#if I don’t learn about all the people Himmel MUST have met and loved in 50 years of life post journey I’ll scream

[amethysttribble]

Frieren is good, because I want so much to know more about Himmel, Heiter, and Eisen and I can just /feel/ how there’s more there about them that we haven’t gotten to/may never know.

And it makes me want to shake Frieren to a degree cause I’m like “ten years! Ten years! Sixteen with Heiter! You know more about your friends than you think, tell me! You must and if you don’t- Look harder! Ask more! How did they live and love in those 50, 70 years you were separated??? PLEASE, I want more time with them these small glimpses aren’t enough!”

Which is, of course, the whole point.

[theliterateape]

On Turning 43 | A Birthday Reflection

By David Himmel

One of, if not the last conversation I had with my paternal grandmother before she died was about the cold war between the head and the heart. Or, rather, the mind and the body.

“In my mind, I’m twenty-nine,” she told me over the phone. “But my body doesn’t agree. It feels much older.” Nonny died three weeks before her ninety-fifth birthday.

That’s aging, innit? At the time of this typing, I am rounding the final bend of completing my forty-third year of life. When the clock strikes midnight, I will be forty-three years old. That feels like an odd age to be. And I imagine every subsequent year will feel just as uncomfortable. How am I forty-three? I think about my dad at forty-three, friends, teachers, bosses I knew when they were forty-three and there’s no way I’m as old as they are. Physically, yes.  I understand how time works. But mentally, I feel the same kind of desires, panics, fears, hopes, concerns, etc. as I did when I was twenty-five. Sure, there’s been some amendments, like, now I worry about the actual kid I have rather than worrying about the theoretical kid I might one day have.

That comment about her mind and body not aligning was the most pessimistic thing I ever heard Nonny say. And we were close. So, perhaps I’m better off for having met this realization at a younger age. Or, perhaps that’s how Nonny lived so long—she never crossed the line of contradiction until her mid-nineties. Or, she avoided the darkened weight that comes with it, which I have not.

I also type this out on May 25, the day after the Robb Elementary school shooting, so I can’t help but feel a little pessimistic, furious, sad, and scared. But! If I am to take pages out of Nonny’s book, then I must quote her further: “I must make what happens to me good for me.” So, let’s not focus on our decaying bodies and aching brains, not on the grotesque demise of our miserable American Exceptionalism. No, let’s look back at what I’ve learned in my forty-third year. Let’s see how I’ve grown and made what happened to me good for me. And let’s see if maybe, you learned something, too, and made things good for you as well. 

It’s decided, I know who I’ll have dinner with Dinner with three people? Lizzo. Hunter Thompson. Michael Zigler. Lee Harvey Oswald. Why? Lizzo is keeping good disco alive. Lizzo is funny. She seems like a good time.

Thompson? C’mon… Obviously.

Alek Hidell? I mean Lee Harvey Oswald? I just have so many questions. 

My heart breaks and melts with the losses and wins of the people I care about more than my own I’ve had a good number of friends go through some pretty surprising and/or rough breakups this year. Also had some friends experience some fantastic wins of the heart. The successes lifted me up into a euphoric cloud, the losses put me south of whatever Dante thought he knew. I can rattle off my loved one’s moments but I’d need a minute to recant my Ls and Ws. It’s easier for me to be empathetic and sympathetic to others than it is to myself. I am George Bailey. It is a quality that is equal parts wonderful and pathetically stupid.

 10 years later, Call Me Maybe is still a brilliant song Don’t be surprised. We all knew this was going to happen when we first heard the song in 2012.

I love Chicago for its filth I love the degenerates, the drunkards, the ones with broken cars in their garages and beer cans littering their backyard patios. That, to me, is a sign of someone fighting that Chicago Fight—working hard against the winter and the Man and gentrification. Those beat down by political machinery that leverages our safety, our kids’ education, our health, and how criminal the cops can be against us—those are the real Chicagoans reping the real Chicago. The glitz, the city pride resembling that of a Big 10 football game found in the Northeast neighborhoods, that ain’t Chicago. Not really. That’s performative self-indulgence. You can find the real Chicago if you go west. Just like the best of our kind always has.

Don Hall is a pit bull with a bone—or a toddler Between his nephew dying, his divorce, his adventures in employment, Don Hall is truly a survivor on the same level as a Twinkie and a cockroach. Pardon the mixed metaphors… The guy doesn’t quit or slow down for too long. Just enough to adjust his bite on the leg of the toddler that is his life.

The road to calm for me is paved by vacuum tracks The state of my domicile is directly reflective of my mental health, physical confidence, and general wellbeing. When I was a kid lying in bed at night, I’d bring myself to sleep by closing my eyes and pushing the clutter of my mind front and center into a large white void that existed just inside of my eyelids. Then bit by bit, I would weed through the clutter of the day, of the stress, of the joy, of the hope and concern. And bit by bit, the pile of stuff would clear out until I was left with a spotless white void. At that point, with the clutter cleared away, compartmentalized or deleted entirely, I could calmly drift to sleep. Ahh…

I’m not sure why I stopped this exercise. But I have a theory it’s connected to the ability to drink myself to sleep or fade out with an iPad propped up on my chest. I’m distracted, which is the whole point of younger me’s exercise.

Cleaning things out, bringing sensible, functional order to your spaces brings peace. Cleaning is immediate gratification, which does wonders for one’s confidence. Where there was once a pile of Amazon boxes, now there is a hardwood floor you can vacuum and mop to a brilliant shine. Maintaining basic cleanliness and order doesn’t mean everything has to be perfect and spotless at all times, but it does mean you’re maintaining control of your environment. And routine maintenance/cleaning means the job is easier to do each time around.

An uncluttered home inspires an uncluttered mind. This is a task I’ve struggled with since moving into our new home. With the place in flux as we settled in and made updates, then the two dogs filling it with hair and toys and kibble spills, and the preschooler and wife and myself merely living, the house has become, well, not an ideal place for a person like me. I’d clean it, but what’s the point? The moment I place clean and ironed linens on the bed, the dogs are there to dust it in dander. Cleaning my home has come to feel like I am more like Homer’s Sisyphus than I am the me I’ve always been and want to be. So, I have to figure out a way not to finally get that boulder up the hill but blow the boulder up and raze the hill. Then happily vacuum up all that debris. Ahh…

Logging out of social media has freed me from mindless time-wasting and unnecessary annoyance But that freedom has imprisoned me to a world where the common unwashed don’t know what I’m up to, which can work against me whenever I get that next damn book published. I want to be wealthy enough that I can hire an intelligent person to operate my social media. But there will be no need for that concern until I get those damn books out. The good news is that without social media to burn time on, I can use those found minutes to write and publish, right?

I’ve finally hit the point where I understand what parents mean when they say they’re exhausted and that parenting is hard It’s not the physical act of raising a child, it’s the emotional and psychological might required to be a good example, a patient parent and spouse, and generally, not a disconnected zombie of resentment. It’s hard. Challenge accepted under duress despite my very conscious choice to enter this terrible agreement with Domestication.

Yep! Go fuck yourself, Zionists One thing I learned and wrote about in last year’s birthday post was this: “I’ve become almost perfectly comfortable with my discomfort with my American Judaism. Too much to unpack right here right now. But I’m confident by age forty-three, I’ll have no problem telling American Zionists to fuck themselves in the face with an Uzi with the same passion I’d tell a Trump-supporting, Capitol-storming racist to fuck themselves with their stupid Confederate flags.”

Safe to say, that, yeah, now I’m forty-three and am perfectly fine to tell American Zionists to fuck themselves in the face with an Uzi. Especially if that American Zionist is “class act” Rudy Giuliani. Or my old rabbi.

I can do this shit Trouble gives us the capacity to handle it. Self-doubt and cross looks from spouses and strangers is mere fuel to a four-plus decade fire burning in me. Fuck off, move, I got shit to do and I’m gonna do it. I’ll try to be nice about it—and mostly, I will be—but if you get in my way too much for too long, I’m going to have to push you aside. The clock is ticking, time is running out. I can do this shit and I’m gonna do it the best way I know how—a slightly adjusted manner in which I’ve been doing it all the while.

[easilyaddictedin123]

Clashing of Wilds and Blood

Part 1 : https://easilyaddictedin123.tumblr.com/post/162841562811/clashing-of-wilds-and-blood

Part 3: https://easilyaddictedin123.tumblr.com/post/163108659911/clashing-of-wilds-and-blood

This can also be read on my AO3 : http://archiveofourown.org/works/11465187/chapters/25705545

A small warning for minor violence! Also shout out to @holy-minseok for the words of encouragement thank you so much!

Pt 2

You took a deep breath, settling into the warm water letting your hair billow around you. Ecbert would take many days to return and no doubt tear Aethelwulf apart for his decision. From what you gathered Ragnar was friend to the King, ally at least, and for his wounds it would be a healthy cost. The lavender scented water soothed your thoughts of Northmen with black hair and startling blue eyes. Such eyes. Feral, vibrant, challenging. Yes, challenging. What an interesting game he'd offered.

It crossed your mind to ask his father but that felt like cheating, “Where is your mind little lamb?”

Maude’s hands carefully pulled your hair out of the water to dry and plait it. You'd been acting strange since yesterday, nothing noticeable to many but to the woman who'd raised you the signs were blaring. The brush was soothing as it combed through your hair, a noncommittal hum answered her.

“It wouldn't have anything to do with the Lordship’s prisoners, now would it?” you could practically hear the disapproving look, “that'd be an extremely dangerous game for m’lady to toy with.”

“Why do you ask questions when you know the answer?” she scoffed at your tone,  “besides it's just a game.”

“Games like this tend to have fatal consequences. But you're still going to do as you please.” Maude shook her head and sighed aloud, “You're too much like your mother, she liked to play with fire too.”

“Really?” it was rare that Maude spoke of her.

“Mhm, always running about trying to push whatever limits that were set for her. “ -the tug on your hair didn't hurt as she continued the nostalgic story- “ Genoveve thought that to be a woman, a true woman, was to bring herself as high as she could to catch God's eye. For the angels to look down and know her so when she was forgiven and sent to Heaven she could speak to them as friends.”

“Do you think it worked? Sounds like she was a terrible sinner.” Maude barked out a sharp laugh at that.

“God forgives all, she would tell me, then be on time for mass on Sundays to ask for it. But if you're asking me, yes, for her sake if nothing else. I loved your mother dearly and I'll tell you what I told her. Rules in life are set for a reason. To be broken or followed who are we to say?”

You bit your lip nervously, “It's about them. They're just so different and the way they think is bizarre.”

“They're fascinating.” she tapped your arm and offered your towel, “ Be it far from me to think you won't continue to see them.”

You slipped on the deep blue dress on with its gold belt framing your hips, and slipped on your shoes. You had to tell Ragnar about his son like promised then speed of back to his son to play this imaginary chess game.

“Y/N.” Aethelwulf’s voice grated on your nerves but you stopped nonetheless and turned to face him.

“Yes, brother?” His face deepened at the title still thinking you unworthy of the status you’d been given on birth.

“A little bird told me something disturbing, my ‘beloved’ “he snarled out the word, “sister-in-law was creeping into the dungeons. It would be a true shame to your name and the name of King Aelle.”

“In that fact, remember who you are speaking at. I am not some mewling whelp and I’ll do as I please when it comes to m-” You expected the slap, you mouth had often gotten you worse, but not the force that sent you stumbling against the long table.

“Do not forget that being Father’s wild child daughter-in-law doesn’t give you full reign and you will not disrespect me. You will not go back down there, you should be punished but be thankful that King Aelle has use for you if it were I -” You cut him off spitting the taste of iron out of your mouth.

“But I am not, and do not forget that.” You let your tongue run against the busted lower lip, it could have been worse considering Judith’s ear and Aethelwulf’s temper.

You couldn’t possibly see Ragnar now with his steadfast guards to man the door to the Northman’s cage at the risk of more than a busted lip. You turned back to the hall making your way to the east wing if you couldn’t speak to Ragnar then his nameless son would; talking to him was safer too. The same guards held position at his door so getting in wasn’t a problem, the door opened and quietly enough to not disturb the sleeping man on his plank.

He looked tense even in slumbering part of you thought that he might even have slept with a weapon. You were quiet in moving to get close enough to actually see him, the light spilling in gave him a kind of foreign look almost like a stolen secret. You supposed in part that he was stolen from his land or did he come here willing you weren’t exactly sure, you’d leaned over too close to him. Calloused fingers gripped onto your arm hard enough to where you wouldn’t be surprised if it broke causing a slight yelp to escape your mouth. His eyes were still sleep ridden and for the barest of moments you wanted to see what he did before those striking eyes cleared.

Your arm would be bruised from the grip no doubt as he released it while growling something out in his language, you rubbed your wrist lightly to try and ease the burn. Ivar’s eyes slowly took in your form. Your deep blue dress, braided hair, face pinched in pain with a busted lip. He rubbed his temples fighting off the memory of waves crashing into the boat, screams of the dead reaching from the depths while his lungs burned. He instead focused on the woman in front of him that was trying to soothe the harm he’d caused.

“Good morning to you too, princess.” Despite the pain that the smile must have caused you offered him it regardless.

“It is a morning.” He gruffed not caring or noticing the nickname, his accent thicker and voice more gravelly it was a pleasant sound after a harsh morning.

You lifted up the front of your dress skirt just slightly to sit down in front of him, “So I thought to go ask your father about your name but that didn’t go as expected besides it’s not fair to our game. So shall I guess?”

“You are very much awake.” He sat up against the wall scrubbing at his face at your attitude that reminded him much of a pup.

“The sun is up and so am I, besides we’ve a game to play.” You smiled up at his still dreary face.

“Good luck.” The smirk settled onto his face that had a way of infuriating you but at the same there was something almost playful in the look.

“I’ve met people named after plants so you’re going to have to teach me some of your words.” He raised an eyebrow at that but ceded, “What’s the word for sky?”

“Himmel.” The word rolled off his tongue with ease unlike the choppiness that cut through the air when he spoke to you.

After a few hours of playing with various words and names he was becoming more and more entertained at the frustration nearly erupting from your bones. You hadn’t stomped your foot like a child although you wanted nothing more. It was his fault. His smug face. Arrogant look in his eyes. Teasing grin when you got it wrong. It was his fault and it was maddening and enticing. It was keeping you from noticing the time flowing by until the door opened and you leapt under the plank in the only dark spot you knew, keeping safe behind the shield of his legs hanging over the side.

Ivar scowled at the walking crypt that held his mid-day feast. Roast, potatoes, carrots and breads. She also sat down a pitcher and two glasses. Maude looked over the boy with a critical eye taking in everything from how he sat, the lines of displeasure seated on his face and the tightening of his hands on the plank edge. Even more the spread of dark blue peeking into the sunlight from under the dark of the plank.

“Next time you decide to hid little lamb don’t leave your dress edge in the way.” She listened to you groan and crawl halfway out to turn onto your back.

“You could find dirt in the snow.” Ivar looked at you while you accused the woman, he had to admit to the sight below him.

Your hair had loosened but not fallen out of it’s braid as you lay upon the ground, the sun splashing on your face lighting it up to let shadows play down your collar bone and the valley between your breasts that looked close to falling out of the dress. It had been tugged down by your flinging and flopping about.

You could feel the gaze on you yet it wasn’t as calculating as it was when you were learning various words to try and put one to his name, this felt close to appraising in nature. You finally tilted your head to face him, a brilliant smile on your face there was no seduction in your eyes. No lying. It was new and terrifying to him at the same time. Despite your busted lip or maybe because of it there was a kind of otherworldly glow on your skin and twining through your hair. The sun. He blamed it on the sun. There was no other reason he looked. No other reason.

Despite being an ocean and more away he could swear that there was a part of him that was rolling its eyes and looking suspiciously like Ubbe, he was brought out of the musing by a sharp clearing of a throat. The old woman had a ferociously grim look set on her aged appearance, Y/N jumped too maybe she was looking just as intensely?

“Your food m’lady to share with your” -Maude tried to find a word besides prisoner- “Your guest.”

“Thank you, Maude.” The voice was dismissive as you glared at the woman trying to get her out of the room faster.

Maude was hesitant to leave. She’d seen it. That pass of emotions slipping from person to person. It was new and breaching but it was there, Genoveve looked at the King Aelle once like there. As if there was something like an ember in the other, something capturing the hooks of her mistress’ being to drag her down into the darkness and crush her. The prisoner being a heathen or not. There was something else though in his that wasn’t in the King’s, where King Aelle had been deceptive interest, this blue gaze was cautious interest. That made it all the more dangerous.

“I’ll be back within the hour.” It sounded more like a warning than an assurance.

You finally twisted and twined further from the plank and Ivar resisted the urge to choke at the motion jostling you back and forth with your groan of frustration. He blamed it on being in four walls with nothing but his own mind, he didn’t want to admit to the voice that had yesterday called him a liar now saying that you weren’t bad company. Christian aside, a faith that you didn’t seem truly committed to in the first place, there might be something hypnotic.

“Seems like Maude tracked me down again.” You scoffed brushing off the dirt from your dress, “ She was always good at it.”

You walked over to sit next to him offering him half the plate, he hadn’t been fed since they’d dragged him away, and the pitcher next to you with what smelled like sweet wine. He tore into the roast while you poured the wine and offered it. He took a gulp and scrunched his nose at the taste making you laugh.

“Why do you drink this? It taste rotten. No ale.” That made you snicker and shake your head.

“No ale.” His lips tugged downwards at the revelation but still continued to eat around your hands that grabbed for food; the quiet wasn’t deafening, it wasn’t uncomfortable, there was a serenity in the occasional snort of impatience.

A glance from the rim of the cup that splashed against your tongue with sweetness nearly made you gag, you couldn’t smother the laughter that escaped when you swiftly gulped down the rest of the wine. Ivar had made slight mess of himself, the gravy sticking to his fingers and where they touched on his cheeks. He looked childish, more human and less terrifying Northman.

He licked his finger still not noticing until you reached over, he jerked back with a look of suspicion, “I’m not going to poison you by trying to get gravy off your face.”

Ivar did not blush, he was a Viking, he was a warrior but regardless you leaned over and he didn’t move, the blue fabric was soft and came away dirty but you just shook it off and continued to drink. The metal resting carefully above your lower lip to not break open the wound again.

“Why did it happen?” You raised an eyebrow at the look of inquiry, seemingly lost as you sat the wine down, it stopped when a calloused finger barely brushed over your lip.

To your credit you didn’t jump instead sat slightly transfixed at how hands that were so rough were surprisingly easy with the heated flesh under their brush, “My mouth tends to get me into trouble, so sometimes I get reprimanded.”

“You’re husband?” You scoffed at the word as Ivar picked up a piece of carrot and popped into his mouth.

“My sister’s husband, Aethelwulf likes to remind me of being a bastard.” You shrugged now finding the seams more interesting than him.

“Bastard? But you’re someone at least by your hands you are, why are you hit?” You gave a half hearted shrug.

“Just because I was taken in and given position I’m still a woman, not like I can do much against it.” Ivar scowled not understanding how someone so vibrant and full of everything could hollow out in a moment to someone helpless.

“You could fight back.” He watched you wince slightly but there was appeal to the thought.

“With what? My wit, I think we both see where that leads me.” You smirked trying to brush off the grave atmosphere with a playful tone.

“What good is your God if he doesn’t protect you?” Ivar smirked at the look of confusion and thought trying to come up with something to say.

There wasn’t anything you could come up with and he enjoyed seeing the small seed of doubt settled into your mind even if you were going to brush it away it would come back, “What would your Gods do?”

“My Gods let our women fight. They’re fierce and battle with us in raids and in the wars of land. The Goddess Freyja fights as well riding into battle where her Valkyries take half of the slain to her house.” He watched wonder cross your face and there was a slight outrage in the back of his mind by how eager you were to know of a woman who could defend herself.

“She takes half of the dead? So they go to your Heaven.” Ivar scooted back to settle comfortably against the wall as best he could.

“What is Heaven?” After long explanations filled with pointed laughter on both of your causes brought him to a question, “What is sin? You Christians say it so much, but I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s an immoral act against God’s law, like lying, or stealing or killing.” Ivar derided at the idea, “ You’ll go to Hell if you commit a sin and are not forgiven.”

Before he could tell you how ridiculous the idea of such things sending one to Hel was the old woman -Maude he reminded himself- walked back in, “It’s time to leave your guest, it’s nearing feast and I’ve let you escape today’s duties long enough.”

You groaned in an unladylike manner to further irritate her, “Fine, but I’ll be back to talk tomorrow.” ,you leaned slightly over, “If not sooner.”

He watched you stand and brush yourself off, throwing your braid over your shoulder with Ivar slightly resisting the urge to see if it was soft but touching it.

“What will we talk about?” He questioned as you got to the door, Maude walking ahead of you.

“Let us talk of Sin, but until then I bid you good eve. Nobody.” He watched you walk out with the thoughts how many sins could one commit that would damn them and why would they be damned for dying well and living life at it’s fullest? He was back in his dark room, the sun having lowered to cast only an orange glow instead of the bright one that left with you, it was colder save for the wood plank that had warmth still clinging to it. The name of Nobody was confusing as well, he’d have to question it. He could see that you were almost a slave to the God but yet you were a form of royalty at the least. Regardless he was willing to contradict you and your sins.