#i plan to post my art studies more frequently to hold myself accountable

[localrecluse]

lil doodle from the other day

[lastbluetardis]

Chemical Potential (2/11)

Summary: Slightly homesick and stressed about her abysmal chemistry grade, Rose Tyler meets quirky James Smith, the boy who sits in front of her in their chemistry class. They become fast friends as James makes it his personal mission to help Rose get through the semester.

Ten x Rose University AU

This chapter: ~2200 words, all ages

Notes: This was written for the lovely @thegreenfairy13 as part of the @dwsecretsanta gift exchange. I’ve changed my posting schedule to the middle of the week as AO3 is more frequently down over the weekends, I’ve noticed.

AO3 | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | epilogue

The early October sun shone brightly overhead as they walked towards the center of the sprawling campus, their joined hands swinging loosely between them. The day was cool but steadily warming, and Rose saw several students carrying jackets and sweatshirts over their arms.

“This is one of the most annoying times of year,” James said. “The mornings are cold but the afternoons are warm. It’s impossible to know how to dress!”

“Layers,” Rose answered, unzipping the front of her jacket to reveal the long-sleeve shirt underneath.

“Quite right,” he agreed. “I can’t wait ‘til the trees start to change. It’s beautiful.”

Rose nodded. The campus had been built into a mountain, and trees lined every walkway. She couldn’t wait to take photographs in the height of autumn.

“What year are you?” Rose asked curiously.

“Second year,” he replied. “And you?”

“First year,” she said.

“Oh, so you must be brand-new to the country and the whole institution of university.” When Rose nodded, his voice softened. “How are you adjusting?”

A dull ache radiated through her chest, though not as fierce as it had been when she’d broken down in the loo.

They’d reached the dining hall, and James released her hand to jog a few paces ahead of her to hold open the door for her. The chivalrous act made her smile. Jimmy had never gone out of his way to hold open doors or anything for her.

James’s eyes were expectant, and Rose remember he’d asked her a question.

“Oh, you know.” She shrugged. “Some days are good, others not so much.”

James nodded knowingly, and when they were both inside, he rested his hand at her lower back and guided her to the food court. The touch sent tingles down her spine.

Rose looked around with interest. She very rarely found herself in this building; most days, she packed breakfast and lunch and had no need to purchase a meal. She thought of the banana and baggie of cereal in her backpack, but when she smelled eggs and bacon, her stomach rumbled, and she knew she wasn’t in the mood for the breakfast she’d brought.

James grabbed a tray for himself and one for her, then he made a beeline for the pancake station.

“Oh, brilliant!” Rose followed him and saw a giant grin on his face. “Banana pancakes!”

Rose smiled at his enthusiasm and giggled when he stacked six pancakes onto his plate. She was more conservative and only took two, then followed him to scoop eggs and bacon beside her pancakes.

“I’m still not completely used to Americans’ love of sweet foods for breakfast,” Rose said, watching James completely douse his plate in maple syrup, covering not only the pancakes but also his eggs and bacon.

“Oh, I love it. I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth,” he admitted sheepishly.

“You don’t look like it,” Rose blurted, and she cringed.

But James laughed and winked, then moved to the other end of the food court for coffee. Rose followed and got herself a cup of tea.

When they reached the register, James whipped out his student ID card while Rose dug into her backpack for her wallet. James frowned when he saw she’d taken out cash.

“You don’t have a meal plan?”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“A meal plan,” he repeated. “Everyone who lives on campus is required to have one. And even some people who don’t live on campus get a meal plan. Like me. I don’t live on campus but I spend so much time here and sometimes I don’t feel like bringing my own food. I’m rubbish with having cash on me and I don’t like using my credit or debit card for small purchases so it’s just easier for me to put dining dollars into my account.”

Rose bit her lip to stifle a smirk the longer he rambled on. She met the eye of the clerk at the register and grinned when the woman rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“No, I don’t live on campus,” Rose explained. “I pack breakfast and lunch most days.”

“Then here, let me…” James turned to the cashier and said, “All of this is together.”

Heat flooded from the tips of Rose’s ears down her neck. “No, you don’t have to do that. I can pay for myself.”

“I know, but I want to,” James answered, his cheeks going pink. “Please? I’d like to. It’s not every day I make a new friend.”

Rose sincerely doubted that, what with how talkative he was even to a perfect stranger like her.

“Are you sure?” she mumbled.

“Absolutely.”

He handed over his ID card to the cashier, and one swipe later, James and Rose walked with their food to the long wall of windows at the back of the room.

“Thank you,” Rose said softly, following James to a round table that could comfortably seat six people.

“Anytime. God, I’m famished! I usually eat breakfast before class but I accidentally overslept this morning. I thought it was Tuesday, not Wednesday. I’ve got a totally different alarm for Tuesdays. So I didn’t have time to eat.”

James sliced his fork through his stack of pancakes and shoveled them into his mouth. His cheeks puffed out comically and his eyes fluttered shut as he let out a soft humming sound of contentment.

“I love pancakes,” he sighed through his full mouth.

Rose smiled and took a reasonable bite of her food.

“I’ve got another class at eleven,” James warned. “Calc 3. Do you have another class today?”

“Art of the Renaissance at noon.”

James furrowed his brow. “What’s your major, anyway?”

“Art and education,” she replied. “I want to teach someday, I think. You?”

“That’s brilliant. And I’m double-majoring in physics and mechanical engineering.” He paused. “What the hell are you doing in general chemistry?”

Rose looked down at her plate and speared her fork through her eggs.

“It was the only science class that fit into my schedule,” she muttered. “I didn’t think it would be this hard.”

“Can you withdraw?” he asked gently.

“Not without dropping below twelve credits,” she said bitterly. “I’m here on a full scholarship, and they’ll take it away if I’m not a full-time student. So I’m kinda stuck.” She huffed out a huge breath and massaged her temples, her earlier anxiety coming back. “I need to keep a 3.0 GPA, and I can’t get anything below a C.” Tears welled into her eyes as her heart started hammering throughout her whole body. “I’m so fucked, James.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” His chair scraped across the floor until it was butted up against hers. His thigh pressed into hers and he wrapped his arms wrapped around her shoulders, tugging her into his chest. She tensed for a minute but then melted into the embrace.

Tears dripped down her cheeks as he hugged her tightly. He nuzzled his cheek into the top of her hair and rubbed his hand up and down her back in long, slow strokes. She buried her face into his chest when she remembered she’d wiped off all of her makeup and wouldn’t ruin his shirt. She sniffled, and her lungs filled with the smell of him. Sandalwood and laundry detergent and fresh air. God, he smelled good.

“Easy does it,” he murmured.

She let out a shuddering breath, mortification overtaking her. Pulling back from his hug, she grabbed her napkin and blotted her eyes and blew her nose.

“God, I’m sorry,” she whispered, pressing her lips into something she hoped looked like a smile.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “It’s okay to show emotion. It’s okay to cry when stressed. You’ve had loads to adjust to in such a small space of time.”

Rose nodded and mangled her napkin in her fist.

“How did you get here, anyway?” he asked. “To an American university.”

“A plane,” she teased, a genuine smile finally crossing her face.

James rolled his eyes and snorted. “Smartarse.”

She giggled, and said, “I applied to a few universities in America. A mate of mine moved to New York last year with his job and really loves it here. I wanted a fresh start. Moving to a different country seemed like a good way to do that.”

He looked at her curiously, obviously wanting more details. She didn’t feel like going into her past with him yet, and she waited to see if he would press for more information. She was relieved when he stayed silent.

“How about you?” she asked. “How did you end up here?”

“I’ve lived in the United States since I was sixteen,” he replied. “My Aunt Sarah moves us around a lot for her job. She’s a journalist and is always moving to different countries, chasing stories. She moved us to the US six years ago. She’s currently in Flint, Michigan doing some reporting. I moved here for school.”

Rose desperately wanted to ask what happened to his parents, but he’d given her the courtesy of not asking for more information than what she’d provided. She would do the same.

Instead, she asked, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” he answered. “Twenty-three in December. A little older than the typical undergraduate student, but I got a late start. I did a bit of travelling, trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. And I honestly still have no idea what I want to do.”

They lapsed into an only slightly awkward silence. Rose trailed her fork tines through the leftover syrup on her plate and James finished the food on his.

“Do you want to study together?”

Rose looked up at him when he spoke, but he was very intently adding packets of sugar to his coffee. One… Two… Three… Four… Blimey, five! He wasn’t kidding about the sweet tooth, she thought.

“I thought it might be nice, y’know? Chemistry is hard, and next to impossible if you go it alone. I thought maybe we could buddy up and help each other through.”

Rose was about to decline. She’d caught a glimpse of his exam score over his shoulder in class that morning—a perfect score. He didn’t need her help studying, he just felt sorry for her. She didn’t want to burden him, no matter how much help she needed to get her through the class. If it was even possible for her to get through the class with a satisfactory grade.

But it would be so nice to have a friend to hang out with, even if it was just to study. She liked James—a lot—and she found herself wanting to get to know him. He seemed like someone she could become really good friends with.

James had finally looked up from his coffee. His eyes were deep and earnest, and she saw absolutely no hint of reluctance in them like he regretted offering to help her study.

“I’m really bad at chemistry,” she warned.

James shrugged. “We’ll take it slowly.” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then reached out and covered her hand with his own. His palms were hot from being cradled around his coffee, and the warmth felt nice. “I want to help you if I can, Rose.”

Rose bit her lip. What was the worst that could happen? She could agree to study with him and still fail the class and their study sessions would be a complete waste of James’s time. But if she studied alone, she was certainly going to fail the class.

So what if she did study with James and still failed? Maybe she’d get a good friend out of the experience.

And what if—what if—she studied with him and passed?

“Okay,” she said softly. “Yeah, let’s study together.”

James’s face lit up in a delighted grin, and he gave her fingers a sharp squeeze. “Brilliant! I look forward to it.” His eyes drifted behind her shoulder, and his brows lifted. “Bugger. We’ve been here longer than I thought. I’ve gotta run.”

Rose glanced over her shoulder to the clock on the wall. Ten-fifty-five. Oh, right. He had a class at eleven.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he promised, standing up from the table.

Rose smirked. “Yeah? And how are you gonna do that?”

“Hmm? Oh! Er…” He fumbled around in his pockets, first the front pockets, then his back pockets, then finally his jacket pocket until he found his phone. Rose took it and typed her contact info into it. When she handed it back, he tapped on the screen and Rose felt her own mobile vibrating. It stopped after a second when James shoved his phone into his back pocket.

“There, now you’ve got my number,” he said. “Right! Goodbye for now, Rose Tyler!”

“Bye, James. Thanks for breakfast. And thanks for… thanks.” She trailed off awkwardly, but James’s eyes softened in understanding.

“Gotta dash,” he said. He turned away and began walking away, and Rose settled in at their table to catch up on some homework before her noontime class. “Hey, Rose?” She looked up to see James had turned back around. “I’m so glad I met you.”

Rose beamed at him, feeling her heart skip a beat when he returned the smile.

“Me too,” she called out, and she heard a high-pitched giggle before he turned and strode outside.

[zandyin]

The final stretch... one more module to skim over (86 pages!) and my MCQ + simulation grind begins tomorrow. 29 days, baby! That should be more than enough time to sharpen my skills to a 75+/100 range, lol. I even made and printed out a calendar that has exactly what I need to do, cause I am the type that needs actionable tasks.

actual tl;dr about studying and sentimental feels about my life so far

I've been dreadfully lazy (in my opinion) about putting my nose to the grind stone. Somewhat related note, they released some prior exam questions recently and they were... way easier than anything my study programs have thrown at me. I hope the test is around that level of difficulty! Ha... 8')

This is the field I've chosen to succeed in, huh. On that note, I've been thinking lately how next year is sort of the "beginning" of my "next great adventure", and it made me feel a bit emotional! I think I can give a brief rundown here since it's not inherently heavy or negative (i.e. kick it to my vent blog.)

It's weird to think that I finished off high school and started of college as a bitter adolecent. Tl;dr I had a great friendship with someone who had a not so great SO that emotionally manipulated both of us to the point we had to stop being friends. It was really messy. It took a toll on me during those years and for like... the years after that. (But he and I are friends again after 4-5 years after our split! He found me again through my DSRK art and that honestly makes me tear up. ;v; He's no longer with that horrid person!!)

Then after that I entered into my first healthy friendship with a group of sisters, but my insecurites from my previous bad end made me, ah, not very stable and I acted in a way that was most unsavory. The whole story is on my other blog, buried deep under posts of how far I've come. ;B Anyways, thanks to those people I actually looked into accounting. I still tell everyone that I tried out accounting because my (former, I leave this out lol) friends sat me down to marathon Parks and Rec, then remarked there was a character (Ben!) who reminded them of me. That happened during the time I was very directionless and had officially decided to leave my compsci major.

Ah, I remember that day so vividly. The moment Ben came on screen I laughed so hard I was silently crying. I remember one of them saying, "I think we broke Ace" cause it was so uncharacteristic of me to laugh that hard. It'll always be a warm memory to me, even if I can't ever return to that friendship. That friendship also taught me that sometimes you can change a lot and still not go back. But that doesn't mean it was all for nothing. I did eventually get closure with the one I was closest to. I still miss her sometimes. But my life goes on.

Now here I am! I am going to be an auditor, just like Ben. Granted, I'm not a state auditor but who knows what the future holds lmao. Studying for my CPA, starting my actual career... wild. I've never been the type to repress memories or forget things, and I honestly can't forget anything even if I wanted to, so it's been nice to learn to live with these things. Turn them into motivation to be better. All that jazz. :T

There's one other "bump in the road", so to speak, that also shaped who I am today but that one is a very long story without a happy ending. I can't say I miss that person, but I still enjoy the genuinely happy memories we had together. I hope she's doing well, at any rate. She was another lesson I had to learn. I don't regret it. The lesson of that story was... I am nobody’s consolation prize. It’s stuck with me ever since.

And that brings me to my final and cheesy point, but through out this whole journey - going into school a shy and unstable child and emerging on the otherside resembling an semi-functional adult has been an experience - I don't regret one single thing that has led me to this point.

Now, waiting for 2019 to begin my FT career, it's the end of a long period in my life as I transition into the beginning of a new one! I've come to understand myself deeply and without scorn. I know what I want out of life and how to go about it... so what's next for me? It's scary, but exciting at the same time.

I have no plans of "losing" who I am to my white collar career - that's mostly to prove a point to people I don't know. If anything, I want to be an example of what one could acheive? It sound very conceited - it probably is! - but I was once a disillusioned youth who couldn't see beyond the next year. I couldn't ever forgive, and I couldn't communicate my feelings well. Then I wanted more for myself than being a bitter and aimless person. It didn't happen over night. There was at least a solid year that I cried so frequently I thought it'd never stop. I don't know where I started, but eventually I emerged on the other side with a relatively clear head and new direction in life.

I'm not sure how to end this sentimental rambling, so... let's call it a night! Reminder that I believe in everyone's ability to change for the better. I also believe that "being better" isn't a 0 to 100 journey, either. It's a constant thing that goes up and down, because you won't always be your best, but you ALWAYS have the potential to be better than you were yesterday. To add to that, all that matters is that you know you’re becoming who you want to be. Nobody else has to validate that.

[violetsystems]

#personal

I took a long walk after work yesterday to pick up my prescriptions.  The area down Ashland can seem pretty desolate.  It reminds me a lot of this strip in Brooklyn down Marcy Ave.  A mostly industrial zoned strip of graffiti, train yards and old school public housing.  It’s only really two blocks from my house and the area I most frequent.  The rest of my neighborhood is an idyllic mix of people centered around mostly Mexican, Czech and Polish families spanning generations.  Chicago has always had a block mentality.  Though it runs on a grid, the personal politics vary with territory.  Negotiating freedom and space was a nightmare maze at times.  I’ve written for years about it.  Chicago can be a dangerous place.  I was riding in a car with a foot worker a couple of years ago to see a show on the deep south side.  His quote still echoes in my head.  We had made an unexpected turn onto another street.  That area was controlled by a gang he’d rather not deal with.  His long winded explanation ended with an abrupt statement.  You are either about that life or you aren’t.  I am not about any life usually other than staying out of trouble.  And you quickly learn the hidden territories.  People expect you to pick up on things out here.  Expectations are everywhere and can overwhelm people who are just trying to get by.  The freedom I have here in Chicago is largely based on a long negotiation fraught with battles, obstacles, and alternative routes.  I’ve been running by the FBI so much that I make it my own little statement.  I’m sure by now they forgot about the day I flicked them off.  I spend a considerable amount of time in underdeveloped areas of the city these days.  Mainly because it’s extremely hard to run with a mask on.  And simply because my privacy is something I’ve had to learn to protect viciously.  With no validation or explanation of what my real goals are in any of this.  I hold myself accountable and I explore my world from there.  Everybody knows how upset I’ve been.  Everybody knows life is incredibly exhausting for me when it doesn’t have to be.  And everybody knows I don’t just support black lives matter.  I go out there and celebrate their value.  The beauty of Chicago these days is that we’re trying to live in the future regardless.  And the future is out there on a walk down Ashland to Roosevelt.  Where kids ride bikes draped in pink gear to see me off to the pharmacy.  And people wave at me with no other expectations than to greet me in their neighborhood.  How is it these people know all the real shit about me when I deactivate most of my accounts?  Maybe that’s what I get for quitting social media in the long run.  More face time in the real world.  I’d make a much better Instagram husband anyway.

It’s far easier to stream myself playing a game and mumbling to myself than to take the same picture over and over again.  It’s also far more satisfying to sit down and write it all down here.  Over the years, the people I have connected to have never expected much from me and vice versa.  This place for me has never been pretentious or exclusive.  And it’s from my small interactions with people on here that I modeled the interactions I wanted in real life.  I was exposed to cultures other than my own.  Read and studied the history instead of listening to pundits and for profit media.  In truth I’ve been mumbling to myself on here for years hoping people would listen.  And in time I found people did.  People I valued, respected and was directly inspired by.  And there was no expectation other than to strive to be a better me through this process.  Which is a long winded explanation why I have no real urge to return to things I’ve left behind.  Whether that be facebook, instagram, or alcohol.  The third one is an extreme.  I don’t mind being around any of it.  For myself I’ve seen the diminishing returns.  Just like I’ve been connected to people on here for years, it’s the same for places like Instagram.  It’s like a second wave of high school for me.  All the bad parts.  People who have no business looking into your life doing it daily.  Connected in an inorganic sort of way.  More like a fungus or a cancer.  People who could interact but don’t.  People who suck you up into their drama.  Whereas a simple like on this platform has kept me breathing.  I kept to myself.  I stayed transparent and accountable.  And I largely enjoy just being another invisible shit head on the internet.  Except that I’m something far more than that.  A Godzilla walking down ashland with my digital footprint materializing in the flesh.  I don’t need the internet at times.  It’s something that follows me around.  A reputation I uphold.  A savage crush I’ve had for years maybe.  Or just a fact of life I embrace.  I have always been deadly serious about my intent with things.  I also never expect them to work out the way I plan them to.  I expect a lot from myself.  And I show that daily enough as it is.  I post a picture for a court of people who would rather judge me than talk to me like a human being.  And most people are downright scared to open up themselves.  That is why when we talk to people it is mostly projection.  It’s not a real conversation.  It’s a prerecorded message to deflect away from the real chaos behind the wall.  The truth is we don’t know how we feel about the times mostly.  We can only accept or deny.  I accept that I am about this life I have wandered into.  And I face the consequences everyday.  You keep bumping into the same wall, you find a more comfortable way around it.  That’s freedom.  And freedom is a shrinking resource in atrophy.  

Before you catch me telling you that freedom is a muscle, let me flex a little.  I built my first computer in years.  Most of my previous equipment has come from my job.  Working from home the last few months has blurred a lot of lines together.   So building my own was an experiment and a hobby.  I’ve spent so much time here that I’ve had to rethink the space.  I bought a humidifier.  A robot vacuum.  And this computer I built from parts over weeks.  The monitor never made it sadly.  And I didn’t bother with anything other than a refund.  Last night I added three violet pink led fans to the chassis.  I still think I need the liquid cooling action.  I haven’t really been in the mood to play games lately.  But I have been making the space I have more efficient.  And I think when it comes to freedom in America, it is something we share.  It is also something that can be abused.  And it is something that must be defended if it means something to you.  And defense is an art in and of itself.  Bruce Lee once said that you should be like water.  Fela Kuti once fought against British colonial forces in Nigeria with music.  Freedom is happening all over the world in varying contexts and through various optics.  Walking with peace and love in Chicago is not a block by block thing.  It’s not even a street by street thing.  It’s in the steps you take.  The exhausting repetition of deescalation.  The dodging of hurt feelings.  The gentrification on the heels and wills of the middle class property owners.  The questioning looks you get when you stand your ground on things you feel you should not have to discuss or reveal.  Every single time I try to be free I feel my back being pushed up against a wall.  People who never have the time or care to listen to me tell me what they think about me.  This projection of how they want to see me.  Their fear talking instead of their heart.  People are afraid of me.  Have always been afraid of me.  I used to be so sensitive to it.  Think there was something wrong with me.  That I was ugly.  That I was weird.  That I was too old.  That I was too young.  That I didn’t stoop down to their level.  That I felt free enough to ignore them and continue on.  And then there’s the freedom that gets misinterpreted.  That gets caught up in a larger discussion that goes nowhere.  That isn’t led by anything except the news and commercials.  That isn’t a real conversation with feelings that ebb and flow.  That there is no compromise.  No seeing of eye to eye.  No response other than a prescripted greeting card slogan of our love and support.  I don’t say much.  I just live it.  I will say one thing.  I love you.  I get an answer back every time I walk down the street these days.  It’s shaded pink.  Maybe one day I’ll project it in the night sky for you.  For now you’ll just have to read it on the internet.  Because you already know I’m about that life by now.  Until next time, I will continue to be.  <3 Tim

[runwildwithme]

Feathers, Part 4

Hello again, lovelies!! I bring you part four of Feathers. As always, many, many thanks to @charminglyantiquated for creating @elsewhereuniversity and letting everyone play. :D Part 1 Part 2 Part 3   Oh! I’ve also started cross posting this to AO3. you can find it here.

Enjoy!!!

Previously:

Slowly, slowly, he steps aside. You wave your group though the doors, nod as he makes the ‘I'm watching you’ gesture (you'd expect nothing less), and step through.

Part 4:

You spend four days in the library. Well. You spend four days-worth of hours in the library, only seven or so of which really pass. The books you sought were deep, deep in the library indeed.

It's Not-Jenna who finds the treatise, though you think she might not have done it on purpose. She was trailing her hands along the spines of the books you’d all already looked at, and knocked the last in the row off the table. She'd bent to retrieve it, and found herself at eye level with the tome.

(It really is a good thing you're so deep- the squawk she’d let out would have been enough to have you evicted, had a librarian heard it.)

As it is, it took Not-Jenna finding it, and Cat-Eyes to navigate the spell work keeping it on the shelf. You ended up having to pluck it out while Thirteen used a rolled up magazine to beat back the grasping tendrils that kept reaching for it until Not-Jenna and Cat-Eyes could find a different book of the same size to give to them.

You were all quite glad to retreat to the library’s cafe, after that.

(The cafe is not quite in the library- it shares a roof, certainly, but it is completely walled off, and you must leave the library to enter it. You were only a little surprised to find that the librarians’ protection did not extend to the cafe.)

(The cafe is sacred. Coffee and cream and other sweets, energy and nourishment, a meeting place, a place to rest, the traditional realm of story-tellers everywhere and when. It would take much more than what's going on now to violate the sanctity of the cafe. On this one thing, human and fae alike are in a singularly bloodthirsty agreement. The only other place on campus that is so incredibly off limits to the vagaries of fate and the profanities of people and fae alike is the bakery, for very similar reasons.)

(No, really- one time a window in the bakery was broken by a foul ball. Baseball no longer exists within the bounds of Elsewhere U.)

You all order drinks, give the barista their payment and try not to look too hard at their eyes or fingers.

The coffee is delicious.

You settle down at one of the tables in the back, out of range of the afternoon sun; spread out a few books and notebooks to distract from the thing you're actually here for.

‘So.’ Thirteen starts. ‘We have a book.’

Cat-Eyes hums, but looks to you. Not-Jenna is very specifically not looking at you. You think she might not have been supposed to find that book, accident or not.

The book is in the center of the table, and it looks old. Old enough that you are quite sure that if you could convince one of the science majors to do some testing, they might tell you the book is bound in something awful. Like human skin.

You flip the cover open, and the first few blank pages. You leave it open at the first page that has writing on it, stare a moment, and lean back.

The other lean in.

‘...what the fuck.’ Cat-Eyes opines.

Thirteen is confused, but, well, he falls closer to ‘jock’ than not.

It's Not-Jenna that voices it.

‘That's an author's note... in modern APA format?’

You nod, and point out the affiliation. Elsewhere University, Historical Studies Department. Breaking with format, there's no date anywhere to be found.

On a hunch, you flip back a page. The page that was formerly blank now boasts the title of the book in looping, fanciful script that isn't actually English but which you can all read nonetheless.

A treatise on the unique traditions and superstitions of the populations of Elsewhere University- the Underhill, the Overhill, and those in between. Volume 9- on theft, Theft, the differences therein, and the consequences for such Crimes.

By Robert Dove Scyt.

You all take a moment to digest that.

Thirteen speaks up.

‘Robert Dove Scyt? What a name, jeez. ...Oh. Oh, jeez, guys, Rob Dove Scyt. Robbed of sight.’

Oh. Oh my, you think. That is. That is quite a name indeed.

Quietly, Cat-Eyes asks, ‘Think he lived very long after getting that published?’

‘I think he lived for a very, very long time.’  Not-Jenna says, and there is nothing in her voice that speaks of happy endings. She doesn't look up from her coffee.

‘Maybe..’ Thirteen starts, and then trails off. You quite agree.

‘Well,’ you say, only ever so slightly louder than is perhaps necessary, gathering up poor, hopefully-dead-by-now-Robert’s book along with the few others you had out for camouflage into your book bag, ‘that's enough studying for now. We need to go put out out fresh milk. For the cat. Remember?’

The sun, at least, is high in the sky, and the others quickly make noises of agreement and follow you out. You lead your group straight back to Dorm 5, leaving offerings on every park bench, beneath every oak tree you pass, throwing a handful of nuts to the crows, leaving creamers on the picnic table no one ever sits at as you go.

When you get there, you lock the doors and the windows and salt the sills some more and establish your thresholds and light candles even though it's still plenty light out.

Dinner that night is ramen, with wontons from the freezer and soy sauce for dipping, because even Not-Jenna seems to want a little more salt in her blood after reading that. When you sleep, you sleep all curled up together.

---

When you all wake next, you all stay in your pile of blankets and page through the book together, passing it back and forth when the script becomes too much for human eyes.

It doesn't really tell you much more than you already knew- the rules are the rules, and they really haven't changed much at all. Still, it is nice to have a written copy of an account of the Chemistry Majors’ revolt.  It is ..less bloody than you had believed. The price was paid in other ways. The other ways you read about hold ..promise is the wrong word. And yet.

The four of you spend all day like that, passing out mugs of tea to soothe throats and spirits.

As the day winds down- well, as the sun sinks closer to the horizon- you pass out mugs of spirits instead of tea.

Cat-Eyes calls a toast, grim-voiced.

‘To the History Majors,’ she says, and you all raise your mugs to clink against hers.

You drink your drinks, re-pour, drink again.

When you are comfortably floating, fuzzy, you stir, tell the others,

‘I think I have a plan.’

Not-Jenna’s eyes catch on the way you're fiddling with your crow pearls. She doesn't say anything, but she looks sad.

---

The next morning (well, when the sun is back in the sky, anyway. ‘Next’ implies the passage of Tuesday. It's still Tuesday.) you and Not-Jenna set out early, early in the morning with empty bags and backpacks. When you get back, it's nearing on ten, you're both out of breath and grass stained, and your bags are full to bursting.

Cat-Eyes and Thirteen cook breakfast, and then help you and Not-Jenna sort through the food you brought back. You all repack it into a bag, fold a blanket, find an umbrella.

You lead the others to the south quad, where you first started reading and singing to crows, set up your picnic, and wait. None of you eat.

It doesn't take long for someone to approach. You've laid out quite the spread, after all.

The thing that approaches first is pretending to be Professor Grant, from the art department. (You think Professor Grant must have an arrangement, for how frequently she's taken and returned.)

‘Hello, Professor,’ you say, because while this isn't Professor Grant, it does try it's best to teach.

‘Quite a spread you've got,’ it says, and it eyes the smoked meats you have with hunger. You don't bat an eye when its eyes turn to gaping maws in between blinks. Thirteen shudders beside you, and Cat-Eyes quietly removes her glasses.

‘I try.’ You demur.

It swallows, salivating.

‘Surely,’ it says, ‘you'd invite a dear professor to feast with you?’

‘Alas, this picnic is not just for me. I find myself requiring an audience.’ You smile, apologetic.

Professor Grant’s replacement sighs, mournful, and wanders away.

Several others approach you, and you replay the scene each time. Thirteen has become bored of being bored, Not-Jenna has wondered off and returned three times already, and Cat-Eyes just broke out a portable charger for her phone. You're beginning to wish you had remembered to bring sunblock when someone walks right up, flops down on a spare corner of the blanket, insouciant,  and pops a grape in their mouth.

‘So, Girl who Sings to Crows,’ it says, ‘I hear you and yours are the ones who wanted an audience.’

You don't even get up, just fold yourself low over your crossed legs until your forehead is bare inches from the ground, and are glad of the yoga class you took for the improved flexibility.

Still low, you murmur a question.

‘I am unsure as to how I should address you...?’

Magnanimous, it tells you, ‘I am called the Crow Prince.’

On the blanket behind you, Cat-Eyes inhales sharply. You sit up, and yes- hair like the sound of feathers, empty eyes, nails dark and a touch too long. You rather thought so.

Thirteen, who between bouts of boredom has been making good use of google, breathes ‘Royalty?’ To a very still Not-Jenna.

The Crow Prince laughs.

‘Not in the way you mean, morsel. I am no great Name of the Seelie nor Unseelie Court, and may no such great Name ever darken our fair doorstep here at Elsewhere!’ He crows, and Not-Jenna mutters a fervent Here, Here.  

He quirks an eyebrow at you meaningfully, nodding to Not-Jenna, and you pour him a red solo cup full of orange juice.

‘Here, here, indeed.’ He says, raises the cup and takes a draft. ‘No, I am of the Autumn Court, and long may we reign here at Elsewhere!’

Not the Winter or Summer Court? you wonder, but oh, of course: Elsewhere turns on the passing of semesters, not seasons. This is probably one of the only places the Autumn and Spring Courts aren't subordinate to their more well-known counterparts.

‘Though it is good for you that you have come to me now. If it were fall I would not have time for you.’ He pops a cube of cheese in his mouth, then spears a bit of salami on a talon and bites into that as well.

Then he looks-really looks- at the rest of your spread.

‘Where did you get all this?’ He asks, and you have to smile. You and Not-Jenna really outdid yourselves this morning.

‘It's Tuesday.’ You tell him, and he smiles back.

This is the most dangerous thing you've ever spoken to.

After that, he just wants to eat for a while, and you let him. He’ll talk when he wants to, and the longer it takes the less worried you are that Thirteen is going to say something stupid and offensive- he'll get bored of being terrified soon enough, and therefore less likely to blurt out something without thinking about what he's saying first.

He makes idle conversation as the five of you lounge on the grass: what is small talk to one such as him is nonsense to you. He speaks of stardust harvests and celestial poachers and music made to taste like strawberries, and you all answer as best you can.

The Crow Prince is gracious company. He invites you all to eat with him, and you do. You make sure to nudge all the best bits towards him before you help yourself, though, and you can tell by his easy smile and the warmth of the pearls around your wrist he appreciates it.

(Something in you preens at his attention. It's the same part of you that delights at the glint of sunlight on your feathers in your hair, at the way other Involved students look at your pearls, at the way people know who you are. It's the same thing that sat up and crowed when Thirteen called you the Crow Girl.) (the Crow Prince has claim on you, and for more reasons than what hang about your wrist)

(You make deals, yourself, now. Most people at Elsewhere do- a coffee for help studying, conversation for company, iron jewelry for sea salt- but sometimes, you think you can feel the worth of a thing.) (it scares you, most days. some days it doesn't.) (you are fae-touched, you know. You are more fae-touched each day you spend here.)

(You don't really mind, anymore.)

(that right there is the more frightening prospect by far.)

Almost all the food is gone, and the Crow Prince lays flat on his back, legs crossed so an ankle bobs mid air, a taloned hand twirling lazily in the air as he speaks. The light from the sun has gone amber, and it twists the colors of the trees. You are starting to relax, even let your guard down. This too-pretty thing is of the gentry, of the Court, even, but he is more crow than not. With crows, it is intention, not technicalities, that matter most.

You are starting to believe that this thing will not hurt you. (You are wrong. You know this. You know this. And yet...)

When he is done, he rolls onto his feet, and you hear the rustle of wings as he moves.

He folds himself, looming over you, so he can catch your jaw with his talons to make you look up and up and up and up into empty, empty eyes.

‘The dove book will not help you.’ he says, and you’re confused- the dove book?- before you realize he means the book by Robert Dove Scyt. (fear replaces confusion- what need has the Crow Prince for circumspection?)

‘It was an interesting read?’ you offer, feebly. He snorts, and the humanity of it makes your skin crawl.

‘This will be moreso.’ he says, and he is gone in a rush of cackling laughter and wingbeats, wind tearing at your hair and clothes, knocking over cups and stealing napkins and tugging at the umbrella.

The Crow Prince is gone, and in his place is a book.

Above an illustration of a laughing crow, So You Want To Go To Underhill is written in starlight on the cover.

[cryptocleveland-blog1]

I used to have a blog here.    

I spent hundreds of hours pouring my heart into long posts that hardly anyone read.  Some were just text, like this one.   Some were elaborate, multi-installment series laced with photos and detailed graphics.  The effort that went into these posts, and the lack of response, was both highly therapeutic and soul crushing at the same time.   It was a way for me to feel creatively stimulated, and to participate in a community at a time when I was unemployed and socially isolated, but not yet cynical about my future prospects.  

I had just finished grad school, studying urban planning, and I had also just fulfilled one of my long-term ambitions, to appear in a feature film.  As a way of promoting the movie, the director of that film had begun a blog where he talked at length about film theory, art, and contemporary culture.  One of the other actors in the film started a blog about her life as an aspiring actress so I followed suit, choosing to concentrate on that subject which I knew best, and was, at that time, most passionate about: Real Estate Development in the City of Cleveland; with the occasional post devoted to my main hobbies, acting and photography.  

I was really proud of some of those early posts,  they were written with the confidence of someone who thought that the years of hard work were behind him and that life could only get better from here on out.  But months went by, and years went by.    It became obvious that my big break was never going to happen,  the movie was never going to find distribution, it was never going to be the stepping stone to my next project.    

Eventually people stopped commenting on my posts, and I ran out of things to talk about.   My blog became less regular and more introspective.    The director and actress followed suit, refocusing their blogs onto current affairs and personal interests.   I started getting into disagreements.    I argued with the director over his political positions,  I alienated the young actress by teasing her a little too frequently about her favorite band.  

It became clear that I was beating a dead horse.   My illusions were starting to fracture.  My acting career was stagnant, the only film work available where I live was in cheesy local commercials and I was too poor and too indebted to move elsewhere, nor was I brave enough to move away from my family and support network.   In my professional career things were no better, the rejection letters were starting to add up, and the longer I’d been out of school the fewer interviews I got.  

I started using this blog to vent my frustration.   After a couple internships that led nowhere. I accepted a job I hated, that I wasn’t any good at, and that I got fired from within six months.   That didn’t help my resume.    I started working part time minimum wage jobs just to have an income.  One night on the news I saw that a local school district was paying $180 a day for temporary substitutes during a teachers strike.    I’d worked as a sub before and enjoyed it so it seemed like good opportunity to make some money.    

I had planned on being there for two weeks, but the strike lasted eight.  It was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life, but I was fired from that job too.  I had been taking night classes at a community college, and the lack of sleep caught up with me. I was sad when it was over because there was one student in particular who I became emotionally attached to and I’d never gotten a chance to say good bye.  

I wish I had, because then I might not have gone to visit her place of work a few months later,  I might not have tried to stay in touch with her, I might not have deluded myself into thinking we were friends or that she cared about me half as much as I cared about her.  I could have just tied a nice happy bow around the relationship for being what it was and moved on to the next thing.   But its hard to move on when you have nothing to move on to.  

When you wake up feeling like a failure every morning its easy to get obsessed, your thoughts naturally drift to the last thing you can remember making you feel happy and important.  I shared these sentiments in posts I made on this blog, and other darker thoughts. After the fact I felt ashamed and decided to remove them, in an attempt to clean up my online fingerprints.

Its all gone now, good and bad; I’ve long since lost access to the email address I originally signed up for a tumblr account with and so my original account was deactivated, along with all its content, when tumblr updated its TOS a few years ago.    I miss it dearly.  

I don’t miss the toxic anxiety dump it became, I miss the escapism, the potential it once had to remove me from a hopeless situation and allow me to pontificate about how things ought to be.  I miss the ability to express myself anonymously, warts and all, and not fear being held accountable or publicly shamed for feeling angry and resentful, for admitting that I wanted more than I was entitled to.

When I stopped blogging I tried to find new communities to immerse myself in. I stopped auditioning for the local agency and started training with a local stunt coordinator because the stunt guys seemed to be the only locals getting any work whatsoever.   I switched from Tumblr to Youtube and started down a rabbit hole about Historical European Martial Arts.  I grew my hair and beard out, attempting to assimilate into that subculture.   I stopped applying for jobs and started my own consulting business doing drafting and 3d printing.

I’d like to say that my efforts have improved my situation, economically or otherwise, but alas its more of the same. More auditioning for parts that were already cast long before you ever saw a breakdown.   More skeptical looks and rejection letters whenever I convince myself that I’m broke and have no choice but to find a real job. I’m still treading water, and badly.  

A couple of years ago I started having panic attacks.  I’d gone to visit the highschool girl (now in college) one too many times; panicked because I suddenly felt that I was crossing a line, and abruptly broke off contact .   Then I felt bad about it and started following her on social media, which eventually confirmed my belief that I had hurt her.   I felt guilty about that too, and had another panic attack, so I tried to contact her again and offer an apology, which obviously backfired.   Then every few months I’d have another panic attack and make another ill conceived attempt to fix the situation.

Things came to a head about a year ago.   Each time I tried to reconnect and failed to repair the relationship, my anxiety got progressively worse.  In a last act of desperation, I reached out to a mutual acquaintance who immediately outed me as a crazy person and posted the conversation online.   Nothing had happened, but being forced to confront my own inappropriate behavior and to acknowledge that Google was no longer my friend was embarrassing enough that my anxiety jumped an order of magnitude overnight.   I went from merely not being able to sleep, to not being able to breath or speak.   I wasn’t just depressed, I was  physically ill.  

This convinced me to seek treatment.  About six months ago I started taking medicine for insomnia, anxiety and depression, and also ADHD which I think is the root problem.   The jury is still out as to whether any of its working or whether I actually have any of those issues.  I did switch medicines a while back because the cocktail was making me feel like a listless zombie.  And I have seemed more productive in the past month, but that could be attributed to my impending birthday.

As I’ve reflected over the past few months, I’ve determined that I’d never really given myself a chance as an actor, I’ve always treated it as an embarrassing secret that I don’t like to talk about, and that was one of the things causing me anxiety and potentially caused me to self sabotage any hope of finding full time career with my degree.  

I thought I had long ago made peace with the fact that I was never going to find success as an actor because only those who were born rich, in LA, and with the right connections ever got the opportunity to make movies for a living. But then the young actress I was in a movie with once proved me wrong. She’s not the only one,  I now have a number of acquaintances who work regularly, but in the time since I originally started this blog she has made the leap from depressed, socially awkward, nobody living in their parents house in Cleveland, to something more than that; while I’m still spinning my wheels.   Its a humbling thought and rather than be jealous of her success I’d like to try and emulate it.  

I wanted to make a good faith effort to put myself out there before I turned 35, so I spent the last month filming a demo reel to submit to managers.   If I get no response, that means I suck and I should move on.   And that knowledge is infinitely better than continuing to surround myself with people who tell me what I want to hear but have no power to help me achieve my goals.

Yesterday was my birthday.   I decided it was finally time to watch the movie.    I’d put it off because I didn’t want to burst my bubble.  Originally I was holding out for the premiere,   I wanted to watch it for the first time on the big screen.   Eventually it just became a crutch,  I didn’t want to see it because its my only credit and I’m barely in it.   The reality is the film is good, but the acting isn’t going to win awards.   I can be proud of it as a good first film, an excellent learning experience, and a stepping stone to greater things; which is all it was ever meant to be.   The rest is up to me.

I’ve decided to rededicate this blog to my documenting my career as a struggling actor from Cleveland Ohio.  

[attendantdesign-blog]

New Post has been published on Attendantdesign

New Post has been published on https://attendantdesign.com/maggie-ofarrell-ive-revealed-the-secrets/

Maggie O’Farrell: 'I've revealed the secrets

N a mean yr, Maggie O’Farrell comes near death several instances. Seized with terror, she dials 999 and is rushed to hospital in a white-knuckle sprint that navigates the border of existence and death. Breathing becomes not possible, the pores and skin bubbles and blisters; as consciousness fades, cardiac arrest may be simply minutes away. The death O’Farrell needs to come this near, over and again, isn’t her personal however her daughter’s.

O’Farrell’s middle infant is eight years old. Ever since the age of two,

she has suffered excessive allergic reactions among 12 and 15 instances a 12 months, which can be brought on by means of – and this list is some distance from exhaustive – sitting beside someone who ate muesli for breakfast, or at a desk where sesame seeds have been lately fed on; sharing a paddling pool with someone carrying sun cream containing almond oil; touching the hand of a person who has eaten nuts or eggs or salad with pumpkin oil; ingesting a biscuit picked up with tongs used in advance to hold a brownie; being stung by means of a bee.

At simply six, O’Farrell’s eldest infant needed to be taught how to dial 999 and say, “This is an emergency case of anaphylaxis”if his sister went into shock. The nearby A&E workforce greets her by name; her representative has cautioned her mother and father in no way to take her beyond the range of a good medical institution. They in no way, ever leave the house with out her remedy.

“We live, then,” O’Farrell writes, “in a nation of excessive alert.”

The novelist had not intended to jot down a memoir. She used to the funny story along with her husband, the writer William Sutcliffe, that she turned into as probable to emerge as a mathematician as to write approximately her private life. “I never, ever notion I’d do it. It just felt to me it would place too much of a tax on buddies and own family” she tells me when we meet in a London membership. O’Farrell began writing I Am, I Am, I Am (the name is taken from Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar) as “a non-public mission”, or even after signing an agreement with her publishers, nonetheless thought she might lose her nerve and want to pull out of the deal.

She refused to accept an strengthen, because “I didn’t want the stress of having to pay it all back if I modified my mind. It felt greater liberating to me to jot down it without any expectation.” The publishers pointed out that they needed to pay her something to make the settlement felony, so she settled for a pound.

Were there moments whilst she was significantly taken into consideration canceling?

“Yes, continuously,” she laughs. “Several instances an afternoon. I wasn’t even without a doubt certain right up until a couple of months in the past that I could publish it.”

At eight, O’Farrell shrunk encephalitis and was hospitalized in isolation for months. Everyone expected her to die The e-book exists, in the long run, for one motive only: O’Farrell wanted to help her youngsters remember that her daughter’s proximity to mortality isn’t always their particular curse, however in reality notably not unusual. She realised she should come up with 17 of her very own near encounters with demise, and I Am, I Am, I Am is an account of a majority of these events in her 45 years, while, as her very own mother positioned it, “I don’t like to think what may have come about.” The memoir is a literary exercise in normalizing the near-dying revel in.

The 17 variety from a chilling near-miss come across in her teens with a murderer to an ambush through a machete-wielding thief on a faraway seashore in Chile. She nearly drowned twice, hemorrhaged catastrophically in the course of her first labor and nearly died of amoebic dysentery in China. Other chapters are much less dramatic – an HIV takes a look at following the discovery of her boyfriend’s infidelity; a near brush with a passing lorry while out on foot – but all are crafted with O’Farrell’s trademark economic system and manipulate. She is a breathtakingly properly author and brings all her beauty and poise as a novelist to the story of her own lifestyles.

The self-portrait found out in its pages, though, is as a substitute extreme, and nothing like the character I meet today. More than twenty years in the past, O’Farrell and I labored within the identical workplace, and even though we didn’t, in reality, realize each different, I wouldn’t have known from her memoir the pleased presence I bear in mind from the one’s days. “Contrary” and prone to tantrums as a baby, O’Farrell’s account of her adult self is frequently further upset and prickly. Yet in person, she is nothing like that at all. She is heat and smooth, brief to chuckle, complete of correct humor and generosity. The discrepancy is so striking, I recommend she’s been alternatively unfair on herself in the e book.

“Really? Hmmm. Maybe,” she concedes. “I assume I am pretty tough on myself, however, I assume you need to be. I imply all of us are, aren’t we?”

The mystery of how one’s own mind compares with others’ has always particularly deep for O’Farrell, because at 8 she shrunk encephalitis and became hospitalized in isolation for months. Everyone expected her to die; one night, she even overheard a nurse out of doors her door tell some other patient, “Hush. There’s a touch lady death in there.”

The damage to her cerebellum has left her with lifelong bodily impairments, but the neurological legacy also can consist of developments including irritability, oversensitivity and, she writes, “a profound feeling of unease and dissatisfaction”. Does she feel that her personality has been determined through the disease?

“That’s what’s unusual. I can’t tell. Maybe it’s a piece like having a pin in a broken bone. Your frame grows around it and it turns into part of you, doesn’t it? Your character absorbs it. I don’t realize wherein the encephalitis ends and I begin, and that is which.”

Maggie O’Farrell along with her Maggie  daughter when she  revealed becomes a child secrets 

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Maggie O’Farrell with her daughter whilst she was a baby. Photograph: Graham Turner for the Guardian She can in no way make sure, either, if it’s what made her a novelist. From the earliest age, she wrote compulsively, “however I suppose my contamination probable, sure, made me into an observer, an interpreter of what was occurring around, the unstated. It additionally made me right into a reader.” Confined to a mattress, she read conventional novels time and again. “And the eighth or ninth time, you begin to suppose: why did the author trade irritating right here? Or why does this ebook begin with a verbal exchange, as opposed to a description? You begin wondering in the one’s terms.”

Born in Ulster to Irish parents, O’Farrell grew up along with her two sisters in Wales and Scotland, where her father lectured in economics. Always educational, she studied English at Cambridge, and had planned to do a doctorate – but her consequences weren’t suitable sufficient. She started out her career as an arts journalist. She posted her first novel, After You’d Gone, in 2000, and following her 2d, My Lover’s Lover, years later has become a full-time novelist. She has when you consider that published five extra, one in all which, The Hand That First Held Mine, won the Costa e-book award, and all of which have been significantly acclaimed hits. Spare and unsentimental, but hauntingly brilliant and suspenseful, her work deals with love, loss and all of the undying complexities of the human circumstance.

“I certainly love writing,” she says. “It’s the most effective element I ever virtually wanted to do. I by no means understand when I pay attention writers saying it’s suffering. I continually suppose, well, don’t do it then! Do something else. Go work within the coalmine. Go be a barista – see the way you revel in that,” she chuckles dryly.