#i revere poetry but sometimes reverence can turn to disgust

[kvothes]

hey. i love an epic. i love intensity. however. i get this feeling sometimes like people need every poem to be masterful and incredible and profound and—they don’t. poems can be corny and sweet and simple. sentimental and small. novels can range from tolstoy to a flimsy beach read. poems are also allowed to do that. that’s all.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

OC Interview: Fane Lavellan

Thank you for the tag @dungeons-and-dragon-age! I’ve been eyeing up this meme for a while actually, so this was perfect timing! X3

This takes place Post-Trespasser, about a month or two after, in fact. Solas brought the idea forward, and of course, Fane refused. But after some coaxing, some explanation as to why, and the promise of a whole cake, Fane agreed to humor the request. 

*THERE BE BIG THINGS REGARDING FANE HERE* 

I got carried awaaaaaay! XD

Introduction

Can you introduce yourself?

“I can, but it’s a lengthy list,” He sighs, “...Those who are close to me, who see as but an elf, call me Fane. Those who wish to meet cobble, call me Lavellan or Herald. Those who are blinded by reverence call me ‘He Who Flew Above’. Denizens of the Fade refer to me as, ‘Devotion’ or ‘Tenacity’. However, my true name is..” He sighs again, “...Aterian. I rarely go by it, but the truth won’t be ignored. It never can be.”

What is your gender identity, orientation and relationship status?

“Male. Elvhen. Dragon.” He huffs through his nose, shifting his gaze off to the side, “That’s all I’ll say on that. As for orientation, I’m...emotionally driven. If you asked me to look at another and tell you what’s attractive about them I would say, ‘Nothing.’ I don’t know them, so I feel nothing for them.“ He shrugs, turning his gaze back, but brandishes a glare, “There’s only one person who defies that response, and that’s because he knows me, without and within. More than that, is none of your business.”

Where and when were you born?

He lifts a hand, massaging a temple, “The ‘where’ is simple; Elvhenan. Specifics are lost to me, however, so you’ll have to be content with that response.” He shifts his gaze downwards, slowly crossing his arms, “As to when?” He sighs heavily, “...I have no answer for that other than: I’m roughly the same age, if not older, as Solas. Does it matter, honestly? Numbers fall through the cracks after a specific threshold is crossed.” What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?

He unravels a crossed arm and guides his hand downwards, tapping the pommel of a sword he has fastened to his waist, “Sword. I use either long swords, short swords, or great swords.” He raises an eyebrow as a question is forwarded, “Shields?” He sneers a bit. “I don’t use shields. They get in the way, and anyways,” He raises his hand once more, the expanse steadily beginning to glow blue and silver before a spectral coating of scales cover the entirety, “this is better than any shield. I prefer the front lines, the place I can make sure no one breaches, and the lingering memory of what I once was makes sure I can do just that.” He dispels the scales and shakes out his hand before returning it to his crossed counterpart, “It takes energy to maintain, but I’m getting better at holding it for longer.”  Lastly, are you happy?

He blinks before his entire expression softens, two toned eyes shining with primary gold as they shift downwards, “...If you had asked that of me over twelve years ago I would have spat in your face and said, ‘Happiness doesn’t exist in this world’. But now..” He trails off, casting a sidelong glance towards one of the fortress’s entryways; a familiar voice sounding, firm, but soft, as if reprimanding a child, “...I understand what happiness is, and it’s in every corner if you allow yourself to see it.” His eyes shift back, holding a far away look and voice coming forward in a murmur, “I only wish we all could be happy; together.”

Family and Friends

What’s your family like? What is your relationship with them?

His face holds a conflicted look, as if the memory is painful before speaking, “Complicated,” he says before beginning to tap a finger against his bicep, “I had a mother. She died when I was fifteen from a wasting disease, but she was the picture of serenity. Calm, guiding, measured. Hair like moonlight. Eyes like a clear autumn day. She was--” Unbranded features twist with a look of grief, eyes going dark as his voice drops, “...I’d rather not speak of her. It still hurts to. It hurts to speak of any of them,” His eyes narrow, grief stricken expression turning somewhat bitter, “...Especially those who throw all you did for them back into your face because they refused to listen when you needed them to most. Even so, I still wish for her happiness. Cullen better be treating her right,” That bitter turns outright malicious, dark eyes going darker as another question is meekly asked, “Father? I have no father. I only had a monster that haunted my childhood, tore my token of devotion apart, and then stalked me in my dreams. So, no. I have nothing to say about that concept.”

Have you ever ran away from home?

He chuckles, “Many, many times,” He throws most of his weight into one side, tilting his head back as if thinking, counting, “I can’t even remember the amount of times I fled into the forests, to be honest. All I know is that it happened weekly, maybe even daily,” He brings his head back, snowy hair moving with the action to brush the tops of his cheekbones, “Why do you look so surprised?” he asks, snorting a bit at the meek response of, ‘Why so often?’, “Because I refused to endure being treated like a beast every hour of the day merely because I believed differently, or rather, not at all.” He sighs within the next moment, “...I wasn’t any better than the Dalish, though. I lashed out, I spat in their face, dragged their heritage through the dirt, inflicted harm from the smallest of things...” He squeezes his arms, eyes narrowing into a glare, but seeming to see through everything, “...The past repeats. An infernal spiral that will never slow.” Would you consider marriage or having children?

“Marriage? Children?” He blinks, pale visage suddenly going flush before he snarls, “Why do I need to answer those questions?!” The blush deepens and he responds despite his displeased expression, muttering and biting the inside of his cheek, “...Damned keen eyed elves. They know, don’t they? I swear if Abelas fucking ran that mouth of his, I’ll--” He sighs heavily, letting his head fall limp a bit in defeat, “...Yes. To both. The latter is already taken care of, as everyone situated in the Crossroads knows, but...” Pointed ears are now a deep shade of red, “...marriage is...on hold. War time isn’t an ideal summer wedding.” His voice drops, eyes shimmering as if he was before the person his heart yearned for, “...The sky deserves a venue better than a garden of death and deceit.” Do you secretly hate one of your friends?

“There were those in the Inquisition who I didn’t exactly see eye to eye with,” he started before shaking his head, “but I didn’t hate anyone. Everyone is entitled to their own views and what they find important.” He scowls a bit, tapping his bicep once again with a finger, “...Even if they didn’t extend the same kindness to me in the beginning. ‘Do you believe in the Maker?’ ‘Do you believe you’re chosen?’ ‘You need to use the people’s faith. It gives them hope.’” He mocks before snorting harshly, “No. No, I don’t. Oh, that suddenly makes me trash? Ohhh. How terrible.” He scoffs. “Disgusting.” Which friend knows everything about you?

“Solas,” He says within a heart beat before clearing his throat, shifting his gaze away sheepishly, “He knows me without and within.” Emerald and gold blaze as the orbs go wide, the blush of roses coming back in full force, “Wait, wait, wait! I didn’t mean--! Fuck! You better wipe that shit eating grin off your face, elf, or I swear I’ll do it for you!” He growls in frustation, throwing his hands in the air, “Why did I agree to this? What fucking dragon entertains an interview!? This is worst than the courts in Arlathan used to be! And that’s saying something!”

Asked by Fans

Are you literate? Have you been to school?

”I am literate. Sometimes to a fault, in fact,” He smiles a bit, “Poetry is my niche; a lingering memory of my mother. So, I speak cryptically at times,” He snorts, amused, “Although, I guess that isn’t much of a surprise since the Elvhen language is riddled in verse rather than practical application. Still, even some of the ancients left have a hard time deciphering my words,” He shrugs, smile turning into a smirk, “They never expected a dragon to be able to talk, I guess. Well, ta-dah.”  The eeriest prediction you made that later came true?

A somber expression flits across his visage and eyes, “...That, eventually, I would hurt the one person I never wanted to.” The corner of his mouth twitches, holding both bitterness and grief; a painful duo, “...And retribution came just as swiftly, but it--” He sighs, shaking his head in defeat before muttering under his breath, “Observe and accept. Observe that what came to pass was uncontrollable, and accept that it had to happen for your path to continue, for your soul to be complete.” What is something you were embarrassingly late to realize?

His face blanks, mouth going into a hard line before a sigh exits through his nose slowly, “...That I don’t have tail.” He snarls, blank expression twisting in warning, “Laugh, elf. Do it.” He nods in the next second when no sounds of amusement come forth, expression going stoic once more, “That’s what I thought. You try living centuries in one form and then transitioning. See what happens.” Do you have mental health or physical issues?

He nods, sighing tiredly. “Like my names, I have a lot.” A hand motions to his body lazily, “My entire body is littered in scars, inflicted through crude experiments by an abomination that sought power like so many others,” He expression sours, jaw working back a forth, “They’ve calmed over the years, but the memories are not so kind.” He sighs, trying to calm himself and lifts his left hand; the Anchor glowing faintly and his eyes watch it, “I have an illness, or rather, sensitivity to any Fade born essence. That, too, has calmed and I’m grateful for that. As for my mind..” He trails off, grimacing a bit as if suddenly in pain, “...Visualize the Void, and there’s your answer. Black walls with crimson torches, seats empty, but somehow wanting for memories to take their seats. However, those occupants never come, burnt to ash by fury’s flame. That’s my mind in a nutshell.” What is your current main goal?

He raises his eyebrows, pursing his lips, “Mm, as of right now, I’m busy helping Solas unlock the eluvians that he couldn’t while I was away,” He flexes his marked hand, watching it with a look of determination in his eyes, “That’ll take time, but after, my people, my kin will have their skies back. I won’t let this power be squandered, and I won’t let the key that I’ve been entrusted with fall into the wrong hands.” His face hardens further, “For if that key rusts, the locks break and the sky will blacken as surely as the earth will redden.”

Choices

Drink or food?

“Drinks.” He says with ease, shrugging, “Food is comforting, especially sweets, but a glass of rum or ale, or a cup of chamomile tea really pounds the word ‘relaxation’ into my head.” Cats or dogs?

He smiles, warmth caressing its edges, “You’ve seen Nislean wandering about the halls, laying on the window sills and curling up in front of the fire,” He hums suddenly, crossing his arms again, “Which reminds me, I need to go out of the Crossroads for milk. I’ll be getting more than five bottles this time.” Optimist or pessimist?

“Depends on who you ask,” He shrugs, seeming unbothered, “I’m neither from a personal standpoint. I try to see the bright spots, but shadows can be very persistent.”   Sassy or sarcastic?

He snorts, “Ask Fen’harel,” his voice is light upon the title, playfully mocking in its deepness, “He knows all about that side. Although, he would label it, ‘insufferable’. I would call myself dryly sarcastic, though.”

Have You Ever

Been caught sneaking out?

He purses his lips, “Hmm. Not that I can recall,” he says slowly before his brows jumped and his eyes lit up with memory, “Oh! Wait. There was that one time where I was with Solas and Mythal in a...courtyard, I think?” He shrugs before shrugging, “Doesn’t matter. But, I tried to slip away, tail and all, and I...may have shattered one or two or three eluvians trying to get to the balcony.” He somewhat wistfully, smirking, “Elgar’nan got fucking stuck in a far off settlement for a week, though. Completely worth getting my horn chewed off by a wolf.” Broken a bone?

“Surprisingly, no.” He huffs in amusement, “Wonder of wonders, truthfully.” Received flowers?

“I have,” He scowls, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disgust, “but I always throw them into the fire. Most are from suitors, those who don’t know what the fuck ‘taken’ means.” Ghosted someone?

His face tightens, completely deadpan, “...No?”, he says, voice raising in question a bit, “At least I don’t believe so. But, then again...oh.” He blanks further, “...Oh. I understand the term now. You mortals are forever twisting the languages, aren’t you? I can’t keep up, but the answer is still no.” Pretended to laugh at a joke you didn’t get?

“Maybe once or twice, but I don’t ‘laugh’ per say.” He huffs through his nose deliberately, “I do that; a puff of air. Some habits are never truly able to be broken. No matter the form.”

Tagging: @oxygenforthewicked @blueheaded @little-lightning-lavellan @noire-pandora @the-dreadful-canine and anyone else that’d like to play! (no pressure, of course!)

[fishmongeringstudies]

five: the ballad of the goose-girl

once upon a time there was a goose who wanted to become a man. or there was a man who wanted to become a goose. or there were both, or there were none, or there were many of the same spell. once upon a time there were ten thousand geese and they wanted to go south. why? because it was too cold up here, they said. too far from the equator. too lonely.

one of the geese was called jorge. jorge had been assigned the role of miserable family caretaker with an inferiority complex from birth but a brief spell of rebellion in their teenage years led to their official disengagement from the role and subsequently, the adopting of a new one. jorge was a philosopher. their favorite philosopher was kant. they had never read any kant because geese can't read.

dimitri could read. dimitri was a goose but there was, how do you put it, something a little off about her. sometimes dimitri woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, her blankets kicked to the other end of the room, babbling about microeconomics and the supply-demand curve for cross-continental flying gear. dimitri was in a mad, one-sided love that consumed her body and soul, but this wasn't that bad in the broader scheme of things because this gave jorge, who couldn't read, something to do.

sometimes dimitri would read jorge poetry. dimitri had memorized every book of poetry in the main branch of the national library when she made a stopover there in her youth and could now be called upon to recite almost any poem from memory, as long as she didn't hate the poet. for example, dimitri hated sylvia plath. no matter how much jorge begged and pleaded with her as they flew over the skyscrapers of new york, the masses of writhing trees and open fields dotted with cows and sheep and death, she would not change her mind. 'please,' jorge would say while they stopped to rest on the fender of some college student's beat-up honda civic. 'read me a poem. any poem.' 'you mean,' dimitri would say, taking a drag from her cigarette. 'read me a plath poem.' 'that's not what i said,' jorge would respond defensively, because jorge was the kind of goose that assumes the world is out to get them no matter what and sticks their head in the gift-horse's mouth and then screams down its gullet for five minutes. finally, dimitri would laugh. 'that's what you mean.' then the conversation would end.

one day dimitri and jorge got separated from the flock. this was not unprecedented, as dimitri had been lagging behind for a few days now and jorge, being her designated attendant, had stayed with her. but it was just as frightening for jorge as it had been the first time, fifteen years ago when dimitri had pitched out of the sky halfway across philadelphia like an anvil and jorge had found her sprawled on the fender of some sad person's fucked-up lamborghini, looking like an angel in a bad insurance advertisement. it was always the fenders. dimitri had a thing for fenders.

dimitri also had a thing for letting her long, healthy history of communication problems fuck up her relationships with other geese, a habit she had picked up in her youth alongside smoking, lying, and reciting poetry. she was doing all three of the latter as they circled around the deserted shopping complex a fifth time, the sun a blurry white spot a few feet beneath their heads. 'did you know,' said dimitri, a cigarette clamped in her beak.

'no, i don't know,' said jorge.

'asshole. i haven't started speaking yet.'

jorge observed the setting sun with a detached kind of panic. 'yes you have.' they brushed something out of their eye with their wing. the smoke from dimitri's cigarette kept getting into their eyes. it was making it hard to concentrate on not being sad. 'you said 'did you know.''

'that's not the important part.'

'then what is the important part?'

'the important part is-'

south meant many things to many creatures. depending on who you asked and what time of the day it was when you did, you might get anything ranging from 'the southern tip of malaysia' to 'nineteen-seventy-five'. right now, in this particular snapshot of time, south meant the following things. for jorge, it meant freedom. for dimitri, it meant-

'-is that every shopping mall is a little haunted.'

jorge was unimpressed. most things were haunted to some degree or another. it was a very old world and the people that lived in it were all very broken, but that didn't stop the broken things from wanting to hang around, even after their ribs had cracked open and their lungs were smeared with soot. they told dimitri as much.

dimitri cleared her throat, which was hard to do while lying and smoking and flying in a circle around a deserted haunted shopping complex but otherwise feasible for a geese as competent as her. she turned to look at jorge, the trickle of her gaze sliding over their white, wind-tossed body like a cool hand over a flame.

'what i'm saying is let's spend the night there.'

;

once upon a time there was a goose named dimitri who was in a mad, requited love that consumed her body and soul. her partner was a poet, of course, because all geese want to fall in love with a poet, but here's the catch. jie ting never told dimitri which poems were about her. dimitri spent years trying to coax the confessions out of her, making her breakfasts in bed, bringing home cute little mice with their tails tied up in butterfly knots, kissing the spot where her wing met the curve of her body with the kind of reverence worshipers reserve for the day they meet their creator, but jie ting was stubborn and beautiful and kind and dimitri could never bring herself to do the truly horrible thing, to walk into her study and crack open the journals she kept those intimacies in. in spite of this, well, this thing between them, they were happy. they puttered around making cups and plates out of wet clay. they told stories about their cousins who had gotten lost in rain forests in the amazon and streets in taipei. every year they made the long journey down south, and then flew back up in the spring. and then jie ting died, and then there was no one left to coax anything out of.

the doctors said there was nothing dimitri could have done for her. for every million perfectly preventable deaths there are two to three freak accidents, faultless failures, broken vessels. and for every broken body on the pavement, trampled by cars bigger than the both of them combined, there was a broken heart.

dimitri closed up their old haunt in the woods. she broke all the mugs and gave all the bones back to their grieving micey relatives, who were horrified, and then angry, and then sad. then she flew all the way down to singapore and learned every poem in every poetry book they had in the national library, a looming glass building in the heart of the business district, and dragged her battered body all the way back up north, through miles and miles of snow-kissed nothing, and then jorge returned home in the spring with the rest of the good ones, the ones who weren't fucked in the head, who still had hope to speak of.

she can teach me poetry, thought jorge.

they definitely went to a liberal arts college, thought dimitri.

neither of these things are true. but neither are the stories that led them to each other. a lie canceled out a lie and after the dust had settled and dimitri had recovered from the ghost of death on her shoulder, they found each other standing right where they had started out, on opposite ends of the same crooked street.

;

the perfume store smelled like sixteen layers of hell distilled into a single bottle of wine that had been left to ferment for a few millennia and then smashed in a pool of vomit but it was the only place that wasn't so overgrown with vines that jorge could clear out a place for dimitri to lie down. they did so with an efficiency that startled even themselves, brushing dust and old receipts aside with one wing and spritzing the whole place clean with the other. dimitri was then coerced into the little sacred spot, though she was deeply reluctant and jorge was deeply embarrassed about the whole thing. desperate times call for desperate measures. when there are two geese and one perfume store and nineteen shades of bergamot and lavender, one learns to quieten their demons.

the funny thing about geese is that they are about sixty-percent neck and forty-percent everything else and yet a goose lying sideways occupies two hundred percent of the previous amount because geese are conceited like that. dimitri took up more than enough space on the shelf in the perfume store from hell, but with a little maneuvering she was able to make enough space to pull jorge down beside her. the funny thing about geese is they have very big egos, and very small dreams.

'imagine i am your mother,' said dimitri, waving one wing idly in the dark. 'singing you a lullaby as you drift off, packing your lunchbox for school, turning out the light in your bedroom.'

jorge's eye twitched. 'huh? i will not,' they said. 'that's disgusting.'

'oh. you think i'm disgusting?'

'no, that's not what i mean-'

'-but that's what you said.'

'-i said the idea of you as my mother is disgusting.' jorge hid their face in their feathers but their beak was too long and stuck out in a highly noticeable manner, therefore ruining the effect altogether. they grumbled to themselves, then spent a few minutes contemplating the fifteen feet of nothing that lay before them. a field of snow, ash, or flowers. darkness could be whatever you wanted it to be. that was part of the appeal of closing your eyes.

'hey,' they said.

'mm?'

'why won't you recite a plath poem?'

the sound of something soft against the wall. dimitri was brushing the flat of her wing along the wall behind her, over the faded labels and the peeling tiffany blue paint. 'because i can't.'

'but you know them, don't you,' jorge pressed.

'i do.'

'then?'

'how old are you this year, jorge?'

'old enough to read depressing poetry.'

'but not old enough to have fallen in love.' she withdrew her wing from the wall. it came away caked in dust and old memories. rich, gold-kissed families with kids in little bow-ties, babies forgotten in well-lit dressing rooms, the occasional stabbing. 'am i wrong?'

jorge bristled behind her. 'what does love have to do with this?'

'because,' dimitri mused, and jorge felt every sound that she made in their chest, where the heart was working furiously to keep blood circulating without end. 'all poems are love poems.'

'you know,' said jorge.

'i don't know.'

'good. you shouldn't.' jorge curled themselves tighter, so the two hundred percent became a hundred and ninety-five. 'i'm going to sleep. good night.'

;

once upon a time there was a goose who would do anything for her lover and then that lover died. once upon a time there was a goose who was really good at literary analysis, so good she could have taught at harvard if she hadn't wanted to be closer to her lover, who worked in non-profit and spent most of her time abroad, and then her lover died. once upon a time there was a goose. and she knew a lot of poetry. it was the last thing she did for jie ting, with the gray-dusted coat and the heather eyes. do geese have heather eyes? fuck it. this one did.

once upon a time there was a goose who really wanted to go to a liberal arts college, but their dad gambled all their savings away on a business venture which went bust moments before the big cash-out and so the college fund became a college black hole, a college financial aid form which procured miserably few sympathies from the financial aid office, a college nothing. this goose was really quite smart, though they couldn't prove it to save their life. but the other goose knew. the other goose wasn't as smart. she'd just had more money. and worse luck.

this isn't a love story. in this story there are no love stories because in some languages every story is a love story, and if everything is something then there is really nothing, no takeaway at the end of the parable, no shard of glass in the sand. imagine you're walking along the coastline in a white dress made from diamonds and you step on that shard of glass. there goes your foot. what will you do? the world is ending.

in the morning dimitri wakes up first. she touches jorge's forehead with the tip of one wing, then the flat of it, then the side. there's a bar of sunlight coming in through a gap in the moth-bitten blinds and it falls across jorge's face in rivulets of gold-leaf, liquid wonder. she watches them sleep for a few minutes, their chest rising and falling and trembling with all that infallible youth, with the faithless determination of someone whose body has grown older but whose soul has stayed as faultless, as clueless, as divine. if god were a goose it would be jorge. says who? says dimitri, who has god's number saved on her phone.

once, a few months ago, she wrote a poem. this she read out to jorge, while they were flying over the rooftops of san diego, each word falling out of her mouth like stars, like things she should have really kept to herself and in the safety of untouchable darkness and yet jorge was looking at her. she was reading this poem and jorge was looking at her and it wasn't the kind of look you gave someone you found by the side of the road, someone who had helped you with your college apps and tied your tie on prom night. it was the kind of look you gave an angel you wanted to pin to the sheets.

'is this poem about someone?' asked jorge, who was for all their cluelessness and cruelty, quite terribly perceptive when one wanted them least to be.

panicking, dimitry dropped her cigarette. she shook her head. 'no.' she shook her head again, for emphasis.

once, dimitri had a fit of coughs so bad she passed out right there in the lobby of that high school. the doctors said it was her lungs. her friends said it was the cigarettes. jie ting, who was long dead by then, said it was the heartbreak. put it back together, said the ghost of her dead lover. you can put yourself back together. maybe i don't want to, dimitri said, a sheaf of papers falling out of the pocket of her coat.

once, she didn't go south. she went up north in search of forgiveness, and when jorge arrived in the spring, they were as lovely as she remembered them being while she had gotten nowhere. still stuck in place, spinning in slow circles, watching god die on a white-gold stage. still mourning.

'i'll write you a poem,' jorge said the other day. 'to thank you.' for being the first person. for being the first person ever.

'don't bother,' she told them.

'i'll do it anyway.'

'i won't read it.'

'you will.'

once there was a goose and another goose and they were all lovely and sad with long, elegant necks and hard, sharp beaks for cracking things open but all they ever did was crack themselves open, like if you hurt yourself enough times you could make the world give you back what it had taken away. but that's not how it works. you know this. you know this, don't you? dimitri? dimitri?

dimitri's still in that old perfume store. she's leaning closer and closer to sleeping beauty, with the lanky limbs and the merry-go-round smile, and she's whispering something, though she'll never tell you what and you'll never get the chance to ask, she's breathing like the air's made of glass. sea-glass. have you ever seen the ocean? she'll take you one day. your name is jorge and you're asleep. you're being kissed on the mouth by a very beautiful person. she's going to die.

but all living things die eventually, you counter. you don't get it. you are missing the point.

that's fine. miss the point. keep sleeping. the moon pulls away from you the way some people pull knives out of bodies, like she can feel every inch of distance she puts between yourselves in her chest, where the heart is working furiously to keep life alive. she pulls away and it hurts her, you know. did you know? you can fall in love twice. you can fuck yourself up twice. there's always room in the cupboard for more ceramic mugs. she made you one. she'll never give it to you. you never asked.

that's your first kiss. and your second, and your third, and as you grow older the kisses will meld together into this looming memory of touch, sensation, heat, softness, girls, girls, girl. girl with the cigarette between her teeth. girl with the sharpshooter eyes, the gunmetal laugh. girl walking you home, girl flying you across the starless city, girl singing you a lullaby when you're eighteen and the world hates people like you who give life everything you've got and have the audacity to think it'll listen.

girl walking out of the perfume store. girl stepping into the half-light. girl leaving you behind.

or maybe it's the other way around. this way you will be able to catch up to the rest of the flock, this way you will make it to the other side of the world before winter gets its hands around your ankles. she's giving you an opportunity. take it. i said take it.

south means a lot of things depending on who you ask. for jorge, it's freedom, new skies, sunsets drenched in whiskey. for jorge it's the second best thing about being alive. for dimitri, it's death.

once upon a time there was a goose and their name was jorge. once upon a time there was a goose and her name was dimitri. in another version of this story they meet each other before the accident and the hospitals and the house in the woods, the financial crash, the long, cruel winter. in another version they kiss with their eyes open, their hearts unspooling around the confession, the truth, the sacred thing that lets people be happy with each other. in another version of this story jorge says read me a poem and dimitri says i'll read you something sweeter, and then she reads them a love poem.

in this one, one goose dies, and the other keeps flying.

A smile fell in the grass. Irretrievable! And how will your night dances Lose themselves. In mathematics? Such pure leaps and spirals - Surely they travel The world forever, I shall not entirely Sit emptied of beauties, the gift Of your small breath, the drenched grass Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies. Their flesh bears no relation. Cold folds of ego, the calla, And the tiger, embellishing itself - Spots, and a spread of hot petals. The comets Have such a space to cross, Such coldness, forgetfulness. So your gestures flake off - Warm and human, then their pink light Bleeding and peeling Through the black amnesias of heaven. Why am I given These lamps, these planets Falling like blessings, like flakes Six sided, white On my eyes, my lips, my hair Touching and melting. Nowhere.

05.25.21

[quarantineroulette]

The True Grit of Mark Lanegan’s Sing Backwards and Weep

Mark Lanegan’s 2020 memoir, Sing Backwards and Weep, is possibly the easiest hard read I’ve ever read. A warts and all - sometimes literally, like when he recounts freeze-burning warts off his privates in a Seattle health clinic - approach to the rock bio, it goes deep into the shadow world of drug addiction with few traces of light. Sing Backwards and Weep is also, and pardon the pun, an addictive read and I found it hard to resist Lanegan’s many misadventures, no matter how dire they became (and boy do things get harrowing!). 

This has as much to do with Lanegan’s knack for storytelling as it does the actual content of the book. My interest in grunge doesn’t extend much beyond my general fascination with trends of the ‘90s, but I still loved reading of Lanegan’s many encounters with some of the genres greatest personalities. In terms of his own history within the genre, Lanegan refrains from giving making of stories much of the spotlight, not surprising considering his outspoken dissatisfaction with pretty much everything surrounding his own grunge band, Screaming Trees. That said, I do wish Lanegan had imparted a few words on how he developed his velvet rasp singing style, especially given how well-loved a vocalist he is. 

Lanegan is masterful at humanizing the people in his life, and very few of the major bandmates, peers and enemies he writes about come across as two dimensional. I found myself feeling a great reverence for the same people he did and a disgust for those he didn’t (looking at you, Al Jourgensen). It’s quite a feat to pull this off when discussing someone who has been as deified as Kurt Cobain, but Lanegan brings the same realism to this friend as any other, especially in this passage about turning down appearing with Nirvana for the band’s legendary MTV Unplugged performance:     

“He was always looking for ways to shine light on my talents and lift me up, but his ideas often struck me as slightly embarrassing, inappropriate charity, if you will. It just felt weird to me as a relatively unknown singer to come out and do a song with the biggest band in the world during a taping of what was a very popular show.”

This trend of turning Big Things down leads to some of the most low-key depressing moments in the book, such as when Lanegan ghosts on an offer from David O. Russell to have his solo songs provide a crucial soundtrack to the mega-director’s debut, Spanking the Monkey. It was more convenient for Lanegan to stay in the 10 block radius of his Seattle apartment and shoot heroin, so why bother? 

This surrendering to narcotics only worsens as the book progresses and includes graphic withdrawals, desperate scores in hellish weather conditions, beating bait and switch dealers to a pulp, and ultimately homelessness. This is about as far from heroin chic as one can get, and it’s pretty miraculous that Lanegan is still with us today, although his portrayal of himself as a rough dude from a shitkicker town provides some elucidation as to why and how. 

Sing Backwards and Weep may be gritty, but Lanegan’s eloquence imbues even some of the most dismal situations with a kind of poetry. Following an incident that involves inadvertently having sex on fiberglass, Lanegan sums it up with the grimly elegant, “That was my life in a nutshell: a stolen moment of desperate pleasure, an assful of tiny daggers, then an eternity of agony.” Some rock memoirs revel in hedonism and dismal situations just as much as in moments of glory. In Sing Backwards and Weep, even flashes of pleasure are undercut with assfuls of fiberglass and genital warts. It’s not always pretty, but there’s something irresistible about it nonetheless. 

Rating: Would quarantine with again. 

*We watched Spanking the Monkey recently and it features lots of great Morphine songs instead of Lanegan solo and one scene features a nice shout-out by way of a Mark Lanegan poster on Jeremy Davies’ bedroom wall. So recommending this as well. 

[magioftheseas]

50 KomaHina Sentences

So a tag meme reminiscent of memes I used to see everywhere like, over five years ago  but not so much anymore was making rounds and I thought, Hey, you know what was ALSO a thing over five years ago and not so much anymore? THIS FIFTY-SENTENCE PROMPT THING.

And then next thing I knew, I filled out one that I literally had to dig out of my folders and.... Now there’s 50 sentences of single sentence komahina prompts. Hurrah. Have fun with this blast from the past.

sdr2-compliant in terms of main story and island mode, but also dr3-divergent (but perhaps closer to Bonus Mode from v3)

Warnings: Canon violence and Komaeda being Komaeda.

**Alternate Ao3 Link**

O—Ring

“Whatever shall I do,” he hummed as he observed the way the HPA ring glimmered on his finger. “I might just end up liking you more and more...”

O—Hero

“When heroes go through trials and tribulations, that just makes them stronger, doesn’t it—isn’t that how things work?”

O—Memory

“It’ll be like old times when we explored this island together—doesn’t that sound nice? Let’s go already, Hinata-kun!”

O—Box

No matter how he looked at it, that gaudy, glimmering pink thing didn’t match Komaeda’s tastes at all.

O—Run

“I’ll have to pass, but feel free to run around like a dog to your heart’s content!”

O—Hurricane

“Isn’t it beautiful, isn’t it lovely?” Komaeda gushes as Hinata can only watch with building unease and dread as the grays and greens in his irises swirl into a terrifying, chaotic mess.

O—Wings

Well... Hinata can’t help but think with a twinge of amusement as one of the birds nestled atop Komaeda’s head as Komaeda himself cooed at another perched upon his hand. That’s one crowd he’s popular with.

O—Cold

“Hinata-kun, you really are cold sometimes...” For some reason, he flinches at that, almost as though he recalled something unpleasant.

O—Red

“Hinata-kun?” Komaeda wonders, and the headache worsens as Komaeda says, almost breathlessly, “Your eyes...”

O—Drink

“So your favorite kind of soda is one that calms you down?”

O—Midnight

He’s up playing this stupid game at midnight because Komaeda begrudgingly had a point—not because Komaeda’s words got to him.

O—Temptation

“You tempted her, didn’t you—just like how you tempted me...”

O—View

“Are you always looking in the direction of the main building, Mr. Reserve Course?” he asks, almost teasingly, and Hinata turns away with a huff.

O—Music

As expected, his taste in music is also strange... Hinata thinks as he swipes through the list of songs on the surprisingly pink mp3 player.

O—Silk

Oh, Hinata thinks as he pinches the soft fabric between his fingers. So Komaeda favors curtains to blinds.

O—Cover

“You forgot your umbrella, right?” Hinata asks over his shoulder. “Come on, then, we can share mine so that you don’t catch a cold again.”

O—Promise

“It’s possible my talent might be utterly worthless, so—” “No way! I’m absolutely positive your talent will be something amazing, Hinata-kun!”

O—Dream

Going to HPA with his head held high had always been his dream, it had always been—Komaeda cuts those thoughts off with the cruel question of, “Were you just someone following trends?”

O—Candle

It should weird him out more than it does to see Komaeda looking so contemplative during blackouts, his thoughtful look illuminated by the candle’s dim glow.

O—Talent

“An immense talent is what gives birth to an immense hope—you do understand that, don’t you, Mr. Reserve Course?”

O—Silence

“I feel like I could enjoy even silence with you,” Komaeda murmurs, so softly that he might not have actually heard anything at all.

O—Journey

“In some stories, it’s the journey that matters,” Komaeda tells him cheerfully one day. “But truth be told, those kinds of stories don’t actually appeal to me at all.”

O—Fire

The fire is blazing on and on, and he’s remembering Komaeda’s crazed smile and laughter with his arms spread out, but what gets him running as fast as he can to the fire extinguishers is the realization that Komaeda is trapped in there.

O—Strength

“Don’t get the wrong idea... The reason why I talk to you, the reason why I try to understand you in spite of everything...is because I’m just a coward who’s scared of leaving everything as it is.”

O—Mask

Komaeda’s always smiling, always, even when he talks about all these horrible things that happened to him that make Hinata’s head hurt and his insides twist.

O—Ice

“Your hands are like ice,” he complains, to which Komaeda retorts, “I didn’t ask you to warm them.”

O—Fall

“Keep that up and I might just fall for you,” Komaeda teases to which he quickly laughs, waving his hand when Hinata shoots him a look. “I was just kidding—that thought’s way too unpleasant, isn’t it?”

O—Forgotten

Even though he knows he’ll forget everything towards the end, he’d like to stay friends with Hinata until then.

O—Dance

“Class trials are like poetry in motion,” Komaeda says with a sweep of his arm reminiscent of the bow before a waltz.

O—Body

Komaeda is frightening and unpredictable—but he’s also so frail that Hinata can’t help but be afraid for him as much as he’s afraid of him.

O—Sacred

“Talent is everything, the talented are everything,” Komaeda speaks with both agitation and reverence, and he’s shaking so badly that the thought comes, unbidden and unpleasant and absolutely unallowable of a reserve course student to think in regards to a SHSL, that perhaps Hinata should hold him.

O—Farewells

Don’t worry, Komaeda, I’ll definitely listen to your last words.

O—World

And at Komaeda’s last words, the world around them kept skipping and glitching with stopitstopitdontstop—check the web for more details.

O—Formal

“Hinata-kun, Mr. Reserve Course.” “Komaeda.”

O—Fever

“I’m fine—I’m always fine, I’ve never been better,” Komaeda babbles on and Hinata’s hand recoils from just how blazing the temperature of his forehead was.

O—Laugh

Sometimes, he can’t help but think about how Komaeda’s laughter, wheezy and hysterical and awful and terrifying, also sounds unbelievably painful.

O—Lies

“I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t get near me, I hate it when you’re near me,” Komaeda’s practically chanting as Hinata clicks his tongue in annoyance but brushes the sweaty ivory strands back all the same, his frown deepening as he notes that the fever doesn’t feel as though it’s died down even a little.

O—Forever

“Happiness is fleeting, fickle, and unreliable—but hope is absolute and eternal, so... I have need for little else, you see...”

O—Overwhelmed

“It’s not that you’re detestable or disgusting or whatever—you’re just overwhelming.”

O—Whisper

Komaeda’s voice is barely above a whisper, and it sounds so much like a confession except when Hinata hears what he actually has to say, he can’t help but laugh, “Oh, that’s all you wanted?”

O—Wait

“I’ll be fine because...even when my life is threatened by such despair and misfortune—there’ll always be good luck waiting up ahead, and I’ll always believe in the absolute hope that will someday arise.”

O—Talk

“It’s true that I’m never bored around you...” “Because I come up with such interesting conversation topics! Like—like...oh... Don’t worry, I’ll definitely come up with something!”

O—Search

“Hinata-kun!” Komaeda exclaims, with a resolve that he couldn’t help but find admirable. “Let’s do what we can just as our leader said, and see if we can find some clues!”

O—Hope

“Hinata-kun, from the bottom of my heart, I love...the hope sleeping inside of you.”

O—Eclipse

Blocking the view of the radiant, blinding sun is this white-haired, pale faced guy who’s worriedly asking if he’s okay and—dammit, he’s really not.

O—Gravity

He understands that in a situation like this, he can’t trust anyone and can’t even trust himself but—Komaeda’s soft smile and calming demeanor draws him in just as it had before and, hell, Hinata might cling to him a little harder if he neglects to keep himself in check.

O—Highway

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Hinata recalls but it’s hard to not suspect malice when Komaeda’s so gleeful about everything.

O—Unknown

I can finally find out Hinata-kun’s talent—he’ll be so happy when he knows! That was his last thought before everything shattered to dust as he read the profile in a long stretch of silence and nothing more than a confused, broken, “What...?”

O—Lock

It’s funny, it’s really, really funny as his heart struggles under the locks and chains he’s wrapped around himself upon finding out the truth—just because Hinata-kun’s pitiful expression was such an aching sight.

O—Breath

He’s not sure how long he spent breathing in spite of the bleeding wounds and his taped mouth, but he knows that when thoughts of Hinata-kun intersected the swirling thoughts of hope and despair—his breathing, for a moment, came out a little more wheezed as everything around him burned.