#i felt like i wrote so much and like. it was 208 words.

[itstimeforstarwars]

I’m having a lot of fun thinking about the galidraan au. I’m not getting anywhere with the writing, but I’m thinking about it.

[dreamescapeswriting]

I posted 2,657 times in 2021

2518 posts created (95%)

139 posts reblogged (5%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 0.1 posts.

I added 4,603 tags in 2021

#m answered - 1945 posts

#lovely anon - 747 posts

#mutuals - 640 posts

#sw33tnight - 234 posts

#bts - 208 posts

#bts x reader - 197 posts

#requests - 161 posts

#stray kids - 158 posts

#bts imagines - 157 posts

#skz - 156 posts

Longest Tag: 94 characters

#chan is my main source of happiness and it feels like it’s being ripped out from underneath me

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Miss Congeniality ~ BC [M] [Request]

WORD COUNT: 26.8K

PAIRING: Chan x Fem!Reader

GENRE: fluffy, detective AU, movie inspired, SMUT, slow burn, angst, soft, fluffy ending, friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers,

A/N: I hope this is alright hunny!!! I really enjoyed writing this you have no idea! Also for anyone that says “you just wrote the movie” I didn’t, I took notes and took time to make this like a fanfiction🥰💞🌸 Have a lovely day

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721 notes • Posted 2021-07-10 10:58:46 GMT

#4

Stray Kids Reaction | Uses Your Insecurities Against You [Request]

`A/N: The anon is right by the way you’re all beautiful in every way possible, including the anon that requested this. I love you all! Stunning, beautiful peopl all of you! ~ M

CHAN: Insecurity: Clingy

Chan rubbed the bridge of his nose as he stared at the screen in front of him trying to grab some ideas from the air, he had been suffering with writer's block and it was starting to get to him. Normally if he was suffering with it he would call you over, you were his constant muse but this week he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. He was stressed from being put under pressure from his managers to finished a certain amount of songs, as well as making sure he and the rest of the boys were staying on top of their practice. Everything was just piling up on top of him and he didn't need you around to add to the pile, as much as he loved you being there he just needed some peace and quiet which he soon realised wasn't going to happen,

"Jisung told me you were feeling shitty so I bought your favourite snacks," Your voice that was normally heavenly to Chan only made him cringe as he realised you were here. 

"Hey babe, do you mind coming back later? I really need to get this done," He turned around on his chair to face you, trying to get you to leave quickly before things went south but you stood your ground, placing the small basket of food down onto the coffee table. 

"I also got your favourite hot drink, I figured you could use a pick me up." You began explaining everything that was in the basket but it only annoyed him more as you listed everything, ignoring his request for you to leave.

"We can sit on the sofa and eat while you relax for a while-"

"Fuck! Have you always been this clingy or is it just as of late?" Your heart sunk as you stared at Chan who was red in the face, it was now that you took in his dishevelled appearance it looked like he'd slept less than usual and he was clearly beating himself up over something so you let the comment pass. 

"I was just- I wanted to make sure you were okay," Your voice cracked as you tried to get over the comment, moving closer to Chan who simply rolled away from you on the chair and shook his head at you. 

"I want you to leave. You're so fucking clingy! I can't do anything without you being right there on top of me, it's exhausting having a partner who doesn't know what space is!" He was yelling loudly enough that the staff outside his studio had stopped speaking to hear what was happening in the office but you felt like you shrunk in size as he yelled at you so without another word you left him there. Chan knew how insecure you were about being considered clingy, your exes had all said the same thing to you so when you began dating Chan you told him about it, not wanting to have the same problem. You never thought, in a million years, that he of all people would use it against you.

(X)

Later that night there was a knock on your apartment door, thinking it was just the food you'd ordered for yourself you got up to answer it to see Chan standing there holding the basket of food with a giant smile on his face. 

"What do you want?" You asked plainly as you stared behind him, hoping your pizza would arrive so you could take it and shut the door. 

"To tell you how sorry I am," You scoffed rolling your eyes at him, 

"You know exactly how insecure about that I am and you still-" You began sobbing as you thought back on what he said, all he did was wrap his arms around you tightly. Pulling you into a hug, his hugs were the answers to all of your problems, no matter what you were going through as long as he hugged you everything else seemed to be insignificant to you.

"You know how insecure I am about that," You managed to say through sniffles as he kissed the top of your head, rubbing your lower back as he repeated how sorry he was to you. 

"Things with work have been stressful...I just- You weren't listening and I needed you out of there." He knew it was never going to make up for what he had unintentionally said to you but he was going, to be honest with you from the start and tell you what happened. 

"I'll make it up to you if you let me." He whispered as he continued to hold you in his arms, kissing your cheeks as you nodded. 

"Start by paying for my pizza," You sniffled, wiping your eyes when you saw the delivery man walking over in your direction, 

"Anything for you," Chan whispered, handing you the basket so he could get out the cash.

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853 notes • Posted 2021-04-26 10:59:27 GMT

#3

Stray Kids Reaction || They Break The Bed [M?] [Request]

Stray Kids X GN!Reader

A/N: Mentions of smut but not full smut, hope this is okay @spearb1108

CHAN:

As soon as you heard the snapping sound your hands gripped onto Chan's arms tightly as you tried not to giggle, he froze in place with a look of terror on his face. His eyes were wide as he replayed the sound over and over in his head trying to think of it was a human sound or something else,

"What was that?" He asked worried as he looked at you to make sure it wasn't you that had somehow made a snapping sound with your body, you looked behind him where his hands were and at the headboard that was now cracked. He'd been thrusting into you roughly when he slammed his hand against the headboard,

"I-I think we broke it," You laughed as you stared at the large crack going down your headboard, it was only a thin wooden one you'd made yourself so it was a wonder it had even lasted as long as it did. You hissed as Chan pulled out of you to access the damage that had been made to the bed and he groaned at himself, trying not to laugh from the embarrassment he was feeling.

"Baby it's fine." You laughed as you saw his ears beginning to turn red, you knew how shy he got over things like this but it was bound to happen eventually. You and Chan weren't exactly the softest in bed and if he didn't break from his grip on it, it would have broken from hitting the wall at some point.

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1143 notes • Posted 2021-03-13 12:00:26 GMT

#2

Unspoken Challenge ~ Bang Chan [M]

WORD COUNT: 4.2K

GENRE: Smut, fluffy, nerdy/dom chan

PAIRING: Nerd Bang Chan x Reader

WARNING: Light choking, squirting, Chan dom...I think that’s it

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1421 notes • Posted 2021-01-19 12:00:17 GMT

#1

Stray Kids Reaction || Waking You Up With Oral [M] [Request]

A/N: EVERYTHING MENTIONED WITHIN THIS POST IS CONSENSUAL BETWEEN THE TWO.

CHAN:

Chan was always late home and you always forgave him so easily for it but it didn't mean he forgave himself. He knew there must have been something inside of you that hated him for not being there when you went to bed, but all you cared about was him being there when you woke up. That morning Chan looked at you asleep on his side of the bed. It was almost 8 am which meant you'd be getting up soon but he wanted to wake you up with a surprise so he laid himself down between your legs, smirking when he saw you wearing nothing but his black silk shirt.

Just like that he began to tease you slowly, the two of you had talked about waking each other like this before and it wasn't the first time it had happened. Slowly he began to tease your clit, watching you as your body shifted in your sleep, not quite feeling the effects of his touches yet. 

"So wet, what have you been dreaming about?" He chuckled to himself as he began to apply a little more pressure to your bud, biting down on his lip as he heard a moan fall from your perfect lips. 

Licking a long stripe from your opening to your clit he smirked as you let out a louder moan, beginning to come back to reality as he pushed his tongue into you, holding your hips as he began to eat you out hungrily as if you were his only meal. 

"Oh shit!" You screamed out as you finally realised what was happening, his tongue pumping in and out of you, lapping you up as you cried out his name. 

"H-Holy shit," You cried out running your hands into his hair and tugging on the strands as he continued to aggressively eat you out, locking his eyes with yours.

"Ride my tongue," He smirked at you as you shook your head, tension building up as he continued with his movements, 

"I-I can't," You whimpered pushing your hips into the bed but he growled against you, as he continued. 

"Do it," Your head rolled back as everything began to gain in intensity, it felt as though lava was flowing through your blood and you were about to erupt. 

"That's it," He chuckled darkly as you began to rock your hips against his tongue as the tension curled up inside of you. 

"Chan!" You cried out as the tension snapped, it was like lightning in your veins, you released onto his tongue crying out his name as he continued to work you until you came down from your high.

"Morning babe," He chuckled laying down in the bed beside you but you kissed him hungrily as you straddled his lap desperate for more from him.

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1827 notes • Posted 2021-06-05 10:58:37 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[matan4il]

hi : ) coming for the words of my fave meta expert! So I personally watched 911 pretty late (before season 5 started) and I obviously wasn't really part of the fandom at the time but I was thinking how different it was for me seeing friendship between Eddie and Lena Vs Buck and Taylor (before 4x14), the latter making me rather uncomfortable but hey, that's maybe me biased. I'm really interested in your POV, having watched the seasons mostly weekly from I think S3, was it obvious from meta and fandom reactions that LenaEddie were going nowhere romantically and why they could have that sort of friendship when Buckt*ylor clearly couldn't. I'm sorry, I hope I made a bit sense with my rambling xd

Hi Nonnie! Awwww, that is such a sweet compliment, thank you so much, you made my day! *HUGS*

Soooo... I actually started watching 911 before I started writing the weekly meta. I was just anxious about joining the fandom actively (it's the same with most fandoms for ships/characters that I love. I just quietly ship to myself and write meta in my own head). But then 309 and 310 were SO GOOD in terms of Buddie content, that I just HAD to get the meta out of my head or I would explode. So I wrote my first round of Buddie meta for seasons 1 to 3a and thought that this was it, I was done. But then I got such lovely reactions (even though I originally posted my meta on Twitter, which is the WORST website for meta, but hey, like I said. I wasn't looking to become an active part of fandom. The fact that despite that, I got awesome reactions ended up helping me take the plunge and join more properly on Tumblr sometime during the s3 mid-season hiatus). So that's how I somehow ended up doing the weekly meta posts from 3b on.

All that to explain that during the start of 3a, when Lena was introduced, I wasn't active in the fandom, but I was vaguely aware of some reactions, meaning some stuff I'd seen posted on Twitter. IDK how different the reactions were on Tumblr, but I can say that on Twitter at least, there actually were fans who felt anxious about Bosko and feared she was possibly introduced as a Love Interest for Eddie. After all, she mostly interacted with him out of the whole team. These fans very much disliked the character, while some disliked the actress... (if anyone else wants to weigh in on this with fan reactions from Tumblr, please do!)

I think at the end of the day, whenever someone is introduced and seems to connect with one character specifically (rather than with the cast at large), and the fandom already ships that character with someone else, there will be some who will think it's a potential LI and will then dislike the newcomer. It has nothing to do with gender or sexual orientation (which is an accusation that is sometimes brought up), I have seen people disliking a male gay newcomer when he threatened the popular mlm ship just as soon as I've seen people disliking a female straight newcomer.

Whenever fandom doesn't think a newcomer is brought in to be an LI that comes in between a beloved ship, it actually is open and even very welcome to the idea of this newcomer as a friend. Just look at Ravi, for example! When he came in, he became a (weirded out) friend to the 118 as a whole, he wasn't specifically attached to either Buck or Eddie (not until 505, at least, which is about a season after he was introduced in 406, and even then, that only lasted for one ep), so fandom warmly embraced him. Some might ship him with Buck (or Eddie, IDK) but even those who do, they probably do it as a headcanon, they don't think Ravi will canonically become Buck's LI on the show.

Now to add to that, when Taylor was brought back in 408 to be Buck's LI, she also came back with baggage from s2, which is something most newcomers that are possible LIs don't have. Tons of fans did not like what she did to Bobby in 206 and have not really forgiven her for that. Nor was she ever given a proper redemption for it (911 was in a hurry to use her in 208 as a contrast to Ali, so it wasn't interested in Taylor seeking Bobby's forgiveness, and by the time they brought her back in s4, I guess they felt like touching upon that would be opening a can of worms they weren't interested in, so they just glossed over it).

Lastly, I also think it matters how the fans are treated by the show in the course of introducing a newcomer/possible LI. When Ana was introduced in 312, I remember so many people were raging over how stupid the scene was, with its forced attempt to create an "it's fate!" vibe. When the viewers’ intelligence isn’t respected then yeah, that can induce rage as a reaction! I think Lena didn't have that when she was introduced to the audience, and Taylor kinda did ("let the universe come to you," and also just the whole thing where the show acts like Taylor’s actions in s2 didn’t happen, but it’s also blurry enough that I think it really depends on the viewer whereas with Ana, the show resorting to cliches was much more obvious).

IDK if this summarized analysis helps, Nonnie, but I really hope so! Thank you again for your kindness, sorry for the length and please have a look at my ask tag if you're looking for another ask reply. xoxox

[unsettlingconclusions]

Burnt Bridges

Summary: Once a bridge has been burnt down, can it be rebuilt? Set after party / exposure of Lewis (Ch 15) Pairing: Ayna Seth x F!MC (Kennedy) Rating: M (NSFW) Word Count: 6k+ Notes: That turned out to be a lot longer than I expected. Also, I'm not very into writing smut, so I apologize if that's unfulfilling. This is my (very messy) take on how the reconciliation should've played. I wrote this mainly to sort out the very conflicting feelings this plot brought me. Enjoy. Dance away your troubles, that's how the saying goes, right? As far as Kennedy is concerned, that's how her evening was going, and she was enjoying every minute of it. She was almost happy, what with such a huge weight lifted off her shoulders. It felt good to be carefree again, if only for tonight.

The man behind the paranoia that her life had turned to was thankfully incapable of harming her any longer. At least that's what she was intent on believing for the moment. Maybe things would turn out not to be so simple but, for now, she was satisfied.

This rollercoaster of a day had started out like just any other day until she came knocking on her door, claiming to have an idea of how to help the Rutherlandian catch the person who’s been setting her up.

Ayna Seth.

Kennedy never felt so confused by anyone else in her life.

She had met Ayna at Vancross and they had hit it off from the beginning. She felt at ease in Ayna's presence, the elder woman had a power to make her feel like she could just be. It calmed and soothed Kennedy at the same rate it thrilled and excited her. Even when the press was breathing down her neck and her mother wouldn't get off her case, Ayna never wavered, and Kennedy felt blissful to have found someone she could count on. That is, until she found out that Ayna was the one helping set her up. That day Kennedy found out what it meant to feel gut punched. Heartbroken. Devastated.

Ayna sold her out, pure and simple. But she was also the woman who kind of sold herself out to help Kennedy get her life back. Ayna risked her reputation, her job, her relationship with her father and her own safety by posing as bait to draw Lewis Wright out. Kennedy couldn't ignore that, could she? Ugh- that was messy.

I need a little break, she decides, unable to get Ayna out of her head now that the woman has intruded herself. Finding a secluded spot at the bar where she could lay low for a while, she motions to let Dionne know she's going for a drink. And that’s exactly when her eyes catches Ayna's. Would the woman think she was being invited there? Kennedy couldn't tell and she simultaneously wished for and against it.

She approaches the bar and orders another one of those flaming drinks Dionne got her earlier. The bartender sets to fill her order and by the time Kennedy is putting out the fire with her hands, she senses a frame approaching her from the side.

"What an intense day," it was Ayna's voice. Kennedy took in the older woman's stance. She appeared relaxed and loose. Maybe the dance had eased her troubles away as well? Whatever it was, it seemed to do her good.

"Yeah, I seriously hope that's not what my life is gonna look like from now on," Kennedy answers truthfully.

"It's just the election cycle. I'm sure everything will settle down once your mom wins again."

"You think?"

"Well, I hope so. At least you won't be so much in the spotlight anymore."

"I'll drink to that!"

Kennedy offers Ayna a smile and turns back to the counter. She takes a sip of her drink and absentmindedly strokes her wrist when she settles it down. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Ayna glancing at her.

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

Ayna pauses, opens her mouth and then closes it again, apparently changing her mind. "Uhmm, nevermind." She glances away, rubbing the back of her neck and Kennedy can feel a shift in the energy surrounding them. The relaxation seemed gone, replaced by awkwardness, was that it? It is then that she realizes she had been stroking her wrist. She abruptly stops, clenching her fists on top of the counter. Ayna's face fell. Shit! So much for just being, huh?

"I should go. You enjoy the rest of the night with your friends." Ayna offers dejectedly, shifting her weight as if preparing to depart. "I'm sure at this point Dionne won't mind me gone.”

Kennedy was taken aback by how faster her heart was suddenly beating. She wanted to say it had to do with how much she’s had to drink and not with the unexpected panic she felt at the prospect of Ayna leaving, but she knew that would be at least half a lie. She wanted to chastise herself, realizing now that the truth was she desperately missed this feeling of them being comfortable in each other’s presence. She wasn't ready to let that go.

“Can’t you stay a while longer?”

“I shouldn’t. I have to be at Vancross early tomorrow morning. Work and all.” Ayna says with a sheepish smile that resembled more a grimace and wraps her arms around herself.

That was a telltale sign that the TA was putting up a front if Kennedy ever saw one. She wracked her brain looking for something to say that could take the edge off Ayna, but in reality, how would that be even possible? They were in the middle of a speakeasy surrounded by loud and obnoxious people (which may or may not include her own friends), and sitting between them was this huge unaddressed elephant. She couldn’t possibly expect to dissolve all the tension between them when they had to shout every sentence just to be heard. But she just wanted to talk to Ayna. Really talk it all out. She knew this sudden desire to bare her soul was probably the liquid courage speaking for her, but she would be damned if she didn’t make the most of it.

"Do you live far from here?"

"A little. Why?"

Kennedy drowns the rest of her drink in a single motion, throwing more fuel at the bravery that seemed to be guiding her actions as of now, preparing herself to do what she really wanted to do. If there was anything this whole ordeal taught her was that she should live her life fully. She was going to be judged and quite literally haunted for every little action she made it seems, so she was going to make sure from now on that she’d live on her own terms. No regrets.

"Can I come with you?" She blurts out. "I'd rather be somewhere quieter.” And anywhere else if it meant being with you, she added in her head, not being brave enough to say that out loud, though. Not yet, anyway. “Today’s been exciting enough.”

She feels Ayna’s eyes trained on her face.

"I'm not sure your bodyguard would agree to that."

"I can handle Tatum."

“You’re not drunk, are you?”

“No.” Maybe just a little?

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

A few seconds ticked by before Ayna answers, their gazes never breaking. Kennedy could only imagine Ayna might be pondering a few thoughts of her own.

“Ok.”

The conversation with Tatum wasn’t exactly a breeze. He first chastised Kennedy for convincing him to go drinking and letting his guard down only to later on pull this stunt. Then he proceeded to (in a very concerned and caring tone, Kennedy had to admit) tell her he didn’t think it was a good idea. For reasons of safety and otherwise.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive here but you thought she was sincere before and you know how it turned out”, he said.

“I understand where you’re coming from, Tatum, but I’m doing this with or without your help.”

So he helped, of course, even though he was off duty (and displeased). Half an hour later Kennedy found herself enjoying the most awkward car ride in the history of awkward car rides. Agent Demarco was driving, Tatum by his side riding shotgun, and a very, very uncomfortable Ayna sat opposite her in the back seat, nearly glued to the door. The TA spent the entire drive looking out the window, only breaking out of her shell as far as it was necessary to direct Demarco through the city streets. Well, this is going great.

Kennedy let out a breath of relief when they arrived at the apartment complex. It was short lived, though, as Agent Demarco's voice cut the silence. He didn't exactly look very thrilled by the whole situation either.

"Which apartment is yours?"

"208-A."

"Could you give me your key? I'll check it out and be back in a few minutes."

"Hmm, sure." Ayna fished for her apartment keys, giving them to Agent Demarco. Tatum didn't follow, choosing instead to take a few steps back, but not too many, his posture stiff, back on the job.

Kennedy hated all of this. It seemed they were intent on making Ayna feel like a criminal and remind Kennedy herself the reality of their situation. She knew it was well-intentioned, but she didn't care for it one bit.

Fifteen long minutes later, Agent Demarco returns exclaiming "Coast is clear". Tatum chips right in, "Alright, Kennedy, you can go in, but Agent Demarco and I will stay by the door. If you need anything at all, you just have to call for us, ok? Leave the door unlocked." Yes, definitely intent.

As soon as both women cross the threshold and close the door behind them, Ayna's shoulders slump slightly.

"I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. They are just doing their jobs."

"Still..."

“Well, would you like something to drink?” Ayna says, deviating the subject for now. She leaves her shoes by the front door and starts for the kitchen.

“Do you have coffee?”

The adrenaline provided by the loud music and boisterous environment of the club seemed to wear off during the ride and Kennedy felt the need to sober up however possible. It seemed this wasn't going to be a very pleasant conversation afterall. The whole fiasco with Demarco and Tatum served to remind her of that.

“Sure. You’d be surprised to know sometimes coffee is all I have. I’ll start a pot.”

Ayna busied herself in the kitchen and Kennedy took the opportunity to explore a little bit. She took off her own shoes and went for the living room, admiring the various pictures scattered around. Some were of Ayna and her friends, Kennedy assumed. On the wall, Kennedy spotted a collage picture frame adorned with pictures of Ayna and her dad in various scenarios: when she was a baby, graduating middle school, at what seemed like a soccer game? She should file that information for later.

“You and your dad look sweet together.”

"Thanks. It's easy when he's a very sweet man himself." Ayna emerges from the kitchen carrying two steaming coffee cups, offering one cup to Kennedy. "Black coffee ok?"

"It's fine."

They both take a seat and quietly enjoy their coffee for a moment. Kennedy chooses the armchair, leaving the entire couch for Ayna. She didn't want the TA to feel cornered like it happened in the car.

"How is he doing?" It was Kennedy who broke the silence.

Ayna sighs. "He's fine. As well as can be expected. I'm thankful the treatment has been working so far." She lowers her eyeglasses a little and rubs her eyes, looking dejected. Kennedy would slap herself in the face if she could for bringing this up. But then again, that is the main reason they are deep in this conundrum, isn't it? There's no good in avoiding it.

For the brief moment she catches Ayna’s glasses off her eyes, Kennedy notices the deep circles resting beneath them. She had noticed before that Ayna looked a little worse for the wear, but this is when she got to see just how much.

“You look tired.”

“Sleep has been evading me lately.” Ayna quickly slides her eyeglasses up again. "I suppose these help hide it a little, don’t they?"

"You don't have to hide with me, Ayna." What the hell, Kennedy?

"That's... sweet of you to say."

That brief slip of misplaced affection threw them right back to silence. How to go talking about something like this? Kennedy thought there really wasn't an instruction manual on how to go back to talking to your girlfriend after she betrays you. Were they ever really girlfriends? This train of thought is not helping me much either.

"Do you have a plan for what to do now? For his treatment, I mean." Kennedy decided to steer the conversation back to Arjun. She was genuinely curious and interested.

"I have some savings. I'm going to see if I can at least pay for his surgery and figure out the rest as it comes."

"Would you accept my help?"

"Kennedy, I couldn't possibly. I already took so much from you."

"What if I loan it to you?"

"And how would I pay it back? I'm not sure I'm even going to manage to keep my job." Ayna pauses, breathing deeply. "And my dad wouldn't accept it either. I'm sure now it's only a matter of time before he finds out how I... how I managed to pay for his treatment."

"Ayna, don't worry about this. I won't let it come out that you were involved with this."

"Kennedy, that's sweet. Much more than I deserve from you, but I don't think you can really do this."

"I'll do everything I can, then. You shouldn’t lose the love of your father because a dead-ass jerk took advantage of you in a moment of vulnerability.”

“Is that how you feel? About what I did?”

“About why you did what you did. I don’t think you’re a bad person, Ayna.”

“My dad thinks so highly of me. It’s going to crush him when he finds out.”

“Then let’s hope it doesn’t come to it. Your father seems like a nice man, he should have peace to recover. And he should have you.”

“You wanna know what's the worst part of it? I don't think I was completely honest with you at the hospital,” Ayna confesses, and she begins to get agitated, rubbing the palms of her hands in her thighs, the coffee long forgotten at the coffee table. “The truth is it scared me to learn how far I was willing to compromise my values. My dad always tried to teach me to do the right thing, and I always thought of myself as righteous, I always strived to live up to his standards. But when I was approached, I barely hesitated in taking the deal.”

Kennedy provides no reply to that, mainly for feeling Ayna wasn’t done letting it all out. The silence stretches for a few seconds before Ayna hangs her head, taking in a long breath. “I know this doesn't help my case, but I think you deserve my complete honesty. And I want you to know that when you were attacked, they crossed a line that I just couldn’t go along with, even if I haven’t...” She trails off averting Kennedy’s gaze, her own looking troubled, as if she was caught off guard by what she was saying. “I couldn’t do it.”

What is she saying?

"Ayna-" Kennedy starts speaking, but is quickly interrupted by Ayna, now sitting at the edge of the sofa, her body turned in Kennedy's direction. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I’m so, so sorry you were ever put in a position to feel terrified.”

You should be! was Kennedy's first thought. This was a hard one to swallow and Kennedy felt her blood boil as she was, for a second, back in the moment she realized Ayna was the only one who knew she was at the lake. The moment she realized she was betrayed. “I’m not gonna lie, it was pretty scary. And to find out that you, of all people, were somehow responsible... it hurt, Ayna. It hurt so damn much.”

In a fluid, fast motion, Ayna crosses the living room, now kneeling by the armchair, resting her hands near Kennedy's but not really touching. “I’m so sorry, Kennedy. That’s all I can say. After getting to know you, all I ever wanted was to make you feel safe. All I ever wanted was to be there for you and support you in any way I could.”

“But that’s why it hurt so much, you see?" Kennedy exclaims a little on the exasperation side. "Because I felt all of that, Ayna. That's how I saw you, my safe space, someone I could really trust, that I could always to turn to. When I realized it, God I felt so stupid.”

It pained Kennedy to say these words as it pained Ayna to hear them. The TA all but deflates, shoulders slumped, head hanging low. After a few seconds, Kennedy is sure she heard a quiet sniffle and all her exasperation disappeared. Ayna was right there, kneeling by her side, and Kennedy's heart screamed at her to reach out, but her head wouldn’t let her do it. They weren't there yet.

“Look, Ayna, I’m not saying these things just to be mean to you. I guess I... I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to get it out of my chest", she says instead.

“I understand," Ayna replies releasing a sigh. She gets up and turns her back to Kennedy for a few seconds, discreetly wiping her eyes before turning back around. "I should be counting my lucky stars that you’re even here talking to me. I appreciate that. You really didn’t have to be here but you are, so thank you.”

But she really had to, Kennedy thought, or the doubts and resentment that were threatening to build up inside of her would eat her alive.

She could see that the turn the conversation took was really weighing down on the older woman. Ayna looked even more tired and dejected than when they first arrived in the apartment. The sight of it was upsetting Kennedy deeply. She was discovering she really couldn’t stand the idea of Ayna Seth being in pain, no matter where their relationship was standing.

“I know it can’t have been easy for you. To be caught between a rock and a hard place like that,” she offers, trying to make Ayna feel at least a little better.

“Kennedy, I don’t want to sound bad but... I have to ask. Why are you being nice to me?”

“Well, I learned that from you. To put myself in other people’s shoes. I... I didn’t like the way I saw everyone treating you earlier.”

Kennedy bit her lip, pondering if she should say what else she didn’t like, which was the way Zaira looked oddly comfortable pulling Ayna towards the dance floor. She decided against it; she felt confused as it was without adding yet another emotion into this pile of crap. Jealousy would have to wait. “I don’t think you’re a horrible comic villain who deserves to be lynched at every opportunity and I wish everyone would just stop treating you like that.”

To this Ayna offers a genuine smile. Kennedy can also see how some sparkle flashed briefly through Ayna’s eyes. “Thank you. This means a lot coming from you.”

Kennedy smiles timidly in return. She pauses for a moment, trying to process everything they have said so far. She really believed Ayna was caught in a bad place having to choose between two people she cared about. Kennedy knew Ayna loved her father fiercely but... what about me?

She takes in her surroundings for a minute: here she was, seated by an armchair in the living room of Ayna’s apartment, and the TA was standing right across from her. There was no better time or place to get the answers that she needed, and it was getting late, and to be dancing around the subject was exhausting her. She gets up from her position, approaching slowly but decidedly the other woman.

“Tell me Ayna. If we haven’t grown close, if you didn’t know I wasn’t just a rich spoiled privileged brat, would you have continued to feed Wright information about me?”

"After the attack on you, no, I don’t think I would’ve."

“Would you have reached out to me to let me know someone was out to get me? Would you still have helped me flush him out?”

“I like to think that I would’ve, yes.”

"What were you going to say when you said you haven't? Haven't what?"

That was it, what she really, really wanted to know. She wanted, scratch that, she needed to hear Ayna say it. And the TA kept fidgeting, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, looking everywhere but at the younger woman. So Kennedy presses on, searching for Ayna’s eyes, repeating the question once she found them.

"Haven't what, Ayna?"

"Fallen in love with you.”

That was Ayna’s answer, and said with an unwavering certainty so unlike her recent attitude, that Kennedy felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. She was certain she never felt so much in such a short span of time before. After that, there was no turning back anymore. She would take the plunge, and so help her God. Live life fully.

"Look, you risked everything to help me get my life back. The slate is wiped clean as far as I'm concerned,” she states, stepping closer to Ayna.

"Do you really mean that?” It was Ayna’s turn to tentatively take a step closer to Kennedy now, hope written all over her face.

"Yes. I don't want to hold a grudge and be angry with you. Not when you make me feel... so much more.” Kennedy goes forward again, reaching an arms-length distance from the other woman. “You mean the world to me, Ayna. I don’t want to pretend anymore that you don’t.”

Ayna reaches out, taking hold of Kennedy's hands in her own. Her movements are slow, almost calculated, and Kennedy wonders if that’s out of fear that any sudden movement might break the spell of the past few minutes. She intertwines their fingers together while glancing intently at Kennedy, her eyes searching for something.

“Do you think you can forgive me entirely? Wholeheartedly? If this all goes suddenly away in the morning, I’m not sure I can handle it.”

The proximity of Ayna is enough to make Kennedy feel her entire body go warm. Although she had a thousand objections at the back of her mind screaming back at her, right now all she wanted was to keep feeling whatever it was that Ayna’s touch made her feel. But she couldn't lie. She couldn't make any promises when she herself wasn't sure of anything but her desire to just try and move on. So she searched deep within herself the most honest answer she could find.

“All I can say is that I’m going to try my best. Is that good enough for you?”

Ayna takes a long breath and shuts her eyes. She lets go of Kennedy's hands and slides hers gently up the younger woman's arms until she reaches Kennedy's face. She cups Kennedy's cheeks and lets her thumb caress them. Kennedy responds by sliding her arms around Ayna's waist, bringing their bodies closer together, feeling her world narrowing down to Ayna and Ayna alone. And when Ayna opens her eyes, Kennedy feels like she‘s staring right into her soul.

“Yes."

That simple word was all it took for Kennedy's head to go spinning. She feels Ayna leaning in further, slowly, giving Kennedy one last opportunity to back away. Instead, Kennedy closes the distance between them. There was nothing else she could do at this point.

Their lips meet in a slow, tender kiss. The feeling of Ayna's soft lips, the smell of her perfume, the warmth of Ayna’s body pressing into hers... it was all so much, Kennedy felt overwhelmed. At the same time, it wasn’t nearly enough. She parts her lips to deepen the kiss, inviting Ayna in, and Ayna responds by sliding her tongue through Kennedy's bottom lip before slipping inside. Tongues dancing together, Ayna loses one of her hands in Kennedy's hair and Kennedy's hold on Ayna's waist tightens a they get lost on one another, savoring the feeling of being in each other's arms again.

“I missed you, Kennedy. So much.”

“I missed you too.”

The sweetness and tenderness is quickly replaced by passion. Days of lingering doubts and longing translate into hands roaming everywhere, both eager to show just how much they missed each other. Ayna's hands grab Kennedy's small back and pulls their hips together, fingers digging into skin before sliding down and scratching her thighs, while Kennedy buries herself in Ayna's neck, kissing and sucking her jawline, her earlobe, the nape of her neck, every inch of skin she could find. She lets out a sigh as she feels that the exposed skin is wanting, covered by many layers of clothing too much, and grabs a hold of Ayna's blouse, tugging it from Ayna's skirt. She motions to take the shirt off of Ayna only to have her movements halted.

“No, not so fast." Ayna holds Kennedy's hands and steps away from her embrace for a second. "I want tonight to last as long as possible.”

Kennedy understands the implied message. This was their first time together and who knew what tomorrow may bring? She looks at Ayna, whose eyes are burning with desire and filled with so much emotion that a shiver runs up Kennedy's spine. Tonight was theirs.

"Can we move this to the bedroom?" Kennedy asks panting, feeling her insides squeeze with the prospect of being so intimate with Ayna, both literally and metaphorically. The smile that crept upon Ayna's face at the request could light up the whole sky. "You don't have to ask me twice."

With as much enthusiasm as fondness, Ayna takes one of Kennedy's hands in her own, lacing their fingers together, and gently directs them towards the bedroom.

Once inside, Ayna wraps her arms around Kennedy's torso from behind, pressing her chest against Kennedy's back, holding her tightly in place. She buries her head in the nape of Kennedy's neck, breathing Kennedy's scent in. "Let me stay here for a minute, please," she mumbles quietly, and Kennedy lets her, closing her eyes and relishing in this quietude that Ayna's embrace always brought her. They sway from side to side, finding a rhythm together, until Ayna starts peppering Kennedy's neck with small kisses. Her hands slides languidly under the lapels of Kennedy's cardigan, pulling it out and tossing it to the side. She then directs her attention to Kennedy's shirt, sliding underneath it and shoving it upwards, her hands caressing the skin she found on the way. The heat emanating from Ayna's hands left a hot trail on Kennedy's skin, and Kennedy felt like she was melting right there.

She turns around in Ayna's embrace and captures Ayna's lips once again. With much more paced but no less yearning movements, Kennedy slides her hands down Ayna's chest, reaching for the hem of her shirt. This time she's met with no objection and she happily takes it off as well, settling her hands on Ayna's now bare shoulders. “There’s something I always wanted to do."

"What is it?"

Instead of answering with words, Kennedy entangles her fingers through Ayna’s hair and picks lightly on the hair pins keeping the bun in place. “Can I?”, she inquires softly.

Ayna nods her consent. She closes her eyes and leans into one of Kennedy’s hands as the young woman tread her fingers through her hair, letting it loose and guiding it over her shoulders. Once she’s finished, Kennedy brings both her hands back to cup Ayna’s face, lingering there. “You are so beautiful”, she says in a voice no louder than a whisper, prompting Ayna to open her eyes. Kennedy tried to cool down a little the look of adoration she knew she probably had imprinted on her own face, but the quick reddening of Ayna’s neck and ears told her she most likely failed.

She continues her exploration now going for Ayna’s glasses. When the older woman offers no resistance, she pulls it off. And that was a sight that Kennedy was sure would be engraved on her mind for a long time to come. Ayna looked completely different now, stripped bare from all formalities she had held on to keep her distance. She looked so vulnerable and very unlike the imposing figure she could occasionally be as a TA.

“You know, I can’t see very well without my glasses on.” Ayna says quietly.

“You look like a whole other person. It’s like I’m seeing you now for the first time.”

Ayna pauses for a moment before gently taking the glasses from Kennedy and placing them by the nightstand, “I guess I’ll have to keep you pretty close to me then.”

When she leans back towards Kennedy, her whole attitude‘s changed. She seemed filled by a renewed determination as she kissed Kennedy deeply but unhurriedly. Her arms engulfed the smaller woman tightly, one hand at the back of Kennedy’s head, keeping her in place, the other grasping firmly at her back.

Slowly, Ayna walks forward urging Kennedy with her, until the back of Kennedy's knees collide with the bed, prompting the younger woman to gasp.

Ayna looks pointedly at Kennedy, a hidden question dancing in her eyes. It endears Kennedy that Ayna's being so respectful at the same rate it saddens her that it might be out of fear.

"I want this, Ayna. I want you."

With the encouragement, Ayna sits Kennedy on the bed, kneeling in front of her. "Maybe all of this could go, then?" She picks on the waistband of Kennedy's pants. "I believe we are a little overdressed."

"Yeah, we should fix that," is Kennedy's reply, and she goes unfastening the button of her pants only to be halted.

“Let me. I've been wanting to do this for a while."

So Ayna unfastens and rids Kennedy's lower body from her jeans, and then she stands up and removers her own skirt before joining Kennedy on the bed. Their lips meet instantly, legs entangling together, and Kennedy moves on top of Ayna, settling her weight down on the TA's body. They both moan in unison when their hips touch, fitting perfectly.

"There's still a few layers of clothing remaining. Are you slacking off?" Kennedy teases.

Ayna's chuckle fill the air, "Oh, no, I wouldn't dream of it,” she says, as she moves to unclasp Kennedy's bra. They quickly complete the task of ridding each other of their underwear, standing now completely bare in front of one another.

"Come here," Ayna pulls Kennedy back on top of her, moaning softly when they settle into each other. “You feel so good.”

Kennedy responds by merging their lips together again as she lets her hands wander all over Ayna’s body, stopping longer at her breasts. She feels Ayna’s hands focused on the curves of her ass and inner thighs. She sighs deeply.

“I can't wait any longer. I want to touch you."

"Well, go ahead."

But it's like the answer fell on deaf ears. "I need to."

Guiding Kennedy’s hand lower on her body, Ayna says "Yes, please."

Kennedy did, and it was everything and more. She was intoxicated by everything Ayna: the warmth of her lips, the floral scent of her perfume, the sweet sounds that came out of her mouth in the form of whimpers and moans, the softness of her most sensitive places. It was all so beautiful. She moves so her mouth can join her hand, and soon Ayna's labored breaths increase in rate and intensity at Kennedy's ministrations, letting Kennedy feel she's coming closer and closer to the edge.

“Ayna, look at me." Kennedy all but demanded. "I want you to look at me while I bring you over the edge."

"Oh, fuck... yes!” Ayna struggles to mumble, panting heavily as she complied and locked eyes with Kennedy. The young woman focus on her fingers strokes against the TA’s center, and she can tell it’s taking all Ayna has not to close her eyes again as she arches her back, riding out her pleasure. Kennedy felt on cloud nine.

“That was... it was...” Ayna tries to say, struggling to catch her breath.

“Tell me.” Kennedy asks as she plants a chaste kiss in Ayna’s shoulder, easing the woman down from her high.

When Ayna finally catches her breath, she answers affectionately, “No one has ever made me feel like this.”

Kennedy feels every one of her heartstrings being pulled again. This seemed like a common occurrence this night. This is going to be the death of me. But before she could dwell longer on this, Ayna was moving on top of her.

“Well, may I touch you now?”

“Yes, please.” Kennedy answers with a smirk that is quickly wiped from her face as Ayna’s lips find her neck, sucking on her pulse point, eliciting a moan from her.

Ayna is so tender Kennedy feels like she understands now why it's called "making love". Oh shit, I am in love with her too, aren't I? Well, should I? And at the worst possible moment, her mind decides to play tricks on her. This is when it chose to wander back, again, to that horrifying experience, as well as the crushing pain that followed through at the realization of Ayna's betrayal. And now she feels Ayna going lower and lower, trailing her mouth down Kennedy’s stomach, then her navel, as she kept her downward path.Oh my god, no, this is too much. I can't handle it.

“A-Ayna.”

“Hmmm.”

“Ayna, wait.”

Ayna halts immediately. “What? What is it?”

“I’m not- I’m not ready for...” Kennedy is struggling to get her words out, and she prays Ayna understands what she's trying to say.

In a flash, Ayna's face is back up, staring right at Kennedy as she brings one hand to caress Kennedy's face, the other propping her up. “Hey, it’s ok. You can tell me anything you want or don’t want, ok? We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with."

“I’m just not ready for you to... go down there,” Kennedy admits begrudgingly, avoiding Ayna’s gaze.

“Of course. We can snuggle all night instead if that’s what you prefer.”

Oh for crying out loud! Of course, Ayna had to be the gentlest and most respectful even when faced with rejection in the very throes of passion. The war raging inside Kennedy was exhausting her completely. She knew she said she wanted it, and she meant every word. Objectively, she knew the truth about her feelings, she just didn’t think she’d have to own up to them so soon. Love, was it? Ayna was looking at her every inch understanding, not one bit judgemental or mad, and Kennedy wondered how great their relationship would've turned out if she was just the average girl, not the First Daughter of Rutherland, and if she could've always been met with that sweet and understanding Ayna, not the lying and deceitful one. She wanted so much to trust Ayna again, wholeheartedly, she wanted to feel her touch, she wanted to be loved, she just really wanted to just let go.

“Or you could... use your fingers?” she finally finds her voice, unable to not want to feel Ayna all over her.

“Yes, I can do that,” Ayna says, and to comply, she slowly brings her hands over Kennedy's center, looking for any sign of objection but finding none. “Like this?”

“Yesss, just like that.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Y-yes.”

Ayna kisses Kennedy pouring her everything into it, and Kennedy feels it for what it was. If transcribed into words, it would probably say ”Please, forgive me. Please, let’s start again”.

Kennedy knows Ayna is following her lead, but she needs more. She knows Ayna won’t do anything she doesn’t signal that she wants. So with one hand she holds Ayna’s hand in place, and with the other she guides Ayna’s head towards one of her breasts.

And that felt so good, it was like she was being thoroughly consumed. A powerful desire to simply belong to Ayna begins to rise from deep within Kennedy’s heart, overriding any sick trick her mind was attempting to throw at her. She needed to know what that felt like.

“I need to... to feel you... inside.”

It was impossible for that request not to be met with compliance, so Ayna slid one finger through Kennedy’s opening, and then another, and with each thrust, she is taken closer and closer to that point of infinite bliss.

The part of her who still had some lingering doubts was being thoroughly massacred, and as much as Kennedy feared it, she was also glad to see it go. Even if it tried to tell her to be smarter, to draw a line, to keep away from Ayna and all the potential heartache she represented, none of that was enough to make her stop feeling everything else this woman made her feel, and loving Ayna felt so, so much better.

So in between ragged breaths and with a strained voice, she can’t stop herself from saying “I love you.”

Ayna buries her head into Kennedy’s neck, her movements gaining a boost of energy as she picks up her pace. When she feels Kennedy slipping into oblivion, she curls her fingers to draw it out as much as possible.

“Let it go, Kennedy. Let go for me.”

“Yes... oh god, yes.” Yes, let’s please just start again.

Kennedy’s whole world goes spinning as a thousand stars explode right behind her eyes and she cries out in ecstasy, letting go of everything.

She gets back from her high and is met with the sight of a very smiling Ayna lying on her stomach. “How are you feeling?” Ayna asks grinning lopsidedly.

Honestly? “So fucking liberated.”

That prompts laughter out of Ayna and Kennedy loves the sound of it. “Well, I love the enthusiasm”.

They snuggle close together, Kennedy now resting her head in Ayna’s chest, while the TA drapes her arms around the younger woman’s shoulders, “And you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And there it is again, the infectious grin in Ayna’s face. God, this woman is beautiful.

They spend a few minutes enjoying the quiet together, occasionally offering small kisses, lacing hands together and exchanging soft caresses, until Ayna asks, “Can you stay tonight?”

Kennedy stiffens. "I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Oh, ok. I understand.”

“I’m sorry, I-“

“Hey, it’s ok, Kennedy, really. Tonight’s been a crazy ride, your mother’s still campaigning and the Peace Summit is right around the corner. I really understand.” She then adds a little sheepishly, “Can you stay for a few more minutes?”

“Yeah, but just a few more minutes."

"I'll take it," Ayna answers with a small genuine grin, diffusing the situation, and they settle against one another again, each lost in their own thoughts as to what this night represented. As messy as her feelings had been, Kennedy was thankful this happened. It felt so good to be nested comfortably in Ayna's arms, she just had to hold on to this feeling and let her heart heal.

After many more minutes, Kennedy moves, mumbling quietly, "I should go."

Ayna places a kiss on Kennedy’s forehead and disentangles herself from the younger woman. “Ok.”

Kennedy jumps out of bed searching for her scattered clothes while Ayna puts on a robe. Once they’re both redressed and composed, the TA laces her fingers with Kennedy's as she leads them towards the apartment door.

“Tonight was pretty great,” Kennedy said once they reached the door, feeling like offering Ayna reassurance. She didn't want the TA to be fretting all night long as she had a feeling this is just what might happen.

“Yeah, it was.”

“I know we still have things to work through, but... I do want this, I promise." Kennedy holds both Ayna's hands in her own and waves their joined hands for extra effect, "This won’t be gone by the morning.”

Ayna's face light up in a huge smile. "For as long as you’re willing to not close the door on us, I’m going to do everything I can to show you can trust me again." She leans in to steal one last kiss. “I’m all in, Kennedy. I love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

With that Kennedy leaves, heart full of hope. Who said burnt bridges can't be rebuilt? This time around, maybe it'll be much stronger, and no amount of fire would be able to burn it down.

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Babe, I Found A Dragon

Summary: "can't talk. found dragon" that was the kind of strange text message that Hiccup had sent to Astrid after he'd suddenly disappeared one night. After he puts his cellphone away, Hiccup looks up to face the supposed dragon he's found, the Night Fury currently keeping him hostage.

Rating: General

Words: 1 208

Author’s Notes: I wrote this fic just to try and see if I can get the text message coding to work.

Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Enjoy!

Ao3

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After reading Astrid's last message, Hiccup turned his screen off and stuffed his phone away in his pants.

"There." He spoke and faced the large creature in front of him. It was a reptile of sorts, or so he thought. He wasn't an expert on reptilians in any way. It was a simple guess as it was scaly all over and completely black. The reptile appeared to be quadruped with an extra fifth and sixth limb acting like wings on its back. Those were the biggest giveaways that this wasn't some ordinary creature, but a dragon of all things. He'd heard of their existence before and while many still theorized that they were still around, there hadn't been any official sightings in more than a century. To think a creature this big could just show up out of nowhere one day... And Hiccup assumed the dragon was a male. There was no particular reason for this assumption, it just felt right to him. His phone beeped a couple more times, suggesting Astrid was sending him another few texts after he'd expressed the want to pet this creature, but he ignored them for now. It wasn't that he wanted to worry her, he just needed to focus on the situation at hand first. No wait, he's probably been worrying her sick for longer than a day now ever since his sudden disappearance. His dad, Gobber, and his friends were probably wondering where he was as well. The truth was, even he didn't know. On his way home from school, he was in his final year, he was just plucked right off the street by this thing. To be fair, it was very late at night, much later than his dad was comfortable to have him out at, and he'd taken the long way around. The path he'd chosen was so abandoned that even its lights did not work properly. He didn't know why he took it, he just did. Snotlout had called him out on it several times already, stating that he was asking for trouble this way. Well, maybe he had been. Though this dragon didn't seem particularly intent on harming him. He'd dropped Hiccup off on an island with some old, barely standing Viking ruins. A site he knew through Fishlegs was highly regarded by the archaeology community of the world. What the significance to this dragon was, he did not know, but he was clearly expecting something. Ever since their arrival, he's been pacing while Hiccup sat with his back against some moss-covered stone ruin, one of the few things that remained as the wood had rotted away long ago. Hiccup had tried to get up a couple of times, but as the dragon growled at him each time, he decided to stay put. Usually, that wasn't the easiest thing for him to do. "Stay put" simply wasn't in his vocabulary, but a dragon growling at his face was certainly a good motivator, despite his belief that he wasn't in any actual danger. He did not like to see Hiccup move from his spot and to avoid any further agitation, Hiccup put his phone away as well. Its beeping was a startling sound to the dragon. Now he sat before the other, glaring down at the human. "So," Hiccup awkwardly started. "I put my phone away, it's just the two of us, mind telling what's going on?" He asked, knowing well enough that this animal wasn't about to just start talking to him. "I know you're not planning on eating me or you would've done so already. Not that I would be anything other than a quick snack." The latter sentence was spoken somewhat quieter as Hiccup looked down on himself. "Nothing but skin and bones" as his father used to say when he was a boy. This entire predicament was just... strange. His friends, Fishlegs and Heather mainly, often called him out for his lack of self-preservation, not that he was any worse than Snotlout's or even the twins'. But he should've been at least a little bit worried that he was randomly being kept hostage by a creature people all over the world believed to be extinct. Well, besides the occasional internet video that claimed to have caught footage of a live dragon. Why they all looked like they were filmed by a potato was anybody's guess. Instead, Hiccup was weirdly okay with all of this. He didn't feel threatened, the dragon before him was wildly annoyed if anything. He was clearly expecting something, though Hiccup didn't know what. Apparently having enough of waiting, or maybe just as confused as the human was, he stood up and approached. His frustration radiating. This time Hiccup did try to back up slightly, moving up in a crouch, but all the dragon did was roar in his face. His breath smelled of fish and his roar was so loud that Hiccup needed to cover his ears in fear of his eardrums rupturing, but as he dared to look, there was something about the other that suddenly caught his attention. Removing his hands once the dragon was done venting his frustrations on the human via yelling, Hiccup stared at him in question. "You're toothless." He remarked on his lack of teeth, a grin forming before it disappeared when, suddenly, it was as if something clicked in place for him. "Toothless..." He repeated and a look of realization appeared. The dragon stared back at him, his gaze not as narrow as before, like hearing that particular word was like a final puzzle piece falling perfectly into place. Crooning, the dragon, a Night Fury Hiccup could now inexplicably recall, stood in his personal space and stared. His nostrils flared, its breathing somewhat fast and shallow. Were they feeling the same thing? That sense of familiarity that made his heart race? He didn't know why, in the back of his head he heard Astrid telling him how much of a bad idea this was, but he raised his right hand. He held it up, let it hover in place for reasons he did not quite understand. The Night Fury gazed at the palm of his hand and, for reasons he couldn't explain either, pressed his nose against it. All Hiccup could do was stare. Stare as there was something in the back of his mind that flickered to life. This sentiment seemed to be mutual when the dragon pulled away and continued to gaze back at him. Warbling softly to Hiccup, he hesitantly licked the human's cheek. Hiccup flinched just a tad bit, but let out an awkward chuckle and wiped at his cheek. "Yeah, let's not do that. I don't think this washes out." He spoke, not knowing why that sentence was so familiar on his tongue. The Night Fury sat down in front of Hiccup, which he aptly decided to name Toothless from that moment on. It was silent, neither one of the two knew what to do next. "So... What now?"

[sheliesshattered]

Fic meme

I was tagged by @primarybufferpanel​ -- thank you darling, this was a ton of fun to do!

This got a bit long, so I’ll put the people I’m tagging here at the top:  @claraaoswald​, @ambitious-witch​, @someillplanetreigns​, and @junoinferno​, if you feel like playing!

My AO3, my old non-updating fanfiction.net

Fandoms I’ve made fanworks for: Oh lord. I’m only going to count fanfiction that has actually been posted, but if I tried to count up every fandom that I’d started writing for and left unfinished fragments languishing on various harddrives and googledocs over the years, it’d be at least double this list. I have two pseuds on AO3, with the fics roughly organized by fandoms that I post about on this Tumblr account (sheliesshattered) and fandoms that pre-date my time on Tumblr that I don’t post about very much (glasscannon). Putting all the fandoms together in one alphabetized list:

Black Sails - 5 Doctor Who - 8 Firefly/Serenity - 1 Game of Thrones - 1 The Hobbit - 1 The Hunger Games - 1 Iron Man - 2 Law & Order: Criminal Intent - 1 Mad Max - 2 Once Upon A Time - 1 Poldark - 3 Star Wars - 3 Twilight - 7 The West Wing - 1

Number of fics: 38, including a big unfinished epic that I never moved over from ff.n, and don’t plan to unless I finish it someday.

Fics I spent more time on: I’m not even quite sure how to measure this. I’m a slow writer, and a single story can easily hold my attention for years at a time, or be something I return to when there isn’t a newer fandom temporarily consuming me. I don’t tend to keep track of how many hours I put into a fanfic, though. The unfinished epic I mentioned is probably near the top of that list, and was a huge part of my life from 2009 to 2013. Other contenders would be the All Hands series (written with PBP!), and Truth Universally Acknowledged, particularly if you include all the massive world-building that went into that one. 

But really probably the one I’ve poured the most hours into, between research and writing, is a Doctor Who epic that hasn’t yet seen the light of day, called Home The Long Way ‘Round. Because I have such a habit of starting long stories and then not finishing them, I’m making myself get that one completely done before I post any of it to AO3, so I don’t have anything to show for it yet, but I’ve put a ton of time into it over the last five years or so. Hopefully someday I’ll actually get to share it. :)

Fics I spent less time on: Like I said, I’m a very slow writer, so any time I can turn out a story in a matter of days I’m just absolutely shocked. I wrote The Message over the course of about 24 hours, which is probably the fastest I’ve ever finished anything in my life ever, lol.

Longest fic: The All Hands series is sitting at 126,800 words, and PBP and I have more finished for it that we’re hoping to post soon-ish. The unfinished epic made it to almost 119,000 words before I ran out of steam. Truth Universally Acknowledged racked up about 54,000 words before my co-writer and I took a break from it, and probably triple that in world-building bibles and timelines, etc. On the works-in-progress side of things, Home The Long Way ‘Round is sitting at about 40,000 words currently and only about a third of the way done, and the For As Long As We Get series is at 21,000 words between what I’ve posted and what I’m still working on, and will definitely continue to grow.

Shortest story: 10 Seconds, at 208 words. Also one of the very first fanfics I ever finished and posted online.

Most hits: Truth Universally Acknowledged, by like a factor of 20 vs anything else I have on AO3. It’s the only time I’ve written for the main pairing in an active fandom (tho my purview in the co-writing was more on the secondary pairing), and that translated to a stupidly large number of hits. Fanfiction.net doesn’t count hits the same way, but the unfinished epic is sitting at about 3500 favs.

Most kudos: Setting The Stuns’ls, the first in the All Hands series -- which is SHOCKING considering that’s a tiny rowboat of a fandom, for a non-canon background pairing that has literally about 30 seconds of shared screentime, and the two romantic leads don’t so much as kiss over the course of 94,000 words (longing looks, significant hand-touches, mutual pining, definitely, but kissing, not so much).

Most bookmarks: Truth Universally Acknowledged, by a long shot.

Fic you want to rewrite or expand: I don’t tend to edit a story once it’s been posted, beyond correcting a typo or adding a missed word. Once it’s published, it’s finished and I don’t change it significantly. I do have quite a few (so, so many) unfinished stories that I would love to finish up at some point.

Total words combined: Counting only published fics, including the unfinished epic (and a companion piece for it) that lives only on ff.n, I’m currently at 376,542 words total.

Fav fic you wrote: How can you make me choose between my children like this, honestly?? Siiiigh. I’m with PBP, whatever I’m working on currently is usually my favorite. I’m having a ton of fun with For As Long As We Get, and can’t wait to publish the next part of that, hopefully sometime this month. I’m incredibly proud of All Hands, and that occupied such a specific time in my life that I’ll always think of it fondly. I’m exceptionally happy with the character voices and use of language in both Breathe Again and Upon This Rock Will I Break Myself, Until It Shows Me Your Beloved Face, and tend to feel like they don’t get enough love vs how much I love them. But my one true favorite is and will always be Home The Long Way ‘Round, and hopefully I’ll actually be able to finish it and post it someday.

Share a bit of your WIP or idea if you have anything planned: Again, how can I possibly choose just one?? Even just within the Doctor Who fandom, I currently have more than half a dozen stories actively in progress. But since I’ve talked it up so much without being able to link to it at all, and just declared it my all-time fav, I’m going to break one of my own rules and post the whole first chapter (eek!) of Home The Long Way ‘Round behind a read more:

Chapter 1: Orange Dreams

The sound of the wind is whispering in your head Can you feel it coming back? Through the warmth, through the cold, keep running ‘til we’re there. We're coming home now, we’re coming home now. —Home, Dotan

 The winds shrieked and howled around her. Clara had never been in a tornado, but she imagined it would feel like this to stand in the eye of one. She could see gusts lifting the tops off the sand dunes in shimmering ribbons, gold against the orange sky. The waves of airborne sand dissipated a few feet from her, leaving only a jagged grittiness in the air.

A woman with long blonde hair was yelling at her, her words ripped away by the wind.

“Tell me again!” Clara called back to her. “Tell me how to find home!”

“It’s just physics!” the other woman shouted, taking a step closer; they were nearly the same height. “No information can ever be lost! Start from zero, and run the math! We’ll be waiting on the other end of that equation!”

There was something Clara desperately wanted to tell this woman who looked at her with kindness behind the steel of her eyes, but in that moment, the words wouldn’t come.

“Look!” someone yelled behind Clara, and though she didn’t want to take her eyes off her, she instinctively looked up, following the line of the other person’s arm up into the gathering storm-whipped dusk. There, silhouetted against the last of the light, was the unmistakable blue boxy shape of the Doctor’s TARDIS, spinning quickly as it flew away—

Clara jerked awake, her heart hammering against her ribs, already sitting up and pulling off her sleep mask before she realised what had woken her was the sound of the TARDIS materialising in the sitting room of her flat. She took a moment to catch her breath, trying to hold onto the details of the dream. In the other room, the TARDIS’s familiar wheezing and groaning came to a stop with a soft thud, followed by the squeak of the door.

“Doctor?” Clara called, not bothering to hide the sleep nor the annoyance in her voice.

He poked his head around her bedroom doorframe, grey hair awry and his most innocent expression plastered on — which meant he knew he was waking her and felt at least marginally bad about it. “Hello, Clara. It’s Wednesday,” he said pleasantly, by way of explanation.

“Is it?” she asked, deadpan.

“Technically.”

“You do know that I have to work today, don’t you?”

“Not for another six hours. So come on, up-and-at-‘em, plenty of time to go out and save the universe and still be back in time for your morning coffee. I’ve an adventure that simply won’t keep, so come on!”

His excitement was infectious, as he must have known it would be, but Clara clung to her annoyance a little longer, mostly for show. “You have a time machine: everything can keep,” she replied, but waved him off before he could launch into a lecture on all the ways that statement was false, at least from a temporal physics standpoint. He lectured anyway, hovering outside her bedroom door as she dressed, though Clara expected it was mostly to keep himself from pacing in anticipation. She followed more than half of it, and worried a bit over how often she let him babble on about the minutiae of time travel these days.

By the time the universe had been set to rights — or at least one small blue world, home to a race of sentient seahorses, that had been facing imminent extinction in the form of a rogue exoplanet — she had nearly forgotten her unsettling, vivid dream.

--

Given the recent events on Skaro, Clara was unsurprised when bits of her experiences there began to filter into her dreams. Truthfully, she had expected to dream of it more often than she did, but in the weeks that followed, more nights than not her sleeping mind instead conjured up the strange orange landscape. She revisited that screaming sandstorm so often it became almost comforting, and before long, other dreams joined it. 

Clara was leaned against a railing on a high balcony, overlooking a large city coming alight as dusk crept on, a rusty sunset that stretched the width of the horizon bathing the world in amber. The woman with the serious eyes and long, straight blonde hair stood beside her, in the middle of a conversation, as happened so frequently in dreams.

“Alright, but what about the last stage?” Clara asked, elbows resting next to hers on the railing. “That bit depends on us actively doing something, and you know we can’t rely on my knowledge. I can’t take any of the engineering or navigation with me, so it’ll be down to him.”

“And he loves a good puzzle,” the other woman said confidently, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a twitch of her head. “He’ll want to find us. He’ll figure it out.”

“Before I die of old age? Are you sure? My mother was one of his professors at the Academy, I’ve seen his test scores. I think we need a fail-safe.”

“He did graduate,” she pointed out reasonably.

“He passed his exams with a fifty-one percent on his second attempt! No, we can’t assume he’ll have all the baseline information to even consider such a solution, much less actually accomplish the maths. We have to find some way to hide it with me,” Clara said. “Or in his TARDIS.”

The woman was silent for a long moment, her mouth set in a thoughtful line. On the distant horizon, the sun had finished its slow descent, but below them the city was coming to life, the light not so much fading as changing sources, becoming ever so slightly more golden.

“By that point in the timeline,” the blonde woman said, speaking slowly, still thinking it through, “you’ll have been exposed to his timestream and to the crack in the universe, so some of your memories will probably start leaking through. If we structure the extraction the right way, we might be able to embed a particular thought or moment into your consciousness before you go into the Schism.”

“What’d you have in mind?” Clara asked, turning her head to look at her.

“This conversation?” she suggested, laughing, her broad smile transforming her face. “No, a phrase would be cleaner, I think.”

“‘Run the math, you idiot boy’?” Clara suggested, also giggling.

“Oh yes, that’d go over well! No, if you want him to do something, call him clever. Works every time!” she laughed, leaning her shoulder into Clara’s.

“The horrid thing is that I know the temporal physics for this is part of my mother’s coursework,” Clara groaned. “If he hadn’t slept through so many of her classes, this would be a non-issue!”

“Ah, but a Doctor who was always responsible? What a boring universe that would be!”

Above them, the stars were beginning to come out, though the glare of the city obscured them. Through the haze of the dream, Clara couldn’t find any constellations she recognised. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I was the one who helped him steal that box in the first place.”

“And if he could take half a moment to remember that,” the blonde woman said seriously, “he might realise the role of his TARDIS in all of this, and start to think of the solution that way.”

“‘Run the math, you—”

“Clever.”

“—boy, and remember when you met me’?”

The other woman nodded, considering. “That could do it. Your chronodeterminate conjugation won’t work until you come into contact with at least a little regeneration energy. Assuming you choose regeneration on Trenzalore, it might start kicking in then, in plenty of time for the last stage.”

“Run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me,” Clara whispered up to the distant stars, cradling her chin on her arms against the railing.

The woman mimicked her position, the golden light of the city and the silver light of the stars catching in her long pale hair. “It’s just physics,” she murmured back. “Start from zero and run the math. I’ll be waiting at the other end of that equation. We’ll all be waiting.”

--

As unsettling as they were, at least the orange-tinged dreams were better than nightmares of Daleks, of being locked in the Dalek casing, unable to convince the Doctor that it was her, it was her, she wasn’t a Dalek, she wasn’t a Dalek! Dreams of the Doctor peering at her down an eyestock, this face or the last, or any of the others buried deep in her subconscious, hearing her but not knowing her, seeing her but not saving her.

Clara grasped for that orange sky, let it carry her away in bronze sandstorms, golden cities slowly coming to life, and starlight caught in tawny hair.

--

Monday morning third period found her Year 10 students taking an essay exam while Clara doodled on a scrap piece of paper, trying to pull images and phrases out of the orange haze that had taken up residence in her slumbering hours since Skaro. There were bits that tugged at her memory, like a song she couldn’t quite place but whose tune was intensely familiar.

She’d written Run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me across the top of the page, and her eyes strayed to it every few seconds. The phrase had stayed with her after she woke, and had been on the tip of her tongue ever since, as though it was a message she was meant to deliver. Below it she’d rewritten the phrase, but crossed out six words: Run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me.

It was too close for comfort to the phrase that had, in retrospect, changed her life, sent her on her current course. The Maitlands’ mnemonic for their wifi password, which she’d said out loud during that first phone conversation with the Doctor, had caught his attention somehow, and it wasn’t until she jumped into his timestream that she understood. It was the last thing she’d said to him before sacrificing herself to save him. Every fragment of her scattered through his timestream had said it to him at some point as well, the words reverberating endlessly up and down his timeline.

Why her dreams would dredge it up now, and in such a strange context, Clara had no idea. They didn’t feel like random images, but more like memory-dreams, like the bits of echo lives that filtered through to her sleeping mind from time to time. It had to mean something.

Half way down the scrap paper she’d written: It’s just physics. Start from zero and run the math. Below this was the very helpful ??? and Clara idly traced over the question marks again. Physics was still a foreign language to her, despite how much the Doctor prattled on about it at times. She could bring this to him, she mused, but what was it, really? Her subconscious doing backflips in the wake of Skaro, that was all. No grand mystery to solve, no universe-altering secret code, just her. She wouldn’t bother the Doctor with this quite yet.

Besides, she was certain she could tease this apart on her own, follow the clues to their logical conclusion without his assistance. The dreams were insistent, and felt familiar, but Clara was sure she’d never dreamed of the blonde woman and the orange sky prior to Skaro. That was the next clue, then, and she jotted it down on her scrap paper. Something had changed after Skaro, something that caused her subconscious mind to dredge up these particular buried memories. 

She needed more information. Dreams about her echo lives were always stronger when she was aboard the TARDIS travelling in the Vortex, sharper and easier to remember. Maybe these orange dreams would be, too. And maybe the TARDIS itself would have some answers for her.

--

Of course, she didn’t sleep aboard the TARDIS very often, with her insistence on returning home for a week of Real Life in between their Wednesday trips. But the Doctor was never adverse to her sticking around longer than she’d planned, and in the end it didn’t take much to convince him: 

“I’ve a staff meeting at work that I’m dreading,” Clara told him on that next Wednesday, when they returned to the TARDIS after their latest outing. “So what do you say I have a little kip and then we squeeze in another adventure before you take me back to face my workday?”

She thought for a moment that the Doctor might question the change in their routine, but he seemed thrilled about the idea. When he announced that he had some tinkering with the engines he’d been putting off that should keep him occupied while she slept, Clara made an excuse to linger in the console room — “just going to finish reading this chapter, then off to bed” — until after he’d gone. Once he’d disappeared down the corridor and around a corner, she quietly set aside her book, then slipped out of her armchair and down the stairs towards the console. The rotors hummed overhead, and somehow Clara knew the TARDIS was aware of her, and was curious to see what she would do.

Carefully clearing her thoughts, she made her way over to the telepathic circuits, pushed up her sleeves, and slid her hands into the strange interface. Focus was the key, she knew, and she was nothing if not focused. She closed her eyes and held two very specific thoughts in her mind: the sand-whipped orange sky in her dreams, and the clear question, Where, please?

She hoped the please would help.

It was a long quiet moment with the circuits warmly cradling Clara’s fingers, and then something on the console beeped. Her eyes flew open and she carefully extracted her hands from the telepathic interface before pulling the monitor down to eye level.

Gallifrey the screen read in English, below an image of a startlingly red-orange planet. Immediately prior to the Time Lock.

Clara felt her heart thud painfully against her ribs as she read the brief text again. She’d been dreaming of Gallifrey? She knew she’d had an echo life on Gallifrey, but she remembered that interaction with the Doctor, and it happened indoors. She had never before dreamt of the Gallifreyan sky. Had it been buried somewhere in her subconscious with the rest of her memories of that life? Why surface now?

More confused than ever, she clicked the screen back to the desktop, unreadable Circular Gallifreyan floating idly across the display. Perhaps she should bring this up with the Doctor — it was his home world, after all. But the whole point of this had been to dream while they were in the Vortex, and if she didn’t get a move on, he’d be ready for their next adventure before she’d even managed to fall asleep. She could talk with him about it later. 

And if things worked tonight as she hoped they would, maybe she would even have a bit more information to bring to him when she did.

--

“Fire suppressant in Pod Four!” 

The frantic call was quickly overwhelmed by the sound of the requested suppressant dispensing from the ceiling. When it ended, the speaker, dressed in the dark red uniform of a technician, brushed soot and foam off his shirt. 

“It hates me, that one,” he said, nodding at the unassuming gray cylinder in the open pod in front of him. It was devoid of features, even its doors invisible now in the wake of the fire, two meters tall and one meter in diameter, just like all the other patients in the workshop. But somehow it did seem to be glowering at him.

“And it always will, stop wasting your time,” his coworker said flippantly. He was perched in front of a console on the other side of the room, deep in his own repairs. “Just get the Impossible Girl to do it, she’ll have it eating out of her hand by lunchtime.”

Their conversation occurred in the time it took Clara to enter the large oblong workshop and make her way to the far end where the two were working. “I heard that,” she said seriously, earning a guilty-looking jump from the man who had spoken most recently. She continued over to Pod Four and leaned against the outer casing, arms folded over her uniformed chest, one booted ankle crossed over the other. “What did you do now?” she demanded of the first technician.

He looked at her with wide eyes, more out of genuine fear than mock innocence, in her estimation. “I just told it—”

“You what?” she snapped, in a tone she usually reserved for misbehaving students.

He wilted a little but started again “…I told it to—”

“Told it?”

“…to give me access to the logs,” he mumbled, dropping her gaze.

“Told it to give you access to the logs?” she asked, voice harsh. “Well first off, Number Four here prefers male pronouns, respecting that might put you on better footing. And secondly, as with all TARDISes, you’ll get a lot further if you ask rather than tell.”

Behind her, the other tech scoffed. “They’re machines, we shouldn’t have to baby them like that. An access request is an access request.”

Clara turned her head to pin him with an icy glare. “Some days I cannot believe I let you work here,” she told him bluntly. “They aren’t just machines, as you very well know. Yes, there’s hardware we need to be able to work with, but that’s nothing more than a radio, at some level — only instead of radio waves, we’re using oswin waves to talk to pan-dimensional beings so large, they can’t have a physical form in this dimension. Who, with a little extra energy, can take us and an infinite amount of folded space to nearly any point in spacetime. Just think about the massive intelligences that speak to us through each of those machines!

“But more to the point,” she said, turning back to the tech still covered in soot, “you have to understand their viewpoint of the universe, and their understanding of time. A Time Lord telling a TARDIS what to do is akin to creating a fixed point in spacetime. It’s in their nature to want to avoid fixed points. Ask instead, let him find his own way ‘round to it.”

Before the beleaguered technician could reply, there came a polite knocking from the far end of the room, and Clara turned to see a soldier standing in the doorway of the workshop, looking a little out of his depth. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a message for—” he paused to glance down at the datapad in his hand, “for the Oswin. From the Lady President. Top priority.”

Clara was moving towards him before he’d finished speaking, curious and concerned, her attention focused on the message in his hands. But the dream faded out before she reached him, her mind moving on to something more abstract, more difficult to hold on to.

When she woke in her bed aboard the TARDIS, she stared at the ceiling with fond frustration. “If that was your attempt at help,” she whispered to the ship, “then I do not understand the message.”

--

It still wasn’t enough to bring to the Doctor, she decided later that day, watching him spin around the console room in the afterglow of a successful adventure, people saved, the universe bettered. So she was dreaming of Gallifrey, what of it? Many of the details in that last dream matched up with what she remembered of her interaction with the Doctor in that life. And while he occasionally enjoyed comparing memories of all the times her echoes had met him, she’d found he wasn’t especially keen on discussing the one in which she’d helped him steal the TARDIS and leave Gallifrey. Susan continued to be a point of pain for the Doctor, all these centuries later, and Clara understood him well enough to know better than to pick at that particular scab.

Still. That phrase was on a loop in her head: run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me. The emphasis on their meeting hadn’t been part of the original phrase, and now she was dreaming of the life in which they’d met face to face for the first time, from the Doctor’s perspective. Clearly they would have to discuss it at some point. 

Eventually, but not yet.

[echristides-blog]

Blogs

Methodology - 11/12/19

Dear Blog,

As a part time student at the beginning of a three-year journey of a qualifying degree and as placement won’t begin until January 2020 I thought I’d take the opportunity to embark on this adventure by looking into what spurs my curiosity and interest along the way, letting my intuition, reading and teaching guide my methodology and inform my self-growth:

My main approach was visual, searching for art exhibitions at galleries that really spoke to me and I felt very drawn to, this includes one film that was heavily based on the mental ill health of a fictional character. This method allowed me to experience, be influenced by the visuals as well as view the artist or subject through an art therapy lens - looking and thinking like a trainee art therapist. The most important part of this approach was supplementing my reflections with qualitative scientific input from art therapy literature and from peer-reviewed articles in related fields giving elements of validity and reliability whilst enhancing my learning as I explored different areas and possible meanings under the concept of art therapy.

Having come from a musical background and understanding the influence sonic environments have had on me, one blog is of experimental thinking - again approached scientifically, as I am interested in exploring the idea of using sound in an art therapy setting. My research has shown that this is still a developing area in the context of art therapy even though some professional writing has been contributed here. I feel this approach would have been more complete for me had I made some response art to an environmental soundscape.

Two blogs are purely experiential, based on the process of making my own  piece of art and experiencing working with different art materials. I felt I had to document important realisations that shaped my understanding and learning of the art making experience for myself and also what it could be like for clients in therapy.

I also felt it was important to include some reflexivity in my methodology as this is key in developing practice and I hope this is reflected in a number of my blog posts. Because of this, I believe that a reflection on personal therapy could have been a good addition here.  

Back to School! - 01/10/19

Dear Blog!

I have just come home from the ‘official’ first day at uni. Going back to academia makes me a little anxious… Will I quickly remember how to be a student again? How will I juggle work, study and life? I’m a little nervous about the journey the MA Art Therapy will take me on. Even though I have a cloud of thoughts above me, it was great seeing familiar faces from the Foundation course – we bonded and shared experiences so feeling that sense of safety was comforting… The Foundation taught me that Art Therapy is a creative route to better self-understanding but its unpredictable process is a little bit of a scary thought. I guess all these emotions will be coming into play at some point, this is an MA in Art Therapy after all.

Today was very exciting. In fact, as soon as our lecture on Research and Enquiry began I couldn’t wait to get started! This emotion continued throughout the taught lessons.  I'm already thinking of areas in Art Therapy I want to explore; sound/music in art therapy, the intrinsic properties of art materials, gender in art therapy, art and psychoanalysis, art therapy and the criminal mind. So here I am, my mind travelling at 100 miles per hour after having a plethora of information thrown at us. Although I'm loving that we can navigate our way through the course, I do have to slow down as I know that my starting point is research, research, research!  

I found it quite intriguing today that I started doodling during our Research & Enquiry class as I realised that I was doodling the same shapes I drew on the first day of the Foundation. Although the patterns were identical there were differences in size, in colour and they were positioned on different parts of the page in my notebooks.  This was very interesting to me... (Interesting…a word I’m sure I’ll be using a lot…). I do wonder what the role of an intuitive image is? (Case & Daley, 2013: 124). While doodling has been associated with being disinterested in a primary task, recent research shows that the act of doodling releases mental stress, which in turn improves focus and helps memory and recall performance (Gupta, 2016: 17). Dr Robert Burns relies on doodling to reveal what is going on in the unconscious, claiming that the way that EEG leads transmit brain activity to a piece of paper, one’s hand also does (cited in Pillay, 2016). Even though I believe I could try to make sense of my doodling, I’m certain that art therapy theory, psychoanalytic theory and neuroscience could shed a lot more light here...

Word count: 434

(Doodling in first lesson Sep 2019)

(Doodling in first lesson September 2018)

References

Case, C. Dalley, T. (2013) ‘The Art Therapy Handbook’, London & New York: Routledge Taylor & Francis Group.

Gupta, S. (2016) ‘Doodling: The Artistry of the Roving Metaphysical Mind’, Journal of Mental Health and Human Behaviour, Vol 21 (1), pp.16-19. doi: 10.4103/0971-8990.182097. (peer reviewed)

Pillay, S. (2016) “The Thinking Benefits of Doodling”, Harvard Health Publishing, https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/the-thinking-benefits-of-doodling-2016121510844 – Accessed on 02/10/19 at 19:15.

If ‘Joker’ (fictional character, 2019) was in Art Therapy… - Reflections 07/10/19  

Dear Blog,  

Last night I went to the movies to see Joker, a psychological thriller focusing on the main character’s mental illness. This film emphasized that what we are at birth and what we become and why, are very different identities. Everybody has a story...  

The film makes it known that Joker was never really in a nurturing environment, loved or cared for and that he had a very dark upbringing. It was a memoir of the criminal before he became destructive to the world around him. Joker is a fragmented individual and sees a therapist who didn’t succeed in developing a therapeutic relationship between them. The irony is that Joker seemed to be collaborative during their sessions by opening up about his emotions but she wasn’t very interested in understanding him or responsive to his needs.  

It made me think about the significance of the art therapist, the art therapy process and its multitude layers of containment through the different therapeutic relationships within art therapy. In his therapy journal he wrote “The worst part about being human is mental illness”, which striked me in particular as he was aware of his disturbances but was really struggling to deal with them. I guess he was trying to fight his demons alone. Mental illness is like being in a prison you can’t free yourself from and no one can understand the suffering if they haven’t experienced it. His sense of powerlessness lead to him making use of a gun - he used it for physical, emotional and psychological protection. It became his shield, forbidding anyone to upset him. It really saddened me that the therapist failed to create that “holding environment” and that she in fact discouraged emotional nourishment (Murphy cited in Liebmann, 1994: 16). What if he missed his last chance for positive change because the professional was incompetent?  

Perhaps the art therapy setting and process would have been more suited to Joker as he is a very visual individual, constantly daydreaming and painting a clown’s face on his. His imagination made him creative but he was only able to be this expressive alone. It felt like he was self-soothing himself through his creativity but even his creativity was imprisoned in his own sense of self. Art therapy allows one to be free and creative through play in what Winnicott calls the “potential space - an environment which can tolerate the successes and failures of experimentation, but which is ultimately reliable” (cited in Liebmann, 1994: 16). We can’t release on humans the pain and aggression we can release in the art therapy room... His creativity could have been his way out.  

Word count: 434

References

Murphy, J. (1994) ‘Mists in the Dark’, in Liebmann, M. ‘Art Therapy with Offenders’. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers.  

Joker (2019), [Motion Picture], Todd Phillips, USA: Warner Bros. Pictures – Viewed 07/10/19.

Sound in Art Therapy - Reflections 15/10/19  

Dear Blog,  

Yesterday in our Introduction to Art Therapy lecture we talked about how to approach our first art therapy session as trainees. How we could prompt a client if he or she is struggling to engage in art making was a question posed and this triggered a thought I have a lot of faith in... Although usually the visual sense for humans is perhaps the more dominant, we are nevertheless multi-sensory and senses can stimulate subjective experiences. Art Therapy is a creative way in to the psyche just as much as externalizing what is part of the psyche is – therefore, exploring creativity when utilizing art therapy is very important. “Sound can be an invasive phenomenon of everyday experience in that it assists our engagement with, immersion in and commentaries with the environment in which we live” (Taylor & Fernstrom, 2017: 4). I am very interested in non-musical sounds evoking memory and emotion as there seems to be a lot less written about it in comparison to great work on memory and music.  

Sound has the capacity to mark time, place and narrative “making the past psychologically present or problematized, creating a dialogue between the present and the past” (Bao, 2013: 208) and we fathom sound in terms of phenomenology, memory, imagery, associations and even phantasy. As sound is tied to different experiences, the use of sonic prompts can elicit memories and involuntary memories. “Our ability to interpret the world around us crucially depends on how the brain organizes meaningful auditory information in memory” (Hendrickson, Walenski, Friend, Love, 2017: 2). This could strongly suggest that sound has potential to aid a client into and through the complex process of art therapy sessions. So, it can very much be considered to be a stimulant... Referring to good and safe practice, could it be risky for some clients to be played recorded sounds during an art therapy session? Perhaps it could be, but the acousmatic approach creates an illusion for the client, it allows the client to be connected and disconnected with the sound at the same time as the actual source of it would be unknown. Sound is also ephemeral and what could be triggered in the art therapy room when sound is played can be contained by the therapist, by being in the art therapy room and maybe even in the artwork itself. Furthermore, there seems to be a particular interest in the natural soundscape as a therapeutic resource and it being used as a calming agent (Franco, Shanahan, Fuller, 2017: 1). Of course, this is all very subjective but more research is without doubt needed here as I am a firm believer that nature can be a healer in many different ways...  

The effect of sonic elicitation is multisensory as sound evokes visual, tactile and olfactory as well as auditory memories (Harris, 2015: 22) and this fits in to art therapy very well as art therapy is a whole body experience. It has been stated that multimodal sensory input can drive positive mental states such as tranquility, unlike monotony, which is a cause of stress (Franco, Shanahan, Fuller, 2017: 2). Allowing sound to play an active role in the triangular relationship (therapist-client-artwork), to prompt and be part of a therapeutic relationship seems to be a creative avenue to explore... And creativity is not just a non-threatening way to access and express memories and emotions but has the power to create a corrective experience in the brain (Perryman, Blisard & Moss, 2019: 80).  

Word count: 563  

References  

Bao, Y. (2013) “Remembering the Invisible: Soundscape and Memory of 1989”, Journal of Chinese Cinemas, Vol 7 (3), pp. 207-224. doi: 10.1386/jcc.7.3.207_1.  (peer reviewed)

Franco, Lara S. Shanahan, Danielle F. Fuller, Richard A. (2017) “A Review of the Benefits of Nature Experiences: More Than Meets the Eye”, International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, Vol 14 (8), pp. 1-29. doi: 10.3390/ijerph14080864. (peer reviewed)

Harris, A. (2015) “Eliciting Sound Memories”, The Public Historian, Vol 37 (4), pp.14-31. doi: 10.1525/tph.2015.37.4.14.  (peer reviewed)

Hendrickson, K. Walenski, M. Friend, M. Love, T. (2015) “The Organization of Words and Environmental Sounds in Memory”, Neuropsychologia, Vol 69, pp. 67-76. doi:10.1016/j.neuropsychologia.2015.01.035. (peer reviewed)

Perryman, K. Blisard, P. Moss, R. (2019) “Using Creative Arts in Trauma Therapy: The Neuroscience of Healing”, Journal of Mental Health Counselling, Vol 41 (1), pp. 80-94. doi: 10.17744/mehc.41.1.07. (peer reviewed)

Taylor, S. Fernstrom, M. (2017) “Acouscenic Listening and Creative Soundwalks: Evoking memory and Narratives Through Soundscape Exploration”, Leonardo Music Journal, Vol 27 (27), pp.3-6. doi: 10.1162/LMJ_a_00999. (peer reviewed)  

‘Protreptic’ (2018) - Reflections 26/10/19

Dear Blog,

I recently came across artist Despina Zaxaropoulou and her eight hour a day, three-week long performance Protreptic in Bangkok and became fascinated with the power in endurance art... I decided to watch a clip of the performance and view images taken from it without reading its short descriptive summary to have a more authentic response to it... Dressed in an almost completely transparent dressing gown, Zaxaropoulou lies silently and moves around on a wooden transporting container inviting audiences to interact with her... Her purpose was instantly and unmistakably made clear to me, it was that effective and meaningful...  It pushes the artist’s physical and mental strength to the maximum, makes the power relations between artist and audience prominent and tests boundaries. She embodied herself and her inner reality into her artwork, becoming the image under the gaze and available to be physically handled by many different individuals. It was very interesting to see different reactions to Zaxaropoulou’s loss of autonomy and even though her body language seemed sorrowful... she was still objectified and touched in a sexual way by some. From a trainee art therapist point of view my immediate response was to want to create a safe space for her and hold that space for her... my mind couldn’t stop thinking about the significance of complete respect for the client’s intrapersonal meanings...

From an artist’s point of view I really admire her bravery in her performance. It made me question my own art practice and how stepping out of my comfort zone is something perhaps I should attempt more often as my artwork consists of only my own personal experiences, emotions, memories and fantasies. Although I felt very uncomfortable and bothered by the performance – Zaxaropoulou being exposed, vulnerable and receptive to many different interpersonal experiences, reminded me that “creative work has been associated with ‘a-ha’ moments of self-realization... that stimulate personal growth” (Hinz, 2017: 143). Being experiential is often about taking risks and experimenting with different environments, materials and exploring the psychodynamics. Sitting with uncomfortable feelings and being reflective as well as being reflexive is necessary for my own creative practice and development as an artist and as a trainee art therapist. These different thought processes have shifted my perception of me as an artist and have made me eager to transcend my boundaries and embrace challenge and uncertainty. They have spurred further curiosity for learning and I feel I need to honour those interests.  

Word Count: 407

Reference  

Hinz, L. D (2017) “The Ethics of Art Therapy: Promoting Creativity as a Force for Positive Change”, Journal of the American Art Therapy Association, Volume 34 (3), pp. 142-145. doi:10.1080/07421656.2017.1343073. (peer reviewed)

First Art Making Session in MA! - 29/10/2019  

Dear Blog!  

Today we finally made some art work at uni! And it was really, really, REALLY liberating. Since we started I haven’t had the chance to sit down and take my time to make art and today’s session just proved to me how long overdue it was to do so, especially being on this course...  

We were told to bring wool and newspaper to today’s class last week, but we were only told today that we would each be making a person and I really enjoyed having that direction. I enjoyed working in silence in a quiet room, getting lost in the moment without any distractions as I was able to tune in with myself. Usually, I instantly get a visual response to an exercise but this time I hadn’t, so I knew I would go by my method of “what feels right” to make art. This is how I selected my materials and then let the process take its course. From the selection in front of me I ended up using only the earthy materials such as string, crinkled shredded paper, tissue paper, curly moss and stuck to earthy colours. It was interesting to me that I didn’t end up using every material I chose in the beginning, even though I tried to incorporate them, certain materials and colours didn’t feel suited.  

I realised I was spending a lot of time on the legs and was feeling irritated trying to get them looking and feeling the way I wanted them to. When I became conscious of this, I started asking myself why the legs were so important to me...  

I then worked on the arms, needing them to take a slightly firmer form but I still needed them flexible so I used curly moss. I wrapped the body in white tissue paper to give it a lighter, transparent feel visually. Finally, the head I felt needed “consolidating” so I sewed all around the newspaper with navy and beige string – as if I was bringing my thoughts together, sewing and securing them all in one place. Interestingly enough, I didn’t want to hide the newspaper effect and was picky only using parts of it that had no images but I only thought about how fussy I was after I had finished making my piece. At the time I only wondered why I chose those two shades of colour of string...  

I instantly felt at ease with my creation and connected to the entire product. As I had some time left to reflect on it I thought about my emotional journey when making it; the time it took to get the legs looking springy and unrestricted – flexible and ready to run, made me think about how much I love freedom and spontaneity, it made me question if I am struggling with that part at the moment. The body felt as light as a feather, the arms were spread out and bendable... perhaps because I feel like I am on a new adventure. It wasn’t long before I realised that the head seemed to be the only solid and heavy part of the body... maybe because I have much to think about and organise at the moment... I felt I identified with my piece and my object became real to me, it had its own existence in the space and its positioning became an important decision. Today’s session seemed to have mirrored my invisible reality, it was enlightening and educational and even though not in a therapy session, felt the concept of the triangular relationship come alive.  

Word count: 596

  ‘Same Bed, Different Dreams’ (2018) by Song Dong and Psychoanalytic Thinking - Reflections 02/11/19  

Dear Blog!  

I came across the works of Chinese artist’s Song Dong today in London’s Pace Gallery and was captivated by his art work Same Bed, Different Dreams (2018), which represents the expansion of Asian cities and their modernization that has not only changed the face of the cities but the citizens lives with it. His concept and artwork resonated with me on a metaphoric and symbolic level, and its title seemed to meet my intuitive feeling towards it quite well: that his artwork was dream related... It made me question if the title was a conscious or unconscious attempt to be ambiguous.

In Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams (cited in Strachey, 2010: 338-339) the unconscious surfaces when the censor is frail, which occurs during sleep and the repressed comes out in a dream-form... a dream is a thing that is pictorial and is capable of being represented. This to me was Dong’s unconscious sitting within the physical space – or should I say his psychical space – in concrete form. 

A very large beautifully crafted, multi-coloured and polished dream-like case made out of many different windows in the centre of a pale room makes itself known. In it were household objects including crockery, pendant lights and decorative knick-knacks... objects that carry history, memory, emotion. Dong having constructed it by using rubbles from old Beijing confirmed to me that its every detail was meaningful and left me feeling that past and present were undefined here. According to Reiser (cited in Fonagy et al., 2012: 78), the manifest dream draws out past and current life issues and conflicts, in hope to resolve them. Perhaps these raw materials and objects inside are more raw than they seem… Dreams disguise impulses and substitute them with symbols – an operation accomplished by primary processes of the unconscious where the repressed return in confusing ways through visual imagery (Rocha, 2012: 20). Both, dreams and artwork have their own dimensional measurements and in Dong’s artwork, the dream could be preserved in the large dream-like case. The pendant lights dangling in it are lit up, which could suggest psychic activity. Lacan wrote that “dream is a phenomenon of psychic activity” because the unconscious is always at work and never sleeps... so perhaps this is what is being presented by Dong unconsciously (cited in Rocha, 2012: 17). Although the dream-like case is completely closed, one can still see through it, some windows are more transparent than others giving an indication that the hidden parts of the psyche are reachable through dreams. I have always been fascinated with how personal, mysterious, enchanting and unfathomable dreams are. I hope to inform my practice with psychoanalytic literature but I know that it could take me a lifetime trying to understand some of it. Even though exploring psychoanalysis feels like stepping into a whole other world, I believe it is a study that sheds light on the bigger, deeper and most complex parts of the psyche. Dong’s political artwork displays the relationship between his life and his art... And I can’t help but wonder if he was to bring this to an analytic setting, what would come up?  

Word count: 510  

References

Fonagy, P. Kachele, H. Leuzinger-Bohleber, M & Taylor, D. (2012) ‘The Significance of Dreams: Bridging Clinical and Extraclinical Research in Psychoanalysis’, London: Routledge.  

Freud, S. & Strachey, J. (2010) ‘The Interpretation of Dreams: The Complete and Definitive Text’, New York: Basic Books.

Rocha, G. M. (2012) “The Unconscious: Ideal Worker?” International Forum of Psychoanalysis, Vol. 21 (1), pp. 17-21, doi: 10.1080/0803706X.2011.624546. (peer reviewed)

‘The Anthony Gormley Experience’ - Reflections 07/11/19

Dear Blog,

Today I finally managed to go and see Anthony Gormley’s exhibition and what an interesting one it was. I had booked my ticket last night for this morning as I wanted to go in with a fresh and clear mind to simply experience it. The focus was the body: we all have a body but the world within it, is unique every time.  As I was walking around each room my responses to his different artworks were authentic and instant to what was happening in that present moment: What I was feeling, what I was thinking, what I remembered, what I imagined, what it made me question, what it made me want to do… it all came to consciousness. Seven rooms really spoke to me:

Clearing VII (2019) Approximately 8 kilometres of aluminium tube coiled against the space, restricted by the walls, ceilings and floor to bounce and expand. I felt I was in a child’s scribble and wanted to play in it – it activated a physical impulse and I felt I was part of the artwork.

Subject II (2019) A single life-size male body form made of steel bars became my complete focus and it was his posture that really captured me – he seemed sorrowful and I felt the impact of that emotion. Perhaps the heaviness of the material that he was made out of played a part in the intensity of that emotion making it more prominent that he was alone and seeming lonely in the space...

Matrix III (2019) An enormous cloud made out of steel mesh, its density increasing as you walk towards its centre and looking up at it whilst walking beneath it triggered a memory. I remembered swimming in deep water unable to see the world above it and swimming towards the surface – remembering the feelings of fear and relief that came with that experience, essentially reliving it.  

Lost Horizon I (2018) Many identical male figures made out of cast iron, positioned in many different ways across the ceiling, walls and floor.  Walking amongst these figures, I noticed that the male figure was Gormley. It made me think about him and his life experiences, every figure felt like it had a different story to tell about him. I became very aware of these presences in the room, I realized I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what I was feeling with each one but their presence was intense – making me think even more.

Cave (2019) A steel sculpture on an architectural scale imitates a hollow human form. Going through this hollow body I felt my visual, auditory and tactile senses heighten as it got completely dark; using my eyes to spot anything possible, my ears to hear what I could and touch to navigate myself though the darkness. At the same time I felt like I was walking into the unknown as sensations were very present but not obvious. This artwork stimulated and activated my body and mind together, and led to a combination of observations on the self, experiencing my own body as an entity – externally as well as internally.  

Drawings II Exiting the Cave led to a room with more basic and natural material artworks. Gormley used his own blood to make drawings representing the interior of the human body, which I found very uncomfortable to look at making me want to turn away. I was quite surprised to have felt quite nauseous at the sight of that and it made me realise just how disturbing I found it. There was something about his blood, its varying texture in the artwork and being displayed for many years now that didn’t sit well with me at all and made me question why. Why was I affected this much?  

Host (2019) Gormleys final room was kept separate by a single solid piece of stone, a room consisting of earth, water and air where water covered the whole ground. This room is the only room left uninterrupted by visitors. Still, it offered me an incredibly soothing experience by gazing at it and smelling the humidity that was produced – I was so drawn and nourished by it, I wanted to sit there. I realised this was the only room I felt so relaxed by as it made me imagine that I was looking out of a window to natural landscape, envisioning forests and being by the beach. It was the perfect note to end on as I felt safe near it... bringing to the surface my strong connection and love for natural surroundings… It also made me think about the counter-transference in therapy, the feelings a therapist feels in response to the client or the clients artwork as Gormley’s exhibition certainly did that...

This exhibition was all experiential reminding me of Hakomi Psychotherapy: based on mindfulness, Hakomi is body orientated psychotherapy accentuating somatic awareness (Rothaus, 2013: 208). The body is a powerful resource as it stores influential information and can guide us to deeper places in the psyche. It seemed as if Gormley took the role of the therapist using his artworks as experiments to evoke experiences for the visitors… gently accessing unconscious material and bringing it to conscious awareness so that it can be processed. Having gone first thing in the morning allowed me to be relaxed, and being calm helped me to be more open and receptive to new experiences when engaging with the artworks. This is a vital part of mindful self-study as it allows you to focus on body-mind connection in the here and now and “the quality of mindfulness heightens mental imagery”, which in turn could increase degree of healing (Morgan cited in Rothaus, 2013: 212). In an Art Therapy setting I could have externalized my body-mind experience, have the process and my artwork contained before safely reflecting on it… A really rich combination of approaches to consider…

Word count: 977 

Reference 

Rothaus, M. E. (2013) ‘Hakomi and Art Therapy’ in Rappaport, L. ‘Mindfulness and the Arts Therapies: Theory and Practice’, London & Philadelphia: Jessica Kingsley Publishers.

   ‘Other Spaces: Vanishing Point & Our Time’, Psychosis & Realizations - Reflections 10/11/19 

Dear Blog,

I have always had a very strong interest in Psychosis and having studied music even composed an electronic piece based on my understanding of an episode of Psychosis. My purpose of composing music like this was to try to interpret psychological disorders guided by my readings so that I can raise awareness on how difficult it is to be on the other side and to help me understand sufferers state on a deeper level. By doing this I felt I would be able to relate and connect better with these individuals. Vanishing Point and Our Time are exhibitions I visited that played with one’s visual perception. Both in dark rooms Vanishing Point used laser lights and projected beams of light to a vanishing point, and Our Time used smoke and a kinetic light installation that swung back and forth – both playing with reality and illusion.

Psychosis is the severe distortion or even erosion of the normal functions of perception, thinking and feeling and of the capacity to communicate (Sass cited in Killick & Schaverien, 1997:134). For me the visual nature of this exhibition resembled a hallucinatory experience placing me in the mind of a psychotic client. From a trainee art therapist point of view, this exhibition made me panic slightly at the thought of some tricky but vital questions… How could I contain a severely psychotic client? How would I approach this? Where would I begin? I took a moment to consolidate my thoughts and reverted to our core learnings so far… I have to create a safe and facilitating environment for the client, which means being resilient and being able to tolerate different behaviours, by providing safe art materials and a place where artwork could be stored, by having a regularity of sessions in that same space. With all clients and especially clients suffering with severe mental health problems, getting them to experience a level of relatedness to the art therapist through repetition is essential. According to Killick “containment can be mediated through the experience of continuity” (Killick & Schaverien, 1997: 50). And what if there is no artwork?! I remembered my tutors words: “It’s still art therapy!”.

I am also a very firm believer in body language as it is penetrative and a universal form of communication. Searle focused on the therapist’s facial expressions being fundamental for the symbiotic relationship between the psychotic client and the therapist stating that through the therapist the psychotic client can recognise their aliveness (cited in Killick & Schaverien, 1997: 219-220).  

I am beginning to understand the complexities that come into play with the different clients and the importance of not being reactive to alarming thoughts but responsive – remaining patient and having faith in the process. This exhibition and the readings that followed highlighted that as a trainee art therapist I have to learn the language of each of my clients and adapt my way of working to their needs in order to get them to connect with me and engage in art making. Although I am trying to prepare myself for my upcoming placement as much as possible, I understand that I can’t know fully what to expect… The responsibility for improving the mental well-being of another and thoughts on what my counter-transference will be in the process, are thoughts that make me a little... or a bit more than a little nervous…

Word count: 552

Reference 

Killick, K. & Schaverien, J. (1997) ‘Art, Psychotherapy and Psychosis’, New York: Routledge.

Charlotte Salomon’s ‘Life? Or Theatre?’, Looking at Her Paintings - Reflections 16/11/19  

Dear Blog,

What an exhibition... I am so captivated by how deep and penetrating it was...  

“The war raged on and I sat by the sea and saw deep into the heart of humankind”, she said and she really did (Salomon cited in Felstiner, 2009).

Salomon, a German Jew in Berlin lost her mother at the delicate age of 9 and grew up living in fear witnessing the heartache and devastation the Nazis spread when they came into power in 1933. Her father eventually remarried opera singer Paula Salomon-Linberg and Salomon fell madly in love with someone her step-mother worked with, Alfred Wolfson, only to be sent to stay in southern France with her maternal grandparents due to dangerous circumstances. After witnessing her grandmother hang herself, her grandfather brutally let her in on what was being kept from her all these years – that their seven family losses where suicides, including her mother’s.  

“I will create a story so as not to lose my mind” (Salomon cited in Felstiner, 2009).  

Salomon created a series of autobiographical paintings attaching tracing paper, writing words and melodies, adding a narrator and introducing characters giving them a theatrical effect... I thought about why she chose to paint the way she did...

Her paintings presented her internal and external reality in a very defined and cohesive manner. She used paint, a medium that could be messy and which can be daunting when there are issues regarding control (Robbins, 1987: 109). Everything happening in her life was beyond her control but her choice to use paint, for me, was a sign of wanting that power over how her life story was illustrated – a valuable challenge of tolerating all the toxic feelings depicting her struggle through life. This left me with an incredible impression of her inner strength and her being well-balanced. Perhaps her faith in religion gave her that power... “Dear God, just let me not go mad” (Salomon cited in Felstiner, 2009).

Her paintings shift from bright to dark colours and her writing from witty to grim as her story proceeds. They start becoming colourless and dull as she began feeling fed up with feeling fed up and she contemplated committing suicide herself. Colour communicates the felt experience and makes a visual statement about a person’s current state of being (Robbins, 1987: 107-109). Their flatness could metaphorically represent her lifeless life. But Salomon’s paintings were all of notebook size and of a repetitive style of painting completely limiting her body movement, which according to Robbins are signs of offering herself containment and of protecting herself (1987: 113).

Salomon seems to have had experienced cumulative trauma having lost her mother, being away from her father and her lover, being in the midst of war, not being able to communicate with her loved ones... Emotionally and psychologically exhausted by it all she fought to live every day. Her efforts at art therapy saved her, she confronted her harsh reality and realised that death can’t be worse than what she was she was mirroring in her images, which made her want to live... “I will live for them all” (Salomon cited in Felstiner, 2009). Research has linked psychopathology with avoiding thoughts, emotions and memories but Salomon engaged with her process over and over again...769 times before being killed by the Nazis (Skeffington & Browne, 2014: 116).  

“Keep this safe, it is my whole life” (Salomon cited in Felstiner, 2009). Salomon’s artworks are incredibly inspirational and influential as they document honorable aspects about her and make it evident that she was her own art therapist. In an audio-visual recording at the exhibition, it was said that Salomon was an introvert. Externalizing her mental images the way she did, may have been a conscious wish to be able to communicate them to someone other than herself (Schaverien, 1992: 83-84). This was her life but I think it was her desire for it to be unreal, for it to be theatre...  

I walked out of the museum feeling so moved and emotional over Salomon’s life story... her pain, her fear, her struggle. I was astonished at her outlook on life, how she relied on her creativity to regenerate strength and ignite hope in a dark hole. I felt very grounded by the way she made me think about the way I see my own life and how she made me look at it from the outside, as if that too were theatre...  

Word count: 715

References

Felstiner, M. L., (2009) “Charlotte Salomon: 1917-1943", Jewish Women’s Archive. https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/salomon-charlotte  – Accessed 16/11/2019 at 17:15.

Robbins, A. (1987) ‘The Artist as Therapist’, New York: Human Sciences Press.

Schaverien, J. (1992) ‘The Revealing Image: Analytical Art Psychotherapy in Theory and Practice’, London & Philadelphia: Jessica Kingsley Publishers.

Skeffington, P. M. & Browne, M. (2014) “Art Therapy, Trauma and Substance Misuse: Using Imagery to Explore a Difficult Past with a Complex Client” International Journal of Art Therapy, Vol. 19 (3), pp. 114-121, doi: 10.1080/17454832.2014.910816. (peer reviewed)

‘Leonardo: Experience a Masterpiece’ (2019) - Reflections 17/11/2019  

Dear Blog,  

I visited the National Gallery today to see Leonardo: Experience a Masterpiece (2019). As well as being one the world's most famous painters, Da Vinci is known for having extensive knowledge in scientific subjects that fed into his artwork such as architecture, science, mathematics, engineering, anatomy, geology, astronomy, botany, palaeontology, cartography and the list goes on. This exhibition focused on Da Vinci's the Virgin of the Rocks (1508) by introducing unknown truths in four different rooms that allowed me to reacquaint myself with his famous painting ultimately making me see it in a new light.  

Entering the Mind of Leonardo as he begins his journey of creating the Virgin of the Rocks, his thoughts are text written backwards and reflected on mirror surfaces so that they could be read easier. "He who is only good at painting figures seems to be a poor master" (cited at the exhibition). I wondered how he meant this.. I wondered how he meant "figures"… Could he have been insinuating that one can only master figures if his soul invests in it? Was he insinuating that a true artist should master how to depict elements of divinity in his figures? His connection to religion perhaps? An unclear yet powerful statement, where I felt he meant both... This mirror effect was done against a backdrop of the Italian Alps and it stated at the exhibition that many of Da Vinci’s geological sketches and observations were situated there so he must have felt something special about this location. According to Andric he was constantly striving for the heights, which could reflect his desire to elevate the spirit (2016: 7). This led me to think that he wanted viewers to experience the search for meaning in what is around us, to search for mystery that exists in the world and is to be sought and to acknowledge that we are part of this mystical and miraculous creation. According to Gal (cited in Vladislav, 2004: 53) searching is a method by which we implement and connect with faith, and is kin to art.  

With this in mind I left that room to move on to the next looking for the bigger picture and tuning in with what was around me - a circular hall that connected all rooms in the shape of a cross. This reinforced the feeling that his own spirituality played a bigger part in this painting than I had thought...  

The Studio. "The figure that does not sufficiently express with action the passions of its soul is not worthy of praise" (cited at the exhibition). Da Vinci refers to the "figure" again and its "soul". This seemed to imply spiritual art, which is dependent on the artist's capacity to understand spirituality and on the experience of the knowledge of God in order to achieve "art in spirit", otherwise known as iconography. (Vladislav, 2004: 58-60). Scientific investigation that was carried out on this painting using infrared reflectography and hyperspectral imaging revealed lost content beneath the Virgin of the Rocks we know today. So if we are to think of Da Vinci as an iconographer, this piece of work would not be one of self-expression or scientific precision but rather a method and practice towards transfiguration of his nature through his experience of the revelation of the holy by which he would be able touch upon the mystery of incarnation of the Divine (Vladislav, 2004: 56-59). His first attempt can't have been definitive enough in what he was trying to portray and it seemed Da Vinci was trying to transcend his painting methods and touch elements of divinity in his work, as if he was aiming for perfection.

How he achieved that was by mastering two techniques that were introduced in the third room - The Light & Shadow Experiment. "Your tongue will be paralyzed by thirst and your body by sleep and hunger before you can show with words what the painter shows in an instant" (cited at the exhibition). Da Vinci paid great attention to Chiaroscuro and Sfumato, skillfully shading and blending in colours. Translucent layers of paint are at once seen as ethereal and the light radiating is from within the figures outward, "enlivening the action of uncreated grace” – Da Vinci not only worked towards making an instant impression that he was depicting sanctity but also that he was able to do that, he had stated that "perfect faith is perfect knowledge" (cited in Andric, 2016: 9). It is through the artist's ascending journey looking for Truth that he begins to see that "good art" is done in a more human way and "spiritual art" is reflecting what he practices within (Vladislav, 2004: 62, 65).  

The Imagined Chapel. The Virgin of the Rocks was to be an altarpiece for a chapel in the church of San Francesco in Milan but the church was demolished. Only artworks that have an adequate symbol of holiness used for uniting the invisible and the visible, where the artist contemplates the image of God within his own soul mirroring his glory, are able to have a permanent place in the church – works of art that are a shared activity of the Creator and the created (Vladislav, 2004: 62-63, 66).  

I feel his in-depth knowledge into the order of the world made him search for the beyond, made him search for God. That this painting wasn’t about what Da Vinci is much known for – his scientific precisions in art and science, but much much greater than that. 

Going to this exhibition reminded me of our lecture on Supervision. It made me realise that total objectivity when seeing a client's artwork is quite impossible as we all have our biases. It highlighted the importance of having a supervisor to see what I can't or to put me in different thought processes. Even though it takes some pressure off knowing that I am able to share clients artwork with another, it also made me feel that much more responsible to be open to seeing that there is more than just one way of viewing artwork and that it is important to try to look for those different ways and those details on my own before relying on supervision. Every different way of viewing artwork could lead to a real depth of one’s psyche just as the way I viewed Da Vinci’s Virgin of the Rocks. Moreover, my experience and reflection on this exhibition directed me into thinking about spirituality and religion in art therapy as it often is a big part of who we are and it can be a big part of our everyday life and lifestyle, which is an extremely interesting area to explore. It also made me think about art therapy in palliative care as end of life gives rise to the feeling of spirituality whether one has a faith or is agnostic or atheist. However, palliative care is an area I’m not ready to go into...  

Word count: 1,134 

References

Andric, N. (2016) “Religious - Philosophical Aspects of the Novel ‘The Romance of Leonardo Da Vinci’ by Dmitrij Merezkovskij”, Russian Literature, Vol. 86, pp.1-20, doi: 10.1016/j.ruslit.2016.11.001. (peer reviewed)

Vladislav, A. (2004) “Art and Religion: Creativity and the Meaning of Religion of ‘Image’ from the perspective of the Orthodox Icon”, Theology Today, Vol. 61 (1), pp.53-56. (peer reviewed)

Experiential Workshops: Material Realizations - 02/12/19

Dear Blog,

We have now started our experiential workshops after having been given the foundations on art therapy theory and art therapy practice. I am gradually feeling teaching beginning to merge together - what feels like - "the separate pieces" of the first year of the course and I can now understand the direction in which it is going. (Now that I mention separate pieces I'm remembering my doodling on the first day of uni, how that too was separate pieces floating around in a section of my notebook page, maybe there's an emerging meaning...).  

(Doodling in first lesson Sep 2019)

These workshops are familiarizing us with different art materials... Our first workshop was working with dry materials: marker pens, pencils, coal on sticks, chalk and pastels. The second workshop was working with wet materials: paint, water colour and ink, where different sized, shaped and type of paper were used in the first two workshops. The final workshop was with clay and plastecine. This was really great as it put me in a position to ask myself why I work with certain material and why I don't work with other, why I like some and why not other. It made me wonder to what extent is the use of certain material subjective and to what objective? Being restricted to a group of materials each time, allowed me to explore the intrinsic properties and to reacquaint myself with those I seldom choose when art making, but in this blog I will discuss material experiences that stood out for me.  

I was instantly drawn to certain material: coal as I associate it with historical times and keeping warm in the cold, the mysterious effect chalk can have when it is smudged and its sharp dusty lines when it isn’t, ink reminds me of sentimental writers and poets of a previous era such as William Shakespeare, Edgar Alan Poe, William Blake and Ralph Waldo Emerson that I love to read, clay being 3D really brings emotions and thoughts to life in an organic way and requires a lot of physical handling that arouses the senses. I became aware that there were symbolic and metaphorical meanings behind the use of these materials that I identified with and this was confirmed to me during the art making and also in the way I used the material. As we were only allowed to use coal tied to a natural tree branch from a distance, I believe drawing a tree with it was from an unconscious driven force related to that. This generated further questions... What if coal wasn’t attached to a tree branch or natural object? What if it was attached to something else or not attached at all? How would this affect my art making instincts and decisions? Knowing how much I love nature, would I have felt disconnected to the art making process and art product if the medium in between wasn’t natural? Is this what it could feel like for a client with a disability?... Although I like using water colour with brush effects and layering different colours, I really struggled to use anything more than a single colour to do this as I found that the size and shape of the paper really influenced my working with this material. In a similar manner with regards to paint, although I tend to mix different colours to get blends as well as create thicker and looser blends, the workshop only had certain colours available that I couldn’t make use of in a satisfying way so having a limitation in colours became very frustrating...  Why are certain blends so important to me?

(From left to right: paint, paint, ink, water colour)

(Coal)

Pencils and marker pens have never been a preferred medium for me even having rubbers provided in the workshop I found pencils were too definitive needing a lot of control to create something representative of me and marker pens rather aggressive and unforgiving, which in turn made me feel uncomfortable... But I questioned now if this is can be absolute as what is emerging in these workshops are the different material associations and the different experiences of their materiality in the structured workshops. It was intriguing to me that I actually ended up reacquainting myself with most of the materials through the different processes and my usual ways of creating art with certain material often changed. This stirred new emotions and I thought about how these processes made me feel... Ultimately, the material processes became unpredictable. At the beginning of this blog I wrote about the workshops familiarizing us with different art materials but I think it is wise to add, that they are familiarizing us with different art materials through different personal interactions. As an artist I am so use to having a variety of materials to choose from with no limitations where having directive workshops urged me to consider art making in another way as they tapped into something specific within me, perhaps contacting other areas of my psyche that I knew not about but thought I had, that are completely unconscious...  

(From left to right: chalk, pencil, marker pen)

(Clay container)

Most importantly, these workshops have now started to make me think in more complex ways when considering clients and different settings... What are certain client groups in need of and how could I meet their needs? What could be helpful and what could be harming?...

Word count: 900

[heartofdolan-blog]

Social Study [E.D] - part two

part one

Summary: Daisy and Ethan get to know each other in more ways than one as they work on a project where they conduct social experiments and videotape the process. 

Warnings: cursing

A/N: I just posted this but it had the strange “A” bug so I’m reposting it. The summary of this note was that I wrote this part on no sleep & I’m sorry if it doesn’t make sense hahaha. Thank you for the support that you guys showed on the last part, it was incredible waking up to see the love. I love you guys!!! Alright, now enjoy the little story. I’m pretty proud because it’s 1,200 something words and hooray for that. Much love.

Ethan was starting to regret his spur of the moment decision to grab a tattoo last night. He was fine with having one, he even enjoyed getting them, but he was not particularly fond of the interestingly realistic looking rubber chicken resting on his left hip. He had no clue what could’ve inspired him to get such a thing, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to getting it removed. Grayson found it hilarious and started rolling on the floor when he noticed it. He kept shouting, “I thought it was a dream, I thought it was a dream!” Then he would look at the tattoo’s face and the cycle would start over again.

He was about to give Grayson a good knock on the head when there were three short knocks on the door. Gray immediately sobered up and exchanged a confused glance with Ethan. Although the two shared a dorm, in no way was their living situation anything like the rest of the students at Whitewater Prep. Their uncle was a respected graduate who came back after finishing at Harvard and donated a large sum of money to the school. The twins were practically untouchable when it came to cracking down on the rules, but they both wanted to succeed so they tried not to take advantage of their family’s power. A knock on their door was rare, considering most people thought Dorm 208 was empty.

Ethan cracked the door open enough to see who was standing outside, yet didn’t recognize the female face as anyone he knew. Grayson shook his head, signifying he also had no clue who was outside. Fast as he could, he grabbed the stranger’s hand and rushed her inside while Gray shut the door. Sitting her down on the bed while she was still dizzy, Ethan looked over the girl and smirked, looking at Grayson to see if he also understood. Gray was two steps ahead and had already taken out the handcuffs, tossing them to Ethan in an instant.

He expected some sort of protest as he locked the restraints on the stranger, yet received only silence from her. Once he had finished making sure she was secure, he stepped back and admired his handiwork. Her arms were behind her back, with her hands cuffed together and duct tape on her arms and legs to make sure she would have a hard time trying to get away before he got his answers.

Grayson looked at him and held up five fingers, reminding him of the benefit Uncle Clay was hosting tonight. Ethan pulled him to the side and whispered, “Do you think Clay would be upset if you showed up alone tonight? I have to deal with this girl before I can go anywhere,” with a pleading glance.

After debating for a minute, Grayson groaned and nodded reluctantly. “But if anything goes wrong, you know that I’ll be here as soon as possible. Call me, okay?”

Ethan nodded and pat his brother on the back. “Thank you, Gray, I owe you one,” he smiled. Grayson rolled his eyes and walked away to change into one of his many suits.

A few minutes after he left, Ethan took a look at the girl sitting patiently on his bed, not making a sound or struggling to escape from her restraints. He decided to play around a bit while getting his answers. Hell, she was a good looking girl tied up in his room, any other 18-year old boy would practically be foaming at the mouth with excitement.

***

Daisy didn’t know what was wrong with her. After classes had gotten out for the day, she found her way to Room 208 and knocked, supplies for the project all tucked away neatly in her book bag. Two girls walking down the hallway gave her a funny look as she walked up to the door, but Daisy brushed it off as typical teenage gossip.

She had Ethan Grant in a few of her classes, but she didn’t know much about him other than the fact that he had a twin brother, and his uncle was some big deal to the school. To be honest, Daisy couldn’t have cared less about some uncle who donated to his former high school, but she wanted to seem educated when she arrived at Whitewater Prep. To accomplish this, she spent the night before the big move to Jersey studying up on the history of the school and its big contributors. The twin thing was quite easy to figure out on her own, especially since Ethan Grant was rarely seen with someone other than his family.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the door had opened just a crack, and she could see an eye peeking through at her, then another, and then two more. She didn’t understand the big fuss about opening the door but decided not to question it and go with the flow instead. What she didn’t expect was to be pulled inside a few seconds later, sat on the bed, and the next thing she knew, she was completely restrained.

“Are these guys ninjas?” Daisy thought to herself as she tried to adjust to her new surroundings. The bed she was sat on was surprisingly soft and clean, and the walls of the room were almost completely bare, spare a small picture or two of the brothers hung up with a plastic tack. Then she came to her senses and realized that she blew her chances of escape because she was admiring the way the carpet felt on her flats.

And then she looked up, realized that Ethan Grant was towering over her and Grayson had magically disappeared. Despite this, she remained outwardly calm and didn’t struggle at all, prompting the realization that she didn’t know what was wrong with her.

The older boy sat down next to her and removed the handcuff’s from Daisy’s wrists. Not a word had been spoken between the two as his long fingers began to massage her sore hands. After a minute or so, he gently tore the duct tape off of her elbows, giving her upper body complete freedom. Ethan Grant had begun to rub her shoulders and began moving up to her temples after a minute. Daisy hadn’t even realized she had been holding her breath until she let out a long moan due to the tension being relieved from her body.

She immediately straightened up after that, as she had let herself fall into the boy’s arms. Her face started to heat up and she brought her hands up to her cheeks to cover them as if that would help somehow. She looked up after hearing a laugh escape from Ethan’s lips. He was smirking at her, and her legs were untied in an instant. He had her right where he wanted her.

“Tell me your name and why you’re here,” he demanded, his demeanor changing immediately.

“My name is Daisy Brant. I’m here because Ms. Rousse told me to find Ethan Grant in this dorm room so that you could be my partner instead of Austin,” she didn’t bother using his last name, as the school had a tight-knit community and he was a popular kid.

Ethan groaned and looked up at the sky, putting his hands up to his face as the situation settled in. He wasn’t informed of a project because he hadn’t bothered going to class today. He had just tied up his partner. Things were not looking up.

[poeticandvaguelysweet]

Prompt #208 - Please Come Home for Christmas

PROMPT: bars at Christmas time

this is somewhat an answer to the trailer bar scene ... but not exactly set in that moment. Also, it’s depressing as hell ... but smutty!! and probably tied to a fic I want to work on. I don’t know what happened here. 

I had a few things in my head when I wrote this. The Eagles ‘Please Come Home For Christmas’, Sia’s ‘Snowman’ and Niall Horan’s ‘Slow Hands’. So have fun with that. 

11 days until Christmas. December 14th. 

AO3

PLEASE COME HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

The bar was dark, the kind of murky lighting that would have him squinting at the sun if he managed to leave before it set. That wasn’t going to happen today, just like it wouldn’t any other. Owen threw back his beer downing half of it in a second. This was his space, his bar, his new life and he was sitting there waiting for her to ruin it.

She played a good game of innocent, surprised when she walked in the door, her eyes instantly finding him. Claire turned, leaving the building for a whole thirty seconds before she came back in the door and waltzed right for him.

‘Karen set me up.’ Claire offered, coming to a halt at his booth, her hands knotted together as her thumbs fiddled with the thick knotted wool jumper she wore. ‘I just felt like I owed you an explanation.’ She couldn’t look at him … or wouldn’t, Owen wasn’t sure.

Claire was in town for Thanksgiving. He knew she was coming, her nephews had given him the heads up. She just didn’t know that Owen Grady had picked up his life, walked away from her and moved to Madison, Wisconsin.

Karen had bullied her into going on a blind date with her ex-boyfriend. Claire swore, if she knew, she would not have walked into that bar.

‘I didn’t even know you were in town.’ She didn’t know where he went after he packed his things and left. Claire wouldn’t have even been able to guess if anyone asked her. Madison would have been her last idea. She knew her nephews still heard from Owen but had no idea that was because they regularly bumped into him shopping for groceries.  

Owen shrugged. Telling her she didn’t have to leave as he eyed her cautiously. How long had it been? He couldn’t remember. A year now? A little more, a little less. He was trying not to count the days. They had been on fire, burning right through the atmosphere but when they crashed there were no survivors. They destroyed each other and here he was, unsure of the time that passed, his heart beating faster just at the sight of her.

He had missed her and Owen hated himself just a little for that fact.

He called for a beer, Claire protesting the order and levelling him with a look. She hated it when he ordered for her, even when he was right, knowing full well she would drink the Budweiser he had called for. She ordered a bourbon and coke just to spite him, quirking her eyebrow when he gave her a smug look.

Claire crossed her arms over the table of the booth, leaning in as she let a hand play with her glass. He couldn’t see her soft peach tulle skirt anymore, feet tucked into fluffy heeled boots but that didn’t stop him from thinking back to the last time he saw her in something similar. They were love drunk and stupid, lust filled their eyes as an eagerness bit at every touch. Too impatient, buzzed from the alcohol they had been drinking in wait for their friends. Claire had slipped under the dark booth they were sat at, her hands sliding up his thighs as nimble fingers loosened his belt and unzipped his jeans. Her mouth was on him quicker than he could think, blowing him under the table as their friends arrived. Claire was nonchalant when she resurfaced, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, cheeks pink with the alcohol and not the fact that she had been caught sucking Owen’s dick under the table. Or, at the least, it was heavily implied.  

‘What?’ She asked, lip quirking as her cheeks flushed under his scrutiny. Owen shook his head, finishing the rest of his beer before signalling for another. ‘No, tell me what you were thinking about.’ He had a funny way of looking at her, even then, that said his thoughts were in a thousand different places. She could never quite place him, never sit on the same plane as his wandering thoughts. She half demanded him to answer, they had been sitting in near silence for fifteen minutes. She asked him a question and he grunted a small response. Claire was tired of doing all the talking, tired of sitting there awkwardly, tired of feeling how he looked.  

Owen looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. There was a shine missing in his eyes, quietly there but not as bright as it had once been. Something in her chest pulled. She hated seeing that things weren’t right with him. Claire felt responsible. He was the one who walked out and even though that was the case Claire felt guilty for how it turned out. She could have tried harder.

‘Was just thinking about that last dinner with Barry and the gang in Costa Rica.’ Her cheeks flamed, an instant blush crawling up her neck and across her face.

That was a year ago. Claire had forgotten all about it but now the memory was setting her on fire, emboldening a part of her that should really remain in its lane. Her mind changed in an instant. On second she was ready to bolt, get up and leave the second his hostility reared an ugly head. She hated the words on the tip of her tongue as she tossed back her drink in two easy gulps before she slammed it down on the table. ‘Lets take this back to your place.’ Owen stared at her, eyes wide as he tilted his head.

‘Why?’ It was confusion that asked. Owen didn’t understand what lead the conversation to that place. They loathed each other, they fought and bickered and drove the other away. He left because they didn’t want to do that anymore.

‘Because I’m staying with my sister and I can’t exactly take you there.’ His brows were knitted together. Claire sighed, sound long and heavy as she explained; ‘Sex, Owen. I want to fuck you and I’m not climbing under the table like that last week in Costa Rica.’

‘Claire,’ He sputtered, taken aback.

‘Is that a no?’ She asked, moving to grab her bag.

He laughed, shaking his head as a large hand reached out to stop her. ‘Why are you always so forward?’ Everything was business with Claire, she never stopped or hesitated. She knew what she wanted and she asked for it directly, unashamed.

‘Why are you always thinking about sex but when it’s offered you have to think about it?’ Every part of him ached for her, longing to feel her skin pressed against his once more as his dick throbbed, half hard at the memory and anticipation. Owen didn’t need foreplay when it came to Claire. She was enough to keep him rearing and ready to go. It was some magic spell she held over him, he didn’t exactly hate it. Owen had long since come to terms with the fact that Claire was it for him, the highest star he would reach, the best he could do — the probable love of his life.

Owen’s fingers around her wrist tightened, the man leaning across the table. They locked eyes, holding the other’s gaze. ‘You sure?’ He asked and she nodded quickly, swallowing as she did so. This hadn’t been her intention. She was there, in Madison for the holidays, not to track him down and relive their past. ‘Never did get a final send-off.’ He winked at her, sliding out of the booth as Claire rolled her eyes.

[…]

He didn’t take her by the hand to lead her to his truck. She should have expected the bathrooms, should have been disappointed but his mouth was on her neck, his body flush against hers. He had her backed against the wall in the women’s bathroom. Owen was no fuss, didn’t like wasting time in precious moments.

Every nerve in her body sung like she was home. She was where she was supposed to be, skin tingling in his arms. A large hand slid down her stomach, dipping beneath the hem of her skirt as a thick finger found her wet folds. Claire whimpered, sound a blessing to his ears as her mouth bit kisses down his neck.

She worked her fingers at his belt, freeing him as she popped the button on his jeans and hastily shoved them down his hips. Claire didn’t wait for him to do the same for her. She worked around the hand in her underwear shimming them down her legs, adding to the friction of his thumb on her clit. ‘I need you now.’ She told him, Owen easily taking the hint as he removed his hand. She whimpered at the loss of his touch, instantly regretting the change of her demand.

He only pushed closer to her, large hand sliding up her leg as she tucked it over his hip. Owen slid into her easily, Claire finding her whimper again as he filled her completely. He stilled, giving her a minute until Claire rocked her hips into his. It had been too long between the two of them. This wasn’t even supposed to be happening. She shouldn’t have been there. She should have been nursing a glass of wine with Karen, talking shit as the boys tried to pull out stories from their past.

Instead, she was here with Owen, in a bar’s dark bathroom, their noses pressed together as they whimpered and moaned their breaths intertwining. Claire squeezed her eyes closed, he was too close and all over her. She wanted this, asked for it, instigated it but it was too much. She could feel the emotion building in her throat and the tears burning her eyes. She should have told him about Blue, that one of his girls was still alive. Claire had seen her, a few of the island’s monitors still working. She was part of a task force trying to ensure the animals on the island didn’t come under any undue harm. They were monitoring them, ensuring they were fed and not starving to unnatural deaths. He would have wanted to hear about that. She shouldn’t have let the sexual tension between them burn, flame flickering to life.

His rhythm was wild, no pattern to it as short sharp thrusts were followed by him pulling out of her before slamming back in. She couldn’t hold her breath, easy little sounds leaving her throat with every inward stroke, as her parted lips forgot they were in a public space. Owen pulled out of her, Claire’s body whining and high strung as he turned her, pushing Claire against the cool wall as he entered her from behind. She pressed her cheek to the tile, not thinking about if it was clean or not as she allowed it to soothe her skin, Owen’s hands on her hips steadied her as he slowly slid forward. His hands wandered, one climbing up her hip, finding access under the shirt she wore as it slipped beneath her bra to squeeze the warm skin of her breast in his calloused hand. Claire arched her back, mewling when his thumb rolled over a stiff nipple. She squeezed her eyes closed tighter, telling herself they were back home, in their airy Costa Rican apartment, Owen’s hot mouth hovering over her breast as he pushed in and out of her lazily. She wanted that back, the familiarity, the unnecessary rush and the promise that they had all the time in the world. He caught her off guard when his other hand crept down, middle and index finger brushing over her clit, waiting for a beat before it came back. She gasped, sound sharp, hips bucking as her whimper begged him to do it again.

‘I miss you.’ She broke out when her orgasm snapped, mind foggy and dazed as her body soared before crashing back down again. Claire didn’t think he heard her when he continued to thrust forward, his grunts punctuating each pump. He came hot and messy inside of her, silently as his teeth bit down on her shoulder, one hand still holding tightly to her chest as the other gripped her hip.

Claire turned when he stepped away, her body already missing the way he filled her. She tugged, self consciously on the edges of her sweater as she couldn’t quite meet his eye. ‘Come home?’ She asked, watching his heartbeat beneath his shirt.

Owen bent, sliding his jeans back up his legs as he made quick business of his belt. He didn’t look at her, only sighed, half groaned as he shook his head. ‘Don’t.’ He told her, eyes on her feet where she felt her knees shaking, underwear still hanging around one ankle. He felt like he had defiled her, ruined Claire of her perfect innocence as she shook in front of him, voice wet, arms crossed over her chest. ‘Don’t do this, Claire.’ He gruffed, mad at her for thinking it would be okay to ask him back when she was the one who pushed him away. She couldn’t leave it as long as they had, letting silence sit between them before showing her face, fucking him and asking him to come home. Who did she think she was? How weak did she think he was?

Angry, he stepped around her, pushing through the bathroom door as he let himself out into the bar. Claire didn’t chase after him, she just fell back against the wall, arms tight over her chest. She could feel his cum sliding down the insides of her thighs, hot and sticky as a sob finally broke.

Overheard, the music in the bar changed, loud and rattling moved to something soft and melancholy. The Eagles sang Please Come Home for Christmas and Claire cried harder. She was an idiot. She shouldn’t have listened to Karen or her libido. She should have stayed home. She shouldn’t have sat down and accepted the drink. She certainly shouldn’t have propositioned him when she knew she wouldn’t be able to live with herself afterwards.

[marlikesthings]

There is something I’ve been thinking about for the last few days and I wanted to talk about it. It’s about shicmuon’s strength and it’s origins. We already know that his parents are very strong, and that he inherited that strength. 

First, I want to talk a bit more about his parent powers. Before starting, I feel the need to say there is going to be a long paragraph about eperia and her powers. This last chapter showed us eperia becoming a monster and losing control of herself. This is not the first time we see her in her monster form, but what caught my attention was essiahel’s words: “the forbidden magic should have harmonized with the princess long ago. Did something go wrong?” and “did she awaken? [...]  was that monster released from when she had lost her control from something?”. Why did he say she awakened? Isn’t that supposed to be reserved to magicians? Moreover, they’re not supposed to become monsters after awakening... I know they used forbidden magic to give her powers, but according to essiahel, he should have had complete control over her powers. Therefore, it doesn’t make sense for her to become a monster and to have powers of her own. Seeing his reactions after she ‘awakened’, I would say he wasn’t aware she was able to transform. Eperia was already amazing to have survived all the ‘experiments’ they did (using forbidden magic) when she was younger. Instead of being a human able to use the power of demons, she became a demon with a human body. Similar to rood. That’s how I see it at least. 

That means that shimuon was exposed to this ‘inhuman’ power during nine months, before eperia gave birth to him. Not only that, but his father, lanoste, was also capable of using strong magic (he wasn’t able to control) from a very young age, which earned him the title of [devil]. He was also able to withstand all the pain/dangers from removing the mark.

As if this wasn’t enough, after losing his powers, he was able to defeat/kill many magicians of the tower. Even after doing all that, he still had the strength to confront the king and to fight the magicians of the tower placed in front of the door leading him to eperia. 

My point is, shicmuon’s inherited a lot of strength from his parents, and some of it may not be human. 

When I first saw this scene, I just thought: “jaja, shicmuon doesn’t like his dad”. I didn’t think too much of it. It was a cute family moment and that was all. And then, lanoste said: “...he’s already this strong. Must take after you” (chapter 221). Once again, I didn’t think much of it, since we know eperia is strong, and it was funny seeing shicmuon reject lanoste. It didn’t cross my mind, that shicmuon might have been exposed to demon powers, nor did I find it weird that he was strong, although he was just a baby. This last chapter (chapter 224) made me see things differently. Maybe I am reading too much into it, but it’s a fact that shicmuon is strong, and I can’t help but think it would be interesting if he actually had demon powers. I just don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I mean, we had scenes like this one:

Chapter 208

and this one:

Chapter 221

I guess, the thing that changed, is the possibility of eperia not being really/totally human. For example, lidusis has the king’s powers. Just like eperia he wasn’t born with this power, it was given to him. But, contrarily to eperia, when he awakens his eyes aren’t split in half (like with eperia and rood). As you can see here:

Chapter 203

Therefore, for me, he is more human than a monster/demon. He is simply a human who has ‘inhuman’ powers. This is what the tower wanted for eperia, yet along the way, she started ‘losing her humanity’. Maybe, it’s simply due to lidusis perfectly assimilating the power, but I still think it’s weird. 

The reason why I decided to talk about it, is because of the following scene:

Chapter 167

You might think there’s nothing wrong with this scene and maybe you’re right, but it has been bothering why after seeing the green thing (I don’t know how to call it: meredith powers? Meredith (the king) dying scene?), shicmuon immediately attacked the tower girl and asked her what did she (the tower) do to rood.

Why?? No one else reacted like him. The last time he saw him, he was fine, so why ask now? Did he felt rood faint? I don’t think that’s possible, so that brings me to my next point.

Meredith (the king) said that he and rood (the king) were one and the same at some point. Which means, that their powers are/were also the same. That’s how I see it at least. 

Chapter 181: “We are same as one another”. If they share emotions, then why not having the same powers/magic?

What if shicmuon felt meredith dying, and thought it was rood? He assumed something bad had happened to rood and reacted this way. Shicmuon is also always able to locate rood, no matter which form he takes. You can call it obsession, but it doesn’t matter how obsessed he is, recognizing rood chrishi was the black magician, was not an obvious thing. Rood’s eyes could have reminded him of the black magician, but rood isn’t the only blue-eyed boy in helios/in the empire. Maybe, the reason why shicmuon is able to find him/feel his energy is because his powers aren’t (totally) human? 

Moreover, in his awakened form, shicmuon has his mother’s crimson magic, and not lanoste’s white/blue magic. I don’t know if this is normal or not, but I think it’s interesting how he didn’t inherit lanoste’s color magic (the same color of his magician mark). If shicmuon was born with a magician mark, then things would have been different, as I think, the magician mark adapts to the user, and therefore, everyone has their own distinctive color. But, this mark was given to shicmuon after he was born. It wouldn’t be weird if shicmuon’s transformation was exactly the same as his father (although it would be too confusing to be honest. They are already very similar). Anyway, I find it interesting how his mother’s powers (acquired through forbidden magic) and lanoste’s powers mixed together, allowing shicmuon to use all that power. Basically, if eperia is not totally human, then what about shicmuon?

It’s just a theory I have, and wanted to share it. Maybe next chapter will explain this (i.e. shicmuon having his mother crimson magic), who knows? 

Bonus:

Chapter 87

Shicmuon jumped from the roof in helios and survived. That’s not something a normal person would have been able to do. He didn’t even break his arms or legs. 

That’s it. I don’t know if what I wrote makes sense... :’) Why do I always end up writing long posts? 

[oldtrivia]

Intimate with the sound of my own pain: Learning from bell hooks, my same-race relationship, passions, and art

I devoured bell hooks’s 1997 memoir, Wounds of Passion: A writing life, on writing, love, and sexuality in under a week - an admittedly incredible feat for this slow reader and avid notetaker. I’d purchased it a few years ago from Spartacus Books and previously tried starting it but conditions weren’t right. This time, having recently committed myself to growing my art practice full-time (an act which encompasses writing as well) and being on the cusp of marrying an incredible human (who played a key role in helping me make that aforementioned decision, and who continues to help foster that career choice), hooks’s views on language, suffering, and women writers/writers of colour; navigating white supremacy and racial politics; and sustaining nurturing relationships resonated so deeply with me.

From the start of our friendship, Leo and I talked openly about our Chinese(-Canadian) identities and family histories - the certain ways our upbringings were structured; racialization and its impacts on interactions and relationships with others including past white partners; questioning societal norms and all the small and significant times we feel let down by them. Over the last two years, the frankness has been refreshing for us both, and particularly for me as I have never dated within my race. I want to believe that it’s not that I did not want to, but... white supremacy. 

Beginning as a child and a new immigrant to Canada, I had developed the impression that Asian males did not consider me to be authentically or attractively Asian enough. I did have crushes on white and Asian males in school but they only ever ended up with white girls, or in one middle school instance I can recall, the cool, petite Asian girl with only white friends. Seeing how my older sister idolized American culture and which males she found attractive — and by extension and exposure I did too — also meant that a certain kind of ideal significant other who looked like George Clooney/Noah Wyle/Brad Pitt had been ingrained in me from a young age.

hooks: “Having been involved in relationships with white partners we could both see the differences it made when we were two bright black folks together… It was evident to us that our bonding was seen as political, some aberrant admiration of blackness in a world where so many folks just assumed that the goal of our lives was to assimilate into the white mainstream as smoothly and as swiftly as possible. Having white partners was one way to make that transition.” (p.74)

I was brought to a standstill when reading hooks (a black woman) recount her relationship with Mack (a black man), delving into his desires to assimilate into writing and academia (both predominantly white spaces) and how something in him was affirmed by being selected from among other black people as an exception. hooks herself experienced isolation as a black, female, perceived-to-be-angry writer in those same circles in 1970s California. It abhorred me to reflect about how when I was in my last two relationships — with an Ojibwe/white and a white man, respectively — I felt an implicit superiority thinking that this was the ultimate acceptance into white culture, even though I often felt moments of discomfort at their predominantly-white family gatherings. Still, acceptance, and what a privilege I thought it was.

It has been a number of years now, but I look back on those two particular, toxic relationships now and think of how those partners would continually exotify elements of my Asian/Chinese-ness in jokingly, seemingly harmless ways. I remember many instances of how their male/white privilege loomed over me. One of them would argue how I was more privileged as an Asian woman with affirmative action than he, a poverty-stricken white male, was. The other — despite teaching me much about questioning white supremacy through an Indigenous/Other-ed lens — both sexualized and infantilized women and Asian women in ways I sorely wished I had called out.

A studio still life - conceptualizing a work on bodily violence

I am grateful that Leo and I can have discussions where he understands my racial frustrations, such as working in in jarringly-white environments, and brings his own accounts to the table to unpack. “Never does [Mack] try to pretend that there is no reason for rage,” (p.99) hooks wrote. I appreciate my partners’s openness in not just commiserating with my experiences but trying to learn and understand them. However, that being said, Leo will never be able to comprehend the double-bind of being Chinese and a woman. Just as sisterhood is not global, shared race ≠ shared intimacy (50).

Anger, grief, and sadness have all simmered in me, even before I knew of or understood their presence. It is partly my personality, my upbringing, my cultural background, and my femininity that finds me frequently silenced, unable to make waves, doing as I’m told, time and again - in both self-imposed and systematic ways.

“They listen to me but they don’t hear. They don’t have to hear. This is what it means to be among the colonizers, you don’t have to listen to what the colonized have to say, especially if their ideas come from experience and not from books.” (p.98)

I am constantly reminded of how the skin I am in disturbs the interactions I have. On Twitter, white men I was once in a small meeting with before show up in my feed. I called to mind being given zero eye contact by either of them who spoke in the direction of my white female colleague the entire meeting. Or flipping through a sketchbook recently, I remembered the white male friend of a friend who visited my studio almost 10 years ago. He wanted some of my hair from an art piece I made (I declined), then later that night proceeded to touch me in the small of my back in a crowded room (I recoiled), not before also asking more inappropriate questions about my fertility (as I recoiled some more). Last year, when I approached a white colleague and asked her to spell my name properly after multiple instances of letting the misspelling slide, she said she would try to spell it correctly and apologized, but got defensive saying she was experiencing trauma. A few months later, this same colleague was part of a two-person team who produced a department-wide appreciation slideshow butchering my name as “Clair Yao”.

hooks puts it this way: Language is a body of suffering and when you take up language you take up suffering too.... Words have been the source of pain and the way to heal. (p.208) This is why I am finding that the words of others have been so crucial in enabling me to unpack experiences and also articulate my own thoughts; why Wounds of Passion has been such a significant work of art/writing for me. “I am intimate with the sound of my own pain,” (p.257) she declares. "The word passion comes from the root word patior, meaning to suffer. To feel deeply we cannot avoid pain." (xxiii) When I reminisce about instances of microaggressions, a dull pang inevitably sprouts in my chest.

“She has been troubled for so long about what it means to want to be devoted to the artistic life and at the same time have intense committed relationships. Seeing Jess and Robert together gives her hope. They represent for her the ideal - mutual partnership, closeness yet autonomy, differentiation of status without subordination. That their love can open up to include friendships, lovers, an array of people not like themselves. Their gayness is both significant and not solely defining. This is how she wants to feel about blackness, that it can always be significant without being the only aspect of her identity that matters. The same is true of being a woman.” (p.237)

These last few months has found me completely shifting focus career-wise and also in the midst of planning for our marriage. They are two very distinct works-in-progress, but threads undoubtedly run through them both. I mentioned before that Leo was instrumental in my shift in careers and in her memoir, hooks mentions how Mack’s support gave her the confidence to write her first book even though women were critical that she gave so much credit to a man.

“I wanted to give public testimony about this gesture of support because I believed it was important to give concrete examples of men supporting the feminist movement… His suggestion was a gift I cherished and took to heart.” (xv)

A friend asked me a short time ago if it really was Leo who gave me the push to leave my fulltime job. Like hooks, I want to keep recognizing Leo for his own gesture of support because before he first brought up the possibility of me devoting myself to my art practice and us subsisting on a single income, the thought always remained a fleeting glint. It will enrich both our lives, he assured, just as he’s also reminded me to be gentle with myself despite my current rumblings of feeling I am in a creative block.

With 52 days left before we wed, I am thinking more and more about what it means to enter into this new phase of our partnership. bell hooks has helped me delve into that orbit. From maintaining intimacy together and autonomously, being unafraid to ask for consent and what we desire, having our Chinese-ness matter and sharing wholeheartedly in it, joining in a commitment to beauty, art and social justice, and loving tenderly/generously/expansively: these are all elements of our relationship I honestly never could have imagined wanting before and now with them, I don’t ever want to comprehend their lack.

This text is now published on Medium.com

[thesenseofwonder]

How to Quit Reading So Much

“I had better never see a book,” wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson, “than to be warped by its attraction clean out of my own orbit, and made a satellite instead of a system. The one thing in the world, of value, is the active soul.”

Why do we read? Why study the thoughts of another?

Marcel Proust weighs in: “There is no better way of coming to be aware of what one feels oneself than by trying to recreate in oneself what a master has felt. In this profound effort it is our thought itself that we bring out into the light, together with his.” Alain de Botton illuminates Proust by clarifying: “Not to pass the time, not out of detached curiosity, not out of a dispassionate wish to find out what Ruskin felt, but because, to repeat with italics, ‘there is no better way of coming to be aware of what one feels oneself than by trying to recreate in oneself what a master has felt.’”

If our goal is to cultivate our minds, the real value in books comes from their ability to make us think. In that process of interacting with a text, conversing with it, digesting it, we come to know ourselves better. Proust says, “We should read other people’s books in order to learn what we feel; it is our own thoughts we should be developing, even if it is another writer’s thoughts that help us do so.” 

Yet Proust felt that this is where books stopped. As de Botton writes, “Books might open our eyes, sensitize us, enhance our powers of perception, but at a certain point they would stop, not by coincidence, not occasionally, not out of back luck, but inevitably, by definition, for the stark and simple reason that the author wasn’t us.” Proust:

“It is one of the great and wonderful characteristics of books (which allows us to see the role at once essential yet limited that reading may play in our spiritual lives) that for the author they may be called ‘Conclusions’ but for the reader ‘Incitements.’ We feel very strongly that our own wisdom begins where that of the author leaves off, and we would like him to provide us with answers when all he is able to do is provide us with desires… That is the value of reading, and also its inadequacy. To make it into a discipline is to give too large a role to what is only an incitement. Reading is on the threshold of the spiritual life; it can introduce us to it: it does not constitute it.

“As long as reading is for us the instigator whose magic keys have opened the door to those dwelling-places deep within us that we would not have known how to enter, its role in our lives is salutary. It becomes dangerous on the other hand, when, instead of awakening us to the personal life of the mind, reading tends to take its place, when the truth no longer appears to us as an ideal which we can realise only by the intimate progress of our own thought and the efforts of our heart, but as something material, deposited between the leaves of books like a honey fully prepared by others and which we need only take the trouble to reach down from the shelves of libraries and then sample passively in a perfect repose of body and mind.”

What is the lesson here? Only you are responsible for your happiness.

We have seen that we are responsible for seeking our art that connects to us and renews our vision of the beauty around us. We have also seen that we are responsible for loving by regularly reawakening to the mystery of another human being. Here the same principle applies. Just as we cannot be passive in appreciating art, just as we cannot be passive in our role as a lover, so we cannot be passive when we read, but must take responsibility for our own education. A book offers us a clue to living: and we must take that clue and begin tracking, begin stalking, being following every sign and signal back to the source. That is what Proust is calling the spiritual life, and what Emerson refers to as the life of the active soul. If we are able to retrain our minds to sense the real magic of the person we love, of the art we see, of the books read—there, we will find the beginning of the spiritual life.

I have been reading a dusty old book by Arnold Bennett, the 19th century “sage writer” (to use John Holloway’s term), called How to Live on Twenty-Four Hours a Day. When it comes to “serious reading,” Arnold’s advice is to find the books which strain us: “Now in the cultivation of the mind one of the most important factors is precisely the feeling of strain, of difficulty, of a task which one part of you is anxious to achieve and another part of you is anxious to shirk…”

How do we find a strenuous work that is right? To take a piece of advice from Proust again here, “A fulfilled academic life would…require us to judge that the writers we were studying articulated in their books a sufficient range of our own concerns.” What does this mean? Surely Proust is not advocating only selecting books that already fit our interest perfectly. Part of the goal of reading is to expand the sphere of our thinking. However, we must actively seek out something which we can connect to. Just as Proust visited art museums and compared the faces in famous paintings to people that he knew, so we can begin to find familiarities in the far fields of literature. Finding the right sort of book for ourselves gets easier with practice. It does not require digesting whole books. Emerson says, “We are too civil to books. For a few golden sentences we will turn over and actually read a volume of 4 or 5 hundred pages.” Instead of devoting yourself to something that will not connect to your heart, learn to pay attention to the clues: When you see one book or author mentioned in another book that you love, follow the trail. Look at the Suggested Reading and the Bibliography of something you would read again with pleasure. Or, as I have always found is best with poetry, simply flip through the pages and stop at random, letting your eye flirt with words, catching tantalizing glimpses rather than reading whole passages. Emerson says, “Learn to divine books, to feel those that you want without wasting much time over them... The glance reveals what the gaze obscures.”

Once we have found a work that meets these needs—something that is sufficiently challenging, and which we can connect to, what further advice does Bennett give?

First, “define the direction and scope of your efforts. Choose a limited period, or a limited subject, or a single author... And during a given period, to be settled beforehand, confine yourself to your choice. There is much pleasure to be derived from being a specialist.” Here we find again the art of limitation as a way of helping us focus, like Fredrik Sjöberg with his hoverflies, or the narrator of Alain de Botton’s Kiss & Tell with his Isabel. Do not let yourself become overwhelmed with the scope of the tasks you assign yourself. Be gracious, and forgiving. Instead of burning out, carry your work around inside you, steadily.  

Secondly, Bennett tells us, we must think as well as read: “I know too many people who read and read, and for all the good it does them they might just as well cut bread-and-butter. They take to reading as better men take to drink. They fly through the shires of literature on a motor-car, their sole object being motion. They will tell you how many books they have read in a year.”

We must not read only, but give half our reading time to “careful, fatiguing reflection (it is an awful bore at first)… This means that your pace will be slow. Never mind. Forget the goal; think only of the surrounding country; and after a period, perhaps when you least expect it, you will suddenly find yourself in a lovely town on a hill.”

The goal of listening to music isn’t to reach the end. The goal of dancing isn’t to finish. The goal of reading isn’t to have read a book; it is to pick up a scent, and begin to make our lives about following the trail.

Proust says, “To make [reading] into a discipline is to give too large a role to what is only an incitement. Reading is on the threshold of the spiritual life; it can introduce us to it: it does not constitute it.” We are told that Shams threw Rumi’s books into the fountain; and it was Rumi who wrote things like, “Break all the glasses and draw near to the glassblower,” and “Don’t worry about saving these songs… We have fallen into the place where everything is music.”

This, then, is not an advocacy of not reading. It is an advocacy of slowing down, of reading carefully, of caring more for quality than quantity, of forgetting about the pace and focusing on the comprehension, retention, and application.

And, finally, knowing when to toss the book, because we have become the best parts of it.

De Botton, Alain. How Proust Can Change Your Life. 1998. Vintage International edition, 1998. Vintage (Random House), New York. 208 p. $16.00

[mallorax2]

Chernow Reflection

Mallory Shaw HIS221-01-SP19
 22 March 2019 Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow is an amazing read. I wanted to start like this simply because I enjoyed reading it. It was definitely worth the time spent reading. The book is set up as your typical book. It has an author's note, a prologue, and chapters. What truly made this book worthwhile was the chapters. Each chapter to me read like their own story. Each chapter brought along its own flair. In this reflection, my hope is to highlight the best parts I found within the piece. Parts I found interesting and neat. My hope is to do justice to what I read. It is also my hope to portray what I read in a meaningful way. I want to express the best parts I found while reading. The hope is to reflect on what I learned while reading. The prologue was of course where I began reading. I was very curious of the title of the prologue. “ The Oldest Living Revolutionary War Widow,” it sparked intense curiosity. Upon reading I realized it was about his wife. This wasn’t just any widow. His wife was Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton. Within the chapter we read about her quest to preserve Alexander Hamilton's legacy. His legacy being his writings. This quest of hers was a daunting task. I think it was an important task to do. It was a task that continued even after her death. I found it interesting that she took it up. The task was not an easy one. It was also not done alone either. Why is this a best part? Her dedication to preserving his legacy. Also what caught me in the prologue was the volume of writings. On page five Chernow wrote “ Hamilton was an exuberant genius who performed at a fiendish pace and must have produced the maximum number of words that a human being can scratch out in forty-nine years.” (5)This showed to me how daunting a task it was. She was a awfully determined woman. She was set on preserving a legacy and she did just that. This prologue really set the stage for me. It made me want to continue reading. I think being able to start with a really good prologue it quintessential. The next noteable chapter to me was chapter two. Chapter two was titled ‘Hurricane’. The title itself does reference a hurricane. However that didn’t concern me even though it was a major factor. What caught my was Hamilton and his poetry. He had poetry published in the Royal Danish American Gazette. (Chernow 34). Hamilton published two poems on April 6, 1771. While this might seem insignificant I was enthralled. Particularly by how contrasting the poems were. Hamilton wrote such contrasting poems it seems like the authors were different. One poem was all sweet and the other scandalous. I think what caught me the difference. The difference in the style of the poems. It really highlighted his skills. Having such a range in writing is amazing. His vastly different styles within the realm of poems. Also the topics made me wonder about his lifestyle. The poems brought up many questions. This chaptered made me think critically. On why were these poems vastly different? Were these poems foreshadowing his future? We can look further into the realm of difference. His next two poems were religious. To say the least I was shocked when I read this. Hamilton has had an influence. That influence being Hugh Knox. He seemed to inspire great change in Hamilton. Why had he sparked such a major change? One Knox was a minister ( Chernow 34). Hamilton seemed to have had a divine intervention. Being able to create questions while reading makes it fun. My next chapter is chapter six. The title is A Frenzy of Valor. I was rather confused by this title. What did this chapter entail? Why was it a frenzy. Those to question stuck with me throughout the chapter. Eventually I got my answer. The answer happened to be the most notable section of the chapter. The Frenzy of Valor referred to a young Hamilton. The quote came from Charles Lee, “ famished for combat he was in a sort of frenzy of valor,”( Chernow 115). This little section was my favorite so far into the reading. The other interesting thing I found was everyone was shocked by Hamilton. Mostly by his courage. Chapter Eleven: Ghosts to say the least was a lot. It had bountiful amounts of information. The chapter title I feel hinted at something. Obviously it did not mean ghosts as the spooky character. Ghosts in this case has a deeper meaning. Meaning was the ghost himself? Looking into this it can be assumed the ghost was his past. Chernow notes how distressed Hamilton might have been to look back on his former life.(203) From this simple concept you can see the ghost it Hamilton himself. Why does he not want to look back on his former life? Why does he not want to talk to former mentors? What was he afraid of? Hamilton stopped corresponding with his mentor Hugh Knox. He simply cut out his past. That bothered me slightly. What bothered me more was when he finally received a letter from his former mentor. Hamilton in a letter said didn’t receive the letters (Chernow 208). Another thought he was practically estranged from his family. Why was it like this? Was his past to much? Chapter eleven evoked many questions I’m still currently fuming about as I write this. To briefly break from the best of’s I want to talk about the chapter titles. As I have previously stated each chapter read like it own story. The chapter titles helped this. For me they gave me something to think about. I immediately formed questions before reading. Also it is very satisfying having your questions answered in the chapter.It brought out creative ideas on why it was titled this. In the last paragraph, Ghosts helped me pinpoint an idea. An idea buried within the chapter that I might have not really got. I think that this is what really makes the book awesome. It makes me think critically on every topic. I have nothing but praise for this book. Chernow has crafted an excellent thought provoking biography. Another thing about the chapter titles in that it makes not seem like a biography. Overall I’m just pleased to have read it. Let's talk about Chapter thirteen. The chapter title is Publius. My first thought was what is Publius. I honestly didn’t know. It was a great start to the chapter. However to my credit the question was answered. It referred to the Federalist Papers. It was the pen name that Hamilton, John Jay, and James Madison used. In this chapter, what caught me was and odd pair. Chernow states that Hamilton and Madison must have seemed like and odd pair (251). This caught me while I was reading. Simply put it had intrigued me. The two were profoundly different. As described by Chernow Hamilton was like a peacock and Madison was like a crow (251). The description of the two showed how different they were. While being different in clothing choice there was more. The two seemed to represent both ends in politics. However during the Federalist papers there difference was non-existent. Another difference noted by Chernow is there writing style (252). Madison boasted a style that was very complicated. Along his side Hamilton had a style that was free flowing. This small little area in the book was interesting. Two people who were vastly different came together. The descriptors used in describing them were useful. The use of birds made it relatable. Both birds have major visual aspects. Chernow did a wonderful job using them. He painted a picture with them. Fourteen was the next chapter that stood out to me. The title was Putting The Machine In Motion. This chapter was fun to read. A highlighting moment though was him targeting George Clinton. The point of the targeting was to oust him as governor ( Chernow 273). Hamilton was set on unseating him. He chose Robert Yates as the person to do the job. “ In politics, as in war, the first blow is half the battle.” Hamilton advised this to a supporter (Chernow 274). This quote I think showed his resolve to unseat Clinton. He poised this with a series of letters. Hamilton wrote sixteen scathing letters under the name H.G. Beyond the letters Clinton won and Hamiltons plan busted. To me the real kicker was Aaron Burr. He was apart of the plan to unseat Clinton. What got me was the fact Clinton offered him a job. That job being the Attorney General of New York. I guess this could be considered a stab in the back. For me I can’t imagine how I would feel. At this point Hamilton must have felt betrayed.Especially since Burr took a job from someone he campaigned against. Chernow notes that a dormant ambition has awoken in Burr (276). Chernow here seems to be foreshadowing a later event between the two. This chapter to me showed the lengths that Hamilton would go to do something. His drive to make everything work is astounding. Another tings to me was the fact that he wrote sixteen letters. That number just shocks me. Sixteen letters is an impressive feat especially when published. Dr.Pangloss is the title of chapter sixteen. This chapter was full of information. However my favorite focused on Thomas Jefferson. Chernow used the beginning of this chapter to focus on Jefferson. This had me taken aback. Yet, there was a method to the madness. It was to show the differences between Hamilton and Jefferson. Both men were vastly different. Chernow highlighted their differences by showing Jefferson's early life. From reading this chapter I understood that Jefferson had a very privileged start to life. This contradicted Hamilton's greatly. I think by highlighting this we can understand both men. I also noticed how indecisive Jefferson was. Chernow notes this by using the quotes, “Therefore I protest to you that I am not of the party of the Federalist,” he continues, “ But I am much further from that of the anti federalist.”(311). Jefferson had many issues with both sides and their plans. He however did choose the new government. His wishy washy attitude continued when in came to slaves. I found his views very hypocritical. Simply because he owned slaves. “ When an opportunity will be offered to abolish this lamentable evil,” he was talking about ending slavery ( Chernow 312). What gets me is he strongly is against slavery, yet he is a slaveholder. It boggles my mind. The beginning of this chapter bugged me. Simply put Jefferson bugs me. Moving on to chapter seventeen: The First Town In America. Hamilton's work ethic was non stop. His work never seemed to end. Chernow writes about how it has taken a toll on him weight wise (333). That small section I found to be comical. Aside from this Hamilton worked on many things. Most notable to me would be that of Native American relations. Hamilton was particularly interested in educating Native Americans. Hamilton became a trustee for the Hamilton-Oneida Academy (Chernow 338). The academy later became Hamilton College. I think his sponsorship of education for Native Americans is big.His interest also helped the Native Americans. Real Estate needed land and planned to remove them. This prompted Hamilton to warn Governor Clinton( Chernow 337). He believed having friendship was good for the peace. It is obvious Hamilton cared deeply for them. He championed reconciliation before force. The work he did to help Native Americans is amazing. His work to protect them went all the way to government policy. He wrote policy to protect Natives from the violence of those who lived in the frontier (Chernow 337). This chapter as a whole to me showed his strong ability to work for others. As well as kindness and understanding. Chernow did a great job with this chapter. The next chapter is that of chapter eighteen. This chapter continued to show his work ethic. His nonstop one at that. In the last paragraph, I talked briefly about his work ethic. Hamilton from what I have got from reading was non stop with his work. From what I get he worked at a feverish pace. His work ethic while arduous got the job done. An example of this is noted by Chernow. He notes that he fostered the market economy ( Chernow 345). What is meant by that is the cultural and legal settings that made it flourish (Chernow 345). Hamilton used this work ethic to get the job done. His work created structure for growth. The growth was focused primarily on that of economic growth. Hamilton created three clauses. The clauses are as follows: The necessary and proper clause, the general welfare clause, and the commerce clause ( Chernow 345). His work continues further from this. Hamilton wanted to set up a national bank. Well, to say the least he did just that. He did amidst many critics. I think this part of the chapter showed his perseverance. He had goals to reach and he reached them. For me that is very inspiring. It might not really pertain to the idea. However his work ethic was one many need. His ability to look past those who are against him is quite the feat. There is something to be learned from this. Whether it is his work ethic. Whether it be to not let others get you down. There is alot to look into with this chapter. The next chapter I want to focus on it chapter twenty. This chapter is titled Corrupt Squadrons. When I read the chapter title I was at a loss. From there I began to formulate what it could mean. What I was trying to figure out was who is the squadron? Before reading I guessed it would be someone who was against Hamilton's ideas. Upon reading I realized that might be the case. Chernow writes about Madison and Jefferson had begun to plan an opposition of Hamilton (389). The chapter overall was about to systems. The one being of Hamilton's ideals, and the other being of Jefferson and Madison. Another thing to look at was the beginnings of political parties. Parties were stemmed by Hamilton. Those who supported him were known as Federalist. The other party was created in opposition to Hamilton. Jefferson and Madison created the Republican party. Beyond this point the chapter shows the divide. The divide in ideas and ideals. This chapter hints on what happens when divided. With these parties they were loosely based on certain ideologies and sectional loyalties ( Chernow 392). The parties were vastly different to the parties we have today. Chernow also notes that this rise of parties concerned Hamilton, it “ hypersensitive about his personal honor.”(392). The parties from my perspective didn’t seem like they were all good. What I got from this is that they were made in a selfish manner. That bothers me a lot the more I think about it. I don’t like that idea. For me just settle your differences. Now to the wild ride that was chapter twenty-one. Exposure was the title of the chapter. This word has many context. Not all the context can be presumed as good. To mentally prepare for this chapter I simply looked up the definition of exposure. The definition I went with is as follows: the revelation of an identity or fact, especially one that is concealed or likely to arouse disapproval.I feel as though tis definition hold true for this chapter. The question after was what was being exposed? As used in the beginning of this paragraph this chapter was wild. It involved an affair with some pretty important people. One being Alexander Hamilton. I was honestly a little troubled about this at first. However was I shocked, no not really. The thing is though why have an affair. From what I have gotten throughout reading the book Hamilton cared about his image. To the point any little hiccup could cause major issues for him. Also during this affair his wife was pregnant. Chernow mentions this and mentions the birth of his fifth child(413). This boggles my mind. One why would you do this? Two why would you do this? It is just astounding to me. Chernow at the end of the chapter even condemns Hamilton calling it a, “sad and inexcusable act lapse on Hamilton’s part.”(418). Honestly, I have to agree with Chernow. The affair shouldn’t have happened. The chapter also contains more damning info. Hamilton during the affair paid hush money to his mistresses husband James Reynolds (Chernow 409). When I read this I was flabbergasted and shocked. Really how do you do this? How can you commit this behavior with a pregnant wife? Moving on this the chapter was probably the most interesting. While it made me extremely mad at Hamiltons behavior it was the best. Chapter thirty-one: An instrument of hell. When I got to this chapter I had wondered what it meant. This chapter out of all the most confusing title. Upon reading the chapter it clicked. This chapter had a lot going on in it similarly like the last chapter. To start off something was still haunting Hamilton. The fear of his affair still lingered over him. Chernow had mentioned at the beginning of the chapter a premonition of war with France(546). Why this mattered to Hamilton and his shenanigans with a lady I didn’t understand. However the man had a reason. He assumed he would have a major position and a scandal didn’t work with that ( Chernow 546). Looking past Hamilton was the issue of France. With all themat was going on everyone seemed to be preparing for war. From this point in the chapter I was utterly confused. Hamilton seemingly got what he had wanted. However later in the chapter everything seemed to turn sour. Chernow had wrote that Hamiltons judgement was deteriorating( 567). With this I looked back at the chapters title. Looking into it what was the instrument of hell? Upon that little section could it be inferred that it was Hamilton himself? Based on the reading he was the instrument of hell. The question is whose? Going out on a limb it was his. Thirty-four: In an Evil Hour. In the previous paragraph I mentioned France and war. However that didn’t end up being the case. This coming war was averted. President Adams had seemingly passed an olive branch to France (Chernow 593). Looking into this avoiding a war was the best option. However many didn’t see that way. Federalists saw President Adams acts of diplomacy as a hindrance almost. This alarmed me when reading. Chernow wrote that Adams acts of diplomacy shattered any unity he had with federalists (593). Again why did they want a war so bad? This peace with France had caused major issues for Hamilton. The reason being he wanted to lead an army. Hamilton also had this irrational fear of a French attack. At this point the likelihood of that happening was at zero. Hamilton after a run in with President Adams, that severed the relationship, seemed to have change. This man who was a workaholic had changed. His fears had seemingly gotten the best of him. Chernow shows his irrationality by Hamilton believed Virginia foes were trying dissolve the union( 599). That thought was seemingly out there. At this point Hamilton was losing his grasp. What also took a blow was the loss of his military dream. The threat France had was nonexistent. Leaving no need for his military. This chapter to me was the most confusing. I at this point i'm still trying to figure it out. Why things happened the way they did. I am trying to formulate how things could have ended differently. The last chapter I want to reflect on is that of chapter forty-two. The chapter is titled Fatal Errand. I chose this chapter because I feel it personally summed the book up for me. I was distraught by this title. Mostly I believe because of the implications of it. The thought I guess had saddened me. Upon reading the chapter it was emotional. Chernow in this chapter did an excellent job. He helped to write the emotions of it all. The chapter as one might guess in the leading up to Hamilton's death. Chernow ram through everything up to the duel. To not focus on the duel but to focus on the farewell letter to Eliza. It was a heartfelt letter. It showed that he truly loved her. That he truly loved his family. His writing in this is sorrowful for the reason he was writing it. Hamilton used this essentially to say sorry. Chernow artfully described Hamilton in this chapter. You could feel the emotions that Hamilton might have felt. At last I feel it necessary to conclude this reflection. I would lime to say again that this book was a pledge to read. It was an enjoyable read at that. When deciding on how to reflect upon this book I decided to write about chapters that I found profound and an excellent read. Each chapter I chose were ones that made me think. Throughout reading these chapters brought about the most critical of thinking. It was my hope in this reflection to write them in a manner that was meaningful. I would also again like to praise each chapter again. Each chapter read like a book. They had there own story to tell. This made the reading easy. It was made more enjoyable with this style. Chernow's writing style was unique to me. It was the first time for me to read a book in this style. Chernow’s use of titles in the book was interesting. The titles were thought provoking. They allowed me to formulate questions before each chapter. I found it satisfying to for answers to be answered within the reading. Furthermore I believe in reading this that I learned quite a bit. Going into this I knew little to nearly nothing of Alexander Hamilton. This reading allowed me to learn something new. This new information makes me happy. Overall I was delighted to have been able to read the book. I also now will look into other works by Ron Chernow.

[winterfable]

How hand movements reveal hidden thoughts

We all lie, and only a liar would really try to deny this. Men, it seems, like to boast quite a bit in their daily interactions, according to a lie diary study. They often extend the truth when they are boasting, sometimes to breaking point. The same study suggests that women tell lies more frequently than men do (with some female samples telling double the number that males did), but they often tell lies to make others feel better.

‘Of course you don’t look fat in that dress.’

‘You are just as attractive as the day I met you.’

‘Eating that will not put on the pounds.’

‘That dress really suits you.’

Lie diaries, where you record each and every lie told in the day relative to each interaction, reveal these findings and much more besides (DePaulo et al. 1996). Many lies are routine parts of our everyday life, designed for self-presentation and self-enhancement, or designed to smooth our interactions with others, to promote harmony, by allowing others to feel better with us, as we feed them some porky-pies. Lies are a part of the great social function of everyday talk, and we do most of this without any planning at all. In the words of Erving Goffman:

The legitimate performances of everyday life are not ‘acted’ or ‘put on’ in the sense that the performer knows in advance just what he is going to do, and does this solely because of the effect it is likely to have . . . In short, we all act better than we know how.

(Goffman 1959: 73–4)

In essence, we tell lies regularly and we are very good at it. DePaulo and her colleagues also noted that ‘Consistent with the view of lying as an everyday social interaction process, participants said that they did not regard their lies as serious and did not plan them much or worry about being caught’ (DePaulo et al. 1996: 979). In other words, they are routine and without any real consequences (although, of course, we may grow dependent on the lies told to us, and that may be quite serious enough).

However, sometimes there are much bigger lies. Lies that we need to think about and plan, lies that cause us to feel terrible guilt in the telling and sometimes acute anxiety about being discovered, lies that can tear us apart. We try to disguise these both in terms of our planning and in terms of our emotional response. We rehearse what we are going to say and then we try to control our emotions in the moment itself, and we hope we can get away with it. Lies require a degree of extra cognitive planning; it is more difficult to make up a story about why you were late and what you were doing rather than merely recounting the true version of events. Lies sometimes are associated with significant emotion in the telling – fear, guilt, anxiety, apprehension; most of these associated emotions are very negative, but occasionally we feel positive emotion – pride, relief, joy that someone is falling for it (Ekman 1985). Some individuals habitually feel positive emotion when lying; often these individuals have a personality disorder, but sometimes they do not (Ekman 1988). Lying is a complex blend of cognition and emotion that varies from lie to lie, from relationship to relationship and from situation to situation. There are no universal telltale signs of lying because of this variability in their construction, function and effects, but there are indicators of additional cognitive planning, and indicators of emotional response. Unfilled pauses increase with the demands of extra cognitive planning (Beattie 1978, 1979), but these planning pauses may not be necessary with sufficient mental rehearsal of the lie. We may feel strong negative emotions when we lie, but emotional expressions on our face can be covered quickly by a mask by efficient liars (Ekman 1988). The mask is usually a particular type of smile, called a non-Duchenne smile,

characterised by a degree of facial asymmetry (stronger on one side of the face than the other side) and by its rapid onset and offset. It would be hard to find a single behavioural indicator of lying that is truly reliable given that each lie varies on the cognitive dimensions of difficulty, and degree of rehearsal (if any) and a wide variety of negative and positive emotional dimensions, where the emotional expressions may be masked or not. There may not be a single behavioural indicator but there are trends, and one interesting trend is the attempted control or inhibition of behaviour. We seem to know instinctively that our behaviour can leak a great deal, so we attempt to inhibit it, as Charles Darwin (1872) noted. After all, the most general conclusion possible about lying is that people do not want to give the game away, even in the routine lies of everyday life, where there really is no consequence, except perhaps losing face (‘Alright then, you do look fat in that dress. Are you happy now?’). Therefore, we try a strategy of general behavioural control – keep normal eye contact (people usually watch our eyes), smile as naturally as possible (they watch our faces), look relaxed, do not fidget too much, try to move the hands less, keep the feet still.

Darwin (1872) had actually very little to say about either deception or lying in his seminal work on nonverbal behaviour The Expression of Emotions in Man and Animals. But what he did have to say was that such nonverbal behaviours ‘reveal the thoughts and intentions of others more truly than do words, which may be falsified’ (1872: 359). But he also wrote that

when movements, associated through habit with certain states of the mind, are partially repressed by the will, the strictly involuntary muscles, as well as those which are least under the separate control of the will, are liable still to act; and their action is often highly expressive.

(Darwin 1872: 54)

In other words, people try to repress or inhibit certain expressive movements when they are lying, but they will not always be successful. Some behaviours are harder to inhibit than others. Ekman (2003) refers to this as the inhibition hypothesis – ‘if you cannot make an action voluntarily, then you will not be able to prevent it when involuntary processes such as emotion instigate it’ (2003: 206). Therefore, it follows that certain emotional expressions that cannot easily be inhibited may be powerful indicators of felt emotion. Ekman (2001, 2003) calls this ‘nonverbal leakage’. However, Darwin, of course, is also implying that other move ments will be inhibited during deception (those that are under volitional control, like hand movements and gesture, for example), and that their form and morphology will not be so revealing of the real underlying state. Although, of course, we should note that the inhibition (or attempted inhibition) of these behaviours may be itself highly revealing.

Ekman adds one major complication to this argument, namely that although hand movements, for example, through the medium of gesture, or foot movements would be easy to inhibit . . . most people do not bother to censor their body actions. Because most of us do not get much feedback from others about what our body movements are revealing, we do not learn the need to monitor these actions; and so, we hypothesized, when people lie, they usually do not fine-tune their body actions. (Ekman 2003: 208)

In other words, he is arguing that although gestures could be inhibited they often are not and that therefore ‘the body will be a good source of deception cues – exactly the opposite of what Darwin predicted’ (Ekman 2003: 208). Elsewhere Ekman has explicitly criticised Darwin because he ‘failed to note the existence of gestural slips (Ekman 1985), which leak concealed feelings and intentions, and other forms of body movement that can betray a lie’

(Ekman 2009: 3451).

Therefore, if we consider the arguments of these two great pioneers in the field of nonverbal communication we end up with a number of specific hypotheses. First, when it comes to deception, there may well be an attempt on the part of those trying to deceive to suppress or inhibit certain

behaviours that are potentially highly expressive, and a decrease in the frequency of certain behaviours may itself be one potential indicator of deception. Second, because the conventions of everyday talk shape our awareness of our bodily actions, then we may not monitor sufficiently certain behaviours that we could volitionally control (like gesture, which, after all, we can volitionally control quite easily by locking the hands). Some behaviours like gesture (potentially controllable but not always monitored) may, therefore, be quite revealing in terms of their manner of execution.

There is research evidence to suggest that whereas people generally think that many behaviours increase when people are telling lies, meta-analyses of various research studies reveal that only a small number of behaviours change reliably during deception, and these behaviours tend to decrease when lying as a function of behavioural inhibition. Sporer and Schwandt (2007) conducted just such a meta-analysis of the published literature on deception and found that only three forms of behaviour were reliably associated with lying, and they were ‘nodding’, ‘foot and leg movements’ and ‘hand movements’. All three were found to decrease in frequency. It is worth remembering that in their classic 1969 paper on ‘Nonverbal Leakage and Clues to Deception’, Ekman and Friesen predicted that because people are generally unaware of the behaviour of their feet and legs, they should be ‘a good source for leakage and deception cues’. They predicted more movements in the feet and legs during deception (things like ‘abortive restless flight movements . . . frequent shift of leg posture, and in restless or repetitive leg and foot acts’, Ekman and Friesen 1969). This prediction has been proven wrong in the vast majority of studies (including in Ekman’s own research, see Ekman 2003: 211). People do seem to inhibit their behaviour during deception, even the feet and legs.

The hands, of course, are particularly interesting in this regard for one very important reason. I would argue that it is really quite difficult to fake the form of iconic gestures when you are lying and make it accurate. It is also very complicated to split meaning into the verbal and gestural channels in a way that might look natural or normal. You would have to get the division of meaning between the two channels just right, as well as the precise iconic form of the gesture and the right degree of anticipation of the associated part of the verbal message by the preparation phase of the gesture. In Chapter 13 on metaphoric gestures, you can see what could happen if you get it wrong. This would all be quite demanding, and it seems that many people do not attempt this and opt for a safer (and easier) strategy. People tend to inhibit their hand movements when telling lies, and gesture frequency decreases in deception (Cody and O’Hair 1983; Davis and Hadiks 1995; Ekman 1988; Ekman and Friesen 1972; Ekman et al. 1976; Ekman et al. 1991; Greene et al. 1985; Hofer et al. 1993; Kalma et al. 1996; Mann et al. 1998; Vrij et al. 1999; but see Bond et al. 1985; DeTurck and Miller 1985). Indeed, a decrease in gestural frequency would seem to be one of the more reliable indicators of deception. It suggests perhaps that at some unconscious level, liars do not want to risk giving the game away through revealing hand movements. Therefore, they try to inhibit this form of behaviour by clasping their hands or using similar kinds of strategy. Aldert Vrij (2000) has a useful summary of this research in his book Detecting Lies and Deceit. He also summarises the empirical evidence that most people believe that gesture frequency actually increases during deception, which shows that most people have a false belief here, as in so many other areas when it comes to deception.

—Geoffrey Beattie

From “Rethinking body language: how hand movements reveal hidden thoughts” de Geoffrey Beattie, pp 204-208.

[abitoflit]

Frederick Douglass Narratives

I am finding difficult to organize my thoughts and write an adequate response to the narrative of Frederick Douglass. I believe this may be the case because Frederick Douglass wrote on a great number of subjects during the course of his autobiography, which included the mistreatment of both his person and his fellow slaves, as well as the plight of the African-American people during Pre-Civil War America. Given the amount of detail that is awarded to different portions of his life, as well as different ideas, I am finding it hard to determine what would be best for me address during the course of this post.

With that being said, I feel as though I should address a few of the reasons why Frederick Douglass remains a “representative” of the African-American individuals who lived during his lifetime. The initial reason I shall provide surrounds the fact that Frederick Douglass dispelled the wide-held beliefs of several ignorant, (mostly white), Americans who thought that the treatment of slaves at the hands of their masters was not as harsh, severe, and unpleasant as it actually was. These ignorant individuals most likely held their incorrect beliefs on account of what they had heard from several forms of propaganda created by the American political system as well as the individuals who were wealthy enough to own slaves. Furthermore, with the same broad stroke, Douglass manages to paint several vivid scenes, which describe the hardships endured by the African-American people during the period of their enslavement. In a way, he manages to speak for all of those individuals who have no voices, either because they were silenced by their oppressors, or kept from learning how to read and write, and thus, from learning how to express themselves and their innermost thoughts in an enduring way. (The spoken word may only survive as long as it is accurately and repeatedly told, while the written word might be copied several times over, passed amongst several different people, and shared over great distances).

Although Douglass himself relates several times during the course of his biography that he was one of the lucky slaves who lived in more “ideal” situations during several periods of his oppression, he also describes how he was one of the more “typical,” unlucky slaves who was forced to endure several hardships, and bear witness to endless degradation. Douglass describes how for a time, he was taught how to read and write, and how he later, had to finish his education by being resourceful. He also relates how most black individuals were not allowed to read and write, which caused widespread illiteracy amongst their ranks. Furthermore, he relates how many slaves were underfed, which led to both emaciation and malnourishment, how several women were raped so that they might produce additional slaves, and how many slaves were beaten so severely that they scarred and bled profusely. In addition, he described how they might have been flogged for even minor infractions- such as walking too slowly, or not picking grain or another crop swiftly enough for their masters.

By relating all of these horrid details of not only his own life, but that of most slaves, Douglass manages to express the many liberties that whites could exact from the African-American community, and how many freedoms were taken away from the African-American community during this time period. He expresses how the [white] people of his own time, as well as future generations, take simple things, such as the ability to walk where they will, for granted. Furthermore, by chronicling the occurrences of his life, Douglass demonstrates how slavery “distorts the soul,” in much the same way that Martin Luther King Jr. claimed that segregation did in his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” and how slavery undermines both natural law and virtue ethics.

Slavery, as Frederick Douglass expresses in his narrative, manages to accomplish these numerous feats in several ways. The act of enslaving other individuals who are deemed “less than” oneself lies in direct conflict with virtue ethics, (in which an individual is meant to strive to act within the mean, or upon the good habits known as virtues, in order to be the best person possible). This is due to the fact that slavery often involves beating one’s slaves, in order to teach them lessons, or scare them into being more compliant. Such an act is certainly far from virtuous. Furthermore, racism in and of itself, in which one race views their own as superior to others is not at all virtuous. Nor, as Aristotle described, is being disloyal or untrustworthy a virtue. Traits, which are evidenced repeatedly within the characters of Douglass’ owners, when he describes how Mr. Covey would pretend to leave the plantation and then hide himself in the bushes or behind a tree in order to see if his slaves would act out while his away, etc.

The descriptions made by Douglass in regards to slavery in his narrative also defy natural law. Douglass describes the peculiarity of one man owning another; especially when they are so similar to one another in both appearance and manner. Douglass writes, “he… must stand by and see one white son tie up his brother, of but few shades darker complexion than himself,” (Douglass 208).  The thought of owning another individual is rendered all the more unnatural if one were only to consider the occurrences of the wild. In the wild live “untamed beasts,” which are often considered to be “less than” man, and of the basest disposition. Yet, these animals do not own one another; instead, they live amongst one another, in relative harmony by the grace of endless symbiotic relationships.

Although he fails to do so outright, Frederick Douglass describes how unnatural slavery is, while also explicitly stating how cruel the act of slavery is, and how many men and women are reduced to lives worse than the impoverished. He describes maltreatment, malnourishment, and the endless sorrow, which spurs many slaves to try and escape their masters, and seek a life of freedom in the Northern states.

As Douglass himself said, “I have only one life to lose,” (Douglass 224). His words reminded me of Nathan Hale who is most noted for saying, “I regret that I have but only one life to give for my country,” after being captured during the American Revolutionary War. Douglass’ words made me think of Hale, because they clearly expressed how the lives of the majority of slaves were made so poor and so miserable that they would rather die trying to escape their captors, than live under their rule. This is due to the fact that the life of a slave was simply no life at all, and they felt as though they weren’t really losing anything by risking their “lives.” In much the same way, those who partook in the American Revolution felt that their lack of freedom made their lives insufferable, and like many of the slaves later would; they became willing to die for their right to freedom and their own ideas.

A sentiment, which Douglass’ friend Henry shared as he screamed, “shoot me,” (Douglass 241), at his captors, for he simply could not endure the unnatural state of his life any longer.

Outside References:

King, Martin Luther, Jr. “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” Natural Law, Natural Rights, and

American Constitutionalism. The Witherspoon Institute, 2016. Web. 23 May 2016.

Mackinnon, Barbara, and Andrew Fiala. Ethics: Theory and Contemporary Issues. 8th ed.

Stamford: Cengage Learning, 2015. Print.

“The Execution of Nathan Hale, 1776.” EyeWitness to History. Ibis Communications, Inc., n.d.

Web. 23 May 2016.

[repwinpril9y0a1]

They Fled Iraq For America. Now, They Cope With Life Under Trump.

PHOENIX ― Shortly after the car bomb killed her family, hitting their vehicle as her mother and brother rushed their ailing father to a nearby hospital, Hanan Hassan decided to leave Iraq.

It was 2007, four years into the war, and tragedy still came with regularity. But you can’t understand how it feels to suddenly lose your loved ones until it actually happens. In one moment, the foundations of Hassan’s life had been shattered, leaving behind only one inescapable reality: Her future was not in Baghdad.

She went to a United Nations office and pleaded with them to help her leave, to send her to a place where opportunities were plentiful and tragedies remote. She went to Lebanon first. Five months later, she was on a plane to the United States, penniless, with no family to help her assimilate and barely any English in her vocabulary. She was 28 years old.

She landed first in Michigan, but her final destination was Austin, Texas. She’d heard about Texas ― from the movies, naturally ― and envisioned it filled with cowboy hats and desert. When she landed, a man from the International Organization for Migration met her and drove her to her new apartment. It had a mattress, bed frame, table and refrigerator, but not much else.

The man didn’t stay long. It wasn’t his job to be her friend or translator or confidant. That first night in a new country, Hassan was alone and unable to sleep.

“I spent all of the night on the balcony just looking,” she said. “Just looking.”

Nine years and various chapters of her life have passed since then. Hassan found work and made friends. She fell in and out of love. She traveled the country, developing a soft spot for city life, and recently settled in Phoenix.

She now works for the Arizona Allnation Refugee Resource Center, a nonprofit that helps assimilate newly arrived refugees. Some of them remind her of the petrified young woman she was when she first set foot in Austin. Others are more religious or from different parts of the world or have more resources at their disposal.

The more recent ones have arrived in a fundamentally different America than the country Hassan confronted on that balcony in January 2008. It is a place more scared and skeptical than back then, more willing to close its doors to those eager to come in.

It’s a place where the newly elected president, just days after taking office, signed an executive order to block resettlement of all refugees for 120 days, ban Syrian refugees indefinitely and bar more than 200 million people from seven predominantly Muslim countries from entering the U.S. for at least 90 days.

“It has affected the refugees emotionally,” Hassan said of that ban, which is currently under a temporary restraining order. “A lot of people think they will be sent back home. I get phone calls almost every day from people saying: ‘Hey, are we going to be OK here? I don’t want to be sent back home because if they did, they will kill me there.’”  

When politicians and lawyers and cable prognosticators debate Donald Trump’s plan to temporarily suspend immigration, they speak in broad terms about constitutional constraints, political ripple effects and the nuance of counter-terrorism policy. But the real-world impact of the ban is felt in remote corners of America’s towns and cities, by people you won’t see on TV or arguing in front of a judge or casting votes in Congress.  

Hassan’s office is in a downtrodden strip mall in downtown Phoenix, obscured from the road by JB’s Restaurant, a 1-800-Flowers retail store and an abandoned building. If you don’t know where to look, you’ll have a hard time finding it. There is no sign on the street. The only hint is the Arabic script dotting the windows of storefronts in the strip mall: a “Baghdidi Hookah Lounge and Coffee Shop” that is in the process of being built, a Mediterranean grocery store that is also coming soon, and the words “Refugee Center” written faintly on a nearby glass door.

But refugees in Phoenix know where to look. Word of mouth leads them here, as do social media posts about the various services the center provides: language classes, drivers education, legal help and community events. On any given day, Hassan says, dozens of new immigrants come seeking help to pay rent or fill out citizenship or green card forms. Others come to learn English, cramming around plastic tables in a windowless room with badly stained carpet lining the floor. The room is not the most conducive to learning, but it’s what they have.  

Many, however, come just to talk with people who can empathize. In recent weeks, those talks have grown darker and more panicked. People wonder whether the current ban is just a starting point, whether their lives will soon be uprooted, whether they made a horrible mistake in coming to America.

Florida Al Amery teaches citizenship classes in that makeshift classroom. She says she got a legal degree in Iraq and worked with a U.S. company as an adviser. In 2006, her son was kidnapped. She suspected it was because of her ties to the American company. She paid a $30,000 ransom and sent him to Jordan, joining him there later after an envelope appeared in her car warning her she had to leave Iraq within three days.

By 2008, Amery had made her way to Phoenix. Now 60, she jokes that she chose the city because its climate is about as close an approximation to Baghdad as one could find in the United States. In reality, her sister was already here. That made her assimilation easier, but it wasn’t without its psychological toll. She left behind her legal career, figuring it would be too hard to earn another degree at that point in her life. There is a sense of longing in how she discusses her old life too ― the friends left behind and those no longer alive.

She’s also now haunted by the notion that she’s helping usher the students in her citizenship classes into an unwelcoming world.

“I am a teacher of citizenship,” she said. “And I am thinking of stopping because I can’t teach students or clients to follow the Constitution when the president breaks the Constitution.”

Over the past decade, Arizona has become, somewhat unexpectedly, a popular landing place for refugees. According to state data, 4,138 refugees settled in the state from the fall of 2014 through the fall of 2015. The subsequent year, more Syrian refugees came to Arizona than all but three other states. And, according to the State Department, in the past four months, another 1,539 refugees from around the globe have arrived there ― including 223 from Iraq, 208 from Syria, 24 from Iran, 12 from Sudan and 250 from Somalia (all states on Trump’s banned list). Only six states have welcomed more refugees in that time period.

There are various theories about why Arizona is such a magnet for refugees ― the hot climate being one, the cheap real estate being another. None of those theories involves the generosity of the state’s politicians.

Arizona is a haven for anti-immigrant political sentiment. Lawmakers there have called for a suspension of refugee resettlement programs, while some have gone so far as to propose fining charities $1,000 a day for each refugee they help resettle. Catholic Charities of Arizona, an organization that helps with resettlement in the state, declined to put me in touch with a refugee it had helped, citing the possibility that the person could become a target in the current political climate.

This, among other things, has caused the refugees already settled in Arizona to wonder just how public they should be in pushing back on Trump’s executive order, or whether it is worth fighting at all.

Mustafa, the proprietor of Moonlight, an Iraqi restaurant down the road from the refugee center, is one of those torn by the politics.

From the outside, his restaurant doesn’t look like much, tucked away as in a small storefront in another nondescript strip mall. But inside, he has nobly tried to conjure up scenes of old Baghdad. Arabic music videos play on the TV, and the walls are covered in paintings of Arab street murals. Middle Eastern artifacts and antique plates are scattered throughout. Unlit lamps hang from the ceiling, and trays of glass teacups and kettles sit on a table in the entryway.

Mustafa, who declined to give his last name, opened Moonlight when he came to Phoenix in 2014. Like Hassan, he left behind tragedy in Iraq. He and a brother both worked as interpreters for the U.S. Army. When his brother was murdered for that work, Mustafa fled, fearing he was next. A green card holder, he now spends his days cooking up shawarma, lamb shanks and kebabs, as well as giant platters of fresh cut vegetables, baba ghanoush and oily hummus.

The restaurant has become a hub for fellow Iraqis and, at least on a recent Wednesday, some non-Middle Easterners too. “It’s good,” he said of business. “When you start a new life, everything is new here. We have nice people here.”

Gregarious and playful, Mustafa took the tape recorder from my hand and placed it directly under his mouth to make sure his every word was properly recorded. But when I pointed out he could still be stuck in Iraq had Trump’s travel ban been in place three years ago, he grew recalcitrant and handed the recorder back. He said he supported the ban, but refused to elaborate. “I don’t have time now,” he said, darting back to his kitchen. 

Hassan, who sat nearby, couldn’t quite explain why Mustafa felt this way, other than to note that every refugee has his or her own stories, fears, hopes and experiences. Some are content with their corner of a Phoenix strip mall. Others fret over the possibility that their new lives might be ripped away from them. Still others feel that the only way to find stability is by showing those around them that they’re human, too.

Hassan is firmly in the latter category. She is a whirlwind of activity and adopted American tastes. She wrote an ebook on healthy living, goes to rock concerts ― Nine Inch Nails is a favorite ― and dreams of one day working at a fashion magazine in New York City. She is also proudly Muslim ― though not particularly observant ― and operates under the belief ― naive, perhaps ― that the more the rest of America sees people like her, the harder it will be for them to ban people like her.

“I’m lucky,” she said, an odd description for someone who’s lost so much. “Some people, when they lose family they will end up with mental issues or homeless or doing bad things. With me, that made me stronger. It made me appreciate life.”

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