking her in like the most parched of beasts at a spring, aching to reach out for her, to her—

But then her footsteps to Roland abruptly halted as she looked to the lilies.

And the King they sheltered.

Bog’s mind blanked. She had seen him.

Oh gods…

In the midst of the moment, Bog was aware enough to know that the world did not stop, though for the briefest breath it felt as though his heart had as their eyes met.

It did not stop, but continued on with the inane formalities of the ceremonies of returning, the throng still very much present and still very much intent on singing their songs, elves and brownies and pixies raising their voices in warm welcome, whilst the fairies replied with a deep delight in an arrival long denied. None of this ceased when Marianne’s eyes met his.

Yet the need to move along with the rush of it, to participate in power plays and politics, was simply exposed as nothing in comparison to the need to drown in that long denied golden gaze, the depths of them damning any memory he had held over the Winter with their living luster.  

Bog found that the former fervor that had so consumed him until now was now easily brushed away in their presence. In fact, his only concern was to take in how those amber eyes widened in that achingly familiar way, how the dark, lush line of her lashes fluttered in the Spring breeze, how her face reminded him of a flower, open and fresh and fixed on him, like he was the light so long denied…

She was there, just across the crowd from him, so far and yet so close, the closest she had been to him and him to her for so very, very long—

And then she smiled.

And if her face was a flower before, now it was a garden, blooming bright with a beauty hidden away for far too long, and Bog’s heart near about burst, his incredulous delight was so great.

For me, all for me, such happiness and all because of me—

Bog knew he must look an absolute fool, completely unable to keep his smile from burgeoning across his face, but Marianne’s own merely spread all the more as she watched him, apparently just as content to take him in as he was with her.

In that moment, Bog dared to step into the sunlight, and its warmth on his scales was nothing compared to the light of her smile, her amber-warm eyes. His wings shivered, and for the life of him, Bog didn’t know why.

All he knew was that the thought that had kept him going through the Winter had finally come to be, the price of dearly held dreams be damned.  

She’s back. She’s back and right in front of me.

As Bog stood there, surrounded by sunlight and sweetness and song and all that was deemed intolerable by his people, he could think of no place he would rather be, standing only so far away from Marianne with her smile upon him.  

Of course, the rest couldn’t be that easy.

Claws scrapped down the already deep grooves of his scepter as Bog bit back a harsh exhale, fighting the urge to swat at the lilacs hanging overhead, the sickly-sweet scent of them nigh overpowering even in a good mood. In his current state, it was too bloody much.

No sooner had Marianne taken a single step in his direction and he to her when they had both been swarmed with dignitaries and nobles on both sides, all pressing for their attention, their thoughts on how the Winter had passed, every bloody detail demanded. Bog had almost yelped in the sudden onslaught, and he was direly certain that the look he had passed over the heads of the crowd was one of panic and pleading, a fine thing for a King to show—

To be fair, Marianne had looked none too happy either as she looked over her own crowd, her brow hard and flat over her eyes, her mouth fixed in a tense line as her people clamored about her, unceasing and unrelenting in what they asked of the young Queen only just returned. Bog now bit back a hard and sympathetic sigh at the memory of her face, leaning against the stalk of the lilacs, one of his mother’s many sayings brought to mind. Anyone who fantasizes about ruling is one fungi short of a fairy ring.

After the river of unrelenting questions had tapered off into a gurgle of inquiries, what had followed was a formal presentation from the Fairy Kingdom to cement their return from the Winter, then an official tour and inspection of the Palace, before this final ceremony held once again in the gardens. All of which had of course demanded more songs and dances in both the figurative and literal sense. It was to be expected, of course, given the affection fairies held for both, but as Roland made himself the focus of each song and speech, it wore on already thin nerves. Honestly, it was probably a good thing that Griselda had been having one of her allergy onslaughts and had deemed herself too sick to attend the ceremony. Bog was sure that even her love of parties would have been tested and tried by the prattling pettiness of the golden idiot.

Hells, he wouldn’t have minded it all so much if he had simply had a moment to talk with Marianne—

Bog sighed once more as he sank further back against the stalk, causing one of the blooms to bounce closer to him, the ripe perfume of it cloying and close. With aimless ease, Bog reached and ripped down one of the blossoms, rending it with idle ferocity between his claws as he watched the happy crowd with a wilting will any introvert would appreciate. Wonders of wonders, despite being King of the Dark Forest and the one of the very reasons the Winter had been such a success, Bog had managed to keep himself to the sidelines of the crowds well enough throughout all of the ceremonies. It was a fact no doubt helped by Roland’s glory seeking ways, and Bog found he didn’t give a damn about not receiving recognition as long as he wasn’t bloody expected to participate in a number. There’s diplomacy, and then there’s lunacy.

Still, he had hoped…

Bog frowned, his claws pricking at his skin as he clenched a fist. No need to get bloody greedy. Seeing her had been bloody well enough, a talk would come later.

Maybe even later that day, if he was lucky…

If he could find her, that was.

He had tried to keep her in his sights throughout everything, but Marianne had managed to slip away from the proceedings with a stealth that would do any warrior proud. Indeed, Bog would have readily offered his congratulations on that fact if only he bloody knew where she had gone off too. No doubt she had seen the same proceedings in the past and knew when to make her escape. Clever girl.

Bog let the remains of the flower fall from his fingers as he turned his head away from the crowd. No one was bloody paying attention to him now, just like they hadn’t at that past party. Perhaps…

Hells, she had once flown into his Kingdom uninvited, once upon a time. Surely he could do so now to seek her out…?

“Impetuous.”

Bog scowled and ripped another bloom from the bower before him, rending with a fine bit more of ferocity then he had the last one. Sod off, Plum, you’re not but a memory and an annoying one at that.

He was already in her Kingdom, anyway—

“Sire? Is it fair of us to leave soon?”

Bog sighed as he turned to Muggon, who looked up at his King with an expression that was pleading it was almost pained. “Muggon, if you can stomach guttin’ and skinnin’ a squirrel in the dead of Winter, ye can stomach a party for a while yet. I need to stay here.” And see if I can find her again—

“That’s hardly a fair comparison,” Muggon groused, looking thoroughly put out. “One of those things is a pleasure, the other is a pain.”

Bog nearly groaned, he was so sodding done with it all. “Muggon, fer mud’s sake, get over yer—”

“Um, your highness? Bog King?”

The two goblins immediately stopped and looked at the young Fairy maiden before them with surprise, which only seemed to make the already nervous lass all the more uncomfortable, twisting a pale golden curl around her finger and biting her rosebud of a lower lip in consternation as she took in the two fierce beings before her.

The Pixie hovering over her shoulder was what caught Bog’s attention, and he surprised himself with his smile at the sight of them. “Lady Daffodil! How fares ye?”

The Pixie chittered and chirped in delight before zooming up to him and around him a fair few times, trilling her happiness at his greeting. Muggon gaped, and the Fairy maiden blinked frankly enormous brown eyes – not the amber-gold of Marianne’s, but the soft brown of soil – in amazement. “Daffy, you know each other?”

“We met during the Winter,” Bog clarified, mildly wishing he could shoo away the creature without hurting her physically nor her feelings. Aware that Muggon was still gaping, he cleared his throat and stood his scepter in the ground, drawing himself up as regally as he could. “What is it, Lady…?”

The lass blinked again then blushed, the pink of her cheeks far outstripping any of the roses beside them. “Oh! Um, Daisy. Lady Daisy. I mean, just Daisy is fine…” she trailed off and gave a clearly embarrassed wriggle. “Whichever you prefer, sir. I mean, Sire.”

She snuck another look at Daffodil as she still merrily made her way around the dark and dire King, and was obviously unable to hold back her amazement. “I can’t believe she likes you so much…!”

Muggon dropped his gaping in favor of a scowl, and Daisy’s cheeks flushed crimson once more, but Bog merely chuckled. “Nor can I, lass. What was it ye wanted?” Amusing as it was to him, he doubted a girl as naturally nervous as she seemed had willingly come to him to chat about her little friend.

Daisy, clearly quelling under Muggon’s fierce look, started and flushed even more. “Sorry, I meant to tell you straight away – I mean, she wanted me to tell you as soon as I found you…”

She stopped herself and took a breath, straightening her shoulders and spine even as her hands tucked themselves in her skirt, still clearly nervous. “Queen Marianne sent Daffy – I mean, Daffodil to come ask you to the Library. If you wanted to meet her there, that is? Apparently she wants to talk to you—”

She stopped with a little shriek as Bog went past her in a rush of wind and wings.

Remembering himself, he flipped around midair to address Muggon. “Muggon, find Stuff and Thang and let them know Ah’m meeting with the Queen. If they wish to leave before th’ end of th’ ceremonies, tell th’ fairies my mother is ill and she needs attending to.” It was true enough, wasn’t it?

Muggon had lost any trace of his scowl in favor of panic, his dark eyes darting back and forth between his King and Daisy. “Alright, but – ah – what do I do afterwards, your majesty?”

Bog favored him with a slightly evil smile. “Why, enjoy th’ conversation with this fine lass, mah good Goblin.”

Muggon scowled once more, gritting his teeth so hard Bog could easily imagine the dagger he was certain his lackey was yearning for in that moment. His smile growing, he inclined his head to Daisy, who also seemed less then enthused about keeping her current company. In fact, the girl looked rather faint. “A great gratitude to ye, my dear, but Ah best go now – it would nae do ta keep yer Queen waiting, would it?”

Hells, like he would be able to be kept waiting any longer—

“Hmph! Since when do you ever?”

With that dratted voice in his ears and that thought in mind, Bog rolled back into his original path and sped through the air, the sight of Muggon shooting him a discrete obscene gesture doing nothing to stop the chuckle he had to give.

A chat in the library, eh? He could do that. He most certainly could do that indeed.

The route to the Library was as well-known and familiar as ever, though sheets were now draped over the furniture, no doubt as protection from the dust and frosts of the Winter. They would’ve made a ghostly sight if not for the swarms of pixies taking them off and shaking them out, chirping and cheeping merrily, buzzing about in bright swirls of color.

That was until Bog passed by, and the small clouds of them were scattered, the wee things tumbling back with shrill little screams from the force of his speed. Looking back, Bog gave an apologetic grimace before continuing on, still intent. So close, he was so close—

And then he was there, almost all too soon, the doors of the Library looming before him.

His frantic flight at an end, Bog touched down, the buzzing of his wings slowing to a stop as a strange sort of trepidation coming over his heart. Just beyond the doors, that was where she was…

They could finally talk after all this time, just like before…

A Winter without her, and now she was here, just a few feet of wood and gilt separating them the only barrier between them now…

Bog lifted his fist, then lowered it, his heart giving a queer thud. What if he did something to ruin it?

Enough stalling, ye great coward.

Bog closed his eyes and took the deepest breath he could manage, the feel of it rattling through his scales before he let it out in a great gust and knocked on the door before his nerve could fail him, his heart echoing the hammer of it.

There was silence, and for a few heartsick seconds, Bog wondered if the Fairy maid had been mistaken—

Then a familiar alto called out curiously, even cautiously. “Who is it?”

Oh gods.

It took Bog several seconds to find the breath for his reply, meager as it was. “Me.”

There was a pause that seemed to last forever to Bog, and he began to panic anew. Oh hells, had he already done something wrong—?

Then the door opened with a great heave, and there was Marianne, standing there with a smile of such sincerity upon her face Bog felt his heart stutter.

She looked…

Bog wasn’t sure how he managed the few steps past the doorway, Marianne quickly stepping back to let him through, but somehow he did it with enough sense not to stumble as he drank her in.

She had changed out of her traveling outfit into a new gown, the purple iris petals hugging her slender waist like a lover’s embrace. Her hair seemed lighter, a bit more golden-red then when he had last seen her, and there was a glow of sun to her skin. Even her wings seemed to shimmer with a new iridescence as they flowed behind her. Undoubtedly it was all because of the sunlight she had seen in the South.

Or perhaps his memory had betrayed him and she had always looked so bright, so—

Thoughts and feelings crashed through him, words tumbling upon his tongue before he just managed to keep them back behind his fangs. The thing that remained clear in the tumult of it all was the desire to take her in, bask in her being there, right there, when for so long she hadn’t. This whole time he had felt it, had fought against the fast-burgeoning bud of it in him, impatient and ill-concealed no matter how hard he had tried to dismiss it.

Now it was all he could to steady his drinking in of the shine of those dark locks under the light of the Library, that warm flush in those cheeks and the amber flash of those eyes he had – so dearly – missed, all of her so tangible and so there—

He wanted…

Marianne let out a soft, breathless laugh under the continued silence, bashful but beaming, her eyes sweeping down and her wee white teeth catching at her lower lip in a vulnerable bite, slender fingers twisting at each other, hands clasping together for comfort. Bog’s fingers itched to curl along them, feel the press of her palm against his once more, hold her—

Hold her.

He wanted to hold her.

The tempest storming within him came to a crashing calm as Bog’s mind blanked with shock. He wanted to hold her?

—hold her hug her embrace her feel her heartbeat against his know that she was there, there there there, with him—

Bog tried very hard not to reel. He – that – that was completely inappropriate, especially between two rulers, rulers of neighboring kingdoms—!

—but between you and her—

Bog viciously pushed the thought away. They were a King and a Queen. His kind may have never set much store in fluttery, fanciful forms of formality, but some codes had to be observed, impetuous impulses or not.

More importantly, such an action would be undoubtedly shocking for Marianne, most definitely unwelcome—

Like anyone would welcome being in your arms—

The hot, discomforting prickle of angry acknowledgement and bitter acceptance in the wake of that venomous old voice brought Bog back to the fact that he was still stewing in silence whilst the poor girl was waiting for him to speak, amber eyes wide and getting worried—

You great git, bloody well do something.  

His hand nearly shot forward in decisive determination before Bog caught himself in time and gentled the action, claws curling in careful consideration, his palm open and up and undemanding. No matter what her response would be, a returning clasp or a rejection, it was hers to make and his to readily accept.

Marianne looked up at him, eyes still wide, and something in them flickered, a faint flame of something – disappointment? ­– in those amber depths before she softly placed her hand in his.

For one brief moment, so brief that Bog could have easily dismissed it as mere imagination, her fingers seemed to curl at his, clasp him closer, a coil of power tensing through her arm like she was preparing to tug, pull him to her—

And then those glowing gold eyes ducked down, and Marianne gave another soft, bashful laugh, giving his hand a firm shake before letting go and clasping her hands together, tucking them into her skirt. Her voice carried the same warmth and edge of embarrassment that traced her smile. “It’s…good to see you again, Bog King.”

Bog had to fight once more for the breath that formed his reply, and even then, it was a trial to get the words out. “And…and you, Queen Marianne.”

Oh, brilliantly spoken, you great git. Yer winning awards for sheer prose.

Marianne gave another laugh that distracted that poisonous voice, breathless and bashful still. “I—I mean, it’s incredibly good to talk to you, face to face. I was so scared that we wouldn’t be able to, if you needed to get back to your Kingdom—” she stopped and looked at him with wide, worried eyes. “You don’t need to go now, do you?”

Bog gave a laugh of his own, even softer than hers, both amused and touched at her endless concern. “I—no, there’s no worry of that. They know that I wanted—I mean, that I needed to be here. I…”

He paused and hoped his words didn’t betray his heart. “…I can stay as long as you need me to.”

Marianne’s smile was so giddy with gladness that Bog almost had to grin himself, it was so infectious. “Good. I mean—!” she stopped and stumbled, her words and wants so clearly conflicting, her hands leaving her skirt to twist at each other. “I don’t want you to feel as though you have to stay as long as I want you to, because, well, I know that, ah, the ceremony and the tour must have been quite tiring and, um, tedious, I mean, hell, it’s tedious even for me and I’m the Queen here—”

She stopped again then sighed before letting her head drop into her hand, her crown gleaming with the gesture and her voice muffled. “I swore to myself I wouldn’t do this.”

“This?” Bog knew he shouldn’t be grinning, but gods, he couldn’t help it, he so loved hearing her voice again, after a Winter of its silence, and she was so…endearing when she let her words carry her away—

Marianne looked up to give him an apologetic, lop-sided smile. “Babble. Get clumsy. I always do that when I’m hap—” she stopped and cleared her throat, bringing a hand through her hair as a blush came back on her cheeks, “—when my emotions get the better of me. I…”

She stopped again and her blush deepened before she took a deep breath and straightened her spine, her skirt rustling. “Well…suffice to say, I didn’t and don’t want to waste your time. That’s not the point of the diplomacy, and I know that you’re probably sick of all the songs and dances we put on in this Kingdom when it comes to politics—”

“You’re not entirely wrong,” Bog replied, smiling wryly. “Particularly when your King is the one singing and dancing them.”

Marianne snorted before controlling herself. “Regardless, I wanted you to know how deeply we appreciated everything you’ve done this past season.” She laid her hand on his forearm, and Bog felt a prickling warmth flood from the spot, her the press of her palm sinking into him like something he had no words for—

Marianne continued on, oblivious of the effect such a simple touch was having on him, and Bog fought to regain what control he could and pay attention to her words. “—practically sang about how much the fireroot helped them this season. You know how much music means to this Kingdom, so that’s huge coming from them. And then to have invited you to one of their communal sings—!”

She stopped and exhaled, a great gust of pleasure. “I knew it was going to be a success. But to have such an outpouring, to have them make such a point of singing your praises to everyone, and to see them greet your people with such good cheer…”

Bog smiled with pleased wryness. “It almost makes this Winter worth it.”

Marianne looked at him concernedly. “What do you mean?”

Bog immediately wished he hadn’t said anything. “Nothing, it’s nothing, I promise you—”

She didn’t need to hear about how he had fared, after all—

Marianne put her hands on her hips and gave him a stern look, her manner so like his mother’s that Bog almost laughed.

Instead, he tried not to do her any disservice and fought to find the right words, ones that would pacify and yet inform, divulge and yet not be steeped in self-pity. “This Winter…”

Was hell? Hateful? A bane because you were gone?

Bog cleared his throat and raised a shoulder, setting his scales to crackle as he dropped his gaze away from her, feeling something close to almost…bashful? “Well…it seemed a long one.”

He couldn’t very well tell her it was made all the longer by her absence, after all, he wasn’t about to pile on meaningless guilt, not when she was here now—

“I know what you mean.” She turned and walked to the table, leaning against with a carelessness one wouldn’t think would come from a Queen. The gesture was so familiar and welcome that Bog only just restrained his pleasure at it in a half smile.

Marianne caught it and a smile of her own blossomed upon her face as she took him in, the look in her eyes fond. “I hope at the very least yours was better than mine.”

Doubtful, that. But there was something beneath that amber-gold gleam, something staining her tone that made Bog look at her in concern as he joined her at the table. “It was a trying Winter for you as well?”

For while he was sure any Fairy would be nothing but happy to be away from the snows and drenched in sunshine, Marianne was different. He had reread her letter enough times to recall her words, the cursive carefully constraining an unhappiness Bog was all too ready to remedy.

Marianne sighed, her smile dropping along with her eyes, and she studied her hands as they twined together in front of her. “Well, some parts were…lovely. Being with Dawn and Sunny, seeing Jasmine, that was great.” Her lips curved in a brief hint of a half-smile before it fell once more, and she fell into pensive, almost pained lines. “But, there…there was…other stuff.” Her brow furrowed, and her lip curled. “Council stuff.”

Bog drew his head up at that, a sage and sad understanding in his voice. “Ah.”

“Right.” Marianne rolled her eyes, an unhappy scowl twisting her fine features. “Shockingly, they weren’t pleased with my reports about all that you and I accomplished this Fall, nor by the fact that I was still so eager to continue working on our diplomatic aims even during our stay in the Southern Fairy Empire.  Apparently, they were under the impression that a Winter away from y—”

She stopped and flushed before continuing, speaking with what seemed to be more care. “A Winter away from here would have caused the flame of my enthusiasm to cool.” She smirked unhappily. “So to speak.”

Bog looked at her, her small stature smaller in her unhappiness as her shoulders drew up and she crossed her arms in front of her, and a positive deluge of distress made his fingers twitch with the need to reach out to her as she stood by the table, take her hand, comfort her somehow.

He set his jaw and contented himself with moving closer, hoping that his voice held some of the pained sympathy so heavy in his heart. “Ah’m sorry…”

Disquietingly, Marianne seemed to withdraw further at that, ducking her head down as she spoke once more, her voice strangely dull. “I wouldn’t have minded so much, but then they…” she sighed gustily before raising her head to meet Bog’s worried gaze, her face almost brutally blank. “They apparently used the Fall to do some brainstorming sessions themselves, to think of ways to improve the moral of the Kingdom other than diplomacy.”

Bog blinked before sputtering in his shock. “But…it’s a success! We know it to be—”

Marianne laughed, soft and bitter. “Like they would let that stop them. Prejudice is a weed that never stops. It just finds new ways to grow back.” She ran a hand through her hair, rough enough that her crown was set slightly askew, sighing as she did so. “The Council had many…” her lip curled, “…suggestions for alternate ways in which to improve the moral of the Kingdom.” Her voice became dull once more. “One way garnered almost…unequivocal support.”  

Bog raised a scaly brow at her, trying to ignore the foreboding unfurling in him like some awful bloom. “Which is…?”

She looked away. “An heir to the throne.”

Bog could only stare at her in the silence that followed, the slow rise of horror within him sticking in his throat, stopping him from speaking.

No…oh gods, no…

Marianne’s shoulders rose and fell with her silent, deep inhale, before she looked up with a briskness that bordered on brusque. She then turned to the table with a tenseness in her shoulders that traveled down her wings as she began to sort through the papers on the tabletop, gathering and shuffling them in a forceful manner that seemed to hold no true rhyme or reason. “Like that will happen. Still, good to know that they recognize my worth.” Her voice was as bitter as belladonna seeds, brittle as bones. “Roland’s the King. I’m the breeder.”

Bog stared at her, horrified at the resignation in her voice, and the words left his mouth before he could even think. “You’re the heir to the throne.”

She looked up at him sharply, her brow furrowing, the papers slacking out of her grip.

Bog continued, urgent and low, determined to make her see, make her understand that she was not – that she was so much more – “You were born to rule, a royal by blood and character. He had to marry you to get whatever power he has. He is nothing without you.”

He is nothing compared to you.

Marianne’s wide eyes were had grown wider still, and she was so silent as she stared at him Bog wondered if her very breath had stopped. The look in her eyes was one of an almost unnerving intensity, as if there was a chance that if she were to give even the merest blink, he would disappear.

And she desperately didn’t want that…

The thought came so suddenly that it was Bog who blinked, before furiously focusing on something else so he would not follow such an idea. Looking away, he cleared his throat, shrugging his shoulders with a crackle of scales. “B-besides, if the need for the heir was so very pressing…” he paused to look at Marianne, careful cautious concern at odds with honest confusion, “…is not adoption an equal path to parenthood?”      

Marianne blinked and started, passing a hand through her hair once more and making a noise that was somehow a huff of laughter and a shaky exhale. “It…it absolutely is, but…the Council isn’t concerned about parenthood. They want an heir. Someone to continue the royal bloodline. I’m pretty sure there some horrible old archaic laws about it too.” She crossed her arms once more and slumped against the table, her face somewhere between rueful and wrathful. “I would love to destroy them, but fat chance of that happening.”

Bog shook his head, appalled. “But if you chose the child—!”  

Marianne’s voice was horribly flat. “In their eyes, the symbolism of blood trumps the power of choice, even if it comes from a Queen.” She paused before continuing, her voice turning soft, a melancholy murmur. “Besides…no matter how badly I want—” she stopped to take a breath, so deeply it was almost a shudder, before continuing with a detached determination that was honestly dreadful. “I couldn’t live with myself, bringing in an innocent child into such a sham of a—”

She stopped again, took another breath, and closed her eyes. “Into a marriage like Roland’s and mine. I don’t…I can’t do that. I won’t do that.” She then sighed, uncrossing her arms to press a hand to the back of her neck. “Besides, I don’t think Roland has ever wanted to be a father.”  

She then shrugged, turning her head away with a determinedly blasé air that made Bog’s heart ache anew. So careful to mask her unhappiness. “Anyway, I decided long ago to pass the throne onto Dawn and Sunny. Sunny might not be able to be recognized as King, but everyone will be happy to have Dawn on the throne.”

Bog silently ruminated over this news, considering the implications of it. To have an Elf on the throne would no doubt cause no small amount of chaos in the Fairy Kingdom. Marianne was wise to play to the power and popularity that her sister held over the court, and undoubtedly she had considered the support those in the Fields would give to her brother-in-law, even if it was only her sister who bore an actual title.

Yet there was one detail that was distracting him…

Bog his lower lip a slow pass of his tongue, wondering if he even dared pursue such a train of thought. Surely it would hurt her further still to discuss—

“You can ask it, whatever it is.”

He started and looked up, and Marianne gave him a smirk that didn’t negate the weary fondness in her eyes as she looked at him. “I know you well enough by now to tell when you’re trying to hold yourself back from doing something. And I always prefer answering questions then dealing with assumptions.”

Right. Bog swallowed and scratched at the back of his neck, nervous nonetheless. “You…said you believe your husband has never wanted to…to enter parenthood. Would…would you…?”

Marianne looked at him with those large, luminescent eyes, eyes that could give him so much but gave nothing to him now, and Bog wondered if he had made a fatal mistake.  

Then she turned to the table, her easy casualness almost surreal, leaving Bog to look at her back, the gentle shifting of her wings.

Her voice was clear and calm when she spoke, her hands busying themselves with another bundle of paper. “I suppose that’s what makes it such a shame. I…”

She paused, then slowly and softly set the papers down to the table. Bog saw the slight tilt to her chin that kept her face even more away from him.

And gods help him, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking that one worried step to her, his tread almost timid.

Marianne must have sensed him all the same and turned back to face him. Though her face wore an inscrutable expression, her eyes were down and withdrawn, gone to some secret, silent pain. Yet when she spoke, her voice was still collected. “I always wanted to be a mother.”

Bog lowered his eyes, his heart giving an even fiercer ache, unable to look at her as the sight would bring even more pain, a reminder of all that she was and all that she was unable to be. Fiercely protective, forthright and fair, warm and compassionate and kind…she would be a wonderful mother, and now…

Gods, but it’s so wretchedly unfair.

Bog exhaled, slow and steady. Like his unhappiness at her own would make her feel any bloody better.

Then a thought went through his mind with such striking horror that he almost reeled, aghast at the very thought, the very chance—

Oh Gods, please no, please please please no…

Marianne turned to him, going tense as a hare sighting a hawk as she looked at him, her face full of fierce concern. “What it is? What’s wrong?”

Bog shook his head dumbly, numb with the still fresh horror of the thought. He had caused her enough pain with his prying, he wouldn’t add anymore, especially not if there was a chance that they…that he…

Marianne set her jaw, her ferocity fierce as thorns and her concern tender as petals. “Don’t you shake your head at me, you’re obviously freaking out about something, now what is it—?”

“Ah don’…” Bog stopped and cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of the telling rasp in his voice before speaking once more. “I’ve troubled you enough with questions, I don’t want to cause you any more pain—”

“And I don’t want you hurt either,” Marianne retorted, her stern words accompanied by the soft touch of her hand on where his hand held his scepter with clenched knuckles. Her eyes were so soft as they looked at him, so ready to put aside her pain when faced with his. “Please…let me help you like you’ve helped me.”

Well then…

Bog ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth, wishing he could test the mettle of his words on them, taking time to taste them on his tongue before finally speaking. Even then, they sounded trepidatious as he tried to keep his fierce turmoil at bay. “You say that the Council has put this pressure upon you. Given how…they’ve frequently have his support in the past, I know how often your husband sides with them.”

He stopped and breathed as deeply and evenly as he could, even as the sickening thought pushed up through him like welling bile. When he spoke, his words were halting, trying to lessen the horror of them. “Is there…is there a chance, a danger of him…of him…?”

Marianne stared up at him, her brow knit in perplexion and still fierce concern, obviously trying to make sense of the implication of his words, and Bog could only pray that he wouldn’t be forced to make himself plainer.

And that if the golden braggart had done something that irredeemably vile to her, that his claws were sharp enough to gut him from stomach to sternum to stupidly shining smile—

There was a sudden dawning in Marianne’s eyes, and the same horror in the pit of Bog’s stomach was on her face, her features twisted in fresh and fearful understanding.

Then she looked into his eyes, and all fear and revulsion fled, leaving only desperately distressed reassurance.

She reached a hand to his, seizing it with the obvious intent to comfort, the clutch of her fingers so fierce his hand ached. “No,” she said, low and obviously trying to dispel his own horror, even in the face of her own. “Oh god, no no no, it’s…no, I truly don’t believe there’s a danger of…” she swallowed, the slender line of her throat working, trying to get the words out, “…of that. Roland wouldn’t dare.”

Bog closed his eyes, his relief was that great. He had never had to deal with the abomination of rape in his kingdom, what with all goblins holding it as the horror it was, but to think of Marianne in such a position…it tore him to his core. To hells with the diplomacy if the bastard so much as laid a hand on her—

Marianne continued on, tripping over her words in her haste to reassure him. “I mean, I think…I would hope that there are…things beyond him. The most he does is try to convince me of the Council’s ‘wisdom’, but…” Marianne trailed off and sighed, lifting a shoulder.  “Roland doesn’t really…care about the future of the Kingdom.” She then snorted. “Well, apart from the fact that he’s the King of it. But in his eyes, it begins and ends with his reign. Besides, we haven’t shared a bed for—”

Marianne stopped, her whole face aflame.

Bog felt a wave of awkwardness wash over him as well, hot and prickling, as the weight of such an admission sunk through. As close as he and she had become, there still remained some lines that were not to be overstepped. And he already knew far too much about her marriage to begin with.

Would you want it any other way, if you knowing is a comfort to her?  

Surprised, Bog tilted his head at the thought. The echo of old words rang in his ears: “You needn’t worry about letting yourself truly be…be you. There’s no shame in that.”

He had meant them that night, hadn’t he? Marianne had never given any inclination of not wanting to confide in him, and whenever she had expressed reluctance or embarrassment, it had been over her concern of his discomfort.

And he had never turned her away. To be sure, he had never let her know he had soused out Roland’s unfaithfulness, nor had she ever mentioned it to him, but still…as far as he knew, he was the closest thing Marianne had to a confident, besides from her sister and her pixies.

And who was he to shirk such a role?

He was the Bog King of the Dark Forest, and he had never turned down a duty before.

Meanwhile, Marianne seemed to have recovered from her humiliation and had shrugged back her shoulders, her mouth in a moue of resolve. “So…yeah. Roland hasn’t a chance to try anything like that. Even if he wanted to…” a look of disgust flitted across her face before she pushed on determinedly, “…like you said, I’m the heir to the throne. If he harmed me in any way—” she stopped and gave a wry smile, “—well, physically harmed me in anyway, he would have the whole kingdom to answer to. They might take flirting with other women lightly, but not that.”

She then sighed, letting her shoulders slump in a shrug. “Besides…I’ve learned to take care of myself.”

Bog smiled sadly, wishing he could say something to put a smile back on her face. “I don’t doubt you there, Tough Girl.”

Marianne looked at him curiously, her eyebrows quirking. “Tough Girl?”

Now it was Bog’s face that was aflame. “Ah—Ah’m sorry, that was—”

“No, it’s fine.” Amazingly, Marianne was smiling. “I just…no one has ever called me that. Roland always calls me Buttercup—” her nose scrunched in disgust, “—or pretty little thing. He’s never…he never would call me strong or tough or anything like that.” She gave a wry smile once more. “Probably wouldn’t think it’s ladylike.”

“That you put any store by what that fool thinks is a kindness he doesn’t deserve,” Bog retorted gently, daring to give her a smile of his own.

Marianne laughed, and it sung through Bog like the sweetest song. Gods, to think he had missed her voice—

Marianne smiled at him, full and frank, beautiful and beaming, and her laughter still colored her words when she spoke, shaping them into something beyond any kind of sweetness Bog had ever known. “God, I’ve missed you.”

She took a step to him, her arms rising, and suddenly his heart was in his throat—

Marianne halted before blushing brilliantly, her hands falling to her sides, twisting into the fabric of her skirt. “I…I actually had an idea I did want to discuss with you, one that’s…that’s sort of related to that.” She pushed a hand through her hair, her cheeks still carrying a bit of pink. “Missing you, I mean.” She stopped and let out a soft, deprecating laugh. “I’m sorry, I sound so sappy each time I say it—”

“Ye truly don’t,” Bog managed to say, and for some reason his heart was pounding. Gods, he could listen to her say that all day. Him, she had missed him—

She smiled at him gratefully before clearing her throat and continuing. “Well, the thing is…I know that you don’t like to be away from your Forest, so you can absolutely veto this if you think it won’t be useful, but…” her fingers fiddled with the bodice of her dress, picking at petals, and the look she gave him was hesitant, almost shy. “I…I was thinking of building a wing for you.”

Bog could only blink at her in his shock. “A…a wing? Here? At the Fairy Palace?”

She gave him a smile both nervous and teasing. “Well, yeah, where else?” She blew out a breath, a strand of her hair fluttering out of the way. “I just…I just thought that it might be nice, you know? Having a place for you to stay so you wouldn’t have to keep traveling back and forth. Knowing that…” she blushed again, her eyes ducking down, shyness once more stealing over her, “…knowing that you’re here, even if it’s only for a night or two. After a Winter without you, I…I think it could be nice. Would be nice.”

She stole look up at him, biting her lip and then shrugging in a determinedly nonchalant way. “At the very least, it’s a definite show of hospitality between the two Kingdoms, and maybe we can get both of our people to work on it, architects and laborers and, and—”

Marianne stopped with a sharp inhale as Bog took her hand in his, and even he wondered at his daring as he raised it up between them to cover it with his other hand. But it was suddenly rendered a matter of little to no consequence when he looked into her eyes, their great golden-brown depths so deep, so guileless and gorgeous…

He had had no intention of sounding so tender when he spoke, but he simply couldn’t summon up a damn. “You would give me a home here?”

Marianne stared up into his eyes, so close that he could see the butterfly-flutter of her pulse on her throat. “Only if you wanted one,” she breathed.

Bog could only nod, his heart too strangely full for him to answer.

Marianne blinked then ducked her head down, her free hand going to her hair and a blush once more stealing over her features, her wee teeth biting into her lower lip, deprecating and delicate. “I mean…if you really think it’s a good idea…I don’t want you to only do it because I’m a huge sap who missed you so much that she can’t bear to be without you now—”

“I did too.”

Marianne stopped completely to look up into Bog’s eyes, her own eyes wide.

“Miss you.” Bog’s throat was tight, his heart so full of something inexplicable and unexplainable and all for her that it ached, but he could only continue. “I missed you too. So much.”

Marianne remained stock still, her eyes still taking him in, her lips parted.

Bog felt the prickle of humiliation begin to creep over him, and he cleared his throat, his scales rattling as he shrugged his shoulders, preparing to drop her hand which he really ought to have done ages ago. You great prat. “That is, I, uh—”

The rest of Bog’s words left him in a gasp as Marianne launched herself into his arms, her hug fierce and strong, her tiny body clutching at his in a clasp that the flytraps of his Kingdom couldn’t have competed with.

Bog could only gape as he stared down at her, his hands hovering over her form, his heartbeat thundering beneath her cheek. She was—

He was—

No had ever, no one besides his mother, no one had ever dared to—

And she had—

And she felt so—

Slowly, softly, his touch as tentative and timid as a twice-burned moth, his hands settled over her back, and Bog wondered at the feel of the petals beneath the wide weight of his palms, so soft under his skin, so warm from her body…

A strange and sudden flash of something went through him at that thought, and Bog could only spare it a passing glance as he quickly discovered just how huge he was in comparison to her. The top of her head only barely brushed where his chest began, but her arms, slender and yet so very strong, easily wrapped around the skinny, scaly trunk of his waist. His hands covered the width of her waist and then some, and Bog found that he could just as easily span the length of her spine with them too. Now more than ever did he take care with his claws, his heartbeat hammering at the thought of her dress rent by him, or gods forbid, her skin…

He could so easily hurt her without even meaning to. He knew that, she had to know that…

And yet here she was, hugging him like…like…

Like she’s been wanting to hold you as much as you had wanted to hold her?

Bog nearly reeled at the thought. For him to feel such a way for her, that was one thing, but to have anyone nurse such a feeling for him—!

It was then that it truly dawned on him, the feel of her in his arms and the press of his palms upon her back and her breath above his breast all combining into a powerful punch of understanding.

She had missed him.

She had truly, truly missed him.

Bog’s gaping shock slowly faded into a slow and wondering smile. He looked down once more at her, this young Fairy so ferociously fine in all her ambitions and dearly held dreams, and felt his heart throb in tender astonishment. She would never cease to amaze him, would she?

And it was suddenly so very easy to embrace her back, not just hold her but hug her, his sudden gush of feelings making any stiffness of shock leave his body. Bog bent easily, his arms circling her, and let himself sink into the embrace and all the emotions it gave forth. This…

This, more than any blue sky, more than any tender furl of new leaves, more than even those wretched primroses, proved that Winter was utterly banished, that all cold loneliness had fled. Spring had come, and Bog felt a warmth spread through his chest like new roots as he held Marianne in his arms.

She’s back.

[ucsdcrossculturalcenter]

Marianne’s declassified post-grad survival guide (grad school edition)

The “Post-Grad” Life, A Word

Being a graduating fourth year is a mix of emotions. It’s looking forward to no longer taking out loans and finally graduating. It’s fearing the debt and job prospects out in the real world —something known as the “post-grad” life. The post-grad life can be about anything, as I, myself, am learning by talking to different alumni, professors, etc. I think that’s what scary about post-grad are the uncertainties and rejections of the vicious job market which new graduates tend to experience. Additionally, graduate school also becomes an option as to whether one wants to continue in furthering their education. If alumni are going through it and have made it, then there is hope for us all.

I recently decided I want to go into graduate school for at least a master’s in either ethnic studies or urban studies after my undergrad here at UC San Diego. As a result, I have been researching different programs, and talking with professors and current graduate students about the steps I should take, their experiences, etc. I thought to share some of that research and advice in the following tips below in case some of y’all are contemplating/preparing for graduate school.

Tips for applying to graduate school

1) Deciding which program is right for you

Graduate school is a commitment in which you dedicate 2+ years to, so it’s essential that you know that you are willing to endure and invest in graduate school. If you are considering graduate school, it’s important to think about: 1) what your passions are, and 2) whether you want to do a master’s degree or doctorate (PhD) degree. Your passions are necessary to evaluate which programs you want to do, and which topics you wish to explore. In other words, what field of study are you interested in expanding and contributing to? What field of study do you see yourself dedicated to? Having no passion or interest in a certain field may impact the graduate school experience, which is said to defeat the purpose of graduate school.

Another question to ask is: would you want to do a master’s degree, which is about two years, or doctorate degree, which is about eight years? Will you take a gap year(s) or continue after undergraduate school?  Again, graduate school is a commitment and there must be a willingness and curiosity to pursue academia and research because it is intense. Graduate school realistically occupies a portion of your life and you must be okay with that as to whichever program you choose to do.

2) Looking at faculty you want to work with

One professor’s piece of advice was to study which works you value or resonate with in your field of interest, and connecting with scholars who wrote/researched these works. So looking at where these scholars are situated may help in finding which graduate school programs most fit for you, because there becomes an opportunity for them to be your mentor(s) and work in their projects. Mentors are valuable because they are able to overlook your professional and personal growth in graduate school, in addition to facilitating connections in the field. Thus, working under the right mentors should be factor in deciding which graduate schools to apply to and attend.

3) Finding graduate programs that fund you

Graduate schools do offer substantial financial aid to cover the costs of a graduate degree. Some programs, such as PhD programs, do fully fund a candidate meaning you would not have to pay anything, whereas other programs offer partial funding for competitive candidates. Other funding sources can come from fellowships, which are organizations that seek to expand a certain field of academia and offers stipends/financial aid. Fellowships can come in different forms such as research and teaching. These are resources to explore because there are ways to supplement your graduate education either financially, socially (for connections and building a resume), or both.

4) Deciding which places you’d be content in

While thinking about location is more recreational, it is significant to think about because you will be spending a great amount of years in the area, so you must be content with living there. With that in mind, do think about the activities and climate that the location has to offer. For instance, one graduate student I had talked to chose UC San Diego for graduate school by considering her love for swimming, the ocean, and sunny weather. These factors are integral in choosing a graduate school because they do create the overall graduate school experience.

Decisions and Processes

Once you do know you want to attend graduate school, there are in-depth steps in the application process you must complete. Graduate school applications are composed of the Graduate Record Examination (GRE) score, personal statement, GPA, extracurricular activities, and letters of recommendation. This can be a costly process because money is spent over GRE prep and the GRE test fee, and application fees. There is a huge amount of time spent studying for the GRE, writing meaningful personal statements, making and sustaining connections for letters of recommendation, and sometimes building a GPA. Applying to graduate school is a complicated process, but definitely worth it in the end if you remain passionate and zealous about learning and producing knowledge.

[surveystodestressme]

41.

5000 Question Survey Pt. 2 101. What does happiness/joy feel like physically? i don’t know... it feels good 102. List five people you love starting with the one you love the absolute most. i don’t think i have a scale from highest to lowest.  i love jack, my parents, my sister, mariann, my brother 103. How many movies have you gone to see this month? a couple 104. If you could have 3 wishes…but none of them could be for yourself, what would you wish for? my boyfriend to [ass all of his classes, my parents to not have to worry about bills ever again, and my brother to get his life together 105. In what ways do you relax and de-stress when you are really tense? read, sleep, or do surveys lol

106. How much money would it take to get you to drive to school naked in the springtime and get out of the car? a lot lol 107. Have you ever killed an animal? i hit a deer and killed it 108. Have you ever lost someone close to you? yeah 109. What do you think of cloning? it’s kind of cool honestly, i just hope they don’t try to clone humans anytime soon 110. Do you read or watch TV more often? watch tv shows definitely 111. With all this talk of terrorism going around are you willing to sacrifice rights and freedoms for increased safety? it depends what those rights are. 112. What is the punishment you would come up with for Osama Bin Laden if you caught him alive? well he isn’t anything to worry about anymore lol so it doesn’t matter 113. Have you ever named an individual part of your body? not that i remember 114. Have you ever been on the radio or on TV? i’ve been on tv for my bowling league. 115. Have you ever won a lottery, or sweepstakes? nope 116. Have you ever won a contest or competition? i think so 117. Do you like to watch The Joy of Painting show with Bob Ross (check out this link if you don’t know who he is. Also please note me if you notice the link is broken) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bob_Ross_(painter)? never watched it 118. Do you know what your grandparents and your great grand parents did for a living? my mothers mum helps old people for a living, my mothers dad works at target.  my dad’s parents, i honestly have no idea what they do 119. Is there anything really interesting in your family history? not that i am aware of 120. Is there anyone you trust completely? of course 121. Have you ever lost someone without having the chance to say goodbye? a few times 122. How do you feel about women in politics? i think we need more of them for sure 123. Would you rather have an indoor Jacuzzi or an outdoor pool? indoor jacuzzi for sure 124. What things are you interested in that you study or read about on your own? anything that has to do with outer space 125. Would you consider yourself to be intelligent? i like to think so 126. Would you consider yourself to be wise? i try to be 127. Have you ever given or received a lap dance? both i think lol 128. Have you ever spoken to a homeless person? yeah 129. Would you ever creep into the subway tunnels to go exploring? that does not sound like a good idea 130. If you could add 70 years to your life but only by making some random person die 70 years sooner would you? i don’t think i could do that 131. Can you finish any of the following lyrics? A: Nothing to kill or die for… B: Late comings with the late comin’ stretcher… C: I could make a film and make you my star… i don’t think i know any of these. 132. Were you ever with someone while they died? i mean, besides my pets no 133. Would you rather be a world political leader or a rock star? rock star for sure 134. Have you ever given someone a love letter that you wrote? yep 135. Have you ever sent someone a surprise though the mail? uhhh not that i can think of 136. Are you looking forward to any concerts right now? none that i have plans to go to 137. Of all animated movies, which is the best one you’ve ever seen? big hero 6 138. What are the best bands or songs to listen to while driving? it really depends honestly 139. What do you think is the most amazing thing that anyone has ever accomplished? there’s a lot 140. What could a member of the opposite sex do to impress you? make me laugh 141. About how many emails do you get a day? How many of those emails are junk mail? How many of them are forwards? on my regular email i only get a few a day and they’re usually important 142. What’s your favorite thing to do online besides write in your diary and hang out at this site? watch youtube videos 143. Do you believe Kurt Cobain (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kurt_Cobain) killed himself or was it a conspiracy? i have no idea 144. Have you ever though about hitchhiking across the country? i wouldn’t be able to do it 145. Who would you bring with you on this kind of a road trip? well on just a regular road trip i would take jack 146. Of the following, which word best describes you: accurate, bold, charming, dependable dependable. 147. If you are single, at about what age do you think you will be ready to settle down and get married? If you are married, how old were you at the time? i’m not single and i’m not for sure whether or not jack wants to marry me 148. Do you often wonder, when you say goodbye to people, if it is the last time you will ever see them? i try not to think like that 149. What movie are you most looking forward to seeing when it comes out? the new Jigsaw movie 150. What is your quest? to get thru life man 151. What is louder and more annoying: 200 adults talking or one four-year-old screaming? one four year old screaming.  i hate kids

152. Do you believe the stories about planes, boats and people mysteriously disappearing into the Bermuda triangle? i mean, yeah lol.  i’m gullible and that shit scares me 153. Who are you the most jealous of? my sister for having her life together lol 154. What is the happiest way you can start your day? waking up next to jack is always an amazing start to my day 155. Do you ever have moments where you feel like everything is all right in the world? yeah 156. Who thinks that you are offensive? i’m sure tons of people do 157. If you had to teach a class in something, what would you be able to teach people? about cats 158. Have you ever had a spiritual experience (an experience that cannot be explained by science)? no 159. Do you believe that this experience was truly mystical or do you think there is some scientific explanation for it, only you don’t know what it is? - 160. Do you get offended easily? sometimes

161. Would you still love and stay with your signifigant other if he or she had to have a breast or testicle removed? of course i would 162. Do you believe in fate or free will? free will 163. Do you believe that only boring people get bored? i don’t think i’m a boring person and i get bored often 164. Can life change or are we all stuck in vain? life can change definitely 165. What changes are you afraid of? the future 166. Are you a day person or nocturnal? i’m a night person 167. What one CD could you listen to for an entire week (no mixed CD’s, it must be an album)? probably a twenty one pilots cd 168. Which is worse, working in retail, food service, or an office? an office, i could never work in one. i can’t imagine how dull it is 169. What’s the coolest job you ever had? the movie theater 170. What is one central idea that your thoughts seem to come back to? idk 171. Have you ever wanted to be an actor/tress? yeah i used to but now i thin how awful it would be bc there would never be any privacy 172. If you had the power to control one person and make this person do anything you wanted for a whole day, who would you pick and what would they do? i wouldn’t do that to a person that just sounds cruel 173. What star sign are you and what is your sign like? aries and idk honestly i don’t read up on that kind of stuff 174. Did the Blair Witch Project scare you? it didn;t scare me at all 175. Are you in constant fear of death? eh not really.  i don’t think about it a lot 176. Does fear of death keep you from building a life? not at all 177. Do you like all your movies to be in wide-screen? i don’t mind either way 178. Are you a fan of any comic books? i like some of them 179. At what age did you attend your first funeral? i was pretty young but i don’t remember how old exactly 180. What do you smell like (lotion, cologne, sweat)? my deodorant 181. What are your greatest sources for wisdom? the internet probably or school 182. When you were little, where did your parents tell you babies come from? i never really asked until i was old enough to know 183. What is your favorite band? i don’t have one. 184. What’s the best cheesy 80’s song? i don’t know 185. What’s the best kind of movie to see on a date? something scary for sure 186. Do you like to sit in the front, middle or back of the Movie Theater? i prefer the front 187. Have you ever been inside an abandoned building? nope 188. Under what circumstances would you agree to work for free? unless it’s volunteer work, i wouldn’t 189. Candles or strobe lights? candles. 190. Do you think the Lord of the Rings movies are true to the books or did Hollywood change the story too much? i have never read the books 191. When you see a stranger on the street does your first reaction lean towards thinking of this person as a potential friend or as a potential threat? neither really, i don’t think much of anything 192. Is it natural for human beings to fear and distrust each other, or is it cultural? i think it’s natural 193. What do you really want to buy? a car right now 194. You have to choose. Would you be happier marrying someone rich for their money or living in the streets and subway tunnels with someone you love? living in the street with someone i love.  money is just an object and means nothing to me.  as long as i am happy with the one i love that is all that matters to me 195. If someone wanted to understand you what book could they read that would help? oh shit idk 196. Do you think it’s odd that Americans have freedom of religion and yet call themselves ‘one nation under god’? kind of 197. In what sense are you a minority? a woman i guess 198. Are you anti social? kind of 199. Do you photograph well? i think so 200. Do you think that human beings would survivor through a nuclear winter? probably not

[bagleywrightlectures]

Uselessness, Responsibility, & Whacking Away in the Foundry (among other things): a Q&A with Geoffrey Nutter

Bill Carty:  So as part of the class yesterday [Nutter’s “Twenty Poems in a Day” at Hugo House], you had this compendium of lists, all those lists, and I was just curious how you see those lists working their way into your work, and maybe more generally, how your teaching reflects your writing.

Geoffrey Nutter:  Yes. I suppose the exercises I give in the sessions are versions of exercises I’ve given myself, on some level: most often—probably—unconsciously. The Compendium began as a tool to help students to smuggle as much of the physical world, as many images, as possible into their poems. You need to know that there are things, and then you need to know the names of things if you want to write poems. A certain kind of poet wants to get every possible thing in the world into his poems. But aside from that special kind of compulsive inclusiveness, all poets need to get the world into their poems. The Compendium quickly became more of an outgrowth of my own compulsions: in a way, it’s a sort of giant list poem that I invite other poets to pick through and borrow from. When it comes down to it, the idea, at this point, that it’s a teaching tool really just serves to legitimize my own obsessive gathering impulse. The lists in the Compendium are totally useless. They’re not going to teach you anything. On facing pages you’ll find a list of types of waterfalls, the names of water-features on the moon, salutations from the Paston Letters, a list of every word Marianne Moore used only once in her collected poems (this found in the word frequency index to the concordance to her poems); Pope’s description of his grotto in a letter; and names of different kinds of butterflies, clocks, birds, minerals, glass patterns, and the elements of a fernery. I have an intuitive sense of what belongs and what doesn’t. So it’s really a commonplace book that I think of as a sort of big, raw poem-in-progress, but also a resource I hope other poets can use pieces of for their own poems.

BC:  Well, that’s like poetry, in general, right?

GN:  Compulsion.

BC:  Obsessiveness. At one point you said you viscerally reject pronouncements about what poetry should be or do, and you were talking about that in terms of—I can’t remember if it was exactly pertaining to politics in poetry—and you were kind of arguing for a poetry of the lyric moment, and I kind of feel the same way, drawn to quote-unquote political poetry that is like Virgil’s Eclogues: the shepherds are in the fields, the war is there, it’s present in their lives. If you could talk more about that—the lyric moment, and politics in poetry—what you said was really interesting.

GN:  Yeah, I don’t remember exactly what I said which confirms I’m just making it up, but…It’s funny you mention Virgil’s Eclogues: a poem that is definitely “of its time” but it’s also something so utterly strange and beautiful, and nearly impossible to “get.” A very difficult work to teach! As for these pronouncements I was alluding to: I’m on Facebook and sometimes I’ll see some very strident statement about, oh, you know—‘our responsibility as poets’—and I don’t think we have any responsibility as poets. I think we have responsibilities as people, all kinds of responsibilities, but as poets, I don’t think we have any. I get infuriated when I read things like that, because: says who? The Law can tell me I have responsibility to do something, and I might have a responsibility to provide for my children, and I have responsibilities as the citizen of a democracy, but as far as my having responsibility as a poet, I have no responsibility except to write poems.

BC:  You spoke of ‘negative capability,’ this Keats phrase, this idea that poetry doesn’t set out with a purpose, per se. Any individual poem has to be open to all this possibility, and I see that a lot in the end of your poems, in that they don’t seem to end so much as open into a new place. How do you know when a poem is over?

GN:  I guess I don’t. I guess I have no idea [laughter]. But yes—I guess I don’t return much to—maybe I’m just undisciplined, but I never return to what I was talking about at the beginning of the poem. I don’t really feel like I should. I don’t really feel—I feel it’s somehow lazy to stay on subject (laughing). You start a poem about something, and you want to forget about it as soon as possible, I guess. The best kind of poem, I think, would be a kind of “exquisite corpse” where you yourself are the several players—and you immediately forget what came before, but you’re so in synch with the other “players” that it all somehow comes together. There, I suppose, is a way of thinking about negative capability. There’s poor Winston Churchill the bulldog, being left alone as you move on to talking about  something else—but hopefully those disparate things do come together? Like all the other disparate things in life that come together. Don’t they? They do. [laughter]

BC:  I feel obliged to shout out Richard Hugo, his “Writing Off the Subject.” Moving away from it, but also kind of forgetting about the subject.

GN:  Absolutely. That again, is sort of like escaping obligations. I sound like a deadbeat dad: ’Deadbeat Dad Poetry.’ Negative capability is a pretty essential thing, and I think something that can be instructive to the strident pronouncements about what poems are supposed to do in the age of Trump. We want to be writing the poem of our moment. But good poetry is always of the moment. It’s not going to be of the moment just because it’s about the moment, right? We don’t really know what the moment is until much later, away from the moment, anyway. 

BC:  Yeah. I have two thoughts there. One is, I was just remembering Mary Ruefle, in her Wave collection of essays, Madness, Rack, and Honey, she talks about how the term negative capability has “become like a sickness unto death to me,” and the fact that she hears it—she compares it to the US Constitution, in that in can be interpreted by anyone in any way—

GN:  I think that’s probably right, I probably got it wrong!

BC:  Well, that’s just an aside. What’s it like to correspond with Mary Ruefle?

GN:  She sends these wonderful objects, some that she makes and some that are found. She’s really devoted to objects and the notion that correspondences should also be beautiful objects. Mary is an amazing poet and an amazing artist—and a beautiful spirit.

BC:  Yeah. Going back to your previous comment about poetry ‘of this time,’ I was wondering about the way you bring together different sources—you use a lot of old texts, and I was wondering how you think about time. It’s something I always think about, like, what is time in a poem? And how do you—why do you look to those older sources for language?

GN:  Because they’re there. And they’re part of reading and they should be—whatever I’m reading is kind of rolling around in my head. I don’t know, it might be one of those things you don’t examine very much. I like beautiful, complex language that captures something like the movements of consciousness. I like reading 17th century poetry, for example, so I’m not sure—I think poems are constantly moving through time in a strange way. There’s a lot of time warping going on in poems, in the language and the rhythms and the sequences that move like a dream, like they do in waking life, so—we can use language from all times in a single poem, we’re rebuilding a language in each poem, I suppose.

I love reading poems from, say, Chaucer—where you can see someone rebuilding a language, reconstructing this old thing and making it new—and it’s sort of like you’re there with him in the foundry, while he’s whacking away at this lumpen, glowing piece of metal that’s becoming English, and then inventing words like “stoned.” [laughter] Right? I mean: “He was a-stone-ed.”

BC:  Oh, Astonished?

GN:  Yeah…and stoned!

BC:  Wow, I didn’t even think about that—is that the etymology?

GN:  I mean, I’m no English professor. [laughter]

BC:  This is a selfish question because I’ve been banging my head against this series of poems for a while, and the title poem in Cities at Dawn is a serial poem—also, yesterday in class you had us write a serial love poem—so I was curious what the process was behind writing a serial poem.

GN:  That poem is the oldest poem in the book, it’s at least ten years old, and I don’t really know how I wrote that. It’s unlike any of the other poems in the book in that it would just be these quick fragments where I was writing language in a very strange way, but I was trying to capture something, I’m not exactly sure what. I wish I could answer questions about it, but I just can’t.

I’m not particularly happy with it, but then later I look back and think, oh, it’s not the worst thing in the world.

BC: Yeah I do that, look back and think oh, well, not today. Can’t look at those today. What about, thinking about revision—I was putting that first poem in the book on Facebook, so I was looking for it online, and it was actually available at Gulf Coast, under a different title, an earlier version.

GN:  I mainly revise when I’m getting a book ready, starting to put everything together and ripping things apart. Like fixing a boiler.

BC:  What’s your process of putting a book together?

GN:  I use a typewriter, so I’ve got a bunch of typescript, and I go back through all these copies and start combining—once I sort of decide that ‘now’ is the time to put a book together, then I really do all the careful revising. Most of it happens there.

Audience: You said you like to read 17th century poets—what poets do you think of as your predecessors? Who do you look to for inspiration?

GN:  Vaughan, Pope, Wyatt, Dickinson, Bishop, Moore, Stevens, Spenser, Basho, Wang Wei, etc. and 17th century poets, 18th century poets, 19th century poets, 20th century poets—all, any. I am also inspired by prose: Sir Thomas Browne, Emerson, Woolf, Laurence Sterne, Liebling, etc.; I love haiku, and feel like learning about it is an important kind of apprenticeship. They’re all kindred spirits. We should all be reading around a lot, in a lot of different eras and traditions, and not just our own, although those are important too. All of the poets dead and living are our friends and kindred spirits.

Audience:  I was in the workshop and I’m just thinking about this whole issue of politics and poetry, and I was thinking how it felt safer to me, being in that room yesterday. And what I’ve been feeling lately is a lack of feeling, a lack of the affective in civic life. So there is something in poetry—

GN:  Say that again?

Audience:  Something like a void in terms of affective life in our social fabric today, because of the political context in which were living. In that sense, poetry could be considered political, if we think about just in terms of this affective context that it provides us. I don’t know. It seems to me that the best politics would be one that would allow that to emerge in our everyday life. If that makes sense.

GN:  I think so. I mean, in poetry, we’re using language in a very careful way. And in trying to find the right word, right, which—we’re surrounded by language that is garbage, that is manipulation, that is total enemy to the life of the imagination and the life of the soul. And poetry is about finding the right word for something in the outside world—for the objective world, the object world—out of love for the object. It is also about finding language for the interior world, but that is also, in its way, an objective world that is “outside” us and ultimately unknown and foreign to us. When you find the right word for the object, the thing outside of you, touching it is extending outside yourself toward the word. Basho said something like that, that you have to almost become the thing. You can’t do that unless you find the right word. And you can’t find the right word unless you extend out of yourself toward and into the thing. So there’s a weird kind of simultaneity there. But the point of that is that language—Wallace Stevens said something about the ‘morality of the right sensation,’ and I think there is an ethical dimension to it, though “morality” is a word with too much baggage attached to it. I think there is a radical and ultimate moral neutrality with poetry, but I think there is an ethical dimension to this idea that language is precise. Language is precise when an identity with the thing is established. But it doesn’t have to be an imitation of something that exists, it just has to invoke something in a precise way. This might happen in the realms of connotation and music, so essentially important to poetry and its setting of worlds into motion.

Does that answer the question? In some way? [laughter] Should I continue until I hit the mark?

Audience:  Yes. It is a soullessness in the contemporary era we’re living in. So, to flip that idea around, of what is political in poetry, as a response.

GN:  Yes. But every age, in a way—Poetry, in its world-building and image-making, points to a world of possibilities and alternatives. It articulates a resounding NO to the world of Trump and his corrupt and bankrupt cartel. I mean, poetry—what was happening in that room was a kind of acceleration in the rhythms of the spirit, if only for the moment we were there—a rebuke to Trump’s world. It’s subversive, actually, and I think this kind of uselessness is subversive. In North Korea you’re not going to see someone writing poetry about a seashell—unless the seashell is some kind of allegory for the State or the people or the dear leader or what have you. Because the poem about the seashell qua seashell is not doing anything or producing anything or furthering any cause. It’s made in a spirit of disinterestedness that can itself be transformative. In Stalinist Russia, the state wanted to “eradicate the society of chess,” because it was a time-wasting activity, something done for its own sake that offered no contribution to the community. I think I lot of us poets have a nagging feeling that the pursuit of poetry is immoral or a waste of time for similar reasons. And yet for some reason, we—poets and others—have this strange need for poetry and its dreams, intuitions, precisions, psychic accelerations, and its beauties. The disinterestedness of poetry, however, is in a different category from that which includes activism, because then we enter the realm of out and out morality, obligation, righteousness, and utility: responsibility; these things are absolutely essential, and essential to our feeling that we are part of the human community, but poetry is in a different category.

BC:  that’s a really tempting place to end.

GN:  Uselessness? Oh God. [laughter]

This conversation took place after a reading Geoffrey gave in the Fireside Room at Hotel Sorrento, March 26, 2016.

[wendyimmiller]

Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!!

July 15, 2020

Cincinnati, Ohio

Dear Marianne,

Thank you so much for your letter dated June 26th. During this chaotic, busy time, it reminded me that I’m still in this relationship, and just as importantly, it reminded me why. I’ll explain this a little later on.

Before I do, I want to address my Facebook overshares. I’ve been accused of this before, and I have brought it up with health professionals. Mental health professionals. Through this I’ve learned new things about myself. Some of it is rather technical, but the short answer is that my oversharing is caused by vodka and tonics. Thing is, my life is hard. Very hard. I live in the Midwest. Where everything sucks. Everything here can either kill you or leave you begging that it does. The Midwest especially hates gardeners. So the drinks are well-deserved, and the things I then say on Facebook are what they are. I do get “likes,” but, to be honest, I’m never really sure if they are true “likes” or just feeble reactions of worried “friends” who don’t know what else to do. Besides, it’s only Facebook. Not like anyone sees it or as if anything could ever come back to haunt me. Right?

This Rant is a bit thin on horticulture, so I’m providing a parallel theme of beautiful Echinacea in photos and captions. This is Echinacea Fiery Meadow Momma.

Another thing before I continue. Apparently, I need to justify vodka and tonics over gin and tonics. That’s fine. I can do that, and it will all be based on things I know to be true. Yes, while gin is basically an English vodka, the addition of juniper berries and other various spices give it a unique flavor. By carefully crafting their recipes, gin makers offer their customers interesting and lovely tasting experiences. Literally, millions of people the world over, English and those they’ve colonized, truly enjoy gin and tonics. Few are faking it. And yet, despite all this, there are some very good reasons why some people cannot drink gin. Mine is that at age 15 I drank way too much of it. Spent an hour, maybe five, enduring the trauma of my body trying its damnedest to expel the entirety of my digestive system onto the asphalt of a drive-in right off the Mosteller Road exit in Sharonville, Ohio. Forty five years later, I’m still unable to disassociate the one thing from the other.

Echinacea Sombrero Orange, it is said, cures hangovers and even prevents teenagers from making poor choices!

So, for me, it’ll remain vodka and tonics, and, my, aren’t they refreshing on a hot day! It doesn’t bother me in the least that the sole purpose of vodka was (and sort of still is) for peasants to make alcohol from whatever spare rotting vegetation was lying around the village, and that the less it tastes like that from which it was sourced, the better. And while I realize that you were probably being snarky when you suggested I resort to Everclear, there’s actually solid reasoning behind your comment. But in my defense, however, I feel compelled to mention that I’ve never made a habit of buying the expensive stuff.

One more stray item before I try to address the real essence of your letter. You referenced the band Cake. Recently, my son has been trying to get me into them, which led me to the horrifying realization that I might be old enough to be your father! Imagine, then, my relief when I remembered that we’ve managed to keep things platonic between us! A trophy girlfriend just wouldn’t work for me. I’m not confident anymore, and just too damned gross. But it did get me thinking about our relationship, as it sometimes seems an odd one. To me, although you are younger, it feels like you are more worldly, learned, and a million times more mature. This makes you the sage. Me? I’m just an (average, at best) student. This gets reinforced every time you correct me when I get parts of things wrong, as I frequently do, or when I get all of it wrong, which also happens. Additionally, you have introduced me to many new things.

Echinacea Purple Emperor.

Case in point, I understood nothing in your letter after the parts about gin and Facebook. I have to admit that almost everything else was like it came from another world. I literally spent days afterward googling the various topics. I questioned friends and family too, and once a random stranger in the park before I began to feel even vaguely acquainted with stuff like Search Engine Optimization, Yoast, and something about worms.

Echinacea Kismet Raspberry.

So, SEO is why all the crap that shows up in my Google feed is written so strangely! And badly. Worse, it felt to me that you also effectively argued that tools like SEO, which exist merely to land any lame writer prime real-estate on a million billion feeds, are to good writing what roomfuls of Macedonian teenagers, their online accounts stuff with thousands of rubles worth of bitcoin, are to honest and intelligent American political debate. It is inevitable, I think you continued, that between them, such bad garden writing and those horrible Macedonian kids capturing the spare-minute attention spans of a million billion lemmings on their feeds, that mankind is doomed to witness the loss of basic human decency, the end of civilization, and fewer and fewer articles by Monty Don. If this is indeed what you were saying, I think you’re on to something!

Echinacea Evening Glow.

But I’m not exactly sure what I can do about it, other than to not care. By this I mean that I write to write, and always have. Even as a kid, I just wrote. All of it crap. As a young adult, I wrote more crap. No voice. No wisdom. Nothing to say and so profoundly aware of it. Eventually I found a passion in horticulture and scraped together some knowledge, and even a little confidence in that knowledge. An utter lack of pride and absolutely no ability to hide anything gave me something that might resemble a voice. Years and years of so many poor decisions infused me with maybe a bit of wisdom. Or at least some good stories. End result is that only now at age 60 am I able to even like some of what I write. Just enough to keep me at it, And just enough that I’m not going to change how I do it. Although, it turns out I might be using too many exclamation points! At least according to a paragraph deep into your letter.

While still in my previous life as an airline employee, I took some part-time jobs in nurseries to learn plants. These were not jobs I needed, and the experience was somewhat enlightening. All the crap that bothered employees who needed their jobs, didn’t mean anything to me. Disputes, rumors, conspiracies, and whatever else that were whispered during down times meant nothing to me. I just didn’t care. If my last day on the job was this one, so what? This informs my approach to garden writing. I do it because I love it, and that’s why I’ll keep doing it. Sure, it would be great if my stuff gets read, and making some money would be really nice, but I’m not going to stop if none of those things ever happen. I’m just going to continue, and I’m going to write as I want it to read. Key phrases or whatever else be damned.

Echinacea Sombrero Lemon Yellow.

Once in a while the best way to play the game is to not play it. This feels like that to me. Today’s glazed glossing of a paper thin spray of half truths will grow old, and a new way will come that might, in fact, look kind of old. I hear the millennials are all listening to Cake on vinyl. Maybe today’s grade-school kids will grow up knowing that quality garden writing is really cool. Maybe they’ll even prefer books. And they occasionally go to a neighborhood shop to buy one. Maybe one from Christopher Lloyd. A few weeks later, one of yours. Possibly even one of mine. Of course, I’ll be dead, but at this point I’m perfectly okay with my genius being discovered after I’m gone.

  Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!! originally appeared on GardenRant on July 15, 2020.

The post Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!! appeared first on GardenRant.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2020/07/experts-expose-the-deadliest-garden-writing-tools-and-five-fabulous-coneflowers-that-defy-news-feed-blues.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[turfandlawncare]

Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!!

July 15, 2020

Cincinnati, Ohio

Dear Marianne,

Thank you so much for your letter dated June 26th. During this chaotic, busy time, it reminded me that I’m still in this relationship, and just as importantly, it reminded me why. I’ll explain this a little later on.

Before I do, I want to address my Facebook overshares. I’ve been accused of this before, and I have brought it up with health professionals. Mental health professionals. Through this I’ve learned new things about myself. Some of it is rather technical, but the short answer is that my oversharing is caused by vodka and tonics. Thing is, my life is hard. Very hard. I live in the Midwest. Where everything sucks. Everything here can either kill you or leave you begging that it does. The Midwest especially hates gardeners. So the drinks are well-deserved, and the things I then say on Facebook are what they are. I do get “likes,” but, to be honest, I’m never really sure if they are true “likes” or just feeble reactions of worried “friends” who don’t know what else to do. Besides, it’s only Facebook. Not like anyone sees it or as if anything could ever come back to haunt me. Right?

This Rant is a bit thin on horticulture, so I’m providing a parallel theme of beautiful Echinacea in photos and captions. This is Echinacea Fiery Meadow Momma.

Another thing before I continue. Apparently, I need to justify vodka and tonics over gin and tonics. That’s fine. I can do that, and it will all be based on things I know to be true. Yes, while gin is basically an English vodka, the addition of juniper berries and other various spices give it a unique flavor. By carefully crafting their recipes, gin makers offer their customers interesting and lovely tasting experiences. Literally, millions of people the world over, English and those they’ve colonized, truly enjoy gin and tonics. Few are faking it. And yet, despite all this, there are some very good reasons why some people cannot drink gin. Mine is that at age 15 I drank way too much of it. Spent an hour, maybe five, enduring the trauma of my body trying its damnedest to expel the entirety of my digestive system onto the asphalt of a drive-in right off the Mosteller Road exit in Sharonville, Ohio. Forty five years later, I’m still unable to disassociate the one thing from the other.

Echinacea Sombrero Orange, it is said, cures hangovers and even prevents teenagers from making poor choices!

So, for me, it’ll remain vodka and tonics, and, my, aren’t they refreshing on a hot day! It doesn’t bother me in the least that the sole purpose of vodka was (and sort of still is) for peasants to make alcohol from whatever spare rotting vegetation was lying around the village, and that the less it tastes like that from which it was sourced, the better. And while I realize that you were probably being snarky when you suggested I resort to Everclear, there’s actually solid reasoning behind your comment. But in my defense, however, I feel compelled to mention that I’ve never made a habit of buying the expensive stuff.

One more stray item before I try to address the real essence of your letter. You referenced the band Cake. Recently, my son has been trying to get me into them, which led me to the horrifying realization that I might be old enough to be your father! Imagine, then, my relief when I remembered that we’ve managed to keep things platonic between us! A trophy girlfriend just wouldn’t work for me. I’m not confident anymore, and just too damned gross. But it did get me thinking about our relationship, as it sometimes seems an odd one. To me, although you are younger, it feels like you are more worldly, learned, and a million times more mature. This makes you the sage. Me? I’m just an (average, at best) student. This gets reinforced every time you correct me when I get parts of things wrong, as I frequently do, or when I get all of it wrong, which also happens. Additionally, you have introduced me to many new things.

Echinacea Purple Emperor.

Case in point, I understood nothing in your letter after the parts about gin and Facebook. I have to admit that almost everything else was like it came from another world. I literally spent days afterward googling the various topics. I questioned friends and family too, and once a random stranger in the park before I began to feel even vaguely acquainted with stuff like Search Engine Optimization, Yoast, and something about worms.

Echinacea Kismet Raspberry.

So, SEO is why all the crap that shows up in my Google feed is written so strangely! And badly. Worse, it felt to me that you also effectively argued that tools like SEO, which exist merely to land any lame writer prime real-estate on a million billion feeds, are to good writing what roomfuls of Macedonian teenagers, their online accounts stuff with thousands of rubles worth of bitcoin, are to honest and intelligent American political debate. It is inevitable, I think you continued, that between them, such bad garden writing and those horrible Macedonian kids capturing the spare-minute attention spans of a million billion lemmings on their feeds, that mankind is doomed to witness the loss of basic human decency, the end of civilization, and fewer and fewer articles by Monty Don. If this is indeed what you were saying, I think you’re on to something!

Echinacea Evening Glow.

But I’m not exactly sure what I can do about it, other than to not care. By this I mean that I write to write, and always have. Even as a kid, I just wrote. All of it crap. As a young adult, I wrote more crap. No voice. No wisdom. Nothing to say and so profoundly aware of it. Eventually I found a passion in horticulture and scraped together some knowledge, and even a little confidence in that knowledge. An utter lack of pride and absolutely no ability to hide anything gave me something that might resemble a voice. Years and years of so many poor decisions infused me with maybe a bit of wisdom. Or at least some good stories. End result is that only now at age 60 am I able to even like some of what I write. Just enough to keep me at it, And just enough that I’m not going to change how I do it. Although, it turns out I might be using too many exclamation points! At least according to a paragraph deep into your letter.

While still in my previous life as an airline employee, I took some part-time jobs in nurseries to learn plants. These were not jobs I needed, and the experience was somewhat enlightening. All the crap that bothered employees who needed their jobs, didn’t mean anything to me. Disputes, rumors, conspiracies, and whatever else that were whispered during down times meant nothing to me. I just didn’t care. If my last day on the job was this one, so what? This informs my approach to garden writing. I do it because I love it, and that’s why I’ll keep doing it. Sure, it would be great if my stuff gets read, and making some money would be really nice, but I’m not going to stop if none of those things ever happen. I’m just going to continue, and I’m going to write as I want it to read. Key phrases or whatever else be damned.

Echinacea Sombrero Lemon Yellow.

Once in a while the best way to play the game is to not play it. This feels like that to me. Today’s glazed glossing of a paper thin spray of half truths will grow old, and a new way will come that might, in fact, look kind of old. I hear the millennials are all listening to Cake on vinyl. Maybe today’s grade-school kids will grow up knowing that quality garden writing is really cool. Maybe they’ll even prefer books. And they occasionally go to a neighborhood shop to buy one. Maybe one from Christopher Lloyd. A few weeks later, one of yours. Possibly even one of mine. Of course, I’ll be dead, but at this point I’m perfectly okay with my genius being discovered after I’m gone.

  Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!! originally appeared on GardenRant on July 15, 2020.

The post Experts Expose the Deadliest Garden Writing Tools! And Five Fabulous Coneflowers that Defy News Feed Blues!!! appeared first on GardenRant.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/2Woft0J

[shirlleycoyle]

Keep your distance from COVID-19 misinformation

This is the first blog post by student science writer Mary Magnuson.

It’s easy for anyone monitoring the pandemic through months of 24-hour news cycles to pick up on false information or conspiracy theories.

We talked to University of Wisconsin–Madison experts to figure out why global events like the COVID-19 pandemic might give rise to this on social media – and how to avoid sharing false information.

As the pandemic continues to affect people around the globe, conspiracy theories about the virus have spread through social media and the internet — the notable one a 26-minute long video called “Plandemic.”

In this video, a discredited scientist shares debunked conspiracies about how a group of elites used the virus and potential vaccines for profit. The information in the video was deemed markedly false by experts, and sites like YouTube, Facebook and others worked to take down every iteration of the video.

A protestor in Ohio wields a sign referring to at least one common COVID-19 conspiracy theory and a popular source of misinformation. Source: Flickr user Becker1999

But questions remain. How do conspiracies like this spread, especially in times of uncertainty, like a pandemic? And what can we do to stop them?

Two UW–Madison professors, Dietram Scheufele and Ajay Sethi, helped provide some answers. Scheufele works in the Department of Life Sciences Communication (LSC), where he studies public attitudes around science and science policy. Sethi works in the School of Medicine and Public Health, where he studies the spread of infectious diseases.

How does what you typically study inform your expertise during the pandemic?

Scheufele: A lot of our work with the scimep group here in LSC tries to figure out how we all make sense of complex emerging science that we — in most cases — know little about. COVID-19 is exactly that. Not only are most of us not experts in virology, epidemiology or public health, but the science on COVID-19 is very much in flux, with new findings constantly proving yesterday’s science wrong.

Sethi: I’m an infectious disease epidemiologist. My research focuses on factors associated with the transmission and natural history of infectious diseases, including HIV and healthcare associated infections. Although I have not previously studied coronaviruses, common methods used in infectious disease epidemiology can be applied to the study of most if not all pathogens.

How do I know if the information I’m reading about COVID-19 is accurate and trustworthy?

Scheufele: The fact that much of the science on COVID-19 is far from conclusive at this point doesn’t mean that there is not good expert advice to go by. The CDC (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention), WHO (World Health Organization) and many other organizations are maintaining websites devoted to COVID-19. Those include advice and best practices related to wearing masks, social distancing, if it’s safe to get takeout, etc.

In spite of the bad rap they sometimes get, social media are also a great tool for learning from some of the best experts on COVID-19. Journalists like Helen Branswell or Maryn McKenna (who have actually been both science writers in residence here at UW) have spent their careers writing on and researching infectious diseases and routinely share their work on Twitter. I follow them there not just for their own work, but also because they do a great job vetting and contextualizing the constant stream of information that’s coming our way on corona.

Ajay Sethi

Sethi: First, it is important to recognize that there is a lot of new information about COVID-19 coming out all the time. New knowledge learned is subject to change as the science and study of COVID-19 advances. So, what we thought was true yesterday is not necessarily so tomorrow. That can make it challenging to know whether what you are reading about COVID-19 is accurate. It’s important to evaluate the source to be sure it is reputable and unbiased. Look for peer-reviewed information when possible. When reading information found on a website, I suggest evaluating the website for its credibility, and there are a number of checklists and tools available to do that.

What determines what information people are drawn to consuming and sharing?

Scheufele: That’s a complicated question. We live in a time that is very paradoxical when it comes to the information we all receive. On the one hand, the internet has made it easier than ever before to find the best information quickly, no matter where we are and with little effort. What would have required a trip to the Library of Congress even just 25 years ago, is now one click and a couple of swipes away on our smartphones. On the other hand, apps and algorithms have also made it easier than ever before to avoid any information we don’t want to see or that doesn’t fit our worldview.

Sethi: We are all susceptible to living in bubbles, and getting comfortable in our echo chambers. It can be human nature to surround ourselves with people and ideas that confirm what we believe to be true about the world, which in turn makes us feel good about ourselves and reinforces our worldview.

Are outbreaks like this especially ripe for conspiracy theories?

Scheufele: There’s little systematic evidence that we’re seeing more or fewer conspiracy theories on COVID-19 that we normally do. Of course, it seems like they’re everywhere, but we also need to realize that there is very little news other than COVID-19 right now, and we’re all spending a lot more time online and on our phones than we usually do. But looney ideas like the idea that the Gates Foundation is promoting vaccines for population control or economic gain have been around for years. COVID-19 has just given them new visibility.

But it’s also important to keep in mind that this is a time with almost unprecedented uncertainty and unpredictability for most of us. We have little control over the emergence of viruses like COVID-19. We don’t know what our future holds. And there is no good way out of the crisis that doesn’t require disruptions to our way of life. As a result, it is not particularly surprising that many of us are trying to find ways of making sense of this highly uncertain and deeply unpredictable situation. In the 1940s, social psychologists Fritz Heider and Marianne Simmel showed clips of animated geometric shapes to participants, only to find that many of them attributed human characteristics, motivations and intentions to what were randomly moving circles and triangles. That human tendency to attribute structure and meaning to fairly random sets of events is also what explains the intuitive appeal of movies like “Plandemic”: They give the appearance of meaning and convey a sense of control during a deadly pandemic which likely emerged somewhat randomly, and that has left us with limited control over the spread of a deadly virus.

Sethi: Yes, and there are many examples in history. During times of uncertainty and fear, we can have feelings of losing control. Denialism can also be a reaction. To make sense of stressful situations that develop suddenly with no signs of going away, like the COVID-19 crisis, we may be drawn to explanations to help us feel better about the realities of what we are facing.

I am not a psychologist by any means, but I read research related to the psychology of adopting and perpetuating conspiracies to include in my course, Conspiracies in Public Health. I also find it is useful to read the literature to keep myself from adopting misinformed views.

Why does misinformation about the virus spread so quickly?

Scheufele: There’s little social science that suggests that misinformation about COVID-19 spreads any faster or slower than correct information. In fact, I think we need to be very careful about how we talk about misinformation.

Of course there are things that are clearly wrong. Neither snorting cocaine nor injecting bleach will cure or prevent corona. And they were debunked pretty quickly on both social and legacy media.

What makes things more complicated for science during the current pandemic is what I would call the corona Catch-22: In the public arena, we can only get predictive modeling or mitigation right, but not both. The more successful we are at mitigation, the more inaccurate initial models will appear in hindsight. In other words, looking back people will think that initial models of how COVID-19 would spread had it wrong, precisely because those models encouraged the right policies that helped us avoid worst case scenarios.

The second problem is that there is little settled science on COVID-19. Much of the scientific work on the virus, its spread, and the effectiveness of different interventions is in flux, to say the least. New science constantly proves previous findings wrong. And that’s the way science is supposed to work. It’s supposed to self-correct and iterate toward the best possible explanations. During normal times, that’s just fine. Science plays out over long periods of time, with policy following in due course. For COVID-19, science and policy are emerging at the same time and with breakneck speed. This raises two problems: (a) The uncertainties surrounding science and policy end up overlapping in public perception, and science gets blamed for the inevitable missteps of public policy. (b) Battling misinformation on COVID-19 with science that itself might turn out to be wrong is not a winning proposition for the scientific community. We wrote about that here.

What should I do if someone I know shares or promotes misinformation or a conspiracy theory about the virus?

Scheufele: Debunking is a double-edged sword. It typically requires repeating and — especially on social media — giving additional visibility to misinformation. Some research suggests that this can reinforce rather than debunk inaccurate beliefs or even conspiracy thinking. This doesn’t mean that there is no value in pointing your friends or social media contacts to Snopes.com or any credible resource that debunks misinformation. The idea is to do it in a way that’s constructive, and to keep in mind that we’ve all shared misinformation at some point, even if we don’t remember it.

Twitter post with false (but kind of believable) information

But all of that is based on the assumption that we’re sharing misinformation because we cannot tell that it’s fake. And sometimes that is true. But often, we share information without checking because it fits what we already believe. If I don’t like Trump, I am motivated to find information that makes him look bad. There was a Tweet about President Trump saying that “HUNDREDS of Governors” were calling him that made the rounds on my social media feeds recently, and was retweeted by many of my academic friends. It was fake of course, and a 3-second Google search would have shown that. So, it’s not that people couldn’t tell it was fake. They didn’t care, because it so perfectly fit their expectations and prior attitudes on Trump. One of our doctoral students and I wrote about many of those motivations that often make us believe in misinformation on an open-access article in PNAS (Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences).

  Sethi: I think it depends on your comfort level and how well you know the person. Some people might choose to avoid confrontation, which is understandable. If their actions cause your blood pressure to go up, it would be best to calm yourself down before saying anything. I also think it’s important to re-visit why you disagree with what they shared just to make sure you have your own facts straight. Things are rarely clear-cut.

So, after all that, if you decide to engage with them, I think it starts with active listening. As an aside, for a while after college (a long time ago!), I was a volunteer crisis counselor. So, my own instincts were formed from that training and experience. I’m no expert, but again, I know listening is important. So is asking questions. And then listening some more. Understand where they are coming from. Identify shared interests and emotions. You may or may not choose to volunteer your own views on the subject. It depends if you are asked for them and if you have established trust with them. That can take time to build, maybe many conversations. Avoid launching into explanations or proving how knowledgeable you are. It causes people to stop listening.

Science is filled with uncertainty, while misinformation often promotes concrete “facts” and “solutions.” Is there a way responsible science communication can achieve both?

Sethi: Understand your audience each time and start by asking what people want to learn from you. Go from there. Always be honest about what you know and what you don’t know. Be consistent, and don’t overstate findings. Learn to communicate nuance artfully. Avoid “dumping” information on people.

What can governments or corporations do to halt misinformation or conspiracies? In an ideal society, what should their respective roles be to curb conspiracies?

Sethi: All institutions have to decide when the spread of misinformed opinions and conspiracies require intervention. It’s important to respect people’s autonomy and rights to express themselves, but we should not tolerate the proverbial “shouting fire in a crowded theater.” I have my ideas as to where to draw the line and what institutions could do, but when I begin to apply them situation-to-situation, I realize it’s not an easy problem to solve.

What role does higher education play in creating citizens equipped to evaluate information? How will the pandemic inform your teaching going forward?

Scheufele: My colleague Dominique Brossard has written extensively on the idea of deference toward scientific authority. Why do we have faith in experts? What is it about science as a way of producing knowledge that makes us follow it more than other ways of knowing? Is it peer review? The scientific process? Her work shows nicely that our faith in scientific institutions is strongly related to K-12 and even K-16 schooling. In other words, education is partly about learning facts, but those facts change over time, especially for COVID-19. Instead, the power of education comes from building faith in science as our best way of knowing.

We actually talk about that in my large undergraduate lecture course in Science, Media and Society. It enrolls students from five or six different colleges at UW who major in genetics, politics, business, engineering, and communication, to just name a few. And COVID-19 already ended up being a large part of this past semester, even before we shifted to online teaching after spring break. How do we all make sense of this global pandemic? How can societies navigate very difficult trade-offs between economic considerations, public health, and individual rights as we’re trying to contain its spread? And what does it mean for Google to work with government and academia to track citizens’ cell phones to model and monitor new infections? LSC 251 going to be offered again this summer and the fall, and I am pretty sure that COVID-19 will be a permanent and probably growing part of what we’ll be talking about.

Sethi: Institutions of higher education are places where ideas and knowledge are learned and exchanged. It’s where “sifting and winnowing” occurs. It begins with teaching and reminding ourselves how to be objective, curious learners.

I began teaching Conspiracies in Public Health three years ago because I grew increasingly concerned about the unraveling of longstanding public health achievements and how previously innocuous topics suddenly became hot button issues. Learning about popular and less popular conspiracies is not the focus of the course. I created the class so that students could explore the psycho-social basis for conspiracy thinking and develop or refine their skills in listening and talking to people with differing views on health and public health topics. Misinformation and conspiracies about COVID-19 provide opportunities for me to fortify the class with contemporary material and opportunities for students to draw connections between course content with what we are reading in the news every day.

###

Keep your distance from COVID-19 misinformation syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[noiseartists]

French Shoegaze, Dream Pop & Noise Pop, a quick guide, Vol. 2

In our Volume 1 you discovered / revisited Welcome to Julian (90’s), Dead Horse One, Stuck in the Sound, Venera 4, Soon she Said, Automatic Fiction, Candelabre (see our collaboration) and the Sigh (90’s).

You are here again for a other musical treat, as we continue to introduce you to some of the fantastic bands that France has (had) in our favorite genres. This second volume, like the ones to follow, includes past, present, big and small bands in no particular order.

First a big thank you to Elisabeth (Kill the Moose), Margot (Tapeworms), Michel (Lucie Vacarme), Evol (Dead & Nothing Collective), Yann (Marble Arch), Pierre (Dead Mantra) and their bandmates for taking the time to ensure that their band’s information was accurate.

LUCIE VACARME (90’s)

Lucie Vacarme, from Toulouse, is one of the main and most influential French Shoegaze (called ‘Noisy Pop’ then) band of the 90’s. This the first recorded musical experience of Michel Cloup, known for having worked in one of the major bands of the French scene of the 90s, Diabologum. They disbanded in 1993.

The band was known for their saturated and hazy sound, at the limit of the audible, especially in concert (those of Toulouse and Bordeaux in the first part of Lush were known to have caused tinnitus).

Despite the support of Bernard Lenoir (the French Equivalent of John Peel), Lucie Vacarme did not break through.

All readers of ‘Les Inrocks’ knew the band even if it was not easy to get their CD’s. I for one had the CD’s copied on tape as I could not get the CD proper (always out of stock when I looked). Unfortunately, I have lost the tape since unfortunately.

The band had more influence on the limited ‘Noisy Pop’ French musical scene as the time that they think. Many bands (my band Smiling Marianne, The Sigh, …) knew Lucie Vacarme’s music and we were inspired by some of it, if only to know that French bands could make such great music. Milkyway was to our opinion one of the best Shoegaze album around. Thanks guys.

There is a little story as Kim Gordon (Sonic Youth) featured on the band’s album, as detailed in Michel Cloup’s interview in ‘Soul Kitchen’

“We sent our first EP to Thurston Moore. He sent us a postcard back. We had suggested to Kim, at the time when they recorded ‘Dirty’ to make a featuring on our song "Kelly Kiss". She did it over the phone with a very bad sound and accent. Fortunately, we wrote her name on the booklet and people were able to know she featured”.

One of their songs, ‘Souffle incandescent’ features on DKFM ‘Shoegaze classics and rarities vol2’ that can be found here on Mixcloud.

The band’s lineup was:

David Amsellem : guitar, voice

Michel Cloup : guitar

Patrice Bellanti : bass

Valery Lorenzo : drums

The music work is as follows:

1990: Metalvox, EP

1992: Milkyway , Album

1993: Audioscope, EP

Some of the songs we love:

ALCEST

The presentation of the band on Wikipedia tells us that Alcest is a French Post-Metal band from Bagnols-sur-Cèze, founded and led by Neige (Stéphane Paut). It started in 2000 as a Black Metal solo project by Neige, soon a trio, but following the release of their first demo in 2001, band members Aegnor and Argoth left the band, leaving Neige as the sole member.

In 2009 drummer Winterhalter from Les Discrets (and formerly Peste Noire) joined Alcest's line-up, after eight years with Neige as the sole full-time member.

Since its creation, Alcest has released five studio albums and a number of EPs and split releases. Their fourth album, 2014's Shelter, marked a dramatic shift towards a distinctly Shoegaze sound, however their latest album Kodama marks a partial return to their earlier Blackgaze sound. The band are widely credited with pioneering the Blackgaze/Post-Black metal genre, particularly through their EP ‘Le Secret’ released in 2005.

Alcest's fourth effort, entitled ‘Shelter’, was released on January 17, 2014 via Prophecy Productions. It features a guest appearance by Neil Halstead (Slowdive). Stylistically the album is a radical departure for the band, dropping all traces of metal from their sound and fully committing to the Shoegaze side of their sound. Neige later said in an interview that

"We are proud of it, but I think it was maybe a bit too influenced by other things. I really was obsessed with Slowdive at that time. Shelter still sounds very ‘Alcest’, but maybe not as much as the other records.”

On January 22, 2019, the band announced that they would start recording their next studio album the following day.

The current line-up is:

Neige – lead vocals, guitars, keyboards (2000–present), drums (2000–2009), bass (2001–present)

Winterhalter – drums, percussion (2009–present)

The current live musicians are:

Zero – guitar, backing vocals (2010–present)

Indria Saray – bass (2010–present)

The music work to date is:

2005: Le Secret (2005, re-recorded version in 2011) EP

2007: Souvenirs d'un autre monde, Album

2010: Écailles de Lune, Album

2012: Les Voyages de l'Âme, Album; BBC live session

2014: Shelter, Album

2016: Kodama, Album

2019: Spiritual instinct, Album

Some of the songs we love:

NøTHING COLLECTIVE

The Nøthing Collective is a Collective of like-minded French bands within the Shoegaze / Noise Pop / Altrock / Dreampop genres. They include an extensive lineup of some of the best current French artists.

They present themselves as follows:

“No matter where, no matter who and no matter how. What matters is the sound. What brings us together is the desire to have one. What binds us is the will to defend it. What we are passionate about is the desire to reveal it to you.”

The bands part of the collective so far are: A V G V S T, Future, Dead, Dead Horse One (see our Volume 1), Marble Arch (see below in this guide), Maria False, Saintes, Seahorse Hunter, Still Charon, Venera 4 (see our Volume 1), Beat Mark, Cavale Blanche, Des Roses, Giirls's facebook, Hermetic Delight, Mara, The name of the band, San Carol, Shadow Motel, Soft Blonde, Volage, Tapeworrm (see below in this guide), La Houle, T/O, Bank Myna, Good morning TV, Big Wool, Soon She Said (see our Volume 1), Brace! Brace!, Son of Fonos, That Green, The same old Band, Boy Head, Soon, Beat Mark, Boreal Wood, Maara, My lovely underground, Shadow Motel, San Carol,

The compilations that include the bands above to date are:

2013: We want nøthing more than nøthing #1

2014: Songs from Nøthing #2

2015:nøthing #03, nothing #4

2018: nøthing #05

There are too many songs and bands to choose from and we invite you to look / listen to their Bandcamp page and enjoy the quality and variety is contains.

Needless to say, Nøthing Collective was one of our main resources to source great bands for this Guide. More bands form the Collective will be included in the next volumes of this guide.

  MARBLE ARCH

As stated on the band’s social media, “Like the white marble monument -located on the West end of Oxford Street- from which the group borrowed its name, Marble Arch was cut for triumph. Having perfectly digested Shoegaze and Dream Pop's secrets, their music has been oriented toward childhood and experimentation.

After the first DIY record, Yann Le Ravazet had some time to think about the musical tone and sounds of his new record. He didn’t want it to be labelled Shoegaze nor Dream Pop. As a matter of fact, we’d be more likely to hear reverberated pop (Remeniscence), saturated pop (the infectious song “I am on My Way”), nostalgic pop (Moonstruck), synthetic pop (Instant Love) or even contemplative pop (Gold).”

The band has indeed evolved between the first and second album, though still into the music world of reverberation.

Les inrockuptibles (the French NME) did a very good interview of the front man from which this is extracted:

"In 2014, we discovered Yann Le Razavet with 'The Bloom Of Division', album entirely designed by the light of his bedside lamp. Under the name of Marble Arch, the young musician flew far away from the noisy shoegaze of his first band, Maria False, and delivered many of titles full of foggy nostalgia and twilight lyricism. Full of an elegance and finesse rather rare in France, 'Children Of The Slump' is without a doubt a very good record, and even when wholly mustering our critical mind, there is not much at fault."  -- Les Inrockuptibles

Band Members are:

Yann Le Razavet, vocals, guitar and keyboard

Thomas Tan, Lead guitar

Adrien Vernet, guitar, backing vocals

Thomas Beilles, Bass

Danny Kendrick, Drums

Music work to date

2013: echidna, EP

2014: The bloom of division, Album

2016: The Sand, single

2019: Children of the Slump, Album

Some of the bands’ songs we love:

KILL THE MOOSE 

Kill The Moose is an alternative rock band, strongly influenced by the British Shoegaze scene of the early 90's.

It was founded in 2015 by Elisabeth and Alex, in Nice, on the French Riviera. Kill the Moose is a concentrate of noise energy mixed with melodies that remain in the forefront. The songs are ethereal, pop and sweet, drenched in a wall of sound, full of reverb and distortion, with the beats of a deep bass and powered-up drums.

Note that the name ‘Kill The Moose’ is not a tribute to Shoegaze's British band ‘Moose’, but a reference to a Monty Python piece.

The lineup is:

Elisabeth Massena, Vocals

Alex Ornon, Guitar

Alexis Fedunizin, Bass

Nicolas Bonnet, Drums

Arthur Arsenne, Guitar

 The music work to date is:

2017: Demo #1

2018: Good Girl EP; The World Is Your Oyster EP; Contented Eye (Adorable cover); To The Moon And Back EP; Suzanne (Moose Cover)

2019: Into My Arms (Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds Cover)

Some of the songs we love:

DEAD

Dead is a Coldwave / Noise / Electronic band from Rennes. Their music errs more towards the Early Cocteau Twins and The Cure (disintegration period). Their combination of synth waves and reverb guitars give a beautiful cold and dark feeling.

The band present themselves as follows:

"What more can you say about a band called DEAD that hasn’t already been made abundantly clear at first glance?

The fact that these French mercenaries of noise can conjure up such a powerfully dark aesthetic before even hitting a note is impressive, but when they finally do, they unleash a far more potent beast entirely. If DEAD aren’t already mapping out the future destruction of the planet, they’ve sure as hell written the soundtrack.

Bleak, confrontational, but with a firm command of rhythm and deep grooves, this might be the dancefloor antidote we’ve been waiting for."

The line-up is:

Berne Evol, vocals

Brice Delourmel, guitars

Bernard Marie, drum machine & keyboard

Musical work to date is

2012: Transmission, EP

2014: Verse, EP

2016: Voices, Album

2019: Dreams, EP

Some of our favorite songs from the band:

TAPEWORMS

Tapeworms is “3-piece rock band, mostly eating French fries, listening to Smash Mouth and watching Evil Dead. From Lille, they're trying their best to produce some noisy, dreamy, aggressive but kind music.”

An interview in Section 26 summarizes the band in a few words: ‘Do It Yourself’ is in the DNA of the band, which is outlined in the former student room of Theo, when they have fun with Margot covering Sparklehorse or Drop Nineteens on an online beat box, with an old cassette player as recorder. Eliott, used to play with his big brother, then started on the drums "We began to rehearse my grandmother’s attic. Tapeworms is really born at that time, fed with her pies and 90’s music. " Tapeworms has a shoegaze sound, noisy pop, immersed in the tradition of the 90's.

The band members are

Margot Magnière: Bass, Vocals

Théo Poyer: Guitar, Vocals

Eliott Poyer: Drums

The music work to date is:

2016: All Stars, EP; Tapeworms, single; macadam star, single.

2018: Everything Will Be Fine, long EP

Some of the songs we love:

DEAD MANTRA

Dead Mantra were created in 2009 in le Mans. The define their music as being “Gregorian Shoegaze”. They are part of the record label Cranes Records with Dead Horse One

The inrockuptibles give a very good overview of the band’s sound

"The maliciously saturated guitars sneak around a powerful rhythmic base. From this wall of sound, a veritable ice-cold and cavernous maelstrom, pierce the dark and delicate dark-pop melodies of The Dead Mantra. Young Manceaux, spotted by the Cranes Records label, stand as worthy French heirs of the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club for swirling psychedelism and The Jesus & Mary Chain for shoegaze violence. Perfect harmony between devastating fury and sinuous writing."  -- Guilhem Denis, Inrocks

The lineup is:

Paul, guitars and vocals

Pierre Hamelin, drums

Louis, guitars

Henri, Bass

The music Work to date is:

2018: Saudade Forever, Album

2015: MXEICO Remixed

2014: Nemure, Album

2012: Split EP with Dead Horse One

2010: Path Of Confusion, EP

Some of the songs we love to discover the band:

For once we include a Music Video as ‘Mxeico’ is a genuine original piece worth watching and listening. As a warning, it contains male nudity.

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interview

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

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Sascha Aurora Akhtar

feels deeply connected to her ancestral roots in Lancashire, South Yorkshire and Pakistan. Born into a literary family, with writers of both fiction and poetry represented, Sascha has been naturally drawn towards many kinds of writing. Her first poetry collection was The Grimoire of Grimalkin (Salt, 2007), followed by 199 Japanese Names for Japanese Trees (Shearsman, 2016), the first of it’s kind a deck of Poetry cards with fine art Only Dying Sparkles (ZimZalla 2018), The Whimsy Of Dank Ju-Ju (Emma Press 2019) & #LoveLikeBlood (Knives, Spoons & Forks 2019).

Her fiction has appeared in BlazeVox, Tears In The Fence, The Learned Pig, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Storgy. Sascha has performed internationally at festivals such as the Poetry International Festival in Rotterdam, Avantgarde Festival in Hamburg, and Southbank Centre’s Meltdown festival in London, curated by Yoko Ono.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

I realize now, looking back that poetry was all around me in my home growing up. Books, people reciting it in conversation, writing it & I put pen to paper from age 7 onwards. The poetry itself though, I know see was a natural extension of myself & always came from a place of sorrow, anxiety, ill-treatment, depression, PMDD, so it was a source of great healing. Also, I have always read fiction voraciously. Fiction inspires my poetry, still. Later, I was greatly inspired by great lyricists & music, that remains true.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

My family. I would say the very first poem I was exposed to was The Walrus & The Carpenter which every member of my family could recite from memory.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

I wasn’t. I’m still not. I find no presence dominating. I believe all writers need to honour those who have paved the way for us. In this regard, I have huge reverence for many such as Sonia Sanchez, Geraldine Monk, Bernadette Mayer & many, many others.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

This involves many things in a non-linear sequence; writing in one of my many notebooks as a poem arrives. Completing or beginning new things on the computer. For example this week I wrote three short stories – I had no idea that would happen, but it needed to.

5. What motivates you to write?

My thoughts, sudden flashes, other writings of any kind, paintings, a piece of dialogue from a film, the response of others to my work & the fact that I cannot stop writing.

6. What is your work ethic?

If there’s writing to be done, I will do it, no matter what. I am a solo parent & that has given me a gift; the realization that time is very, very precious & it IS possible to write what you need if you focus – no matter how long you have. It could be 10 minutes. I don’t have the luxury of days yawning ahead of me with uninterrupted writing time, or retreats I can imagine myself going to. The work just has to be done. And that’s all there is to it.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

In my own personal experience, everything I loved when I was little or was loved by those closest to me ( my grandfather, mother, grandmother) has shaped me in ways I can’t even explain. As I mentioned, Alice In Wonderland was, is and will always be a huge influence on me. My mother had a copy for me before I was born and kept it for years. She gave it to me when I was 7 or 8.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

I’ll be honest, I am a voracious reader, and I feel by naming writers I will leave out others. Especially since, I fall deeply in love with sequences of words in moments.

Out of the more recent fiction I’ve read I will say Jessie Burton is great. Susanna Clarke is sort of my literary hero. I adore David Mitchell, it must be said & am enamoured of the work of Lev Grossman and Deborah Harkness.

In poetry if you want to talk of poets I admire because of the power of their words & also what they have managed to achieve I would say Anthony Joseph is my biggest inspiration & also friend. I feel a kinship with poet Frances Kruk. Marianne Morris. Nia Davies. Emily Critchley. I admire Geraldine Monk. Kimberley Campanello, Rhys Trimble, Mamta Sagar, K. Satchidanandan. Many, many American poets some whom I’m not even sure are publishing anymore!  I mean here’s a strange thing. There was a poet named Andy Morgan in my M.F.A programme in the U.S. And there was one, just one poem he wrote that I couldn’t fully explain why I loved, but I asked him if I could keep a copy. That same poem has stayed with me for 15 years! I have days when one line from that one poem just plays in my head. He is a complete introvert. It is almost impossible to find his work. He has a lyrical quality that is powerful & quiet.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

Because I have always done it. I have always come back to it, even when I was a young filmmaker & art photographer. Because it nourishes me. It heals me & above all, it is my way to connect with the world in a way I cannot because of my own psychospiritual make-up – sensory issues, social anxiety, general anxiety.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

You can write, fill notebooks, diaries, pages & pages. Show others. Go to readings. Read everything & when you can answer that question yourself – you will ‘be’ a ‘writer’.

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

My fourth collection of poetry is a 36 page pamphlet:  The Whimsy Of Dank Ju-Ju (https://theemmapress.com/shop/the-whimsy-of-dank-ju-ju/) was published in September 2019 by Emma Press (Birmingham). The title refers to my life-long interest in anything and everything to do with magic, ideas of magic, magical thinking et al. I taught a workshop about the relationship between poetry and magic at the Poetry School and will be teaching a 2 day one in the Summer of 2020. I believe poetry is a magical practice, and as poets embracing whimsy is the key.

My fifth collection is 76 pages I believe and literally, just was announced yesterday.  It is called #LoveLikeBlood (https://www.knivesforksandspoonspress.co.uk/product-page/love-like-blood-by-sascha-a-akhtar) and has been published by Knives, Forks And Spoons Press.  It incorporates language that I feel has emerged as we have developed digital consciousnesses through Social Media. It embraces rupture, fracture. It has anger in it & truth-telling. It has many references to songs, often with epigraphs from the songs as taking off points. The cover image is from my art photography portfolio when I shot exclusively on slide film, often cross-processing the film to get very particular tones & colours. The book is like that too. It has a specific tone.

Other writing projects include one more poetry collection forthcoming this year. ( I know it is ridiculous). A book of translations forthcoming in April 2020 on Oxford University Press, India. Two short story collections, and two novels. The fiction pipeline is longer term!

Thanks so much for this!

Wombwell Rainbow Interview: Sascha Aurora Akhtar Wombwell Rainbow Interview I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

[momsalt54-blog]

A Mutual Bewitchment

NOVEMBER 21, 2018

READING A WRITER’S LETTERS to a beloved friend is the best way to get into that author’s head. Hugh Kenner and Guy Davenport were soulmates, deeply devoted to modern art and literature. They were poet-critics — a term Marjorie Perloff fastened to Kenner — “whose books and essays place [them] among writers rather than academic commentators.” (As Davenport described his method: “I am not writing for scholars or fellow critics, but for people who like to read, to look at pictures, and to know things.”) The bulk of the letters collected in these two compelling volumes are from 1961–’71 — almost two-thirds of the 2,000 pages — with 1961–’66 taking up half. Editor Edward M. Burns has done a monumental job assiduously annotating this vast correspondence.

The crux of their mutual bewitchment occurs in 1963, just as the major American Modernists they revered — Williams, Eliot, Moore, and Pound — start to die off. Though there are glancing references in the letters to contemporary persons and events, such as Vietnam and Nixon, both writers were much more interested in issues of art and poetry — the source of the term “wine-dark” in Pound’s “Canto II” or the films of Stan Brakhage. Pound’s work was a particular obsession (“He was a renaissance,” Davenport stated simply). Independent of each other, both men visited the aging poet in St. Elizabeths Hospital during his 12-year incarceration there and, later, in Italy during his self-imposed exile.

For both Davenport and Kenner, modern painting had fundamentally changed writing itself. They were particularly interested in the discovery of prehistoric cave drawings in Europe, which so deeply influenced Picasso. Davenport, himself a draughtsman, had an ingrained respect for visual art, but Kenner came to this view in his own way. Kenner believed the drawings Davenport did for Kenner’s Flaubert, Joyce, and Beckett: The Stoic Comedians (1962) and The Counterfeiters (1967) were as important as the texts; he tried, unsuccessfully, to get Davenport 50 percent of the royalties for the first book.

Kenner (born in 1923, four years before Davenport) studied under Marshall McLuhan at the University of Toronto before going to Yale, where at the age of 26 he wrote The Poetry of Ezra Pound (1951) over the course of a summer break. This book was central to Davenport’s own thesis at Harvard on the first 30 Cantos, delivered in 1961 and published in 1983 as Cities on Hills. A Rhodes Scholar at Oxford, Davenport came from South Carolina, “having been born into the black Depression and raised in picturesque poverty, homely morals, and love.” The two men met in 1953 but didn’t start seriously communicating until 1961. They visited each other only around a dozen times; in one early meeting, they conversed avidly for 30 hours. Kenner tried to arrange for Davenport to join him at UC Santa Barbara, where he had a teaching position, but the younger writer landed a job at the University of Kentucky, near his family, where he remained for three decades. Already an established writer, Kenner helped secure a reviewing gig for Davenport with the National Review; later they would occasionally review each other’s works. Of Davenport’s 1981 book The Geography of the Imagination, Kenner said: “If having known a man for twenty-five years is to disqualify one from talking about his work, then our literary culture will have to be left to hermits.”

The frenetic pace of their letter writing is astounding, with sometimes two or three letters piling up in a few days before the answers to the originals were written. Some of the letters are long, some stark and confessional, yet all display good humor as well as a unique patois — “Tennyrate” for “at any rate,” “Hahvud” for “Harvard,” “nuvvle” for “novel.” Occasionally one will poach the other’s words, as when Kenner used Davenport’s comment that “[t]hought is a labyrinth” as the final sentence of The Pound Era (1971). Kenner also frequently asks the classically trained Davenport — who brilliantly translated numerous works of ancient poetry — about Greek and Latin meanings. For his part, Davenport usually defers to his more prolific friend, claiming he could hardly call himself a writer compared to someone who averaged a book every two years over a three-decade stretch.

There is the usual grousing about the literary world, especially critics who couldn’t stomach Pound or who couldn’t see the importance of Beckett. They complain about reviewers who attacked them based on all sorts of wrongheaded ideas (e.g., accusing Davenport of being a “cryptoconservative” when he claimed to always vote Democratic). Neither man suffered fools gladly, but they also yearned for recognition. Kenner received the brunt of bad press, including scorn for his supposedly mannered “style,” in which he deliberately aped the style of his subjects. Davenport, more combative but also more sickly (various maladies are bemoaned), struggled to see his fiction (mostly short stories — Kenner dubbed them “assemblages”) skewered by the major critics of the day.

The volumes are filled with little gems of observation, as when Kenner writes that the “whole point of a book is what happens in the five minutes after one has finished reading it.” Secrets are disclosed, as when Davenport tells of how his father died in the hospital and of his admiration for him, despite their differences (“I never ‘rebelled’ and he never coerced”). Kenner responds with mystic wisdom: “To have done his part in making you what you are, and to have so much grown beyond the natural concerns of his generation as to take an understanding satisfaction in contemplating your place in yours, these are two substantial moral achievements for which his memory should be honored.” Later, he thanks Davenport for caring for his five children after his first wife died of cancer, helping him “to realize what an achievement family is: and it is her achievement. They are, singly and collectively, her memorial. Everything perhaps perishes but tradition.”

These letters are also an elegy for a world not dominated by technology, where one had to physically track things down — as in their quest for the copy of Eliot’s The Waste Land that Pound sedulously edited, which occupied them in the early years (it was discovered at the New York Public Library in 1968), or the details Kenner sought from Davenport when the latter retraced Pound’s visit to his childhood home (“What part of town could Pound see from the porch?”). Such dogged modes of research are now in eclipse in our digital world. We can thus be grateful for an editor like Burns, whose scholarship here includes tracing the lost history of Lester Littlefield, a hanger-on of Pound and Marianne Moore, who sent the former books at St. Elizabeths and rented the house in Venice once occupied by Olga Rudge (Pound’s late companion). Littlefield badgered Kenner and Davenport with critical and raving letters, sometimes 40 pages long. Google him and there is barely anything, a stray sentence in a book result or two, but Burns gives him an almost three-page footnote — an internet-resistant epitaph, at least until these volumes are digitized.

From 1979 until Kenner’s death in 2003, there is a large drop-off in the friends’ correspondence — a great mystery, yet the greatest of life: friends growing apart. According to Burns, people who knew both men believe that Davenport’s homoerotic fictions put Kenner off, though as early as 1961, Davenport shared details of his seeking out young men on various trips. He referred to them as “Erewhonians,” from Samuel Butler’s 1872 novel Erewhon, about a utopia where people fear that machines will develop consciousness. Also, Davenport grew more hermetic as he aged, responding to Kenner’s query if he would do a lecture with a steely “Tell your students I do not travel.” Certainly they spoke on the phone, but in those last 25 years, it is almost always Kenner writing to draw his friend out, and often Davenport doesn’t respond — their revels had ended. Did Davenport feel rejected? In the last letter, Kenner writes: “We have been apart too long.” He died 14 months later.

Over the course of their long careers, Davenport and Kenner helped to shape the best ways of reading difficult works of modernist poetry and prose — not only Pound but also Joyce, Eliot, Beckett, and many others. Kindred spirits reminiscent of Emerson and Thoreau, these “questioning minds” were two of the most refined artistic sensibilities this continent has ever produced. Readers can be grateful that their complex friendship has been so beautifully enshrined in Burns’s scrupulous volumes.

¤

Greg Gerke’s work has appeared in Tin House, Film Quarterly, The Kenyon Review, and other publications.

Source: https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/a-mutual-bewitchment/

[bharatiyamedia-blog]

In The Presidential Debate, Biden and Buttigieg Fall Quick on Race: RaceAhead

http://tinyurl.com/y3yh736k Right here’s your week in overview, in haiku.   1. Who deserves a mattress? Cleaning soap, water, toothbrush? Which baby deserves to know love?   2. When I said ‘hasta la victoria,’ I meant it generically   3. Europe is hotter than an Apple analyst’s sentimental tears   4. Please don’t meddle in U.S. elections! Okay? Okay. See? It is high quality.   5. I have no idea who wants to listen to this, however you will not be the President.   Have a temperate and loving weekend. On Level [bs-title]Highlights from the second presidential debate[/bs-title][bs-content]Senator Kamala Harris could have had the road of the evening, however all of the candidates had some vital issues to say. Click on by for Natasha Bach’s glorious recap. However extra to the raceAhead level, each Mayor Pete Buttigieg and Vice President Joe Biden have been requested to account for his or her information on race. Although the problems have been from completely different eras – and Buttigieg was ready for the query — each, in my opinion fell brief. (Although, as my colleague Renae Reints factors out, everyone missed a whole lot of other topics, too.) The tales under will help you fill within the blanks.[/bs-content][bs-link link=”http://fortune.com/2019/06/28/democratic-debate-highlights-night-two/” source=”Fortune”] [bs-title]This is the background on Joe Biden’s historical past with college busing[/bs-title][bs-content]Kamala Harris introduced the show-stopper. “It was hurtful to listen to you speak in regards to the reputations of two U.S. senators who constructed their reputations and careers on the segregation of races on this nation,” she said. Her critique included his stand opposing college busing within the 1970s, which he unequivocally did. In 1975, Biden supported an anti-busing measure from famous civil rights opponent Sen. Jesse Helms, then doubled down the following yr with a bid to cease the Justice Division from utilizing busing as a desegregation measure. It was throughout this time that his collegial relationship with segregationist Senator James Eastland grew to become a difficulty. In later feedback, the vp stated that he supported integration, however not busing.[/bs-content][bs-link link=”https://time.com/5616709/joe-biden-busing-democratic-debate/” source=”Time”] [bs-title]This is the background on Pete Buttigieg’s historical past with gentrification and policing[/bs-title][bs-content]It was an unalloyed thrill to listen to the candidate casually point out his husband in the course of the debate, after which weighing in forcefully on the hypocrisy of people of faith condoning the separation of households on the border. And I will concede his preliminary “I did not get it carried out,” possession of the escalating racial tensions between residents of colour and the police in South Bend, Indiana was compelling. However it was not sufficient. The racial points at the moment are years within the making and embody a neighborhood revitalization scheme that was designed to revitalize the small metropolis however as an alternative has been broadly criticized as being burdensome to individuals of colour. Extra under.[/bs-content][bs-link link=”https://www.vox.com/2019/6/27/18759807/pete-buttigieg-town-hall-protesters-police-shooting-2020″ source=”Vox”] [bs-title]The London Zoo has constructed a Satisfaction celebration round their charming same-sex penguin couple[/bs-title][bs-content]Ronnie and Reggie are a beloved a part of the zoo’s colony of 93 Humboldt penguins, and have develop into the centerpiece of a “Satisfaction makeover” part to its repeatedly scheduled Zoo Evening on July 5. Along with all of the enjoyable stuff they often supply, the zoo will likely be instructing guests about gender, mating, and same-sex animal pairings. Zoo workers have additionally designed a particular banner for the Penguin Seashore neighborhood the place Ronnie and Reggie stay, which is paying homage to messaging utilized by the Stonewall activists. Get pleasure from.[/bs-content][bs-link link=”https://www.cnn.com/2019/06/27/europe/london-zoo-pride-gay-penguins-trnd/index.html” source=”CNN”] [bs-title]The eleventh transgender girl has been murdered this yr[/bs-title][bs-content]Brooklyn Lindsey was discovered useless on the entrance porch of a vacant residence in a Kansas Metropolis, Missouri neighborhood earlier this week. She was additionally homeless. Consultants imagine she is the eleventh transgender girl to be murdered this yr, all are black according the Human Rights Campaign. Individuals from the Justice Mission of Kansas Metropolis knew Lindsey and have been making an attempt to assist her discover steady housing. They advised NBC Information that she had been in worry for her life and estranged from her household. “The considered Brooklyn being a homosexual man was sufficient to present them an apoplexy, not to mention being a trans girl,” stated the chief director.[/bs-content][bs-link link=”https://www.nbcnews.com/feature/nbc-out/police-investigate-11th-murder-black-transgender-woman-year-n1023526″ source=”NBC”]     On Background [bs-title]Marianne Williamson wins the Google search race final evening; this is the biography you have been on the lookout for[/bs-title][bs-content]She’s a “religious legend” in accordance with Gwyneth Paltrow, she’s helped Steven Tyler handle his dependancy, she counts Cher and Andre Agassi amongst her many readers, and she or he’s been a voice of affection and purpose for thousands and thousands of others over time. Now, her foray into politics has pressured Williamson right into a place of explaining who she is and what she believes to individuals who could or will not be ready for her distinctive message. And but…why not? “I heard you say,” stated one older man at a poorly attended marketing campaign cease in Iowa final winter, “that it is an important thought to spend 5 minutes sending your love out of your coronary heart to everybody in America. I began doing it. I am simply amazed at how rather more I like simply…the individuals round me. This man. These individuals.”[/bs-content][bs-link link=”https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/katherinemiller/marianne-williamson-president-campaign” source=”Buzzfeed”] [bs-title]Lest we overlook: Kamala Harris can also be a lady of Indian descent[/bs-title][bs-content]Although she usually is recognized as black and attended an HBCU, Harris doesn’t solely establish as black. However in a rustic that is not inquisitive about combined race individuals except they’re combined with white, her distinctive background is simple to miss or misunderstand. However Harris made quiet historical past final evening by being the primary girl of Indian descent to run for president and make it to the primary debate stage. (The primary Indian American to run for president was Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal, who solely acquired so far as an undercard debate earlier than tapering off.) It isn’t as if Harris is not forthcoming: Her mom is the particular person she most quotes on the marketing campaign path and in her work, and she or he wrote extensively about her in her autobiography. Shyamala Gopalan Harris was a breast most cancers scientist and civil rights activist who emigrated to the US from India in 1960. Whereas her marriage to Donald Harris, a Stanford economics professor from Jamaica, lasted lower than a decade, the 2 created a family which took problems with justice severely… and two extremely achieved daughters.[/bs-content][bs-link link=”https://www.mercurynews.com/2019/02/10/kamala-harris-president-parents-shyamala-gopalan-donald-harris-berkeley/” source=”Mercury News”] [bs-title]Why are black ebook reviewers so arduous to search out on YouTube?[/bs-title][bs-content]The individuals who construct communities round books on YouTube are referred to as BookTubers, and whereas they could take a again seat to the players and wonder bloggers, they’re nonetheless a significant a part of the YouTube expertise. Until, as Jolie A. Doggett factors out, they occur to be black. The state of affairs grew to become clear throughout a YouTube produced particular that includes Michelle Obama discussing her autobiography, a fascinating present that excluded any black girls BookTubers. Which results in the larger query: Why cannot they get traction on the platform? Seems, all black creators are reallyhard to search out. “You must actually look. It isn’t going to be the primary you see, not first 5 or the primary ten, it may not even be on the primary friggin’ web page,” says Christina Marie, a Black BookTuber who’s been making movies since 2006. [/bs-content][bs-link link=”https://www.huffpost.com/entry/black-booktube-diversity-books-publishing-youtube_l_5d14f9e8e4b03d6116384e92/amp” source=”Huffington Post”] [bs-content]Tamara El-Waylly helps produce raceAhead and assisted within the preparation of right this moment’s summaries.[/bs-content] Quote [bs-quote link=”https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/bidens-tough-talk-on-1970s-school-desegregation-plan-could-get-new-scrutiny-in-todays-democratic-party/2019/03/07/9115583e-3eb2-11e9-a0d3-1210e58a94cf_story.html?utm_term=.16057153baf0″ author =”–then Senator Joe Biden, 1975″]I don’t purchase the idea, widespread within the ’60s, which stated, ‘We’ve got suppressed the black man for 300 years and the white man is now far forward within the race for every thing our society affords. So as to even the rating, we should now give the black man a head begin, and even maintain the white man again, to even the race.’ I do not purchase that… I do not really feel answerable for the sins of my father and grandfather. I really feel answerable for what the state of affairs is right this moment, for the sins of my very own era. And I will be damned if I really feel accountable to pay for what occurred 300 years in the past.[/bs-quote] Source link

[lovemypetz]

Sammie Gets Breakfast (Finally!)

My friends Marianne and Julien are the sweetest, kindest people you’d ever like to know — and they are devoted to their darling rescued mutt, Sammie. They are both brilliant retired college professors, so I was astonished to discover that their ideas about canine nutrition and wellness were stuck in the Dark Ages! They had been giving Sammie only one meal a day, and feeding him pretty much nothing but the same kibble for years!

Those of you who have heard my radio shows over the years — or read my blogs — know how passionate I am about canine and feline nutrition and “myth busting” and high quality ingredients and thinking independently for our individual circumstances. So you can imagine how difficult it was for me to keep a smiling expression and calm tone of voice when I said, “WHAT?! One measly meal at 5:00 PM?”

I really didn’t mean to make them feel bad about what they thought was “the right way” to feed a dog, but it amazed me that they hadn’t come across more enlightened ideas about how all dogs do best with two meals a day. They digest better… it lowers the risk of (life-threatening) bloat… for smaller dogs it prevents the low blood sugar issues that happen when a dog has to fast for 24 hours… and for most dogs it makes them less frantic about food, generally. Beyond the actual dangers of leaving a dog’s stomach completely empty for 24 hours, imagine how incredibly hungry a dog would be having to go from morning throughout an entire day with only that one meal at teatime.

I also had to explain to Marianne that feeding only dry food — which is the most processed version of dog food — doesn’t give a dog the more complete and fulfilling nutrition that comes by substituting about half the kibble with cooked or canned meat, chicken, fish, scrambled eggs and/or cottage cheese. There are also many fine dehydrated foods containing protein, vegetable, fruits and fiber to make up some of the calories, too. An essential point is to change up the protein in all the forms of the foods so that, over time, the dog gets a wider range of nutrition sources by switching up kibble made of fowl, fish or meat with each bag and rotating the proteins that you cook yourself or get from a can.

I recommended Halo foods to my friends because of the company’s philosophies of humane practices that are good for the planet as well as our pets — which is why I’ve been giving their different kibble to my girls, Maisie and Wanda, for their whole lives. Their pal Sammie is now gratefully getting both breakfast and dinner. He’s started his first bag of kibble with Halo Holistic Wild Salmon and Whitefish Recipe and — because Marianne is a vegetarian — some Halo Holistic Garden of Vegan Recipe canned food along with a scoop of cottage cheese.

Life is good for Sammie — his people are so happy to be giving him the very best — and I hope anyone else only feeding one meal a day to their dog will read this and quickly change their ways.

Tracie Hotchner is a nationally acclaimed pet wellness advocate, who wrote THE DOG BIBLE: Everything Your Dog Wants You to Know and THE CAT BIBLE: Everything Your Cat Expects You to Know. She is recognized as the premiere voice for pets and their people on pet talk radio. She continues to produce and host her own Gracie® Award winning NPR show DOG TALK®  (and Kitties, Too!) from Peconic Public Broadcasting in the Hamptons after 9 consecutive years and over 500 shows. She produced and hosted her own live, call-in show CAT CHAT® on the Martha Stewart channel of Sirius/XM for over 7 years until the channel was canceled, when Tracie created her own Radio Pet Lady Network where she produces and co-hosts CAT CHAT® along with 10 other pet talk radio podcasts with top veterinarians and pet experts.

Tracie also is the Founder and Director of the annual NY Dog Film Festival, a philanthropic celebration of the love between dogs and their people. Short canine-themed documentary, animated and narrative films from around the world create a shared audience experience that inspires, educates and entertains. With a New York City premiere every October, the Festival then travels around the country, partnering in each location with an outstanding animal welfare organization that brings adoptable dogs to the theater and receives half the proceeds of the ticket sales. Halo was a Founding Sponsor in 2015 and donated 10,000 meals to the beneficiary shelters in every destination around the country in 2016.

Tracie lives in Bennington, Vermont – where the Radio Pet Lady Network studio is based – and where her 12 acres are well-used by her 2-girl pack of lovely, lively rescued Weimaraners, Maisie and Wanda.

from Halo Pets http://ift.tt/2oNdD8Z via IFTTT

[walkingwitheyesopen]

Friday the 13th

I’ve came to accept that writing and sharing on a blog for me is something i can barely control. It seems to require detachment for it to sustain. Like many other things in life that i try to condense into a way for me to avoid feeling like i’m in danger, the flow and consistency of writing seems to have it’s own intention. It also seems to depend entirely on my mental perspective day to day - my frame of mind. Lately i’ve been trying to get to know what and who i am more. I’ve been doing this for years actually with varying degrees of success, but my awareness of parts, patterns and habits is somehow acutely strong at the moment. 

Some of the things i’ve realised are nothing new and probably very common, but i wonder - just because some things are common, this doesn't mean they’re normal or natural and without requirement to be challenged. I think very much the opposite is the case. It’s severely abnormal and unnatural to live in fear and suffer the way many of us do. With that in mind, what feels different regarding my approach to these ‘common’ aspects or ‘parts’ of being human is that i’m seeing them more clearly and experiencing them in action at the same time.

These thoughts/beliefs/patterns/things, whatever we call them, are within my own mental programming so it feels important to highlight and take responsibility for them. Maybe others can relate too.

So, those things...

- If i feel like i can’t do or have something, it makes me want to do or have it much more. More often than not this obsessively dominates my energy, choices and thoughts. I can live for days, weeks, months, even years following a false goal or desire, fostering many beliefs that at the foundation level are nothing more than an illusion.

- If i have to do something or feel i need to be a certain way or do certain things, i hugely resist and repel it. The feeling of being controlled or dominated spurs anger in me and eventually seems to paralyse me. I’m aware an aspect of this is rooted in childhood trauma but it also feels like something more than that. An unnatural mental position. Perceiving life and our responsibilities wrongly.

- Unknown future outcomes can deeply affect me. I feel depressed, scared, anxious and a sense of impending doom pulls at me from inside. 

- I struggle with change - again a fear of the unknown, fear of not being in control, or not knowing if i will be okay or not.

These are some of my observations of how ‘i’ seem to function and as i’m writing i’m noticing even more by the words i’m using. For example - fear of the unknown. It’s not the unknown that we fear it’s the fear that is the problem. Fear is the dominant and primary source of our suffering, what we are scared of doesn't really matter because it’s the very same energy just in different clothing. I also see how these are all actually just beliefs about who and what i am. I could approach this as simply choosing and affirming different beliefs or not believing them at all but i haven't found much prolonged success with that. They still seem to be here. So i felt that there must be other approaches and maybe getting involved with trying to ‘change’ these mental thoughts and beliefs wasn't the most constructive or easiest way.

The patterns and habits are inconsistent, they come and go and aren't always obvious. My mental structure and foundation of beliefs are totally faulty to be producing often paralysing and unhelpful experiences externally. So i am trying different things as an experiment to subtly change the way i function - small changes with as little pressure as possible (this is a challenge for me in itself to let go). What i’ve found is that the changes i’m feeling to make are teaching me about what i feel is Love, with patience as the dominating element. When i let go I can sense a natural force that desires so very much to help me, it seems elusive and invisible to my eyes but i KNOW there is another way. I know there is more than many of us are seeing and it’s simple. Very simple.

I’ve realised and read many times about fear being in the mind and not being real, but experiencing this gives a total different understanding. If i try to explain what i feel fear is, the most obvious expression of it to me is the faulty functioning of our mind which at one point was most likely structured in a specific way with an intention to protect us. Recently I was astonished to see that fear ultimately cannot be real, even now i am trying to understand that, but i can’t and i don’t think i ever will, because the truth of this feels only to be an experience. Trying to explain here what i want to is subsequently quite difficult.

FEAR IS A STATE OF MIND. Temporary and ever changing. 

A perception and perspective.

Someone can tell us fear is a state of mind as i have suggested here but it’s a personal experience that will reveal how true this really is. 

I had a particularly challenging day on Friday. At one point i thought i was going to be physically sick from the mental pressure and incessant thoughts that were bombarding me. I was occupied physically by sticking labels on jars but a whirlwind was engulfing me from the inside which has often been the case. There was a situation the day prior that influenced an emotional stir and most of my thoughts were concerned with this. Strangely i appeared to be separate from the thoughts (a rare occurrence), i could see how they would bounce from side to side validating how i was right in the previous heated situation with a friend, but then within moments i would be the one who was at fault. How could both of these be true? Does that mean nothing i think is true? Something inside of me knew to breathe and told me to wait this out - be still and wait for the storm to pass.

So i did, i kept as quiet as i could and relinquished involvement in the mental debates no matter how alluring they were. It passed. The storm passed and what followed was a sense of surrender and presence. Not long after this i went to a local cafe and sat alone with a hot drink. I seen so clearly how my mind  has dominated my life for many many years. If i had slipped and dropped my focus during that recent mental storm i may have still been trapped in an illusion - in blame, anger, resentment and stubbornness. How much of my life has been lived this way? How many thoughts have i believed that have resulted in deep suffering for months at a time? and the most shocking question - How much of humanity are dreaming a shared fearful dream?

I proceeded to write some notes in my journal and a few words to anchor me any time i felt unsettled inside - 

‘Fear cannot be real. Why play a game so very elusive of trying to overcome, let go of or stop fear. Why and how is it even possible to get involved. We are trying to understand and change something that isn't real. A state of mind cannot be real. It does NOT exist. ‘Let go of fear’? How can we let go of an illusion. It’s a waste of intention and energy and an investment further into mentality.’

Anchoring words were -

‘Whenever a mind storm comes. And it will, even more relentlessly, once the truth is pondered. Hold tight. Keep quiet and let the wild beast inside express itself. But do not get involved or believe a single thing. Remember the answers and clarity come in stillness. The two cannot co exist.

SIT TIGHT and wait for the storm to pass. Breathe and do anything to relax as much as possible. Love and patience waters the flames of mental agitation. It’s purpose is to distract you, to pull you into it’s dream world and use you to live through. Because without you it cannot and does not exist. Do not believe thoughts or emotions, even feelings when in that stormy place and refrain from making any choices.’

I don’t believe fear is an emotion in itself. I believe it is a state of mind. It’s a choice we consciously or unconsciously make in every moment. So to me the answer to many problems we seem to have doesn't lie in getting involved with trying to change or stop fear. Seeing fear as something to change or fight only makes it more real and pushes us further into a dream. I suppose fear can be a broad term but here i’m referring to the more subtle and deceptive expressions of it - anger, jealousy, hatred, bitterness, blame, resentment... Part of my own experimenting is observing myself when i do experience these things and exploring if and how i may have falsely perceived something. How much peace do you feel in your life? Could it be true that you’ve falsely perceived something too?

What is nearly always called for when we are suffering then, must be a change in perspective.

Fearful state of mind generates energy.  This energy moves out into the world - energy in motion - fearful emotion.

Loving state of mind generates energy. This energy moves out into the world - energy in motion - loving emotion.

I realise a lot of what i’ve wrote here doesn't give much tangible information on  HOW to change our perception or shift to a loving state of mind but i do intend to share such things in future posts. Bearing in mind, i’m still learning how to do this myself! Also If you’ve managed to read this far..... WELL DONE. I would have probably checked out long ago. 

If this subject and my thoughts here ignite interest in anyone i really recommend looking into a book called ‘A Course in Miracles’. It can be quite heavy in parts but another book that has been written based on ACIM’s principles is ‘A Return to Love’ by Marianne Williamson. This book in many ways has changed my life and helped me overcome challenges that i never thought i could. Hopefully it may find it’s way to others and bless them with new insights and possibilities too <3

[verwrongica]

Dear incredible fans, Thank you. It's an honor to me that you're here following my work. I haven't posted in awhile and there's complicated feels around this. On one hand there's grief, in 2017 I have attended 2 funerals, and it's been necessary for me to slow down even more so I can focus on healing and saying goodbye to loved ones. There's a lot I've had to process here, I know that my dead want me to thrive and live fully embodied as my best self. It isn't an easy thing to do though, I feel so vulnerable just blogging on here. There's guilt for not putting myself to task in regards to making content with more discipline. I can easily fall into feeling disappointed with myself, like I don't live up to the expectations of people I look up to and even people I've lost this year. My grandfather was the sort of person who always wanted to know your goals and push you to your fullest potential. He did so kindly and with great intention. I appreciate him for that, yet still deal with frustration towards the intergenerational pattern of pain that's stemmed from his incredible way of being. Holly was the sort of person who would say "fuck what anyone else thinks". Her punk attitude holds its own lessons for me about being confident. In the pursuit of full honesty, the other hand to these feels is fear. Mostly around performing on the internet, which feels like a vacuum. Maybe I need to switch the focus from the feedback I don't get to the feedback I do get. Just because I haven't received much attention yet, doesn't mean that I'm doing bad. In fact, I've really only gotten positive feedback on my work. In learning more about marketing so my audience should start to grow. Regardless, if I dwell on the lack of feedback that means I'm not appreciating the love that I am receiving. So thank you. There's a fear of charging anything for my creations: a fear that they aren't worth your money. Part of me feels so ameteur still. I am easily discouraged by the things I can't access yet, like recording studios and mixing software. (These things are coming within reach now) There's no way to control the worth that people put on my art, so it falls on me to do a lot of work just to affirm myself as a "legit artist". As a result of doing this work, I am seeing new gorgeous views that are worth more than money. I am owning these feels so I can let them go. I hear that voice, tell her "thank you for sharing" and then refocus on strengthening more affirming neural pathways. This way I can let go of these conflicting fears. It's art, what it's worth is so objective. It only gets better the more I practice making it, getting caught up in this fear hinders the quality and scratches deeper this trench of guilt. That's another feel to acknowledge and reprogram. I'm hurting and I need time to heal. It doesn't serve me to regret the past. I need to feel good about myself and how I spend my time so long as I'm not causing harm. And so I will. My family loves me for who I am, I am above their worry and disappointment. Who says that they're disappointed anyways? I'm a badass. Whether it's real or in my head, I have to feel proud of myself and what I bring at the end of the day. I must acknowledge the good work and feedback I'm getting. Even through this heartbreak, I've managed to create new songs and perform once a month. For May, I played my favorite holiday: May Day! In high school, I was inspired by the extensive history of direct action and radical organizing taken for our human rights in the name of May Day. I started organizing for immigrant rights and emceed in Spanish at Wisconsin's Capitol, the first time I ever attended a May Day. I've shown out every year since in Madison, LA, and Seattle. To finish up this tangent about my May Day feels, I'll include a link that sums up most of that up in a poem I wrote after I was arrested at an anticapitalist march on May Day 2013. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BCIhSeg64aAwm8gPJkZ8AS_hh4HoqtKRrHff9xhLXY Enjoy! May Day 2017 was lit! I had a blast. Bypolar, the Toxic Cherub, a dope rapper and friend, pulled together a Block the Juvie block party, complete with food, live music, and cries against the trauma that is youth incarceration. The city wants to expand our youth jail facilities. They've begun remodeling on the juvie despite large public concern about institutional racism in the schools, the recidivism rates for people incarcerated at youth, the city's investment in punitive systems over exploring transformative justice, as well as the toxicity of the land they plan to dig up and the harmful effects it will have on Seattle's incarcerated youth. We gathered outside the building, making noise so that the kids know they're not forgotten and to draw attention to these issues. It was incredible to share the floor with artists I look up to in the hip hop scene, Julie C, Black Magic Noize, Poesia, and Bypolar! The music wasa perfect blend of fun and radical! Plus, I will always remember being introduced to Raz Simone’s music as he spit so much truth from the top of a van, got vulnerable about cycles of abuse and how incarceration perpetuates that, and then jumped off the car like it was no big deal! All these artists are amazing, you can check them out on the following links: Bypolar, the Toxic Cherub https://www.youtube.com/user/highgodsentertainmen Poesia https://www.poesiamariarte.com Julie C https://juliec.bandcamp.com/ Black Magic Noize https://blackmagicnoize.bandcamp.com/ Raz Simone http://razsimone.com/ I played old old faithful songs; Neoliberal Colonizers and R.B.F. and I felt so much love from the crowd! They liked me! They really liked me! Check out grassroots media coverage of the Block the Juvie party: it's going down is a dope source for radical media and they're here on Patreon! https://itsgoingdown.org/seattle-wa-anti-juvie-report-back/ A few weeks ago, I felt so legitimate as a musician because I broke and restrung the A string on my uke! I'm soooooooooooo real artist! It might sound silly, but I feel like that marks an important rite of passage for any musician! I'm hesitant to tell you what to expect, I did a little bit of that in a January post and I'm still working on the same projects. I have set goals that I'm working on and will hold myself accountable to. That's what is important. For June, I've been invited to play next week at a birthday party in a park for my punk af musically talented friend, Trash Blossom a.ka. istabcapitalists. They have videos here: https://www.youtube.com/user/AaronTheDino I'll get a video of me unveiling my #SummerGoth4eva song for the first time online! I've gotten a lot of good feedback on it already so I'm excited to share it on here!These wins are worth celebrating! I'm connected to an awesome community of artists that are doing the work, inspire me, and lift me up! I feel great about where I'm at right now and for what's ahead! And I know my feel that way, too. I will say that DISRUPT THE SATELLITES is coming sooner than later, that I'm making the stickers I've promised all you Patrons, and that I will soon be posting paid content. I hope you love it as I love you all! Thank you so much for exchanging your patronage with me! ☠️🖤☠️🖤☠️ the sissy bas “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? We were born to make manifest the glory… that is within us.” -Marianne Williamson