#i saw you writers and i honour your service

[scrollll]

Every single ao3 writer rn:

[langst-is-my-unborn-baby]

Dropping an ask down in your fab inbox! Would the fair writer consider the team pissing lance off for (insert langsty reason, like they’re all just being pricks or sth) and then lance just exploding and being a bamf as he big bro lectures the shit out of everyone (including shiro) Ending is up to you good sir of many talents I bid you adieu

The necessary author’s note: I made a few promises over the years to return to this account and to the fandom, and I’ve tried to start, and I have always failed. But I knew, the moment I went through my heaped inbox and saw your user – I had to try. You were one of my first supporters and really inspired me to get this blog as far as it went. So even if you’ve moved on, my return to VLD hell is in your honour.

 Binned Jacket

Perhaps the filter system of the castle was in need of servicing as Lance’s grimaced away his inability to breath coherently. Frustration was not a foreign feeling to him, of course not. He had always dived straight into arguments, letting his insecurities burn his bridges and bloat a boisterous ego. Regardless, he stewed in a beginning anger that left his cheeks hot. Of course, anger was a secondary emotion, it built on Lance’s unexplainable sadness.

 Scratch that- his sadness was most definitely explainable.

 “You got rid of my jacket?” the words had left his mouthbefore his thoughts could gather.

Allura’s gleaming look inferred that she had not taken his abhorrence seriously. Shiro beside her seemingly used to and unfazed by his loud tone. The team seemed incredibly nonchalant about what he considered a very personal attack.

“As I was saying, you are defending this Universe- ambassadors to many systems now. I just need to give you all that look,” Allura expressed, an uncalloused hand pressed against her chest as she preached. That look of far-gonejoy in her eyes was one that would have brought a smile to Lance’s face.

Lance could not help but snark back. “You only scrapped my clothes.” The twisted expression of his face made him feel moments away fromglowering. “You didn’t even just ask me not to wear it, you threw it.”

“Not threw, binned,” Pidge smiled from the couch, eyes never leaving her tablet. “Rest assured I’d be there if there was some coat-tossing game, my new gadget needs something to test its strengths.”

Lance could not believe it. Well, he could. It was becoming common to be laughed off by his teammates, for his possessions to be considered with little regard. He looked around, Shiro appeared to only be standing by to ensure Lance didn’t escalate this situation. Keith was arms-crossed and sighing. Coran smiling away behind Allura. Hunk was completely absorbed in his latest recipe transcription… bless him.

“Lance, I am going to give you new clothes,” Allura laughed, although it truly sounded humourless. “You understand that, don’t you? I am just tidying your appearance.”

“Pretty-boy does not want to hear that,” Keith said, whistling lowly afterwards. Shooting Lance, a quippy smile.

His jacket. His homely possession. His most genuine reminder of his sister Rachel who wore a matching copy.

“This is ridiculous,” Lance spat. “Where is your respect?” His eyes zeroed onto Allura, he was determined to hold her gaze, her gleeful expression fell in an instant.

Like the rotting of an apple, Shiro’s eyebrows drew together, a recognisable anger in his expression. Lance felt a tinge of a sting, string strangling his heart that struggled to beat evenly. His failing hero held his eyes momentarily. No apologetic look.

“Lance, refrain from such language,” Shiro said, his fingers running through his hair as he seemed to try to hide a huff of annoyance.

“It’s just a jacket, Lance,” Keith offered, a plain smile tempted his features. Dark eyebrows drawn together in parodied confusion. Lance’s chest constricted whilst his cheeks broke a hot and maddened red. Keith was finally warming from the cold rival he once was, but Lance felt revolted instead of pleased.

“It. Is. Not. ‘Just a jacket,’ you asshole,” Lance scoffed, his fingers making air quotation marks.

Shiro sounded breathless. “Lance!”

He was almost certain that a scolding was supposed tocontinue. Lance pushed his arms out, waving them off as he lifted his chin. “No,Shiro, you all-” the words fell from his mouth harshly. “You all can just listen.”

He was certain even Pidge was finally looking at him, shifting uncomfortably in her spot. Fingers running tirelessly against her tech as she sucked in a breath.

He made eye contact with Hunk, who had finally put down his work. The latter’s face has scrunched, his lips pointed downward. But Lance had trust. Hunk looked at him with concern but not contempt, he was worried, but he had not placed forth any expression of judgement. Bless him truly.

“You ‘binned’ my only reminder of my family, of my sister.” He was certain he saw Pidge lean back, shoulders tense and square. He turned to Allura, frustrated look unbreaking. “Tell me her name.”

“What?” She stuttered, wavering ever so slightly, a humbling discomfort appearing through her faulter.

“What is my sister’s name?” Lance repeated, an eyebrow raising.He turned. “Shiro, do you even know, I’ve told you.”

The man bristled, but then rubbed the back of his neck, eyes a wobble of confliction. “I don’t know.”

Keith’s voice came quiet but blunt. “How is this relevant, why does any of that matter?”

“Because it just does!” Lance said, fighting the urge to grab whoever was closest and shook them until they understood. “My sister, my person, the one who knows me better than any of you.”

“Lance-“ Allura tried her voice but fell silent. The galaxy fellsilent.

“But I thought you knew me, I thought you respected me, but what you did.” Lance struck a fierce look to Allura. “And to what you all allowed, encouraged. That was anything but.”

Shiro looked stricken, the first to look truly ashamed. “Lance,” he said, so quietly. His call of his name was different to Allura’s. It was remorseful, it was an attempt to tend a wound, but it was like a Band-Aid to a bullet-hole.

“We aren’t some team,” Lance suddenly shifted his gaze, hisfury burned as tears on the edge of his eyes. He steeled his stare to the ceiling. “All I had to connect me to Earth, and you took it from me. Rachel. I don’t know if she’s safe, if I’ll ever see her again.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

Allura had a hand on her chest when he finally composed himself.

“I’m here for the Galaxy that needs us. I’m here for you all. You need to meet me halfway because we aren’t teasing children nor unfriendly co-workers. We are a family, so act like it,” Lance said, the scold falling easy to his lips. How often had he once spoken like this to the family youngsters?

He looked back on his once trusted team, their slack expression. Lips itching to say something but choking on their knowledge that they was no listenable answer.

“Now, get my jacket back.”

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Jeremy Henzell-Thomas is an independent researcher, writer, speaker, educational consultant, former Visiting Fellow and Research Associate at the Centre of Islamic Studies at the University of Cambridge, and Associate Editor of the quarterly journal Critical Muslim. He was awarded an MBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours in 2021 for services to the Civil Society and the Muslim Community.

We share an issue of the physical heart...This is his musing on getting older.

“Approaching my 75th birthday I am reminded that getting older is often regarded (even stigmatised or stereotyped) as a time of declining faculties, increasing disability, and progressive crystallisation (one might even say ‘cementing’) of existing habits and attitudes, including ‘living in the past’ and getting ‘set in one’s ways’. In As you Like It Shakespeare famously depicts the final stage in the ‘Seven Ages of Man’ as one of dotage, senility and second childishness, culminating in ‘mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.’

Sadly, many seniors do see themselves as having been consigned to the ‘scrap-heap’, and even if they don’t they are often treated as such by others. I remember well a BBC interview with a very senior nursing officer on the mistreatment of elderly people in the healthcare system. Her explanation for the culture of neglect and abuse was simple. Fewer and fewer people, she said, had any religious faith or spiritual values, nor any belief in an afterlife. They therefore saw old people not as precious souls approaching the transition to the next stage of existence but only as dispensable material bodies which had outlived their usefulness. This rings true. Ageism and the culture of contempt for the old is the ultimate consequence of a brutal and nihilistic materialism which reduces everything to base physical utility, to a mere mortal body devoid of soul and spirit.

Well, I want to buck the trend and affirm that as we grow older, we are blessed with the opportunity to transcend the problems which come with age, and awaken those deeper faculties that connect us to our essential nature as fully human beings created ‘in the image of God’.For me, the experience of true intimacy is integral to that awakening. As the Qur’an tells us, God is ‘closer to you than your jugular vein.’ I love that affirmation because it confirms for me that aging offers a transformational opportunity to ‘come home’, to feel the Divine Presence intimately in the very core of the body. Several years ago I had a striking dream that I had descended from Mount Everest into the foothills, although I still had to descend further into the valleys and levels. The stunning 190-mile Pembrokeshire Coast Path in Wales, which I trekked at the age of 65, actually involves a total ascent of 30,000 feet, higher than Mount Everest, so the image of Everest in my dream was referring not only to the fact that it is the highest mountain but also that it was a ‘height’ that I had scaled in my walk.

I understand now that the gift of aging is to come down from the lofty heights of heroic personal achievement and transcendent spiritual experience and exercise more warmth, love, compassion, intimacy, reconciliation and tenderness in the immanence of our relationship with others and with the world at large. In short, to become more fully human.In one sense, the transition to a Heart-centred life runs counter to the process of aging, for the physical heart is subject to various diseases. These include coronary heart disease, which occurs when the heart muscle's blood supply is blocked by a build-up of fatty substances in the coronary arteries, and aortic stenosis, when calcification causes narrowing of the aortic valve which reduces blood flow. I am familiar with the latter, as I have a bicuspid aortic valve, a congenital condition which causes stenosis, and which is monitored annually by echocardiogram. It has recently progressed from a mild to a moderate level and I am told that when it reaches a severe level I will need a replacement valve, perhaps before I reach the age of 80.

The physical deterioration of the heart, as manifested in ‘narrowing’, ‘blocking’ and ‘hardening’ offers useful analogies to similar defects in the psyche. We can speak of someone having a ‘hard heart’ or a ‘narrow view’ without in any way implicating the physical organ. In the same way, the word ‘sclerotic’ can be used to describe someone’s thinking or behaviour as rigid and unresponsive, losing the ability to adapt, without referring to sclerosis as a physical condition.

Given the common stereotype of growing old as a time of the narrowing of one’s outlook, I am very much aware of how this tendency (one might say ‘disease’) needs to be countered by cultivating a soft, open and expansive Heart that brings light, love, healing words, and compassion into one’s life and the lives of others. As I age, and hopefully before I need a replacement aortic valve, I pray that I might be true to my own Heart, and thereby to exemplify the Sufi injunction to ‘die before you die’, to let go of the egoic or false self, and live and speak by the light of the true Self. There comes a time when one must sincerely embody and enact what one knows and expresses in words.I love the moment in the film Greystoke (accompanied by the noble opening theme of Elgar’s first symphony) when Tarzan returns home to the place of his ancestry, the beautiful country estate of his elderly grandfather, the Earl of Greystoke. My eyes fill with tears when Tarzan alights from his carriage and is embraced by the earl, played with great feeling by Ralph Richardson. This ‘coming home’ is deeply symbolic for me. Tarzan, lost in the jungle, comes home after years of exile from his family, culture and native land, to be welcomed with open arms by his grandfather.

But my response is not an intellectual response to symbolism but a profound emotional feeling of ‘returning’ to the place where we all belong. In so doing, we fulfil the purpose of our lives, which is none other than the realisation of our essential unity with the ground of being. It is coming to rest in old age, in that remembrance of our ‘origin’, which on the deepest level is none other than being embraced by the ultimate Source of Love.”

[Thank you Ian Sanders]

[marwahstudios]

Cashmir Bears Throne Book by Renzushah Released at Noida Film City

Noida: “When I have a little money, I buy books; That’s the thing about books. They let you travel without moving your feet. You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them. Books are the best companions,” said Dr. Sandeep Marwah President of Marwah Studios while releasing the 23rd book of Khawaja Farooq Renzushah at Asian Academy of Film and Television.

Khawaja Farooq Renzushah is a former officer of Kashmir Administrative Service and renowned Writer. His 23rd book “Cashmir Bears Throne” saw light of the day in a grand function at Marwah Studios, Noida Film City, where Renzushah described the reasons for writing this book. He also narrated some of the stories which were quite emotional. He also presented copies of the book to the dignities present there.

The event was designed by Writers Associations of India and Asian Academy of Arts. Dr. Manoj Agarwal Director AAFT School of Performing Arts and Dr Ajay Jha Executive Director of AAFT also spoke on the subject. Later Sandeep Marwah honoured Khawaja Farooq Renzushah with memento and invited him to the next Global Literary Festival.

[scribbuluswrites]

The Remembrance

Jinkies, guys. I can’t believe another week has passed. For me, it’s been... to put it bluntly, abysmal. But! We’re on to a new weekend and better things. 

I hope you guys have had a great week and every thing is going your way :)

Thanks for reading and sticking with me. If you’re enjoying the story, please let me know! Comments and the ilk keep writers writing!

It took a few days for Katarina to get a wake organised for Dorothy. It had been important to Happy to have a gathering to remember her life, but he was completely against a funeral. A stern service or something in a church wouldn’t fit her. 

Kat had spent several hours making sure all of the food was made and organised out on a buffet table. She had wanted to make a slideshow or hang photos of Dorothy throughout her life, but Happy had told her they were all locked in a storage unit and couldn’t be accessed right now. 

She’d accepted it, planning her own trip there once Happy had another run. She could surprise him with a few nice photos at the house instead. 

Earlier in the day, Happy’s aunt and two of his cousins had shown up at the rented spot. They had immediately jumped in to help, hanging decorations and helping Katarina to finish up Dottie’s favourite recipes. Kat had held her breath when Happy’s aunt tried some of her cooking, terrified that it wouldn’t measure up. However, she’d been wrapped up in a big hug instead, the older woman grateful that Katarina had put so much effort in.

People had started arriving later in the day, but Kat hadn’t seen or heard from Happy yet. She knew he was uncomfortable dealing with his emotions in front of so many people, but he also wanted to do this last thing for his mother. He’d be here when he was ready.

Jax and Opie had shown up, each dressed in their best to show their respect for their brother’s mom. The rumble of bikes had been familiar, giving Kat a small amount of hope that Happy was finally here. He didn’t materialise, though, so she made herself scarce, knowing it was best to keep herself separate from the club. 

Happy arrived about a half hour later. He’d sat in the car park for a while, getting his head in the right spot. It was comforting to see how many people had shown up to honour Dorothy. 

Inside, his heart swelled at the sight of his family and club all mixed together. The smell of Dorothy’s recipes was so familiar, and he nearly forgot that this wasn’t a regular family get together. One of the dishes wasn’t as common, and Happy recognised the variation Kat and his mom had created. 

He ran his finger over the top of a picture frame, grinning at the photo of him and his mother at the coast a few years ago. Happy glanced around, noticing Katarina was nowhere around. 

Before he could go looking for her, Jackson approached him. He wrapped the taller man in a brief hug, patting his back firmly. 

“Sorry for your loss, brother,” Jax said, standing back to let Opie offer his own condolences. 

“I appreciate you guys coming by,” Happy said, nodding. 

“We’d all be here, but-”

“It’s all good,” Happy interrupted Jax. In a way, he was glad there were only a few club members here. He trusted these two not to talk about Katarina, and it allowed Happy to relax just a bit more. “You guys seen Kat around?” 

“I thought I saw her head into the kitchen area, but it’s been a while,” Jax offered, not noticing the tension in Happy’s shoulders. Happy didn’t know why she’d be hiding out. She needed to be out here.  

“I’m gonna go check on her,” Happy said, clapping Jax on the back before walking away. 

He got caught up with a few more friends and family, accepting handshakes and condolences as he made his way to the kitchen. Happy did his best to acknowledge all of the people who’d come out to offer support, but he was starting to wonder why Kat wasn’t here. 

Finally, he got a moment alone, walking through the door into the back area. Kat was leaning against the counter, her head snapping up as she heard someone else come in. 

“Hey, you’re here,” she said quietly, pushing off the counter to walk towards him. 

“Why aren’t you out there?” he asked, tilting his head at her. Happy didn’t make a move to reach for her, and it made Kat wonder if he was annoyed.

“I was,” she disagreed, toying with her necklace. “I came in here when Jax showed up. I figured you’d want me to,” she shrugged. 

Happy sighed, finally reaching for her hand. “Today, I need you with me,” he murmured, tugging her closer. “No distance,” he added, kissing the top of her head. 

“Ok,” Kat nodded, leaning into Happy as he pulled her into a hug. “You just keep me as close as you want today.” She slid her arms around his waist under the kutte. 

After a few more minutes, Happy pulled himself away, ready to get back to the people outside. He kept a tight grip on Kat’s hand. As he caught Opie’s glance, Happy fought down the urge to put distance between them. 

“Have you met Opie before?” Happy asked quietly, leading Kat towards the bikers. Kat shook her head. Happy took her over, introducing her again to the others as well. 

Jax glanced at their clasped hands, giving Happy a questioning look. 

“Stays between us,” Happy muttered, understanding the unasked question. Jackson grinned at him, giving him a shrug that let Happy know it was his business, not the club’s.

Jackson got an urgent call, he and Opie leaving early. The rest of Happy’s family stayed around until late into the evening. The old stories and drinks held out until the owner had to ask them to leave, needing to close for the night. 

Katarina was surprised that Happy didn’t take off with the MC. She wasn’t sure if he was finally accepting their offered day off, or if Happy knew he had too much on his mind to be of any help. 

“Do I get you to myself tonight?” Kat asked, walking into the house behind Happy. It felt emptier without Dorothy. Happy looked at her curiously, wondering what exactly she meant. “Jax said it was an emergency,” she shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t mind her overhearing. 

Understanding dawned on Happy. “I need my own space tonight,” he told her, offering Kat a beer from the fridge. He’d shucked his boots and kutte at the front door, and Katarina took a moment to enjoy how he looked. It was rare to see Happy as he was, rather than as the club badass. 

Katarina took the drink, following Happy to the living room. He flopped down on the couch, patting the space next to him. Kat curled up against his side, folding her legs under her. 

Happy turned on the TV, flicking through channels until he found an old action movie. His fingers traced little patterns on Katarina’s arm, and it felt like a regular night in. Kat snuggled up closer, resting her head on his shoulder. She let out a quiet chuckle, not looking up as she felt Happy shift to glance at her. 

“Something funny, little girl?” 

“Not funny, exactly. It’s just.. This was such a tough day. It was great to hear all those stories and get to feel like part of your family, but damn, that was…” Katarina trailed off again, shaking her head. 

“Heavy?” Happy offered. 

“Very heavy, “ she agreed. “Despite all of that, though, this feels really nice.” 

Happy grinned faintly, moving so that Kat was no longer cuddled up against him. He tipped her head up, pressing a kiss to her lips. 

“You ain’t like family; you are family,” Happy rasped, holding her gaze. Kat’s eyes went wide, but she tried to recover quickly. “I’m gonna make sure I find a way, Kat, and once I do,” he said, pausing to kiss her again. “Once I do, I’m gonna make sure everyone knows you’re mine.” 

Katarina tried not to look as surprised as she felt, wondering if she could push him just a little further. “Happy Lowman, are you going to make me your old lady?” she asked, grinning at him. Happy just smirked, though, looking very pleased with himself. 

“Nah, I was thinking I’d make you my wife,” he said, acting like it was the most casual thing to say. Happy turned back to the TV, taking a swig of his beer. He was still grinning, and he could feel Kat still watching him. “You’re gonna miss the twist,” he added, tilting his head towards the screen. 

Kat didn’t turn back to the TV, though. She scrambled up from her seat, tossing her leg over Happy’s lap. He tried to look around her, chuckling when Katarina put her hands on his cheeks, holding him still. He looked rapturous, a giant smile on his face as he covered Kat’s hands with his own. 

Tags: @gemini0410 @scuzmunkie @woahitslucyylu @chibsytelford @jitterbugs927 @yourwonkywriter @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @withmyteeth @est1887 @poge-life

[mk-wizard]

Big Hero 6 The Series: It could have been better

Hello, friends. Today, I will be analyzing a TV series based on a movie that I fell in love with for its colourful themes, deep plot, compelling characters, great CGI and memorable messages. Before I get into it, I want to take a moment to say that I have quit doing videos. They are too big of a pain in the petunia to make and I write better than I speak, so I will stick to writing essays, reviews and more. Anyway, onto the analysis.

All I can say about Big Hero 6 the series is that it had a great concept, it presented some great ideas and tried hard to be a cartoon of the times, but it could have and should have been a lot better. The show’s downfall all centers around trying too hard to be kid friendly which makes the shame sting all the more because Big Hero 6 was already kid friendly even with its dark themes, sharp edges and intelligent writing. If anything, even the brightest kid friendly cartoons (Steven Universe, She-Ra, etc.) had those things and actually benefitted from them. By needlessly trying too hard, character development got scrapped, the edges were all smoothed out, storytelling was subpar, the humour was too silly and the executive meddling in the end produced a dismal final season. However, I don’t want this analysis to be one lengthy negative rant about how awful the series was because in its defense, awful is an unfair word. It did have potential and ideas which are worth carrying over to a reboot that I hope will be done someday in the future. Also, we should root for a reboot because Big Hero 6 would not be the first story that needs it before striking gold. Just look at how many times Spider-Man was rebooted in film before MCU found the version that worked. Anyway, I will list all the things in Big Hero 6 that could have been better in my opinion;

1- Go easy on the laughs and be more generous with the action. - I love adding comedy to my own writing because I think a good sense of humour makes everything better, but Big Hero 6 is not a stand up comedy routine. It is a superhero story where we expect action, suspense and life or death situations that are to be taken seriously first. The comedy should be for relief and with the right timing. Also, the chibi cutscenes and having characters act like fools aren’t funny. Ren and Stimpy are the exception not the standard and their way of making you laugh doesn’t fit an action series. In a show as big as Big Hero 6, real life physics and danger matters.

2- Make the villains menacing and gritty. - I admit that after having a movie villain like Yokai who was the stuff of nightmares, it is going to be a challenging act to follow, but it was obvious that the writers were trying especially with some villains who could have easily gone into some dark relatable territory. For example, Mr. Sparkles (the gentleman in the photo above) embodies social media and Internet personalities. Right off the bat, you have a long list of things which embody the dark side of that like scams, fraud, using social media to dox or harass, driving people to suicide, online predators, the Internet personalities being very depressed people in real life, and much more horrifying things. When you stop and look at it, Mr. Sparkles even looks like the Joker which hints how dark and scary he could have been if the stops were removed. The same goes for enemies like Hardlight who embodies online gaming, Liv with cloning, Obake an amoral and insane scientist, and Trina and Noodle Burger Boy (more on him later) being evil robots. Globby especially should have been painted and written in much darker colours rather being played off for laughs because he has many parallels with Clay Face. The only two villains who I can say were supposed to be campy, charming and comical were Baron Von Steamer and Supersonic Sue because they were a satire of the Adam West style villains.

The rest of them needed to be dark and threatening including Mr. Sparkles. In fact, I would love a rebooted version of Mr. Sparkles who gives me the heebie-jeebies. Going back to Noodle Burger Boy, I must confess that I was actually excited when I heard that he was going to be the main villain of the final season because I thought he was going to fulfill his master’s final wish and as a reminder, Noodle Burger Boy was based on a super robot for military purposes.

It would have been fantastic if Noodle Burger Boy was upgraded into a full military war machine with a new threatening look. For that, I think all of the villains deserve to be rebooted and have their full potential unlocked for better or for worse.

3- A show about geniuses merits genius level art quality. - I am usually forgiving towards art styles, but in the case of Big Hero 6, the oversimplified style with minimal details and lack of textures did not suit the show. The characters blend in with the background which makes them look flat and the special effects were extremely dulled down. I also know for a fact that Disney can do a lot better than this because I saw how superbly Tangled the Series was drawn.

You can see and almost feel the difference in quality, the number of layers and level of detail between the two styles. I think there was no excuse Big Hero 6 was not done in the same style and at the same level if not better as Tangled.

3- Don’t dumb down or flanderize amazing characters. - I absolutely detest it when characters are flanderized because it makes them one dimensional and grating. For example, Go Go is tough as nails and extremely calm, but she is not cold or hesitant towards helping her friends. She doesn’t require very special episodes for us to know that. If anything, the movie version of Go Go reminded me a lot of Garnet in how she deconstructed the broody character. She isn’t cold or emotionless. Just calm and mature. Another good example was how Honey Lemon was rewritten to be overly positive to the point of toxicity, naïve and oblivious with a juvenile obsession with stickers. Then you have poor Fred who was rewritten to be an incompetent fool. The spark that makes Big Hero 6 shine is that they are a team of geniuses meaning they are all intelligent. Even Fred is genius in his own way just not a scientific one. He has a vivid imagination, he is resourceful and can get himself out of tight spots. Please, don’t turn characters into dummies especially if their intelligence is a part of them. It doesn’t make them better or funnier. It ruins them.

4- Tadashi needs closure and honour. - I am all for Hiro making peace with the loss of his brother, but Tadashi is to the Big Hero 6 team what Uncle Ben was to Spider-Man. His loss was the catalyst if not the reason. He should never be forgotten. Moreover, there was never any true closure to him especially with the possibility that he may still be alive up in the air. After all, like Callaghan, his body was never found and it turned out that Callaghan was still alive.

With that said, who is to say that Tadashi was not secretly still alive and just hiding or being hidden? This is something that Disney really needed to clear up if not for the fans, then at least as a service to such an important character. Never just forget about them.

5- The format can only be episodic with a deep plots, continuity and character development. - Random episodes with a mere monster of the day is an outdated format which doesn’t fit Big Hero 6′s modern and bright setting. In seasons 1 and 2, when the episodes were plot heavy with character development, the series shined brightest. It also helped move the story along, but with the final season, plot was removed, closure was abandoned or poorly written if any was given, and characters were disallowed from growing. A good example at how plot and character development could have made this series and its characters better was the relationship between Hiro and Megan. Would it have truly survived or would they have broken up?

Would Richardson Mole have eventually lost interest in his obsession with besting and bullying Fred or would his obsession consume him compelling him to become a super villain? I do see quite a few similarities between Mole and Reverse Flash.

Then you have Karmi who is in my opinion, the biggest wild card of the bunch. She was intentionally introduced as an arrogant, prickly and unlikable yet complex character who rivaled Hiro bitterly.

Yet had a huge crush on his alter ego and as time went on, started to grow up and even form a friendship with Hiro. What would have happened further down the road with her? Would she have become a super hero herself? Or maybe even another love interest for Hiro kind of like how Black Cat is for Spider-Man?

Is Obake really gone?

What does the future hold Diana (Liv’s clone), Liv herself or the Sycorax the genetics company?

Is Alistair Krei going to become an ally to Big Hero 6 or an antagonist? There is also the issue at how little we know about the other Big Hero 6 characters other than Fred, Hiro and Baymax. What are Honey Lemon, Wasabi and Go Go’s backstories? These questions matter and while not every mystery can be solved, leaving none of them solved is lazy writing.

6- Executives, kindly stay out of the writing and any other part of the creative process. - I’m sorry, execs, but there is no nice way to say it. History itself proves that every time executives got involved in the creative process of any media, it got worse not better. Leave the writing to the creative team and the execs should only handle the legal stuff. Please. We understand that TV is a business, but writing itself is not. It is an art which you just don’t have a talent for. Let the creative people do their thing with the freedom necessary and you do your thing, deal? Deal.

7- Focus on Hiro and Baymax. - The are the main characters so keep them at the heart of the series no matter what happens around them. That is all I can say.

And that sums up all the things that could have made Big Hero 6 the series better, but this is all just my opinion. What is yours?

PS: I am well aware that the Big Hero 6 series is being retconned because a new series called Baymax is in the works as well as the long awaited sequel to the first movie. I am looking forward to both with an open mind. PPS: I also am aware that some people liked this show the way it was including the art style and I am cool with that. An analysis for art that includes cartoons is never right or wrong. It is solely based on opinion. I may have thought this series could have been better, but there are people who make arguments that it could have been worse.

[bookstantrash]

A/N: I am sorry for taking so much to post this chapter. I was suffering from a severe writer’s block and uni is driving me crazy.

You can check here Pemberley’s Lake and Hooked on You, part one and part two of my Nessian Pride and Prejudice AU.

Shout out to @arinbelle for having requested THE rain scene present in the 2005 version. I had to change a few things to fit it in this fic, but I hope you like it nonetheless!!

Smells like petrichor and paper

“This is not what I was expecting”

Cassian dropped the pressed daisy chain he was holding, looking up to see none other than his brother, Azriel.

“Mother’s tits, brother! You gave me a fright! What are you doing here?” Cassian inquired, finding it strange to see the Chief of the Royal Intelligence at Pemberley when he had promptly disposed of him not three days ago.

“Good to see you too brother” Azriel snorted, sitting in front of him “ I thought you had left all your work at the office”

Cassian glanced at the piles of paper on his table. He was currently in his study, a place he usually avoided when he was at Pemberley unless he had any remaining work from his office to do. No wonder Azriel was surprised to see him there.

“This is not work” he said, arranging the papers and putting them in the drawer, along with the daisy chain.

Cassian did not want Azriel inquiring after the delicate object. Not after his brother had seen how affected by Nesta he was. Azriel would probably tease him about having pressed the daisy chain and made a bookmark out of it, pity on his eyes.

“For what do I owe the pleasure of having your delightful presence here?” he inquired.

“Good to see you missed me” Azriel said “Me and Georgie thought it would be better to come and see if you were alive.”

“Georgiana is here?”

Cassian had not seen his younger sister in a while now. He missed his dear sister deeply.

“She said she would look at your horses and decide which she would take for herself after you were declared dead” his brother smirked “She will be quite sad to know you are alive”

He took back his words.

He did not miss the wild brat at all.

“Let’s wait for that devil at the parlor. I have some guests that are due to arrive any minute now”

“Guests?” Azriel asked in surprise as they left Cassian’s study “I came here expecting to find you wallowing in self-pity but instead you are expecting guests? Do enlighten me brother”

“Lady Nesta and her friends are coming” Cassian mumbled, passing by Lumière — his kind hearted but rebellious maître d' who likes to annoy Cogsworth — requesting him to warn Mrs.Potts to bring the refreshments earlier, given Azriel and Georgiana’s unexpected visit.

“What was that again?” Azriel stumbled over a chair, his head snapping so fast in Cassian’s direction that he swore he had heard a cracking sound.

“Lady Nesta Archeron and some friends of hers are coming today” Cassian answered, sitting down and hoping his sister’s inquiries would not be as bothersome as Azriel’s.

“You invited her all the way to Pemberley?”

“Cauldron no! I arrived at Pemberley and they were visiting the state” Cassian laughed in disbelief  “She did not even know I was the owner. They came yesterday  and we went fishing on the property.”

“And she is coming back again?” his brother raised an eyebrow in question.

“I am showing them the rest of the state, nothing more” Cassian was glad Azriel had not read the papers on his desk, least his brother see the bullet list he had written down, which consisted of places he planned to show Nesta and her friends, not to say the rest of his planning for the day.

He had to make Azriel believe he was completely over Nesta Archeron.

Nevermind that could not be the furthest from the truth.

Nevermind he was so enamoured with her he had pressed the daisy chain she had given him and turned it into a bookmark.

Cassian did not know if he would ever get anything from Nesta again.

So he was going to treasure what she was willing to give him now. Even if it was not enough.

Even if his heart yearned for more with each passing moment he spent in her presence.

“You wear your heart for all to see, brother” Azriel said, a knowing look on his face “I just worry you end up hurt because of it.”

“Good thing you will be here to put it back together, right?” Cassian gave him a sly grin, wanting to not worry his brother with his hopeless love life.

They were interrupted by the door opening and Mrs.Potts arriving with tea and pastries, Georgiana right behind the head maid.

“Oh, you are alive” his fifteen yeard old sister declared, a sad look on her face that made Cassian almost believe her, were it not for the small dimple on the corner of her mouth, which always appeared when she was trying not to smile.

Georgiana had always been a good actress, Rhysand having jokingly said on more than one occasion she should join the theater were she not to marry.

“That is how you greet your favourite brother?” Cassian said, placing a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

“Currently, Azriel is my favourite brother” Georgiana announced, sitting on the couch beside him, her pale pink dress fanning around her “He bought me a strawberry cake yesterday”

“But I have some double dipped chocolate cookies right here” Cassian thanked Mrs.Potts, who gave Georgiana a plate with them, winking at his sister before leaving the room.

“Sorry Zizi, Cassian is my favourite now” she said, taking a huge bite of one cookie.

Cassian laughed at that, Azriel smiling at the nickname. Georgiana could not say his name when she was younger, sticking with Zizi until she was ten years old.

He could not help but feel a little sad to see his baby sister all grown up. Soon she would be entering society and start being courted. Not that either him or his brothers would give her hand for just anybody, and Georgie was free to choose to not marry at all. She had that privilege being the sister of a duke and the two of the highest ranking people at the Queen’s service. No one would dare and say a thing were Georgie to be a spinster or really join a theater company.

“My Lord,” Cogsworth interrupted his wandering thoughts, entering the parlor “Your guests have arrived.”

“And the ladies look very pretty” Lumière teased, earning an elbow on the ribs by Cogsworth.

Cassian for once did not laugh at their usual bickering, having sat straighter and looking at the door, holding his breath.

The ladies were indeed very pretty, courtesy of Emerie of course. Although today she had chosen to wear a dress, it was once again unique. With long see through sleeves, pearls and light turquoise flowers on the bodice of a dress in the same colour — a matching long scarf taking the attention off the gown’s deep neckline — and a big transparent hat with the same palette of colour on her head, Cassian could not blame Georgiana’s wide eyed look at Emerie, who was for sure nothing like any other lady his sister had ever seen.

Gwyn wore a gown with the same off shoulder design as last time, but with short sleeves and three quarters lace gloves. Her hair was once again free and held back only by a merigold ribbon, the same colour as her dress. Cassian wondered if she had a matching dress for each ribbon she wore, and how she could possibly have so many ribbons.

But as soon as Nesta came into view, Cassian forgot all about ribbons and the others present in the parlor. He could not understand how she looked more beautiful each time he saw her, and they had parted for less than a day. She wore a tawny gown with sleeves that reached her elbows and that had ruffles at their end, the rest of her arm bare.

Nesta Archeron wore no gloves.

That fact alone had Cassian’s heart beating harder.

“Brother, will you introduce us to your guests?” Georgiana said, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

“Of course, right away” clearing his throat and standing up, Cassian introduced the party of five, his sister clapping her hands and exclaiming in delight when she heard Gwyn’s name.

“Oh! I cannot believe I am meeting the prima donna of the year! It is an honour”

“Thank you” Gwyn blushed, still not used to all the attention.

“My brother Azriel is a big fan of your singing” Georgiana said with a sly smile, the only one who had noticed that her usually quiet brother had a ribbon of the same exact colour as the one in the singer’s hair tied around his black hat “He has been to nearly all of your shows if I reckon correctly.”

“I– You– I mean” Azriel stuttering was something so out of the ordinary that Cassian had to bite his knuckles to avoid laughing out loud.

“I am but a simple appreciator of the fine arts” Azriel said, avoiding Gwyn’s eyes.

“It pleases me to know someone so important has time to appreciate my music” the opera singer replied, her blush deeping.

“Please, have a seat” Cassian managed to say, still holding his laughter “My staff prepared some refreshments.”

They all obliged, Nesta sitting directly in front of him.

“I am tempted to steal your staff, sir” Emerie declared, her eyes shining when she spotted the strawberry tart.

“I will have to agree with Emerie this time” Balthazar said between bites of a ham sandwich “Your hospitality and service is the best I have seen”

Cassian’ staff had once again outdid themselves. He did not know how, but they had managed to assemble all of his guests favourite foods and drinks. Were they secretly part of his brother’s web of spies?

“I will pass the message to them. They will be very happy to hear that.” he said, going out of his way to pour Nesta a cup of peppermint tea.

“Thank you, your grace” she said, taking the cup from him, their fingers brushing.

Cassian thanked the Mother that Nesta did not wear gloves today. Little did he know it was all part of Emerie’s plan to get them together.

“So Lady Nesta is the reason you were mopping?” Georgiana asks him, hiding her smile behind her cup of tea.

“I beg your pardon” Cassian blurted out, glancing at the lady in question to make sure she had not heard the comment.

“You and Lady Nesta. Azriel and Miss Berdara” she threw a knowing glance at her other brother “Am I on the way to gaining two sisters?”

That last comment had both gentlemen spitting their drinks out.

“Careful brothers, the tea is quite hot” Georgiana said, gently blowing her own drink.

Cassian exchanged an exasperated glance with Azriel, imagining just how much more embarrassing situations his sister would put them through.

Thankfully, the rest of their tea time went uninterrupted. Cassian was really anxious to show them the rest of his home, apart from what was usually open to the public.

“Would you like to start the tour? It is a once in a lifetime chance to know all the secrets Pemberley has”

“Oh, do you have any secret passages? I always wondered if what they wrote in the books was true or just make believe” Gwyn said with an almost childlike gleam in her eyes.

“Only one way to know” Cassian answered, winking.

“Brother, may I show Mr. Oristian and Madame Emerie our stables?” Georgiana asked, and he could not help but wonder what she was planning “I take he will appreciate your fine breed horses, and I would like to request Madame Emerie to design me new riding clothes”

“I see no reason to object, as long as our guests agree with the decision” he replied.

“Glance at the General’s famous horses? Count me in” Balthazar said, having heard how special the General Commander’s horses were.

“What an amazing idea young lady! You’re very lucky I never go out without my sketch journal!” Emerie exclaimed in delight, having caught up on Georgiana’s plan “I shall make the most memorable clothes ever!”

“My brothers will be happy to pay any price for them, will you not dear brothers?” the young lady blinked innocently.

“Anything for you Georgie” Azriel said, already planning to send the bill to Rhsyand.

They promptly went their separate ways, Georgiana leading Balthazar and Emerie towards the stables, taking Emerie’s arms on hers like life long friends, conspiratory smiles in both their faces.

~•~

First stop, the library.

Cassian knew it was a common visiting spot, but it was shown briefly so the visitors would have time to do a tour of the whole state.

“Are the ladies prepared?” Cassian asked with suspense, his hand hovering on the doorknob.

Nesta and Gwyn nodded, and he opened the door with a flourish.

“I present you, Pemberley’s library”

The library in Pemberley had already been famous when Cassian acquired the state. Apparently, the previous owner had been so in love with his wife — which had a frail health and could not go out for too long — that he had built it for her as a gift. The lord sold the state after his wife passed away, the only request that the library was kept as it was. Cassian was secretly a romantic at heart, and had not only taken great care of the space since becoming its new owner, but also added his own books to the already big collection.

“It’s beautiful” Gwyn exclaimed, looking around, particularly intrigued by the painted ceiling, which portrayed scenes so beautiful they looked almost real to the touch.

Nesta was awfully quiet since he had opened the door, and he dared to steal a glance at her. But all thoughts that she had not liked the place went flying out of his head when he saw her expression.

For the first time, Nesta could not hide her emotions and expressions about what she was feeling. She had a hand over her heart, her breath knocked out her. When Mrs.Potts had shown them the place, it had been a rushed visit and she had not been able to really look at it.

But now she could not look away.

Nesta turned in circles, drinking it all in, from the floor to ceiling light brown shelves — stairs leaning on them to help reach the highest ones —  to the statues, maps and other decorations around the room.

Looked at the couches and tables distributed to accommodate the readers.

She blinked, trying desperately not to make a fool out of herself and cry. There were so many books, the smell of paper filling her lungs.

Gwyn and Azriel moved along the place, the first one eager to explore it and Cassian took the opportunity to bashfully stare at Nesta.

She looked the happiest he had ever seen her, not even daring to blink least she lost some important detail of the library.

“This is beautiful” she finally managed, turning around to see Cassian looking at her with so much adoration and some feeling she could not quite place in his eyes.

“I am glad you like it” he smiled at her, Nesta’s heart missing a beat “You may come here and read as many as you like whenever you are nearby.”

“I do not want to impose” she said.

“Nonsense” Cassian waved a hand, dismissing her worries “The library is quite lonely since I am most of the time away”

“That would be wonderful. I cannot thank you enough”

“Having a stroll near the garden with me would be enough payment” he offered, knowing he was testing his luck.

Cassian tried to forget how their last stroll in the garden had been like. He would not act as stupid as last time and jeopardize it all.

“Nesta! There are music books here!” Gwyn appeared before Nesta could answer him, clutching a book to her chest “I have been searching for this one for so long!”

“Miss Berdara was indeed very happy when she spotted it '' Azriel informed with a small smile, recalling how the singer had squealed in excitement.

Gwyn blushed, looking away from the gentleman beside her.

“Why don’t we move on with our tour and rest a little at the music room?” Cassian suggested “I have just bought a pianoforte that must be begging to be used”

“Azriel can accompany you, he is a well versed pianist” he added slyly, having seen how his brother was unusually flushed when close to the opera singer.

“You play?” Gwyn asked in surprise.

“No. I mean, yes but-” the Chief of the Royal Intelligence cleared his throat, his ears warming “I do play a bit, but not on the professional level.”

“How wonderful!” Nesta exclaimed “Why don’t you show Gwyn the music room? I am feeling quite hot, so Lord Cassian and I will step outside for a bit.”

Cassian could not believe his ears. Had Nesta Archeron truly accepted his offer?

“It is decided then! Please, show me the way Mr. Pianist” Gwyn said, taking Azriel by the arm before he could remember how to talk, a dumbfounded expression on his face.

The library door closed behind them, leaving Nesta and Cassian alone since their dreadful encounter at Feyre’s ball.

“Shall we then?” he said after a while, breaking the silence.

“Is there another route to the garden?” Nesta asked, furrowing her browns in confusion when Cassian walked away from the big oak door Gwyn and Azriel had exited the library by.

He gave her a boyish smile, full of mischief.

“Ready to find out if what I said about secret passages is true?”

Stopping in front of a normal looking shelf, he felt the wood until a clicking sound was heard and the shelf revealed itself to be actually a door that opened to reveal a staircase spiraling down.

“Lead the way” Nesta answered, chin held high as she walked in his direction.

~•~

The rain came out of nowhere. One minute Cassian was watching Nesta play with his hunting dogs —  who were in truth very sweet despite their rough and menacing appearance —  like the fool in love that he was and the next they were drenched down to their bones.

“There’s a greenhouse not too far!” he tried to say above the pouring rain “Come with me!”

Clasping their hands, Cassian quickly led them to take cover there, as they were too far from the main state.

He let a sigh of relief when he saw the greenhouse, taking no time opening the door and ushering Nesta in.

They could see the rain falling heavily outside through the glass panels, different kinds of flowers and herbs all around them, making it seem as if they were in a magic forest.

“That was a surprise” Cassian said “It has been a while since it rained this hard”

He looked at Nesta, water dripping from his hair and he found her staring at their still clasped hands.

“I am sorry” he exclaimed, dropping her hand even though his mind shouted at him to never let her go.

“Here, take my coat” Cassian added, putting it around her shoulders “I would not want to be the reason of you falling sick”

“T-thank you” Nesta said, momentarily distracted by the fact that Cassian’s white shirt had become see-through due to the rain.

Against her better wishes, her thoughts wandered back to the day she had seen him shirtless and dripping wet by the lake, the same funny feeling low in her stomach reappearing as she followed a droplet of water fall from his shoulder length hair and run down his neck.

Nesta was so distracted she froze in shock when he raised his hand, brushing her wet hair away from where it was sticking to her face. His fingers lingered on her skin — Nesta once again wondering how he could still be so warm despite the cold rain  — and she gasped, half from how weirdly attractive he looked and half from pain.

“You are hurt” Cassian quietly said, his fingers hovering above a small cut on her neck.

“It is just a scratch” she replied in the same voice tone, not wanting to break whatever was happening between them “A thorn must have scratched me when we passed by the bushes near the entrance”

They were improperly close, with Cassian looking down at her as he tilted her chin to let him better access the wound. The greenhouse was quiet, no sound but the rain falling outside filling the air.

“It is nothing” she assured him, her own hand coming up to close around his wrist “It does not even hurt that much.”

Nesta did not know how she was talking when even breathing seemed a too difficult task at the moment. She was hyper aware of where their skin was touching, of the heat she felt all over her body, goosebumps running down her arms when Cassian pressed his lips tenderly against her temple.

“You do not appear to have a fever” he murmured, his breath tickling her temple “But maybe it would be wiser to stay the night. I will send a carriage to get your things and your friends’ too. Alright?”

“Alright” Nesta breathless replied, the rain outside slowly turning into a mild drizzle.

Pemberley had just gained new residents.

How Cassian was going to survive living with Nesta for a short period of time was something that remained to be seen.

•

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[paralleljulieverse]

‘Gentlemen like you are few...’: A Supercentenary Tribute to Irwin Kostal

1 October 2021 marks the 110th anniversary of the birth of Irwin Kostal, the musical arranger, orchestrator and conductor whose work helped shape the sound of the post-war American stage and screen musical. In this post we look back at the career of this remarkable 'music man’ with a particular focus on his collaborations with the equally remarkable Julie Andrews -- who, as it happens, shares the same birthday, so this post is doing double birthday honours.

A gentle, unassuming man, Kostal or ‘Irv’ as he was known by associates, was not one for the limelight. It’s possibly why he gravitated to the ‘behind-the-scenes’ art of musical arranging. Unlike composers, performers, or even conductors, arrangers seldom loom large in public perceptions of professional musicianship. They are, for the most part, the ‘invisible artists’ of the music industry: their contributions to the sound and experience of music are immense, but they remain largely ‘uncredited in records, liner notes or books or records’ (Niles 2104, p. 4). That Irwin Kostal would ultimately prove a rare exception to this tradition of thankless anonymity -- becoming sufficiently well-known to have his own name not only included on recordings, but emblazoned on the front cover alongside those of the ‘star’ vocalists with whom he worked -- is a testament to the singularity of his talents. 

Born the son of first generation immigrant parents in Chicago in 1911, Kostal claimed he was instantly ‘smitten’ by music when he saw a piano at the age of two-and-a-half, but his family was too poor to afford such luxuries. Moreover, his father -- a hard-drinking Czech with a fiery temper -- was ‘rigidly opposed’ to his interests in music and ‘could see no future in it’ (’Irwin’ 1962, p. 70). So Kostal initially had to content himself with listening and absorbing as much musical knowledge as he could indirectly. When he was eleven, his father finally brought home a broken player piano salvaged from a removals job and it provided the young Kostal with the launch pad he needed. 

Kostal devoted himself to his musical education with single-minded zeal. His formal training was intermittent -- enabled by a supportive mother who ‘surreptitiously managed to save money from her weekly allowance for my musical instruction’ (’Irwin’ 1962, p. 70) -- but he was a passionate autodidact who would spend countless hours studying and practising on his own. By age 15, he was already playing professionally with local touring bands, while also offering his own services as a piano teacher with, at one point, more than 40 pupils (ibid.).

When he wasn’t playing, Kostal would be found in the local library poring over musical scores and reading about the greats of the classical canon. He was particularly intrigued by orchestration and the possibilities it offered for varying the sound and feel of music. He recalls how he would take orchestral scores home and study all the parts learning ‘about musical instruments I never knew existed’ (Suskin 2009, p. 56).  He progressively worked his way through the music of the masters, going alphabetically: 

‘Bach...Beethoven, Brahms, Debussy, Elgar, Frank, Gounod, on and on through the alphabet...I tried to absorb everything. By the time I came to Ravel, Tchaikovsky and Wagner, I knew quite a lot about music in a jumbled way’ (Suskin 2009, p. 57).

While still in his teens, Kostal started to experiment with arrangements of his own, scoring a high school production of Uncle Tom’s Cabin with multiple variations on the American folk melody ‘Way Down upon the Swanee River’. ‘By taking away the rhythmic aspects and playing it in a minor key,’ he recounts, ‘I found lots of ways to play this song, making it fit the dramatics of the half-hour long story’ (ibid., p. 56). Thus, Irwin Kostal the arranger was born.

Throughout the 1930s and early-40s, Kostal honed his talents in a professional capacity, working with various big bands, before finally landing a job as a resident arranger for an NBC radio affiliate in Chicago. Following the war, Kostal moved to New York where, after a rocky start, he secured regular work as conductor and arranger on a number of long-running radio and TV variety shows including Your Show of Shows (1950-54), Max Liebman Presents (1954-56), and The Garry Moore Show (1959-63). It was demanding, fast-paced work with Kostal having to arrange and orchestrate hundreds of score pages a week, but it consolidated his musical versatility and capacity to work across a wide range of styles and forms (Suskin 2009, pp. 57-60).

Throughout this period, Kostal was also orchestrating for Broadway shows, racking up over 52 credits on theatre productions big and small (Allen 1995, p. 18). Many of these assignments were done in a ‘ghost-writer’ capacity including contributing work to such classic musicals as Wonderful Town (1953), The Pajama Game (1953) and Silk Stockings (1955). A major breakthrough came when Kostal was contracted to work in a credited capacity as co-orchestrator on the original Broadway production of West Side Story (1958) -- collaborating with Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim and Sid Ramin. It earned him his first Grammy Award and a subsequent invitation to arrange and orchestrate a string of other big Broadway musicals including Fiorello! (1959), Sail Away (1961) and A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (1962).

The success of West Side Story also saw Kostal do repeat honours on the film version (1961) which would, in turn, earn him an Academy Award and kickstart a hugely successful Hollywood career. In 1963, Kostal was invited by none other than Walt Disney to take on the major job of arranging the songs for Mary Poppins (1964) which had been written by the in-house Disney composing team of Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman. The Sherman Brothers claim to have suggested Kostal because they were fans of his Broadway work and they wanted a bright theatrical sound for the score. However, Walt Disney demurred. He reasoned it was a period film and they needed someone who could write music for any style or era, suggesting they get the musical director from The Garry Moore Show instead. Cue mutual delight when it was discovered they were all referring to the same man, Irwin Kostal (Sherman & Sherman 1998; Suskin 2009, p. 65).

Kostal’s work on Mary Poppins catapulted him to new heights of mainstream success. It not only secured him another Academy Award nomination -- he lost to Andre Previn for his work on My Fair Lady -- but it also brought him a tidy fortune in royalties from the film’s best-selling soundtrack album (’Kostal’s’ $65,000′, 57). His fame -- and fortune -- skyrocketed even further the following year when Kostal was contracted to arrange the score for The Sound of Music (1965). His dazzling efforts on this box-office blockbuster confirmed Kostal’s status as Hollywood’s presiding musical wonder-boy and saw him walk home with his second Oscar. A string of other big screen musicals followed including Half a Sixpence (1967), Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968) and Bedknobs and Broomsticks (1971). 

Many of these films were repeat collaborations because Kostal favoured working with people he knew and with whom he clicked personally and creatively. He would for example continue as the de facto ‘house’ arranger for Disney well into the 1980s, working on various assignments for the studio including Pete’s Dragon (1978), Mickey’s Christmas Carol (1983) and the controversial re-recorded 1982 release of Fantasia (1940/1982) (Tietyan 1990). Kostal would also maintain a long association with the Sherman Brothers, acting as musical arranger for all their big screen musicals including the aforementioned Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968) and Bedknobs and Broomsticks (1971), as well as Tom Sawyer (1973); Charlotte’s Web (1973); and The Magic of Lassie (1978) (Sherman & Sherman 1998).

The other great collaboration of Kostal’s career was of course with Julie Andrews. Perhaps it was the fact that the pair shared the same birthday but Kostal had an extraordinarily sympathetic relationship with Julie and he would work with her more than any other vocalist. Long before they teamed on Poppins and The Sound of Music, Julie and ‘Irv’ were making musical magic together. Kostal was the arranger and conductor for Julie’s first two solo albums for RCA: The Lass with the Delicate Air (1957) and Julie Andrews Sings (1958) where his sensitive facility with a wide range of musical idioms from English classical to Broadway and Tin Pan Alley came to the fore. Reviewing the first of these albums at the time of its original release, one music critic lauded it as ‘a record to charm every member of the family...[with] a combination of sincerity and simplicity and wholesome sweetness...Thank goodness arranger and conductor Irwin Kostal met the challenge and set the ballads winningly without overpowering Miss Andrews’ light pure tones’ (RRS 1958, p. 5A). In a similar vein, another reviewer praised the second album for ‘its charming unforced version of standards, well known and almost forgotten...Miss Andrews still sings naturally and purely [and] the deft accompaniments played by an orchestra under Irwin Kostal are agreeably restrained’ (Masters 1959, p. 11).

In this early period Kostal also worked with Julie as guest star on several episodes of The Garry Moore Show, where he was resident musical director. In this context, Kostal was pivotal in helping establish the legendary teaming of Julie and Carol Burnett which came out of the Garry Moore appearances. He would go on to act as musical director for their breakout 1962 TV special Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall which would earn Kostal his first Emmy (Taraborelli 1988, pp. 172-79). He would secure his second Emmy a few years later working with Julie again on the 1965 variety special, The Julie Andrews Show (1965) where, among other highlights, Kostal scored a series of stellar song-and-dance medleys for Julie and guest star Gene Kelly. The same year, Kostal teamed up with Julie on yet another recording with the 1965 edition of the annual Firestone Christmas albums. 

It was however their combined work on the two big musical mega-hits, Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music, that secured the Kostal-Andrews partnership a place in the history books. A cultural phenomenon of the highest order, the soundtrack recordings for these two films remain among the most successful albums of all time. Mary Poppins held the #1 spot on the US national music charts for 14 consecutive weeks in 1964, beating out Elvis Presley and The Beatles (Hollis and Erhbar 2006, pp.72ff). The album for The Sound of Music sold over 9 million copies in its first four years of release alone, remaining in the Billboard Top 100 for an unbelievable five-and-a-half years, and becoming the highest selling LP of all-time in the US up to that date (Murrells, 1978)  The Sound of Music continued its record-breaking run abroad, dominating the international charts and holding the #1 spot for 75 weeks in Australia, 73 weeks in Norway and 70 weeks in the UK, becoming in the process the single biggest selling album worldwide of the 1960s (Harker, 1992, pp. 189-91).

Commentators have frequently singled out the combination of Julie Andrews’ soaring vocals and Kostal’s dynamic arrangements as instrumental to the phenomenal success of these two albums. ‘Miss Andrews glows--positively glows--right through the record groove, vinyl disc, amplifiers, speakers, and all other mechanical barriers,’ enthused one contemporary reviewer of the Mary Poppins soundtrack, noting how the ‘songs that Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman have written’ and ‘the handsome arrangements by Irwin Kostal have the perfect balance ‘of lilt and flair to provide Miss Andrews with an effective working basis’ (Wilson 1965, p. 109). Apropos The Sound of Music, another critic pronounced it ‘as good a reproduction of a score as has ever been made’, noting how it ‘presents Julie in a most appealing role and given the splendid musical direction of Irwin Kostal, her talent comes shining through...as a treat beyond measure’ (Moore 1965, p. B6). 

In total, Julie Andrews and Irwin Kostal would work together on six recordings, two musical motion pictures, two television specials, and a host of other TV appearances representing some of the very best of Julie’s musical work during her heyday of the 1960s. Considered alongside the wealth of Kostal’s other work across film, stage, television and recording, it’s hard not to concur with Disney’s Nelson Meecham who, on the occasion of Kostal’s passing in 1994, eulogised: ‘He brought the joy of music to more people than it is possible to count’ (Allen, p. 19).

Sources:

Allen, John F 1995. ‘Remembering a Music Man: On the life and work of Irwin Kostal.’ Boxoffice. August: pp. 18-19.

Harker, Dave 1992. ‘Still Crazy After All These Years: What was popular music in the 1960s?” Cultural Revolution? The challenge of the arts in the 1960s. Bart Moore-Gilbert and John Seed, eds. Routledge, London and New York: pp. 186-200.

Hollis, Tim and Erhbar, Greg 2006. Mouse Tracks: The Story of Walt Disney Records. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.

‘Irwin Kostal: Music in all its many forms is his life.’ (1962). The Province. 2 June: p. 70.

’Kostal’s’ $65,000 Poppins Score’ 1965. Variety. 10 March: p. 57

Levy, Charles 1964. Mary Poppins: About the stars and photo-story features [Press kit]. Buena Vista Distribution, New York. 

Masters, John 1959. ‘Off the Record: Enchanting Music.’ The Age. 7 January: p. 11.

Moore, Robert 1965. ‘Record Turntable: Julie Andrews out in front again in film album of”Sound of Music”.’ The Arizona Daily Star. 7 March: p. B6.

Murrells, Joseph, ed. 1978. Book of Golden Discs: Records that sold a million. Barrie & Jenkins, New York.

Niles, Richard 2014. The Invisible Artist: Arrangers in popular music (1950-2000). BMI, London.

Oliver, Myrna. 1994. ‘Obituaries: Irwin Kostal; Film, TV Orchestrator.’ The Los Angeles Times. 1 December: P. B8.

RRS 1958. ‘On the Record: ‘Lass with the Delicate Air.’ Bristol Herald Courier. 9 February: p. 5A.

Sherman, Robert B &  Sherman, Richard M 1998. Walt's Time: From before to beyond. Camphor Tree, Santa Clarita, CA.

Suskin, Steven 2009. The Sound of Broadway Music: A book of orchestrators and orchestrations, Oxford University Press, New York.

Taraborelli, J. Randy 1988. Laughing Till It Hurts: The complete life and career of Carol Burnett. William Morrow & Co, New York.

Tietyan, David 1990. The Musical World of Walt Disney. H. Leonard, Milwaukee, Wis. 

Wilson, John S. 1965. ‘The Lighter Side’. High Fidelity Magazine. 15: 4: pp. 107-111.

© 2021, Brett Farmer. All Rights Reserved.

[justforbooks]

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did.  But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the  answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her  right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have  you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[1000scrubs]

Round 1: Corporeal Dread

Writer Corporeal Dread’s entry for the initial prompts from 2 years ago

Nyfah scowled at the blinking light on her instrument cluster. She knew her calculations had been correct, but something was wrong. Her fuel was running out much faster than predicted, something had to be done to fix it, and it had to be done now. Sighing heavily she stood and made her way to the storage bay and began dragging her remaining provisions and weapons onto the bridge. 

After shoving as many crates as possible into the much smaller room she sealed the doors between the two areas, then, cursing quietly to herself, punched a button on the wall. She flinched as a loud siren began sounding, and the ship began to tremble violently. As the storage bay sheared away from the ship the screeching of metal grinding against metal melded into the cacophony of the blaring siren. Ears ringing, she desperately tried to shut it off. Pressing button after button, and typing commands into the ship’s interface yielded no results, until finally she ripped open a panel in the wall and sliced the cable providing power to the siren. 

Tensely Nyfah returned to her captain’s chair, as she sat, she turned her full attention to the radar and infrared sensor. It showed nothing but a dull blinking light of the storage bay falling away as the ship sped on. She watched as the light slowly disappeared, the abandoned piece of hull no longer in range. She waited another hour, monitoring the fuel gauge to determine if the reduced weight had worked. It seemed she was safe for now, and without the storage bay she would make it to Portunus.

——-

“LHY-825 requesting clearance to dock”. Nyfah’s voice sounded cracked and hoarse after hours of silence. 

The responding voice was cold and bureaucratic,“Noted LHY-825, please wait for confirmation.” 

Portunus was a small planet in one of the spiral “arms” of its galaxy located in the Virgo Supercluster, it was mainly used as a tourist destination and metropolitan hub. The entire outer surface had been converted into docking bays and landing ports, but beneath that, there was an entire multi-level subterranean city that held markets run by all sorts, from every corner of the known universe.The planet was usually visited by billions daily; however that number had dipped recently due to rumours of attacks and violence emerging from the lower levels of the planet. As a result there had been an increase in galactic enforcers and their patrol routes both on and around the planet, to ensure safety for the vendors and tourists. Nyfah knew she would have to be discreet so as to not get caught.

“LHY-825 you are cleared for landing, please proceed to bay 2593.” 

“LHY-825, proceeding to bay 2593.” She put down her transmitter and coasted the ship to her assigned landing bay. As the traction beam began pulling the ship in, she shut off its engines. 

Once her ship had come to a stop she changed into a delivery service uniform. She stretched as she disembarked stiff from sitting for so long then assessed the damage to the ship’s exterior. She breathed a sigh of relief, counting herself lucky that there was only minor external damage where the storage bay had been removed, and that she wouldn’t need to repair it right away. 

Nyfah inspected the fuel tank for external damage, and was annoyed to find an intermittent stream of liquid dripping out of a small bullet hole. She thought she had managed to bypass the galactic enforcer’s checkpoint without incurring damage by doing it in hyperspace, but it would appear otherwise. Knowing it would draw suspicion she glanced around casually, stepped in front of it, jabbed her knife into the hole and wiggled it back and forth.

Once the damage had been sufficiently disguised Nyfah ordered a quick-patch and a fuel refill, then picked up a small crate she had brought from the ship and stepped onto an elevator to the markets. 

——-

After a few moments in the dim elevator, playing quiet relaxing music, the doors slid open and a disorienting wave of noise, colour, and bright lights washed over Nyfah. In every direction neon signs flashed obnoxiously, many of the shop exteriors were overly adorned, trying to attract the highest number of customers possible. 

In all directions vendors shouted; advertising their wares, each trying to outsell the other. In addition to the ambient noise of the tourists shouting to each other to be heard over the vendors, Nyfah could barely hear herself think.

Groups in bizarre outfits bustled around the large open area excitedly motioning to each other. Most of them wore rich, vibrant, expensive fabrics and extravagant jewelry, likely rich tourists ready to spend their wealth. They contrasted harshly with who Nyfah figured were the planet’s inhabitants, visiting from the lower levels. The inhabitants were sparse compared to the densely packed tourists, and wore cheap plain materials in earthy tones.

The Portunians worked mainly to ensure the higher levels were functioning at their best for the tourists, and it was very rare for them to own any of the shops. The people were paid little and taxed by the number of inhabitants per level, causing them to live in perpetual poverty. 

Most of the shop owners had come to Portunus already very wealthy as the shops were also heavily taxed by the planetary government,in addition to the exorbitant annual lease fees. 

It was unlike any environment she had ever experienced before. She hated it, but she knew she was practically invisible here, she sighed feeling conflicted.

The areas around the elevators were large and cavernous. The walls looked like rough stone and dirt at first, but they were coated in a semi-shiny substance, most likely to strengthen them. The coating didn’t help with the awful lights. Tunnels lead off in other directions creating a honeycomb like shape, they were tall and wide and they all led to areas similar to the one side was in, making the markets very hard to navigate. 

Nyfah stepped out of the lift and shook off her stupor. She pulled up directions on her augmented retinal display (ARD) and began making her way through the crowds and kiosks.

Finally she found the shop she was looking for, it had a larger storefront than most of the other permanent shops and had a giant pink neon sign presenting its name, through the window she saw an array of garments, and all manner of showcases with figurines and other decorative artifacts. She stepped under the awning and made her way to the back of the store to the service counter.

She placed the crate on the desk, and said hesitantly “Hello, I’m looking for...Halsir.”

The tall, pink woman behind the counter turned around defensively. “Who’s asking?” 

“I have a rush delivery, the name on the order is Halsir”

Before Nyfah had even finished her sentence the woman was beaming and bouncing on her feet.

“Oh, you’re early! My sweet boy, he’s finally here! I’ve been beside myself” She squealed.

Nyfah, carefully pried the lid off the crate and stepped back.

Halsir gingerly lowered her hands into the box and lifted out a furry creature, it had a long slim neck and limbs, with bird-like feet, and a feline face.

“Hello sweetheart, how was the ride?” 

The creature chittered at the woman, and she turned a concerned gaze on Nyfah.

“He said there was a loud noise that scared him, I hope that you didn’t run into any trouble on the way here!”

Nyfah frowned at the tattletale pet “No ma’am. I had a minor mechanical issue and there was an alarm, it didn’t ring for long.”

The woman’s jovial smile returned to her face and she placed the creature onto the counter. “Wonderful dear, here you are.”

She tossed a small flat square into Nyfah’s outstretched hand and began retreating to the back room.

Nyfah stared at it, her arm still extended. “What am I supposed to do with this?” She asked incredulously “I require the second half of my payment! We agreed half up front and half upon delivery, I’ve kept my end of the deal!”

Halsir turned and smiled at her “Believe me dear, what you’ll find on that is worth much more than I could pay you”

Nyfah rolled her eyes “If it’s worth that much why are you giving it to me instead of what we agreed on?”

“Because!” Halsir walked back over, “I’m far too old and delicate to go treasure hunting. I was given good intel that this treasure is a grail, but none of my customers will buy the map! Anyone who is able to recover the goods will go down in history as the all-time best treasure hunter to ever live, the greatest honour and glory. Also to be honest with you I thought you were just a small-time smuggler, but I saw a poster just the other day and your bounty is quite high. I figured if you were able to find the treasure you could pay off the right people. I needed to get my sweet baby angel…”

Honour and glory? Nyfah’s eyes widened, she had been trying to make a name for herself for years. She was one of the best smugglers in the business; but being a smuggler meant staying under the radar. She wanted to be somebody. Rich, envied, maybe even mystic in reputation. This was an opportunity that could lead to all of that! If it was real…

“Wait, wait, wait,” Nyfah interrupted, “what is this so-called treasure, and how can you guarantee that it is what you say it is and that it will be there?”

“I got the intel from my supplier. He has never lied to me; I know I can trust him. As for what it is, it is an ancient relic said to depict a god so old no-one alive knows the religion it belonged to. Depictions of it were found in some ancient writings though” Halsir paused, trying to remember something.

Nyfah frowned, this whole thing could be some kind of trick.

“I’m going to need collateral” she finally responded, not realizing that Halsir had resumed talking. 

“I understand dear, you mysterious types aren’t very trusting. I’ll just pay you the second half of your fee” 

‘Mysterious types’ Nyfah thought smiling slightly, she paused, “all right, if I do find this treasure, I’ll come back and pay you a finders fee. If it isn’t, you’ll know your supplier is full of it.” 

“Deal.” Halsir handed the outstanding balance to Nyfah. “Good luck my dear.”

“Thanks, maybe I’ll see you later.” Nyfah called back, grinning, as she exited the shop.

——-

Nyfah held the square up to the light as she began the walk back to her ship. The tech was old, almost outdated, but her ship’s interface would be able to read it. As she slipped it into her pocket mulling over where it would lead, she bumped into someone, almost losing her balance.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She glanced up and felt her heart drop when she saw the enforcers patch.

“Stop right there. Show me your identification.” The enforcer’s voice was harsh.

Nyfah pulled out a fake ID and handed it over.

The two enforcers scanned it and one of them handed it back.

“Watch where you’re going. Don’t move.”

“Thank you” Nyfah took her ID and shoved it into her clothes.

She stood motionless, watching the enforcers as they discussed her retrieved data for any indication of suspicion. She noticed a group of tourists walking towards her; as they got close she stealthily swapped hats with one of them and flipped her jacket inside out. What had looked like a delivery uniform on one side became a dusty brown cape reaching almost to her knees, with a large hood. She slid the hood over her head and joined with the tourists, matching their pace and behaviour. She heard the enforcers start to shout to each other and the people around them. They were attempting to stop people in clothing similar to her delivery uniform — luckily they hadn’t seen where she had gone. As the group around her started to stop and turn around, her heart racing, Nyfah began speed walking, following her ARD back to her ship.

She broke out into a run as she turned a corner and got halfway to her ship when she came upon another group of enforcers. As she ran past she heard them say something about a suspicious delivery person. 

Good, she thought. Her disguise was holding. 

“You there!Slow down!” One of the enforcers yelled after her.

Nyfah slipped her hand over the handle of a baton she had hidden in her cloak.

“Yes sir!” She shouted back, and shifted back to a fast walking pace.

She glanced back to see they had returned to their conversation.

She managed to get back to the elevator without getting in any more trouble and breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed and the lift began ascending.

——-

Nyfah felt the dread creep back up her spine as she stepped out of the elevator. An enforcer was inspecting her ship as another stood guard. They must have matched her uniform and description with the security feed to find her ship. She had to find a way to sneak on board.

Calmly walking past her ship, Nyfah set her sights on another craft in the same bay. It was small, barely held together by assembled bits of scrap, and after easily circumventing the door lock she crept quietly inside. She furrowed her brow in disappointment upon finding that the interface was extremely simple and limited; it would not be able to read the chip from Halsir. It was what she had expected from the dilapidated exterior of the ship, but it could still be useful. 

She connected a remote control device to the interface and exited the ship, ensuring to re-secure the door lock. She once again walked past her ship, this time heading back to the elevator, but ducked behind a wall before reaching it. Using her ARD Nyfah powered up the engines of the run-down ship. Once she heard the sound of the door being rammed by the enforcers she made a break for her ship. Once onboard she plopped into her captain's chair and fired her engines at full burn. 

She increased the thrusters and felt the ship lurch and pitch as it tried to get airborne, then it began pulling away from the landing bay. 

“LHY-825 you are not cleared for takeoff! I repeat you are not cleared for takeoff! Land your ship immediately!” The ship’s speakers crackled as though they were trying to properly relay the anger she could hear in the orders.

She smirked and cut communication, there was no way she was following that command.

Narrowly dodging the carefully organized chaos of incoming and outgoing vessels, Nyfah heard Portunus’ emergency response siren start and saw enforcer cruisers closing in on her. Far ahead she saw the Planetary Defense Shields starting to close. Seeing the other ships trying to get out of the way, Nyfah slammed her thrusters to full. Her ship heaved violently and she felt an intense pressure pinning her into her seat. 

The pressure worsened as she careened toward the atmosphere, and as she approached the Defense shield she felt the pressure blossom into pain. It felt as though she may explode, fighting with all her might she lifted her arm to the thruster and pulled it back. As her ship slowed the pressure lightened, and what had been immense pain reduced to a dull ache. She had cleared the shield and was leaving the atmosphere, there was hope yet.

——-

Nyfah had managed to escape into open space, however several of the galactic enforcer cruisers pursuing had managed to get through as well. Luckily they were far behind her as they had not used her aggressive flying tactics. Now that she was free of the atmosphere she redeployed the thrusters to full. 

She took the opportunity to plug the treasure map chip into her ship, then linked up her ARD. A holo map popped up, showing her current location and that of the treasure. She studied the map closely. The ‘god relic’ was in the same galaxy, on a planet close to the centre. It was going to take a while to get there, even travelling through hyperspace. A flashing light accompanied by a steady beeping pulled Nyfah out of her thoughts; someone was trying to hail her on the open communication channel.

She pushed a button to receive the transmission and was greeted by a stern voice “-no authorization for take-off, stop your ship immediately for boarding.”

Nyfah weighed her options before deciding that her best course of action was to enter hyperspace. The galactic enforcers would not be able to follow her without coordinates, they could try to follow her trajectory, but they would have no idea of where she was going or why so none of their estimations would be helpful.

Nyfah smirked as she prepped and engaged the hyperdrive. Once she entered hyperspace, she decided to pull up any relevant information on her destination planet. It was nearly 25,000 light years away from Portunus, and had once been inhabited by a small population of the human species who had tried to prepare it for permanent habitation; however they had withdrawn for an unknown reason. It had been devoid of life ever since. She would not be able to breathe it’s atmosphere, so she made sure she had an exploration suit ready.

The planet was named QRNS-3858, but had been affectionately nicknamed Quirinus by the humans. It had mostly a rocky surface with some large areas of liquid water. It looked like she would be landing at one of the abandoned human colonies.

It had been a millennia since there had been reports of human contact, as they had taken to disguising themselves as other species when on their own and there were rumours that they had hidden civilizations across the universe, but did not like interacting with others. Either way it was unlikely she would run into one.

Nyfah settled in for the long journey ahead.

——-

As she came out of hyperspace she was alarmed to see everything around her ship slowly moving away from her. After a few moments it seemed to have stopped, but she realized that it was because her ship was now a part of whatever was happening. She was slowly being pulled into the direction of Quirinus. As she cautiously increased her speed, Nyfah felt her skin tingling with apprehension.

Suddenly she noticed a thin golden bloom in the distance that was rapidly expanding into a plume. Confused, Nyfah turned on all of her scanners. She felt her blood run cold as she realized that beyond Quirinus at the centre of the galaxy was a supermassive black hole. What had become a glittering cloud in the light of the nearby stars could only be a quasar, a large amount of space dust escaping the huge black hole.

It had now become a race; Nyfah had to get to Quirinus before what had quickly become a massive wave of space dust got to her. To make matters worse, the strange pull she had observed earlier was now seemingly trying to push her away. Gritting her teeth Nyfah diverted all of her power to her engines and maxed her throttle to get her to top speed.

Her ship began to rattle and shake as she approached the huge wave. She was only a few minutes away from reaching Quirinus’ atmosphere, but she wasn’t sure she was going to make it. The wave had spread so that she could no longer see the inky blackness of space. As the dust enveloped the planet, she began to doubt if landing would be any safer than being where she was now. Soon the dust began hitting her ship and, cursing, Nyfah quickly diverted some power to her shields. Silent warnings and flashing lights began popping up, and she knew her ship wouldn’t be able to last much more of the beating it was receiving. Her shields were failing when she made it to the atmosphere, but she had made it. She greatly reduced her speed as she approached the planet’s surface.

Nyfah pulled up the map again, and followed the location tag to colony 4. She landed her ship and pulled on her exploration suit. She began disembarking and grunting with effort,  heaved the exterior door open. Little bits of debris that had been trapped in the seams of the door clattered to the ground, bouncing off her helmet and shoulders as she stepped out. Checking the damage; she found all of the paint was stripped clean off, and there were gouges where larger rocks had cleaved into the ship. She shivered considering what would have happened if she had been in the storm a few minutes longer. There were scorch marks covering most of the surface, and the damage was especially bad around the area where she had removed the storage bay. She would probably be able to leave Quirinus without any major issues, but it was going to take some work.

She looked up to see the dust storm had created a fiery rain as everything entering the atmosphere burned up. Luckily most of it was completely incinerated before reaching the ground, but every now and then a palm sized rock would smack into the ground. Nyfah began her search wary of the celestial menacing.

——-

Several dwellings later, to her excitement, Nyfah came across a large locked box that matched the image on the holo-map. She broke the lock and pried open the box.

She felt adrenaline surge through her like electricity as she reached in and pulled out the relic. It was beautiful, intricate and delicate looking. She was surprised it had lasted this long. It appeared to be a small statuette depicting a red haired warrior holding a jewelled sword, resting in its sheath, at his right hip. His short hair, blue headscarf and tattered red lined cape billowed in an invisible wind. Glittering blue armour rested on top of a blue and white tunic with gold adornments. He stood atop what looked like a golden coin in red and brown boots, blue knee armour adorning wide, flared white boot coverings. A small clear cube encased the relic attached to a stiff paper backing with an enlarged picture of the little god on a background of green.

In the top right was an intricate symbol, one of the characters matching the symbol on the coin the god was standing on except it was on fire. The bottom right hand corner had a friendly looking symbol with three brightly coloured squares on each side. In a darker green than the background beneath the picture of the warrior there were three large characters, most likely depicting his name, R O Y.

Nyfah wasn’t sure what it said, but she would be able to cross reference it with the writings Halsir had mentioned. She made her way back to her ship in a state of bliss, she had found the treasure.

——-

Who: An alien being pursued by the government What: looking for a Roy amiibo waiting to be opened When: in an impending tsunami zone/area Where: in the first inhabitable planet outside this solar system Why: for the fame and glory

[slitherofgold]

Truth or Dare?~ Sam Fender

You had been on tour with Sam exactly 1 month, and although you spent a lot of time together, you wished you could’ve spent more time alone. It was safe to say, you were becoming really good friends. You both had such a strong appreciation for each other’s music, good banter, and the conversations always seemed to flow naturally- whether you were sober or drunk. You could genuinely say that supporting him was an honour. It helped that you were really good mates with his band too, cause with them around, there was never a dull moment. 

It was Tuesday night, and the only night where the both of you weren’t performing. You and the guys sat in the pub, drinking pints and sharing chips, whilst talking about upcoming plans for the band. It was nice not having to worry about performing that night. You loved it and it was truly your passion, but each night took a toll on your voice, and you were grateful for the night-off. 

“Hey, since we got loads of time to kill, do you wanna hit the town. I heard the night life here is crazy,” Dean said. 

“I would, but I’m kinda tired, I might just head back to the hotel,” you said in response, hoping they wouldn’t rip into you for heading out early. 

“Really y/n, you out of all people. I thought you’d be well up for tonight.” You shrugged your shoulders as confirmation. Your mind was not gonna be swayed tonight. 

“Actually, I might have to join y/n on this one. I’m fucking knackered.” Sam said. He smiled at you, as if he was saying this to back you up. You smiled back, appreciating his decision too. 

Dean through up his hands in frustration. “Well, you’re all fucking wet wipes then. Please tell me the rest of you are up for it. I’m not heading back to the hotel at 8.” Everyone else laughed and nodded, buzzed to get out. At least you weren’t the only one not going though, but it also meant that you and Sam would be alone in the taxi together, and although you were friends, you hadn’t spent any time alone. Your palms started to sweat, already nervous for the dreaded taxi ride home. 

Soon after, everyone piled out the pub heading for the town, all apart from you and Sam. The both of you hopped into the cab. “So are you really knackered or are you just not in the mood to party?”, you asked curiously. 

“Bit of both really. Never thought I’d say this, but I just don’t fancy drinking tonight.” You both laughed and joked on the way home, making small talk until the taxi pulled up outside the hotel. As you headed down the corridor towards your rooms, Sam quickly stepped in front of you, stopping you from moving any further. You gave him a questioning look. “Do you wanna just chill tonight? I don’t really fancy heading to bed yet and I could use the company. I promise I won’t bore you to death.” Your heart skipped a beat. You could handle a cab ride home with him, but a whole evening. The thought of it made your heart race. But you knew you’d kick yourself if you turned down the offer, and you were just friends anyway. He certainly didn’t like you like that. 

“Yeah sure, why not,” you shrugged, trying to act cool. He smiled in response, and the both of you headed towards his room. 

 It was later in the night and the both of you had had such a laugh. You had ordered room service, and had stuffed your faces with the biggest burgers. Then you had spilled all of your secrets, your most embarrassing memories, and had taken the piss out of each other as well as Sam’s band mates. It was all going smoothly, until Sam had suggested a game to lighten up the night. At first, you had laughed at the idea. Truth or dare? That was such a childish game. The kinda game you play at your first house party, where horny teenagers get the chance to experience their first sexual encounter. Yet you agreed nonetheless, what was the worst that could happen anyways, you thought. So far, you had posted the ugliest mug of yourself on your insta, messaged Van Mccann for a bootycall, and told Sam about the time you pissed yourself, cause you had locked yourself out of your own apartment. It was safe to say you had lost all of your dignity. Sam, however, had ‘accidentally’ sent his mum a kinky message (which he definitely regretted when she messaged him with how disgusted she was), showed you his search history (which was quite average for a single lad in his 20s), and told you about his worst and most embarrassing sexual experience. Now the two of you sat on the floor, next to each other, with your backs against the bed, tired but still up for another game. “Truth or dare?”, Sam asked as he looked over at you, smirking. 

“Ummmm dare”, you grinned back. He hummed, as if pondering what to dare you, a mischievous glint obvious in his eyes. 

“I dare you to take off your top”. You lifted your eyebrows, smirk in play, as if saying really, but willingly obliged. Internally, you thanked yourself for choosing to wear one of your nicer bras that day. Sam stole a glimpse of your chest, and nervously bit his lip, before making eye contact once more.

“Truth or dare?” you asked. 

Without hesitation, Sam responded with dare. “I dare you to take your top off”. He raised his eyebrows in amusement, almost as if he was saying really. This was definitely some kind of challenge between the two of you. To see who would give in first, and you sure as hell wasn’t gonna lose. He took his top of off and your breath hitched in your throat. He grinned as he realised the effect he had on you. It was clear to say, you liked what you saw, and already temptation to reach over and touch him, was hard to resist. The game went back and forth, before the two of were sat in nothing but your underwear. 

“Truth or dare?” Sam asked, barely above a whisper. You swallowed, nervous but eager, having waited long enough for this. “Dare”, you replied. 

“Kiss me”, Sam said. Without thinking, you attacked his lips hungrily, craving his touch. Sam didn’t waste time, before kissing you back. He grabbed you behind the head pulling you closer to him, wanting to feel you, and wanting to feel every part. His other hand roughly grabbed your waist tightly. You groaned into the kiss and you could feel Sam smile against your lips, clearly loving the effect he had on you. Still on the floor, Sam slowly stood up, forcing you to follow suit, still not breaking the kiss. You had wanted, had dreamed of this for a month, and now that it was happening, it felt surreal. You pulled away, as reality came crashing down. 

“Sam we shouldn’t be doing this, we basically work together.” Still holding you in his arms, inches away from the bed, Sam looked down at you, lust evident in his eyes. 

“You want this right?” you nodded in reply. “And I want this too. Problem solved. Thinking gets you nowhere, lets just enjoy what we have now.” He leaned down to kiss you again, almost cautiously as if scared you wouldn’t kiss him back.  Of course you kissed back, stupid with yourself for even considering a stop to this. Sam pushed you against the bed, kissing down your neck. You knew you’d wake up with marks tomorrow, which you definitely had to hide from the lads. No way in hell could they find out about this, you and Sam would never hear the end of it. Sam’s hand roamed down your body, embracing every curve. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” he mumbled against your skin. His hand moved your panties to the side, giving him access to rub circles on your clit. You moaned breathy moans, Sam’s name a whisper on your lips. He looked down at you through his lashes, loving the sight of you underneath him. Naked, eyes screwed shut and moaning his name. He could just come undone himself seeing you like this. 

With great determination you stopped his hand, and looked up at Sam. You bit your lip and flipped the two of you over, so you were on top, catching Sam off guard. You leaned down and seductively whispered in his ear. “I want you Sam”. Sam didn’t need to hear you twice, he pulled down his boxers, eager, having wanted this all night. You shimmied off your panties and slowly slid down onto Sam. The both of you released sighs, your heads falling back. Having adjusted to the length, you started rocking your hips, slow at first and then picking up the pace. The two of you groaned in pleasure. Sam gripped your hips hard, his own hips bucking into you, helping you out and reaching angles inside you that not even your ex could achieve. Sweat glistened on your bodies, and the room echoed your moans. You prayed to God that people in the neighbouring rooms couldn’t hear, cause that would be hella awkward for them. But in that moment you didn’t care. You were in pure ecstasy. You picked up the pace once more, close to your finish. Sam was close too, by the way he groaned and the way his fingers dug into your hips. You both let out another moan as you finished and slowly rode out your high. Knackered, you slid off of Sam and flopped down beside him, the both of you panting heavily. 

Sam pulled his arm behind your head, and around your shoulders, bringing you closer. You rested your head on his chest, feeling his heart rate slow down and his breathing become slower. You traced small shapes on his chest, feeling as if you were in your very own safe place. Here with Sam, just the two of you, wrapped in each others arms. You didn’t need to speak, you knew exactly how you felt about each other. And you’d speak about it soon, but for now, you both embraced the moment. Enjoying the small comfort of each other, as the night drew to an end, and you drifted off to sleep in each others arms. 

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Dear God, I am very sorry for this sin I have just committed. I promise I’m a good girl really :) Anyways, so this was my first smut fic. It’s loosely based off another fic I read (surprisingly called truth or dare) that I read from Wattpad. So go check that one out too, and creds to that writer. I hope you guys enjoyed and give me some feedback (or even some requests?) if you want. It’s crazy what quarantine can do to you. Love you guys, stay safe!! 

[millennial-star-gazer]

The Draconic Demon Within: Chapter 4: A Demon’s All-Consuming Rage

The Draconic Demon Within

Genres: Romance, Friendship/Family, Drama/Angst, Hurt/ Comfort, & New Adult Fanfiction

Vera's April 2018 Prompts: Soul, Empyrean, Savage, Memory, Trust, Fear, Unstoppable , Resilient, Supernatural (Implied) Lost (Implied) and Loathing.

Nalu Lovefest 2017 Prompts: Dreams

Nalu Week 2019 Prompts (Implied:) Lost, Curse, Trial, Treasure, Chance and possibly Bare.

Pairing: Nalu/EndLu,( Natsu x Lucy/ E.N.D. x Lucy)

Rating: M for language, steamy and mature adult sexual content (all consensual) in these and future chapters. Reader Direction is advised.(You have been warned!)

Summary: Now faced with the reality of who he is truly is, the son of Igneel must contend with the new darker instincts of his new demonic identity- all while navigating through his ever-growing, intense feelings for a particular celestial wizard. Originally a Submission (semi -au) for Nalu lovefest 2017 (on my previous celestialgeekmage account and now an entry for nalu week 2019 with chapter 3. (Also was on my earliest previous accounts of teamedwardjace/Twishadowhunter in the past. Also part of Vera's April 2018 prompt challenge from fic-writers appreciation on cosmicdragonwizard).

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Chapter 4: A Demon's All- Consuming Rage

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A/N: Hey guys, it's your girl back again with another installment of TTDW! Fun fact: Being temporarily off work for a few weeks due to pandemic has provided some extra free time to edit and posta new chapter for this fic ( which is on account of the temporary closures of public institutions, and public spaces along with non-essential businesses/services in Ontario-the Canadian province I'm from). This isn't to suggest I'm not without fear or concern about the pandemic or potential effects on global infrastructure but at least I'm mostly coping as best as anyone can at this time. Hope you guys are all too. ( A bit more on this in the A/N at the end of this chapter .) Anyway, hope that this chapter and my other fanfics along with those from amazing writers can help you all while stuck at home. All right, that's pretty much my whole spiel for now. Without further ado, here's Chapter 4 of TTDW-Enjoy! 

(Note: Scroll down past the read more button/cut for the  designated legend menu and actual story content).

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Disclaimer: Fairytail does not belong to me, but to the most honourable Hiro-sensei instead, for whom without this work of love wouldn't be possible. 

Read Previous Chapters of TDDW and on platforms here:

(Copy and paste the links into another  window if need be)

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Previous (Click Here:)  (or here: https://millennial-star-gazer.tumblr.com/post/185917542578/the-draconic-demon-within-chapter-3)

Next (Coming Soon:)

B. Fanfiction (Click Here:) (or here:  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13113898/1/The-Draconic-Demon-Within-Reupload-from-cosmicdragonwizardaccounts)

C. A03 (Click Here:) (or here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365061/chapters/40861307)

2. Ongoing Master  Post Of All My Writing (Click Here:) (or here: https://millennial-star-gazer.tumblr.com/post/179665258923/master-fic-rec-post)

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Legend:

Italic: Song Lyrics/Quotes (or flashback dialogue)

Bold: First Person Thoughts

Bolded Italics: Empathized, stylized Word(s) or bloodthirsty fantasies

Bolded Italics (Within and Outside Bracket) including for author's side notes also known as (A/N:) within brackets (though none for side-notes in this chapter ).

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"Your body is full of rage.

Every sinew. It is easy to read.

You speak volumes with a clenched fist."

( Paolo Bacigalupi: The Drowned Cities)

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"Seriously? Luce's alive?

That…. I can't...

A wave of overjoyed relief was washing over Natsu from the spectacular news about his best friend still breathing.

"Hear that Luce?!" He sobbed, not bothering to wipe the moisture from his eyes." You're alive and gonna be okay— Thank God! Really... don't ... know what I'd do without ya…," Scarlet-red eyes remained focused/trained on the face on the motionless angel in his arms.

"Pretty sure the guild and the rest of the people we know would be just as devastated if they lost such an incredible person and wizard . Glad you're okay either way though." Natsu's hands were stroking sweat-plastered strands of Lucy's hair back from her eyes with delicate care .

Really glad she's still in fact alive and kicking…

In that very moment , it was as if the world had fallen away; leaving just the two of them. Nothing else seemed to matter then . Not cold-blooded enemies in the room, or the recent battle just moments before; Not even E.n.d's unnerving metamorphosis. Just a dragon-demon and his most precious star with those subtle breaths, the visible rise and fall of her chest that somehow escaped any kind of major notice before.

Words can't even describe how relieved I am . Digits combed through Lucy's blonde tresses from crown to tip in a physical display of tender affection.

Hmm... Lucy's hair feels really nice. Natsu couldn't help but marvel at texture of her beneath his fingertips .Don't think I've ever stopped to fully appreciate it before .

"Gotta say that your hair feels really nice, Luce." Natsu voiced this innermost thoughts aloud; though his words were coming in soft. ."Smells real amazin' too."

Damn was the appealing fragrance of jasmine with a hint of cyclamen flooding his senses beyond intoxicating."like jasmine and that other flower we saw once— cyclamen, I think. . You've been using a new scented shampoo again, I see. Not that I'm complainin'."

"Psh—Listen to me" Natsu tacked on with a rueful chuckle that was still a bit thick from all that weeping before. " Gettin' all sentimental and crap. Hell... stripper would never even let me live it down if he heard . Still be damn proud of you though just like I am for how well you handled yourself in battle. Why don't we tell him all about it once you're awake and we're out of here?. Bet he'd like that . Till then, the two of us just need to sit tight and figure out our next move, okay?"

Wait ...

The fire demon's hands continued their fond movements- only for blood to freeze in his veins when noticing an unsightly contusion on Lucy's forehead; accented by a small gash just above her brow.

When did this happen? I swear those injuries hadn't there been seconds before .. .

Crimson eyes scanned his best friend's battered frame for further damage in alarm . My God... Natsu's breath caught in his throat at the sight of that line of discolorations on her legs . Not to mention all those scratches along with the small gash peeking out through the tattered remains of Lucy's Star dress .

"Oh Luce..." He sighed, remorseful voice breaking on her name. "Can see that you're in pretty rough shape right now. I'm so sorry. Honestly don't know how or why you had a delayed reaction to all the damage. But this wouldn't have happened if I only had grabbed you and run or got your spirits to transport you to their world, Hell— Maybe we could've both escaped and I could've helped kept you safe while figuring out this new demon form means for us together. Anyways, time to put pressure on your wound."

A hand tore a loose piece of fabric to apply pressure on the hemorrhaging wound. "See? You'll be okay . Gonnal get ya' all fixed up and good as new in no time ."

Damn Luce stills looks like an angel to me, Natsu mused in reverent admiration . Even with those injuries...

"Ooh- how cute!" Jackal's dervisie voice cut  through  the other demon’s reverie; whose arms automatically protectively tightened around Lucy's frame out of fierce instinct-automatic without a second though. Not to mention those two pair of eyes he could sense that set him on edge."

"Aw Damn." Jackal broke in again with a gleeful taunt that bordered on sadistic."That poor,pretty girl of you is covered in ugly bruises and scratches, Dragneel."

That little ...

Natsu's head automatically snapped around to meet Jackal with a baleful snarl. Damn was that all that black rage roaring in his veins all too consuming.

"There's that growling again" Jackal cackled, clearly unfazed at by the alpha demon's bared canines ." Bared fangs and what not. Such a shame what happened to Blondie here , or is it? You really did a number on her, huh Tempester?"

"Huh," Tempester mused, bland disinterest colouring his tone."it seems I did . Kind of forgot that my curses can sometimes have o delayed side effects on people . Who knows? That pathetic wrench might even have internal bleeding.

"You goddamned bastard!" The flame- eater raged, fury boiling over. "Lucy ain't pathetic or some kind of toy to play with ... God.. All those injuries… are you fault and . I swear that You're both gonna pay for what you did to her!"

"Oh-You think so?" Jackal scoffed with let out another infantilizing laugh —beyond infuriating .

"Someone's rattled." Tempster pointed out, listless eyes trained on the stone-brick wall ahead. "Unfortunate."

"You don't say," Jackal deadpanned, with a disdainful roll of the eyes ."But Seriously Though , E.N.D, do you even hear yourself? .I mean getting all riled up over a human girl in that way —talk about pathetic. Sure said girl is extremely beautiful with a killer bod and feisty personality to boot—I'll give you that. But is she worth losing your cool over or fraternizing with? I don't think so and neither should you . God knows all that pent up rage and aggression would be far more suited for another cause. Not to mention, you'd better off without her life tainting your judgement and hindering your full potential as the most powerful of all etherious. So let's resolve this, shall we? Hand over the celestial wizard and I'll gladly dispose of her for you . Sound good?"

" 'Sound good?'Sound Good?!’ Are you kidding me?"!

Good God did those last words only serve to incense the snarling dragon further.

" There's no way in hell I'm gonna give Lucy up or let either of you touch her!"

"Come on Dragneel-be reasonable."

"No-rot in hell!"

"Oh honestly E.N.D.-"

"My name is Natsu!"

"Well okay then, Natsu— Just calm down ." Jackal's couldn't seem to resist reprimanding the fire demon; as if he were some errant child pitching a fit ."You're being ridiculous. Anyways, tell you what. I promise to make her death as qui-"

"Shut up!"

" Quick and mostly painless..."

"I said shut up!" En.d's voice rose to an ear-splitting roar that could've struck terror into the hearts of the gods themselves. "Try anything on her and I swear I'll kill you!"

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To Be Continued

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A/N: Well that's Chapter 4 folks- hope you enjoyed! Now a bit more about the pandemic situation in Ontario . Like many other provinces and countries around the world,, the government of Ontario has opted to shut down/ temporarily close non-essential services, businesses, public spaces and institutions to help curb the spread of the virus for a few weeks (or more) before spring break. Such institutions include all schools and childcare centres/ services in those settings which applies to the childcare company I'm currently employed with. You know on account of most of their centres and programs being based in public schools. (Independently-run Daycares also remain closed. And yes i'm a ECE by trade for any who were wondering or didn't already). Schools and child cares were tentatively scheduled to reopen after April 5th; though the closures have been extended for another month (according to Doug Ford (the premier/leader of Ontario). Not ideal but at least it gives me some extra time for me to work on things alongside my writing(i.e editing upcoming chapters for fics and WIPS). All right folks, that's all I have to say on that subject.

As usual, please feel free to let me know what you think by leaving a comment/review , through a reblog or by any other means. Be sure to check out the rest of my writing while staying tuned for future updates of my fics and new projects along the way! (Links above, in the navigation and in bio If on tumblr . Also on fanfiction.) Anyway, take care and stay safe! Ta ta for now!

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

getting older

Jeremy Henzell-Thomas is an independent researcher, writer, speaker, educational consultant, former Visiting Fellow and Research Associate at the Centre of Islamic Studies at the University of Cambridge, and Associate Editor of the quarterly journal Critical Muslim. He was awarded an MBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours in 2021 for services to the Civil Society and the Muslim Community.

We share an issue of the physical heart...This is his musing on getting older.

Approaching my 75th birthday I am reminded that getting older is often regarded (even stigmatised or stereotyped) as a time of declining faculties, increasing disability, and progressive crystallisation (one might even say ‘cementing’) of existing habits and attitudes, including ‘living in the past’ and getting ‘set in one’s ways’. In As you Like It Shakespeare famously depicts the final stage in the ‘Seven Ages of Man’ as one of dotage, senility and second childishness, culminating in ‘mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.’

Sadly, many seniors do see themselves as having been consigned to the ‘scrap-heap’, and even if they don’t they are often treated as such by others. I remember well a BBC interview with a very senior nursing officer on the mistreatment of elderly people in the healthcare system. Her explanation for the culture of neglect and abuse was simple. Fewer and fewer people, she said, had any religious faith or spiritual values, nor any belief in an afterlife. They therefore saw old people not as precious souls approaching the transition to the next stage of existence but only as dispensable material bodies which had outlived their usefulness. This rings true. Ageism and the culture of contempt for the old is the ultimate consequence of a brutal and nihilistic materialism which reduces everything to base physical utility, to a mere mortal body devoid of soul and spirit.

Well, I want to buck the trend and affirm that as we grow older, we are blessed with the opportunity to transcend the problems which come with age, and awaken those deeper faculties that connect us to our essential nature as fully human beings created ‘in the image of God’.

For me, the experience of true intimacy is integral to that awakening. As the Qur’an tells us, God is ‘closer to you than your jugular vein.’ I love that affirmation because it confirms for me that aging offers a transformational opportunity to ‘come home’, to feel the Divine Presence intimately in the very core of the body. Several years ago I had a striking dream that I had descended from Mount Everest into the foothills, although I still had to descend further into the valleys and levels. The stunning 190-mile Pembrokeshire Coast Path in Wales, which I trekked at the age of 65, actually involves a total ascent of 30,000 feet, higher than Mount Everest, so the image of Everest in my dream was referring not only to the fact that it is the highest mountain but also that it was a ‘height’ that I had scaled in my walk. 

I understand now that the gift of aging is to come down from the lofty heights of heroic personal achievement and transcendent spiritual experience and exercise more warmth, love, compassion, intimacy, reconciliation and tenderness in the immanence of our relationship with others and with the world at large. In short, to become more fully human.In one sense, the transition to a Heart-centred life runs counter to the process of aging, for the physical heart is subject to various diseases. These include coronary heart disease, which occurs when the heart muscle's blood supply is blocked by a build-up of fatty substances in the coronary arteries, and aortic stenosis, when calcification causes narrowing of the aortic valve which reduces blood flow. I am familiar with the latter, as I have a bicuspid aortic valve, a congenital condition which causes stenosis, and which is monitored annually by echocardiogram. It has recently progressed from a mild to a moderate level and I am told that when it reaches a severe level I will need a replacement valve, perhaps before I reach the age of 80.

The physical deterioration of the heart, as manifested in ‘narrowing’, ‘blocking’ and ‘hardening’ offers useful analogies to similar defects in the psyche. We can speak of someone having a ‘hard heart’ or a ‘narrow view’ without in any way implicating the physical organ. In the same way, the word ‘sclerotic’ can be used to describe someone’s thinking or behaviour as rigid and unresponsive, losing the ability to adapt, without referring to sclerosis as a physical condition.

Given the common stereotype of growing old as a time of the narrowing of one’s outlook, I am very much aware of how this tendency (one might say ‘disease’) needs to be countered by cultivating a soft, open and expansive Heart that brings light, love, healing words, and compassion into one’s life and the lives of others. As I age, and hopefully before I need a replacement aortic valve, I pray that I might be true to my own Heart, and thereby to exemplify the Sufi injunction to ‘die before you die’, to let go of the egoic or false self, and live and speak by the light of the true Self. There comes a time when one must sincerely embody and enact what one knows and expresses in words.

I love the moment in the film Greystoke (accompanied by the noble opening theme of Elgar’s first symphony) when Tarzan returns home to the place of his ancestry, the beautiful country estate of his elderly grandfather, the Earl of Greystoke. My eyes fill with tears when Tarzan alights from his carriage and is embraced by the earl, played with great feeling by Ralph Richardson. This ‘coming home’ is deeply symbolic for me. Tarzan, lost in the jungle, comes home after years of exile from his family, culture and native land, to be welcomed with open arms by his grandfather. 

But my response is not an intellectual response to symbolism but a profound emotional feeling of ‘returning’ to the place where we all belong. In so doing, we fulfil the purpose of our lives, which is none other than the realisation of our essential unity with the ground of being. It is coming to rest in old age, in that remembrance of our ‘origin’, which on the deepest level is none other than being embraced by the ultimate Source of Love.

[Thank you Ian Sanders]

[cryptovalid]

The Rise of Skywalker is Bad, but I was wrong to expect any better (and it’s not as bad as I expected, either)

If the title did not give it away, I’m conflicted about Star Wars Episode IX: the Rise of Skywalker. I just saw it in theatres, and I thought it was bad, but I can’t muster up any scorn or outrage. It’s just like the popcorn I ate: bland and forgettable, and somewhat stale. I guess it helps I was never a huge Star Wars fan at any time. I’ve seen every movie in the series, except for Solo. but I’ve not seen any of them more than once or twice. In short, I’ve always thought of Star Wars as Fine, but also massively overrated. I believe the interesting concepts in A New Hope and the Empire Strikes Back were squandered by first George Lucas, and then J.J. Abrams.

 I can’t say that Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi was my favorite Star Wars movie, but it was without a doubt the least compromised of all the other entries. It had something to say whether fans liked it or not. It wasn’t meandering, self-indulgent and uncanny like Lucas’ prequels, and did not take the original trilogy as unassailable gospel the way JJ Abrams does. I did not like the pacing or how Poe and Finn’s characters seemed less central to the story, but I understand why Rian Johnson focused on Rey’s interactions with Luke. The message of the Last Jedi was bold and challenging for fans: the Force is for Everyone and fans are wrong to obsess over the royalist eugenics and power fantasies in the original trilogy. Johnson wanted to focus on some of the more challenging aspects of war: loss, betrayal, and failure. Not everyone liked that, but for all that it did to sideline my favorite new characters, Finn and Poe, that was a daring and worthwhile statement to make.  

That said, I expected Disney to fully backtrack, given the way TLJ was received. So expectations were not high. Watching RoS is a strange experience. It’s kind of fun but also profoundly unoriginal and hackneyed. But given how similar it is to the Original Trilogy, it just made me realize that Star Wars was never as good as I imagined it was (or could be?). For Rise of Skywalker to be actually great, it would have to Rise (pardon the pun) above its predecessors. Which obviously it didn’t.  

 From here on there be Spoilers for SWIX: ROS

Let’s talk nuts and bolts. This movie is a random remix  of setpieces and McGuffins, artificially raised stakes and callbacks and hommages to the Orginal Trilogy. There’s a thing the heroes need to find the resurrected Emperor, and 80% of the movies is just a huge wild goose chase that also involves Kyle Ron stalking Rey to convince her to rule to galaxy with him. Then there’s a bunch of Death Stars and  confrontation with the Emperor. It’s all quite well paced, shot and scored, and even though I am highly critical of both the stilted dialogue and the uninspired plotting, the film is at least entertaining to watch. It is frequently funny and tense, sometimes unintentionally. And this, looking back, is really all that Star Wars can really claim to be. It’s an all-ages action comedy about war with some fantasy and sci fi for flavor and that’s really all that Star Wars has ever been.   

I had an epiphany as I watched Kyle Ron’s redemption and the messages around the Dark and Light Side. I was first struck by the fact that they are really the same story beats as the original trilogy, with some details changed that merely made it more obvious how hypocritical, lazy and thematically inconsistent these ideas have been from the beginning. Redeeming Darth Vader was always a cheap copout. He is a mass-murderer whose last action is sacrificing his life to kill the Emperor. He never really reckons with his many, many crimes. 

It becomes slightly grosser when Kyle Ron has one warm moment with his mom before she dies, a near-death experience and a peptalk from the dad he murdered, murders a bunch of goons, and sacrifices himself to save Rey’s life. For this, Rey immediately not only forgives him for the mass kidnappings, genocide, torture and the many times he threatened, gaslit and assaulted her, but immediately kisses him. It’s such a gendered framing of redemption that basically reproduces the views that narcissists and abusers have about relationships: that you can treat others like literal dogshit and redeem yourself with a single grand gesture of self-sacrifice. I’ve talked about the Martyr Dad before on this account, but making it a romantic thing is so much worse. This is the cycle of abuse to a T.

In terms of the Light Side Versus the Dark Side, Star wars has always wanted its cake and to eat it too. On the one hand, it wants to suggest that the Light Side is a fundamentally morally opposed way of living focused on ‘Knowledge and Defense‘, that striking a Sith down in Anger is something the Light Side can not abide, but in the end, the Light Side always wins because the Sith are violently killed. It always feels like a convenient loophole that Darth Vader throws the Emperor into a nearby pit so that Luke doesn’t need to get his hands dirty. All the more so when the resurrected Emperor literally has his own Force Lightning reflected into his face by Rey’s dual wielding two Skywalker Lightsabers+3. It’s cheap. It’s moral sofistry with the gratification of a power fantasy.

You might have noticed I’ve said nothing about my soft boys, Poe and Finn, or Rose Tycho for that matter. That’s because they’re not important to the overarching story. They could easily have been cut from the film without significantly altering the story. They pad the runtime. They’re charming and funny as always and the writers give them stuff to do in every act, but it’s not the A-plot. The story is partially about Kyle Ron having an admittedly well-acted but very hackneyed redemption arc that is sure to please fans of the character but doesn’t involve in any sense an understanding that he has hurt billions of people. His redemption is exclusively about his parents, who are the only people he’s hurt that are worth mentioning in this context. The other part is the revelation that Rey does have a special lineage: she’s Palpatine’s granddaughter. This is why she’s powerful and also why she’s tempted by the dark side. 

If the message of TLJ was ‘we’re all equals in the eyes of the force‘, ROS is basically a massive apology for even entertaining that idea, and reaffirms that all the important characters are related by blood to characters from the original trilogy and all the rest are also there, I guess. If you’ve ever thought that you could be as strong in the force as Luke or Kylo or Rey, you are a fool. After all, your parents weren’t Force Royalty. You thought a person of color or a non-force user could be the key to defeating fascism? You thought main characters could be anything other than straight? Utter simpleton, you. You thought redeeming yourself from mass-murder was difficult, or that the Jedi were flawed just like every other organisation? Nah mate, the bad guys wear black robes and we totally fucked them up with laser swords and heavy ordinance. 

Don’t worry, white hetero superfan looking for a power fantasy that doesn’t challenge your beliefs or moral superiority. Your priorities and fixations are our script editor. We’re sorry, Disney appears to say with this movie, that we would ever suggest there was anything more to Star Wars as a franchise. We promise, she may be a girl, but in all other respects, she’s just like Luke now. Except this time, Luke is hot and totally into your edgy dark side.

Ok, I’m sorry, that’s just the bitter shipper in me. Finn deserved better. He deserved to be a main character. A love interest. His redemption was never fully framed as such, nor did he ever really get credit for being a consistently supportive, relatable, honorable character with the scintillating charisma of John Boyega. Despite being literally raised as a child soldier, he was never seen as a good example of redemption and somehow, he was not considered a main character. This is, I believe, the greatest waste of this trilogy.

Fuck the idea of a Dynasty of the Force. Fuck Eugenics. Fuck this idea that your birth is what makes you powerful. It is weak. It is lazy. It is boring. 

I had such high hopes after Episode VII, despite it being derivative. It appeared in that moment that Finn could be love interest for both Rey and Poe. Perhaps even at the same time! I imagined the climax of this trilogy would be all about Finn growing from a deserter unsure that he could ever make a difference, to becoming a true hero. I imagined the heroes facing the First Order in their darkest hour, when all is lost. I imagined them being rescued by defecting Stormtroopers, painting their helmets with three vertical red stripes in honour of the First Traitor. I imagined my boy Finn leading a legion of traitors, proving that all it takes to defeat fascism is to reject it and inspire others to do the same. 

But of course, that hope was foolish. I shouldn’t have expected good storytelling from a series that pays lip service to non-violence and redemption while handling both as cheap, esthetic elements rather than actual narrative commitments.

[fantasyfandommaiden]

ML Counsellor AU: Longg’s Session

Carmine was used to this by now. To Kwami’s entering her home without her knowledge. She really needed to get like a schedule book or something, but for the time being she had a dragon to talk to.

(Thanks to @nerdasaurus1200 for helping me through my writers block! This one is for you!!!!)

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Carmine was taking a shower when Gladiolus entered the bathroom, poking his head behind the curtain to look at her, his fur getting slightly wet from the water. ‘You have a guest.’ he stated to her, and Carmine looked at him with a raised brow. ‘It’s another kwami, I don’t recognise this one though.’

“What’s it look like?” she asked, turning off the shower, and stepping out of the tub. She had gotten in the habit of taking her pajamas into the bathroom after Pollen had shown up for her visit, and she figured that her sleep clothes were more professional looking than her bathrobe. 

‘If a Eastern dragon was tiny.’ Gladiolus stated, before hopping off the bathtub and scampering out of the room. 

Carmine blinked, feeling somewhat confused. There was a dragon Miraculous? How many were there exactly?!

After drying herself off with a towel and putting on her flannel pants and a large tee-shirt, she walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, where she saw Gladiolus starting a pot of tea, and on the kitchen table she saw the kwami.

The dragon kwami was sitting on the dress ball that a lot of the kwamis would sit on, and was watching the ferret with great interest until he saw Carmine walk up and pull out a chair, smiling. “Good evening, my name is Carmine Regal.”

The red kwami gave a deep bow, before raising his head to look at Carmine “My name is Longg, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss. Carmine.” he said to her, “I am sorry for coming so late, it is difficult to make… appointments, I believe its call?” 

Carmine smiled, giving a slight shrug “Its fine, I understand that it isn’t that easy to do that given your circumstance. Although, I have to ask if it is safe for you to be out and about like this? What if your Hawkmoth sees you or your caught on camera?”

Longg gave a small smile “We kwami’s fly high above the ground to appear almost as if we  were birds to the normal human eye, and cameras can not capture our likeness, so there is no need to worry… The other kwami’s and I’ve heard many tales about you from Sass and Pollen, so many of us have grown curious.” he stated “... Pollen speaks especially high of you, which is usually a rarity unless she speaks of the other kwamis or her wielders.” 

Carmine gave him a small smile “... Pollen told me that one of my ancestors was a previous wielder of hers, I’m sure that is all…”

“And that you have spoken with other kwamis and actually listen to them helps as well.” Longg stated “You should take it as a compliment, Pollen doesn’t hand out praise easily.” 

Carmine looked at Longg with a raised brow “... Are you especially close with Pollen? Are you like… the Plagg to her Tikki?” 

Longg looked at her, murmuring the phrase under his breath slightly before he burst out laughing “Oh, oh you jest!” he said, cackling “No, no… Pollen does not have another half. Unlike Plagg and Tikki, or Dusuu and Trixx, or even Wayzz and Nooroo, Pollen is her own support.” Longg sat up straighter, and mimicking Pollen’s posh voice fairly well “‘A true Bee is both a worker and royalty, a defender and attacker, an independent person but also a part of the hive. A Bee is everything and nothing at the same time.’...hehe.” Longg let out a small chuckle “... No, I am not Pollen’s other half, but our wielders are always fairly similar so we share that in common, and we share similar beliefs on honour and respect.”

Carmine blinked, looking at Longg confused “... How are your wielders similar?” she asked slowly, hearing the kettle began to whistle, Carmine stood up “Do you drink tea?”

“Yes, do you have oolong?”

“Of course!” Carmine said, bringing back the kettle and the appropriate tea cups “You were saying something about how you and Pollen usually had similar wielders?”

“In personality yes… The thing about the Miraculous is, that each item is best suited for certain types of individuals.” Longg stated as Carmine poured him some tea into the small doll cup. “Take Tikki’s wielders, she loves those who are creators, whether they are story writers, artists, or craftsmen, she loves those who create, but also those who are born strategist, and those who are able to think ten steps ahead.”

Carmine looked at Longg, remembering all the battles she had witnessed Ladybug in, and remembering all the Lucky Charms that occured “She would have to be able to think ten steps ahead in order to use Lucky Charm.” 

Longg simply nodded, sipping his tea “Indeed, however with mine and Pollen’s wielders, ours are usually… what’s the term I’ve heard Plagg use…” he thought for a long moment before stating “Hot-heads.” 

Carmine let out a snort, giggling “Wait, really?”

Longg let out a low sigh “Indeed, at least when we first interact with them. That isn’t the only trait they share, but usually it's the one that is the most common one. They dont always think before acting, and use their power too soon, often causing problems for others…” Longg looked down at the tea, his reflection looking back at him “... but they are also honourable, born leaders, and would do anything to protect those who they cared about…” he said softly. 

Carmine looked at Long, gently holding her tea cup “... Are you here to discuss a previous chosen?”

“As well as a current one.” Longg stated “Like I stated, a lot of my chosen are typically hot-headed or stubborn. They do better under our guidance, but that can only be done if we remain with them…” he stated. 

“... but you can’t remain with this one, can you?”

“The Guardian believes it would be too dangerous for too many Miraculous to be out at the same time, and for the most part, many of us kwami agree, however it is still hard… especially when we resonate so strongly with those who use our Miraculous.” Longg stated, letting out a sigh “... Pollen is taking it especially hard, and is quite vocal about it. Although Trixx, Kaalki, Sass and Xuppu are too proud to say it, I know they too miss their charges.” 

Carmine looked at Longg, her fingers gently against her tea cup “... What about you?” Carmine asked slowly “What is your option of not being able to stay with your chosen?”

Longg didn’t speak for a long time, sipping his tea “It is the guardian’s decision, not mine.” he stated simply.

“That wasn’t my question though…” Carmine said, gently pushing. Long remained silent for a few moments, however Carmine saw the kwami’s expressions change ever so slightly turn from neutral, to a scowl, to a full out glare. Smoke came out of the kwami’s nose as he breathed out before speaking.

“The Master, for all of his wisdom, and insight, can not comprehend what it is like to be ripped away from a chosen just because of the CHANCE of us being taken.” Longg hissed, his ember eyes glaring fiercely “How could he? Even when his kwami goes out to Carapace, Wayzz is always returned in the end. He cannot BEGIN to understand what it feels to be ripped away from someone who you know belongs to you.” he stated, floating up “We are as old as time itself but HE thinks that just because he has almost reached two centuries he knows better?! HA! Don't make me laugh!” he said bitterly “I understand the risks, we all do, but we will not get Nooroo back by sitting on our hands and doing nothing! Ladybug and Chat Noir can only react when Hawkmoth attacks, they need to ACT! Do something! They need our help and the Master refuses to let us help!” the dragon kwami actually breathed out fire at the last part, causing Carmine to back up in her chair slightly. 

Longg took a deep breath, as if to calm himself before he floated back down onto the table, sighing “... Apologies, its just… being taken away from a chosen is tough and sometimes I dont always act appropriately.” 

Carmine shook her head “No, no… it's understandable. I believe you stated that a few of the others were not handling it as well either.” she said to him softly. 

Longg merely nodded, sighing “Still, I should not have lost my temper so easily.” he said softly, shaking his head “The Master is fairly good at his job, provided it is within his area of expertise or knowledge, however sometimes he doesn’t fully understand the bonds become a kwami and their holder…” he said, sipping his tea, looking thoughtful “... It appears Pollen and Sass were correct.”

Carmine looked at the kwami confused “How so?” she asked him gently. The small dragon looked up at Carmine, smiling slightly “... discussing what I am feeling does appear to help one feel better.” 

The counsellor blinked, giving a small smile. Never in her wildest dreams did she ever think that she would be having counselling sessions with small immortal beings. She figured the most she had expected was magical people, not tiny gods.  “I’m glad to be of service.”

[brolinskeep]

so i saw endgame.

spoilers under the cut, but first of big thx to my MCU posting mutuals who saw the movie before me and never slipped up tagging their spoilers ❤️

the movie, the plot, the look backs, the team ups, THE ARMIES-OF-GONDOR,-ROHAN-AND-ELVES-LIKE ASSAMBLY OF EVERYONE KICK SCROTUM FACE’S ASS: yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesYESYESYESYESYES YESYESYESYESYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

the ending: no.

america’s butt: 🍑 thank you for your service (and to whoever among the writers finally had the courage to acknowledge it)

“i lost our boy”: 😭😭😭😭😭😭 #superfamily

new asgard: 😊😊😊

Tony “I am Iron Man” Stark:          . . .

its been a long time since i cried like this from a movie.

i mean i understand from a like story telling pov this seems to be the only conclusive way to end this aera of the MCU cos like how could shit go sideways in future on earth and tony stark not being there to save the day as long as he lives one way or another, how make it believable that spiderman could face odds onyl he alone can overcome when the audience was more or less aware that ultimately somewhere out there tony stark was chilling in the back but could still send a technical update to help save the day.

but it hurts. so much. and it so unfair. for him who has been there for the last 10 years to save the day, building the avengers alongside steve, and now that he finally had the chance of a happily ever after with his little family, to have to make the ultimate sacrifice so everyone can have the final victory and peace except him.

as i said, i kinda understand why TPTB did this, but as a fan i was hoping they’d do it as they did at the end of the first avengers movie. we would have been ok with not seeing tony again on screen but knowing he’s living his best life in peace.

Steve Captain America Rogers: you can pass on the shield, but there’s gonna be no one like you, oh captain my captain. im happy for him and Peggy, i truly am, but it’s with the same bittersweetness as i was for frodo at the end of LotR:

How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold.

Thor: we’re here for dadbod god of thunder, (and shallow, thirsty me who wants 8pack pirate-angel baby back for GotG 3 can sit in the corner and shut up for a bit) who stands up for his buddies against online bullies and is scared, too scared to face his ex and just wants his mum back. and is just so fkicng proud of his buddy steve lifting-mjölnir-cos-he’s-as-worthy-as-the-godking-of-asgard rogers while starring death in the face saying ‘not today’ now please get your brother back somehow i dont care how!

Natasha: LISTEN MARVEL YOU BETTER FCKIG FIX THIS OR SO HELP ME HELA!!!

Clint: they surely made you pay for sitting out infinity war jfc ;A;

Bruce: we stan our big, green nerd!

Rocket: the one true snarky guardian of the galaxy, this show would go the shit without you bb

Carol Denvers: first of all YESSSSSS and please hang out with peter from time to time

Scott: didnt think id ever get emotional about ant-man, but jfc here we are ps: #epicpunchisepic

Valkyrie: long live the queen!!

Loki: same as for natasha 😡, how am i supposed to enjoy his upcoming solo series when there’s gonna be this small voice in the back of my head constaly whispering ‘whatever. he’s gonna die anyway and you’ll never get your thorki happy ending’

Pepper: i got nothing. i just want to hug her and let her cry.

little Morgan: you’re loved 3000 times and more

Rhodey: it’s been an honour.

Peter Parker: *builds pillowfort, makes hot choc gets your fav ice cream, wraps you in a 1000 blankets and protects you from all pain forever*

Sam: on your left! thats one big shield you’ll carry there buddy

Bucky: not enough time with steve

Wanda: i was almost certain they’d let you do the same to scrotum face as you did to ultron and i was 100% here for that

Hope: float like a butterfly sting like a wasp!

Peter Quill: thank god Gamora is back, now please let her reunite with her crew in GotG 3 to turn his head back into place.

Nebula: hope you find peace, get some closure and therapy, dear

Gamora: sisters before misters 👭 and glad to have you back

Drax: i couldnt see if you got him good, but hope you feel like you avenged your wife and kids

Groot: do you ever leave your bunny again please

Mantis: go kick names and takes asses, love, and never change ❤️

Black Panther: da king is back in town!

Okoye: yaaas queen!!

(Nakia: i understand Lupita Nyong'o has much bigger things to do but Nakia has been missed)

Shuri: make ‘em pay, bb!!

M'Baku: idk if you got snapped in A3 or not but epic battles arent the same without our big king from snowy mountain

Doctor Strange: your plan sucks doc!!!

Wong: your boss doesnt know what he has in you

Korg & Meik: time for another revolution guys :D

Nick Fury: where’s Goose???

Happy: you gotta step up your gmae looking after his kids now, buddy

Howard the Duck: didnt see you there but good to know you’re still around even though i still dunno what you are and why

Stand Lee: thank you.

thank you robert downey jr thank you jeremy renner thank you scarlet johansson thank you chris hemsworth thank you mark ruffalo thank you chris evans thank you tony thank you clint thank you nat thank you thor thank you bruce thank you steve thank you for being our heros.

— 𝕞𝕖𝕘𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕒𝕨 𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕘𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕩𝟚 (@leufeysonwinter) April 26, 2019