#if music be the food of love

[deafsignifcantother]

if music be the food of love, chapter one

♥ chapter two! ♥ relationships: aroace Alastor x deaf female reader (queerplatonic) ♥ word count: 2.1k ♥ pinterest board ♥ warnings: reader got hurt by someone they loved before death, reader is shorter than him, bickering, reader loves tea, lonesome reader, alastor invading space ♥ my idea is that reader has a small stereo on her chest that lets out classical music based on her mood. I imagine that it comes from both her chest (softly) and the outside of her manor (loud as fuck).

Your manor is only visible to the town when the lights are on a tall hill and covered in trees. However, even if all the lights were off, people would at least know it's there.

There are two reasons: the tale and the music.

Tale, a story for the newcomers. They speak of a demon who plays music all day, doomed to play music forever. Oh, the music. The music can be heard from even miles away.

It's refined and dainty, and it reeks of misery. The classical music never seems to repeat itself; it goes on and on and on and on. The demons hear you only through your music. When you cry, the violins and cellos grow with a cruel crescendo. When you sleep, the music is soft, almost quiet. Everyone comes to an understanding, assumption, that if the music were to stop, you would be dead.

The demons who try to step closer to your manor will find themselves experiencing unfathomable sorrow and guilt. The sound of your music is the demonic ability you possess, and it's out of your control. Due to the sadness of your death, you are forced into misery in the afterlife. When you were alive, those you loved and devoted yourself to only broke your heart.

Everybody affected by your music feels that grief.

Alastor doesn't understand why people fear your manor. Your love-related pain doesn't affect him at all.

He starts up the hill, moving both on his feet and through the shadows. On his way to your manor, he focuses on the landscape. The landscape is beautiful; the forest below is so dense that the red sky disappears. Personally, he loves the music. He loves tuning in on you and hearing how you're doing. He sparsely gets to visit, so hearing the song of your heart is always so welcoming.

The worst thing to him is how long the damn walk is.

You're in your house, passing through the dining room, when the lights flicker. The people from the nearby town stutter when the usual sad music suddenly becomes upbeat.

Opening the door, you are greeted by Alastor's traditional smile. You're the one that initiates the hug. He gently wraps his hand around you, only for a short time before he pulls away and establishes his distance.

"Long time no see, my dear." He signs, his claws adding a flare to the simple signs. Truthfully, his sign for "my dear" translates directly to "sweetheart," which he's aware of, just putting faith into you understanding what he means.

"I'll start some tea." You sign, turning immediately to the kitchen.

He smiles at the jazz sneaking its way into your music. The people outside know what it means.

Alastor looks around at the new decor; the place is different every time he enters. It's all the things that you enjoyed when you were alive. That's what is most noticeable about you beyond the aura you possess and how stuck you are to the past; you refuse to acknowledge your situation, which is both a curse and a blessing.

From the kitchen counter, you look at him, seeing him behind you, his staff out of his hands.

He leans a bit forward. "I have news! Have you heard of the new buzz, the new project from the princess of hell?"

A small smile forms. "Charlie?" You remember many years ago when she appeared at your door, in tears due to your involuntary magic, begging you to teach her ASL. You politely declined, though you wrote her a long paper about Deaf Culture (often derailing to rant about your opinion on common debates/crazy events). You've never seen her again, but you're confident she's read it.

You continue, "Her projects are... sweet?"

"Sweet and quite peculiar. She believes that demons can be redeemed. How absurd!" His smile grows, his eyes squinting in interest. He knows you're devoted to being good and staying away from violence. He's here to convince you to join her cause.

"Fascinating," you can't help but show your pure astonishment. "She's on our side."

"Oh, how kind you are!"

The tea is ready. You turn entirely away from Alastor, and he lets you. Your thoughts are apparent; he has spent weeks excited about this conversation. He's absolutely fighting the urge to spill out every argument he has; he wants to mention that if you participate, you'll see each other daily. That hasn't even crossed your mind yet.

You pour the tea and take your time, a little nervous to continue the convo. Alastor's eyes remain on your frame, your casual clothing. The last time he saw you, you were dressed up despite spending your days alone.

You hand a cup to him. Neither sign; you stand still, staring at each other and drinking. Both of you already know what the other will try to say next. Your eyes are deep in thought while he is locked on you. The only reason you are doubting being involved with everything yourself is that you know your aura makes others depressed. It is not very good, isolating. On the opposite stance, Alastor always noticed how your music gets positive whenever he's around. He knows (guesses) that in the hotel, with his presence, your saddening demeanor would be no more.

He moves abruptly, you follow, and he sits on a heavily cushioned couch, dipping deeply, which makes him smile. Your soft smile grows—more piano.

"What are your thoughts?" He prompts with one hand. You take a very long sip of your tea before putting it down.

"I wouldn't make them feel comfortable," you explain. "That's all I think about."

"Ever so pessimistic, my dear. You never know unless you come to visit. What do you say?" He grabs his mic and jokingly reaches it to your face, "A simple visit?"

You put a hand to your temple. "My love," you sign without noticing how his lids droop in comfort, "do you really think I would belong?"

He puts his hand to his chin in faux thought. "Of course I do! The princess will approach you with open arms."

You let out a small, broken groan. You're not going to be winning this little debate. Alastor's going to be able to rebuttal everything you say. Knowing that, why is it still so hard to give in?

You put your hands in your lap before returning them to your temples. His smile grows, and the static radiating off him grows ever so prominent, tickling your skin. You look up at him when you notice the change in the air.

The way he looks at you gives away his intentions. He is standing tall in his usual formal way in his seat, but his eyes are ever so casual. He gazes at you more than anything. His smile is still wide and prideful.

You wiggle a finger at him. "Ah."

He squints.

You continue, "You want to see me more, don't you?"

"Who wouldn't?" He plays off, shrugging. "Your captivating presence has every demon in hell dropping their jaws agape."

"Youuuuuu," you smile mischievously, "you want to see me more."

He continues to wave his hands. "Your accusations are futile, go ahead and fill your pretty head with things such as affection," his shoulders bounce as he chuckles, "dreams about how I miss you."

A breathless laugh leaves your lips. Rather than continue the teasing, you let the positive atmosphere linger in the air. You lift your chin with confidence. "Practically admitting it."

"I know what you want me from me." He signs. You smile at how he interpreted it. You don't bother responding. Instead, you give him a sly smile and lift your cup, taking another long sip; his bottom eyelid is twitching.

The last time he saw you, he signed you many compliments and even danced with you to the rhythm of your music. He let you put your hand on his face as he leaned his forehead against yours.

Admittedly, you only started teasing him because you wanted him to tell you that he missed you. Obviously, he did. You didn't expect him to be so stubborn about it.

When you don't respond, he continues. "When I'm here, your heart sings in happiness."

You nod and sign with one hand. "Very true."

"Well, I find the sound lovely."

"Very appreciated."

You watch as he leans back and crosses his legs, lifting and finishing the teacup. You both spend a few seconds without conversation, just looking at each other. In an attempt to hide how flustered you are starting to look, you lean your head back and gulp down the tea to the point where the cup is hiding your face. But you can only keep it in that position for a short time. After finishing the drink, you place it back down, finding that Alastor is already sitting with his fingers intertwined and waiting for you. His eyes sparkle.

"My dear, I missed you very much." And as quickly as the affection comes, it disappears. "I must give the little lady what she wants. There, are you happy?"

"I missed you too, Alastor. Thank you for coming up again."

Sappy, sappy, sappy. Will you agree to return to the hotel with him now?

He straights his bowtie and stands. "My dear, I'm afraid our time here will be cut short; I have a hotel to show you, don't I?"

You stay seated, just eyeing him. Peer pressure, you sigh and try not to roll your eyes. A simple nose exhaling is enough to show him how you feel.

He leans his head to the side. "Is there anything I can do to convince you?"

You finally stand and meet his eyes. His eyes are gorgeous; you love the way he looks at you. He doesn't take his eyes off you when you step close to him. Your hands reach for his overcoat, and you adjust it fruitlessly, only wanting an excuse to touch him.

You smile. "I can cook you something for your long trip back."

"Our."

"Your."

You both lean in, smiles straining.

He tries again. "Our."

"Biscuits, I assume," you turn your heels and motion for him to follow you. The motion you make is beckoning, and when you flick your wrist, he grabs it and pulls you into him. He lets you go to see your response. Your heart is beating out of your chest. You fall for people too easily. His touch is demanding, yet his face is calm, and with how close he is, all you can do is stare up at him. Your feet stumble a bit to adjust to your new stance. He will fight tooth and nail to get you to follow him back; throughout his days, he always wonders what you're doing and your music might sound like. He'll close his eyes and try to imagine the melody in moments of silence at the hotel.

You can't find yourself stepping back. "I'm perfectly okay with where I am." A lie. "Nobody will bother me if I'm out here."

"And nobody will bother you when you're next to me, get it?" After he signs, both of his hands hold your cheeks. He tilts your head back and forth to try and lighten the mood that's getting a little serious.

You try to hold his wrists and pull his hands down, but he fights against you. He lifts your face so he can look at you head-on. The waist bends his body; he curls himself up to you. Your touch falls to his sleeves and then moves to his biceps, your fingers grazing him gently.

The music is fast-paced, like your heart. It sounds almost angelic, a new ethereal sound surrounding it.

"Okay," you fold but then immediately chew on the inside of your lip.

"Perfect!" He presses his forehead to yours quickly before pulling away. He's taking this win. He turns and eyes the room, motioning. "Packing anything?"

With a small sigh of defeat, you place your hands on your temples again. What would you even need? Like a spoiled child, you realize that if you did need something in particular, Alastor would get it for you. You smiled and shook your head to yourself. "I don't think I need anything at all."

"Spectacular!" Another dramatic sign. "Come along then." The fast twirling of his staff blows air onto you when you start to walk behind him, eyeing how his fingers twist. His head turns as he glances at you from the corner of his eye, his head dipping as his smile widens. The static in the air becomes thicker.

You take a deep breath. If you can say 'I told you so' to him, you will be bringing it up until the end of time. He knows that, so it's good that he's confident in himself and his deductions. He'll ensure you won't be leaving and isolating yourself any longer.

[kaedegowon]

memorised all of orsino's lines in act 1 scene 1 of twelfth night so that when i visit my irl i can perform for him ❤️

[bardofsomerset]

Allison Russell at Omeara, Part One: Song to Stage

There are three options and I don’t know which is mine. I look from staircase to staircase at all the people certain in where they’re going. It’s London, everyone’s marching in their own determined line. My choice is something of a random one, but I head upward. 

Narrow and grey shifts into open daylight. There’s space around me, a breath of relief from those close-pressed crowds. The delight of the fresh air is tempered slightly. Most of the country has started cooling from those ridiculous heights of just a week ago, but heat still congeals in thick ropes around those towering city buildings. Out in the space between them, I’m caught on the sharp edge of the sun, brilliant on my cheek.

This is the moment. It’s where it starts becoming real. Me being me, I have planned for a dozen ways in which this could go wrong. I’ve already navigated what I thought were the biggest hazards:  the long road of buying tickets and finding a place to stay and making travel plans, and I’m almost ready to breathe, but not quite yet.

From the moment our evening was agreed, I’d been watching more potential hurdles springing up ahead of me. A rail strike. A heatwave. A pandemic. Any one of those things could have stopped me making it to the city, or could have closed the venue before the performance began. Now I was in London, the chances of it dramatically falling apart were drastically reduced. Not gone, I admitted, but reduced.

What I hadn’t planned for? My friend – the person I’d expected to be right there waiting for me – being nowhere in sight.

It wasn’t a worry at first. I was a few minutes earlier than planned. I’d just message her and let her know I was here.

Can’t send.

My phone told me. Now that was rude. I tried again. Nope. I had a signal. What was wrong? Maybe I’d run out of credit? No, that couldn’t be it. I’d have received a text warning me in advance.

No, wait, I used to get texts. I’ve changed provider since then. Perhaps I don’t get text warnings anymore?

Perhaps the universe doesn’t like me.

So I shuffle around in the increasingly uncomfortable sun outside of Vauxhall station, the Tube behind me, the entrance to National Rail ahead, a thriving mass of people and shops and daily life all around. I don’t need to worry yet, I’m early.

I don’t need to worry yet. It’s only just five.

Maybe I need to worry a little, but she’s only ten minutes late. That’s within the margin of error.

I look around, measuring each person against my memory of her. The build is wrong, or the hair’s off, or they’re not wearing glasses. Of course, it’s been a few years, so maybe I’m the one in error. I watch the passers-by, I watch the clock, and I wonder if I was right to think this day was doomed. It had seemed so implausible from the start.

*

This story begins in a lot of different places, but perhaps the most immediately relevant is in January of 2022. That’s when I randomly bumped into this article during a general wander through the internet:

It’s a rather interesting read, and well worth the time. If you want the abbreviated version:

Jason Isbell is a pretty cool guy but there are also many, many awesome Black women making country (and country adjacent) music and they are nowhere near celebrated enough.

I’m a pretty casual follower of country; it’s something I’ll have playing the background but it’s not something that I actively seek out like I do jazz. Still, I took that list of awesome Black ladies in the spirit it was intended and started listening my way through. It was late at night at the time, everyone else asleep, the dark wrapping round close and the air hovering in silent stillness. I had to turn the volume right down.

Now, I should emphasise that I did like pretty much every person on this list, several of whom have since become regular plays, but I also carried on browsing the internet at the same time in a general “well, this is nice” sort of way. There was no reason to think “Nightflyer”, a track picked at random after a YouTube search like every other song I’d found from the article, would be different, but then Allison Russell’s voice did that thing it does.

If you’ve heard her before, you know what I mean. If not…well, listen. Start where I did:

I acknowledged the first chorus as a pleasant sort of intro, then returned to the internet. I was concentrating on something else and remember, I’d set the volume to quiet, when she reached “I’m the smoke up above the trees, Good Lord.” Something about the way that sound vibrated over those words skipped my lazy ears and drove itself right into my spine. I stopped. Everything else stopped. There was nothing else in the world.

For a few moments I savoured those notes, that ever-changing tone that travelled right through my body. And then I tried to go back to my random internet browsing, but I couldn’t, because she was still singing and there was no room for anything else next to that voice. It swallowed everything. I hung there, motionless, and every other thought just disappeared.

And it wasn’t just the voice. The density of those lyrics, that imagery. This was poetry. Moving into the second verse to taste the contrast of “sick” and “light” at the back of your throat, then hitting the jarring, captivating idea of the “violent lullaby”, one of those lines that I really wish I could have written myself, followed by the way her voice slows and stretches on “suffocating” until you can feel that heat clinging to your skin.

“I’m each of his steps on the stairway / I’m his shadow in the door frame.” No metaphors there. Suddenly all those beautiful layers of imagery were gone, and dread slammed in their place. This was the first moment when reality snapped in, too much and too heavy. This was when I began to wonder if this song was more than just some pretty pictures and a mellifluous tone.

We touch that simple, stark fear for just two lines, just long enough to understand, and then we’re jerked away, our eyes following the narrator’s gaze up to the lunar moth and focusing so, so hard on its tapping. Anything to try and avoid what we know. The fact you can look elsewhere, but the smell still lingers, the beer-stained breath that ensures there’s no doubt exactly what’s underneath. It’s a masterpiece of writing, both in what’s directly said and what isn’t. The melody and the space between, indeed.

Of course, as I would later learn, this song isn’t about abuse. This album is not about abuse. It’s about what happens after, about claiming joy, about healing. In line with that, the coldest moment of “Nightflyer” oh so swiftly slides us into a place of relief. We can’t stay in that room for long. The next verse crawls back out and emerges into something new. Rebirth, one of the images Outside Child really delights in.

We enter utter triumph. His soul’s trapped, I left him behind so I could fly free. The gold and the green, so much richness and life just in those two colours.  If you can reach “What the hell could they bring to stop me Lord?” and not raise your hands in celebration like a little old lady in church on Sunday, I’m not sure you’re listening to the same song as me.

I started to prepare for it to wind down, because we’d reached what felt like a climax and it was roughly the length you expect from an average track, but even better, it was one of those tunes that’s longer than you expect, when you’re bracing yourself for disappointment because you know it has to end but somehow there’s another verse to surprise you. This time the violence is defiance and transformation, from wounded bird to screaming hawk to a battle dove, each striking with impossible vividness.

Now we’re soaring again, breaking the bounds of earth for the moon and the solar flare. Expanding so far that that little room and its trapped moth are almost forgotten. Almost. Child and mother and love on all sides. A communion with every face of the universe.

“Nightflyer” did end, eventually, but after that breathless, transformative experience, sitting in the dark, clinging to my wakefulness when everyone else curled among their pillows, I knew I needed more. The list of artists from the original article was put on hold so I could fill myself on every song of Outside Child.

Whenever you listen to a new album for the first time, some tracks pull themselves into your ears with particular vehemence. It doesn’t mean the others are bad, just that there’s a primal element to hearing music that you can’t always control. “Nightflyer” was obviously one for me, but on my first run through Outside Child proper, the hooks started with “Montreal” and “Hy-Brasil”, to be followed by “All of the Women” and “4th Day Prayer”, then “Persephone” and “The Hunters” when I went round yet again. As for the others? “The Runner”, “Poison Arrow”, “Little Rebirth” and “Joyful Motherfuckers”? Those came later.

“Montreal” being one that sticks with you makes sense because it’s the opening track, the very first thing you hear, but it’s more than that. The city breathes through this song, it’s a living thing. You can feel it, feel how small you are amidst its spires, feel how secure you are in its cradling arms. It builds structure and safety amid the darkness, literally thanks to the towering of those buildings and the shadows they cast, then you see the light creeping awake through the unity of old and young. And of course, seeing that child who’s been lost outside is where you establish the premise and title of the album, and a peek at the wider story to be told.

You also need “Montreal” to be early on, so when “4th Day Prayer” takes us to Westmount Park, when “Persephone” runs us up la rue St. Paul, when “The Runner” travels from “Mont Royale / Aux Portes des Lions” and stops us right out the South Hill Candy Store, we know what that means and we’re anchored in the certainty of that place. Montreal continues to breathe, and live, and cradle, throughout the album, and it helps shape its reality.

As for “Hy-Brasil”, that manages a feat that few songs manage, to be written in the present but to sound ancient, like it was first sung a thousand years ago, like it’s a spell or an enchantment first breathed by the fair folk, like it’s from a realm that’s not quite earth. I went on a deep dive afterwards trying to research the myths that I was sure must have inspired it. “Montreal” creates atmosphere, but “Hy-Brasil” reverberates in it.

“All of the Women” reminds us that this single story is part of a larger whole, that for every voice that’s found so many more are lost. It’s those little moments and small beauties that survive in the rawest and most painful of times, it’s a refusal to apologise and a demand to be seen. Every repeated phrase magnifies the defiance, the indomitable, indestructible nature of the cast-aside people, the people outside.

If “All of the Women” spans the present, “4th Day Prayer” is the song that most anchors Outside Child in the length of its history, in all the women who came before, in every generation that saw that same violence given a new face. As with the rest of the album, it’s not a cry of despair. It’s a refusal to accept that fate, a determination to deconstruct it and rewrite it so that no one in the future will have to survive that again. In many ways, it’s the sequel to “Quasheba, Quasheba”, though that was a song I hadn’t discovered yet.

“Persephone” wasn’t quite what I expected the first time through, not based on its title, but on relistens I managed to appreciate it. The immediacy of the blood and violence in the first verse, that moment of hopeless isolation when she doesn’t even bother to ask the cop for help, because she’s already learnt that the people who are supposed to protect aren’t there for her, the enigma that is Persephone, goddess of spring and bringer of new life, given human form, the desperation involved when all you can do is keep moving “nowhere to go but I had to get away from him”, how even though we never leave the blood and the bruises and the fear behind, love still grows precious and intimate among it all. To borrow from another Persephone and her companions in Hadestown:

“Some flowers bloom Where the green grass grows Our praise is not for them But the ones who bloom in the bitter snow We raise our cups to them”

Parts of “The Hunters” could be a lullaby in a child’s ear, if you don’t pay too much attention to the words. If you do, then that jarring, violent image from “Nightflyer” is given solid form against the gentlest melody. When the lyrics finally registered, my main thought was mostly: “ouch.” This is another fairy tale, not quite the same myth as “Hy-Brasil” but still one that travels back centuries to those primal days when monsters howled in the forest and stories were inked in blood.

Now, I’d discovered Allison Russell in an article about country music but none of these tracks were country as I imagined it. I saw the album described as Americana and/or roots, and tried to find a more specific definition of what those terms meant, but…well that wasn’t helpful.

What Outside Child is is expansive and intimate all at once, bringing you into a place so private then singing out until daylight rings. It’s one person’s story turned into the history of humanity and all its experiences. I said this isn’t an album about abuse. What it is about, in many ways, is love. Not just romance, but a dozen different ways that one human can connect to another, and to the world, to know that it’s worth living:

It's trembling first love:

"Don’t make a sound, don’t cry out love Your parents are sleeping just above I kiss you once, I kiss you twice Fall asleep looking in each other’s eyes"

and the love passed through the generations, from your ancestors:

"My great grandmother was a magic weaver ...

Down in the cradle oh I would hear hеr as I breathed my soul beliеved"

to your children:

“I am The Mother of the Evening Star / I am the Love that Conquers All”.

It’s love of a place:

"Oh my Montreal Can I dream of you tonight?"

and of music:

"Then I heard that Rock and Roll ...

I was up above me, I was standing right beside me - oh And I saw my deliverance

It’s the love that grows in unlikely places and small moments:

"she likes the way that I smile and sing as I walk I like her fabulous outfits, the proud way she moves, she says "I used to be a dancer...some grace you don't lose ...

When she's not there I worry about her"

and the love that comes when you’re connected to the whole world:

"Can you feel the Mother moving Through the bonds of our works?"

The love that’s pulled from darkness and horror:

"Poison arrow be kind to me and I’ll be kind to you ...

All you sad and broken travelers, come on”

and love for all the other people who’ve been through the same thing:

"Three for the children breaking through Four for the day we're standing in the sun"

And it ends with a call for you to express that love too:

"If you’vе got love in your heart, but it’s way down in the dark You bеtter let it see the sun, this world is almost done ...

Hey you hey you Who you think I’m talking to? Show 'em what you got in your heart"

Though of course, you can’t forget the love that should be, but isn’t:

"Oh Papa, oh Mama It is of you I am afraid ...

Curse you child, curse you child We should have killed you as a babe"

And through every love and every lyric is that voice. That voice, that holds a thousand tones. The sweet and the soaring, the rough and the raw, that simmering, controlled intensity that vibrates through every atom followed by joyous freedom that sends you flying. The whole world and every emotion in it can be found in Allison Russell’s voice.

I needed more, and turned back to YouTube to find the next Allison Russell album, but all I could see were a couple of random, though excellent songs. I didn’t know “By Your Side” but I could feel each word and note crawling inside me, settling just under my skin to stay long after the video ended. “Landslide” was an old friend, and already much loved, but just spinning those lyrics into French created something new, forcing me to pay attention when I could have dismissed its familiarity.

Then YouTube started to recommend unfamiliar bands by the names of Our Native Daughters and Birds of Chicago, which wasn’t what I was looking for at all. Where were all of Allison Russell’s other albums?

I don’t think it even occurred to me that one CD could be the sum total, or that Allison Russell could maybe have made music under other names. That’s until I paid a little more attention to the thumbnails. There was a very definite resemblance between one of the Native Daughters, and one half of Birds of Chicago, and the woman I’d watched sing “Nightflyer”. I decided to investigate.

I went and listened to Songs of Our Native Daughters, and yes, there was that unmistakable voice amid all those other tones that I still had to learn to distinguish, those other brilliant women who I’ve since added to my regular playlist for their own solo work. That was my introduction to Rhiannon Giddens and Leyla McCalla, and it redirected me back to Amythyst Kiah, also on Jason Isbell’s original list. Definitely a good decision on my part.

There was fun and celebration on Songs of Our Native Daughters, but there was a lot that was serious and thought-provoking too, the sort of thing that makes a lover of history at once happy and horrified. And then there was “Mama’s Cryin’ Long”.

“Mama’s Cryin’ Long” is the kind of song which rips all the words out of your mouth and leaves you transfixed in shock for the next few minutes, barely able to breathe, let alone move. Don’t believe me? Watch the documentary video, and the faces of everyone else when they first hear it. They’re like “yeah, we’re gonna help you record this, but first we need to recover for a minute”.

When I later went and listened to Rhiannon Giddens on her own, when I worked my way through a back catalogue that included “At the Purchaser’s Option” and “Come Love Come” and “Julie”, I looked back at “Mama’s Cryin’ Long” and realised exactly who had to be responsible for that particular retelling of history. Discovering Allison Russell was a gateway to a whole new world and an endless list of singers and songwriters and musicians who deserved my attention.

*Glances at the Valerie June and Adia Victoria and Rissi Palmer and Queen Esther and Kyshona that have also filled my listening since I began following Allison Russell on Twitter.*

After recovering from Our Native Daughters, I immersed myself in Birds of Chicago, whose music is so excellent to have feelings by. They’re songs to stick together the pieces of broken things, a dozen ways to write about love in the face of doubt, loneliness and violence. It’s the aching beauty of “Super Lover” and “Till It’s Gone”, the defiance and even triumph of “Cannonball” and “All the City Girls”, the unfettered joy of “Alright, Alright” and “San Souci”, the magic of those “tiny electric sea horses” in “Mountains, Forests”, the whole lifetime painted in “Hold Steady, Rock Slow”, that old spiritual somehow written just a few years ago known as “Barley” the intimacy and intensity of “I Have Heard Words” and then “American Flowers”, which might just be a perfect song.

Further back there was Po’ Girl, and the seeds that would eventually bloom in Outside Child, the laying down of themes and ideas that still had to grow. Imagine my surprise when I heard the opening of “Corner Talk”, and it was basically “All of the Women”. I tell people that they have to listen to the entirety of that Outside Child to fully understand it, to trace the concepts underpinning every song, but really, if you want to see it completely, you need to look right back to Po’ Girl and linger in the words of “No Shame” and “Kathy”.

It seemed a good time to go back to Outside Child and listen again, listen closer. Now I knew it was autobiographical, and I was prepared for my own emotional reactions, I was able to realise a little better the weight of that story, put context to that moment in “Fourth Day Prayer” when she claims the cemetery as the safest place to sleep, when she chooses it over what’s supposed to be home. Deeper layers upon deeper layers as I tried to climb all the way inside.

This isn’t just an album, it’s an autobiography. It’s not just an autobiography, it’s a family history. That’s another reason you can’t just stop at the songs on Outside Child. You need to at least include “Quasheba, Quasheba” and “You’re Not Alone”, chronologically the first and last parts of the saga even if they both appeared before it. Between them you slide in “Hy-Brasil”(great-grandmother was a magic weaver) as a more recent ancestor before first adding in a Po’ Girl (and Birds of Chicago) number, “Kathy”, as one step closer to the present. If you’re listening to “Kathy” then you have to play “No Shame” next, so you can hear that echo from “Why’d you let him steal your joy?” to “I will not let him steal my joy.” That’s an idea we’ll hear again, even more definitively, in “The Runner” with “Can’t steal my joy”. Eventually you reach “You’re Not alone”, where the joy is visible and real in “Every little shiny thing”. “You’re Not Alone” ends with the bequeathing of that inheritance, that ancestral strength, on to the next generation:

“In the cradle of the circle All the ones who came before ya Their strength is yours now You're not alone”

Another way to do it is to start with “Quasheba, Quasheba”, then move to “Fourth Day Prayer”. That path follows the history through its geography:

"From the Golden Coast of Ghana To the bondage of Grenada"

Then one step further:

"From the coast of Africa To the hills of Grenada To the cold of Montreal That whip, that whip still falls"

It doesn’t get much more explicit than that, this ongoing cycle, this long line of Black women still hearing that same violence, the kind magnified over generations.

Except it’s not just an immutable, unbreaking cycle. “Nightflyer” is a song of here and now, with in one person’s lifespan, but it’s also the centre point of the narrative, looking both back and forward from the narrator’s experience as a child, and as a descendant, to where she becomes “Mother of the Evening Star” herself.

No, that Evening Star label is not explicitly explained in this often enigmatic song, but it does become clear when its echoes recur at the final chronological point (so-far) in this story, “You’re Not Alone”:

“Hey my little Evening Star”, becomes a direct address, not about the narrator of “Nightflyer” but about the Evening Star herself, the next generation. The story continues, only this time with a promise that pain doesn’t last forever, that you don’t have to be alone in your suffering, that this inheritance will always turn into love.

 (Brief pause to admire that rhyme on “compass” and “wonderous”.)

Just stop and think how powerful that is for a moment, to look back at hundreds of years of violence being passed from generation to generation among your ancestors and say “That’s enough. This stops with me. My daughter will never have to go through what I did. What we did.”

I followed that narrative from end to end and through all its branches. Within a few months, I was reasonably certain I’d actually listened to most of Allison Russell’s work, both solo and in various groups, most of it multiple times. That might have been enough, but I was going to have a few strokes of luck all in a row.

*

I could have stopped there, with the listening.  When I first discovered Outside Child the thought of getting to hear it live didn’t really occur to me. Pretty much every artist that I’ve seen was someone I’d been a fan of (or at least known of) for years. I suppose it felt like progressing from an album to a concert was a kind of long-term development that couldn’t be rushed. Well, in the cases where they were still around to tour in the first place. There are disadvantages to being born in the wrong era, musically speaking.

On top of that, I’d already been to one big concert in 2022, a long-term ambition realised, and I still couldn’t quite believe that it had happened, and gone well. Asking for more seemed tempting fate. When I walked out of The Forum, Bath in April with the last notes of Imelda May’s “Diamonds” lingering in my ears and my throat and my chest, with more than a decade as a fan given tangible form, I thought that moment of satisfaction would feed me for years until the stars next aligned for someone else’s concert.

That’s why the decision I made in May to check out the tour page on Allison Russell’s website was a bit of a whim, perhaps a reaction to having listened so intently to all her music in such a short space of time. If you had asked me, I’d have said that the chances of a Canadian musician based in Nashville who I’d never even heard played on the radio over here appearing somewhere that I could practically manage to attend was so small as to have been invisible. Looking for dates felt like inviting disappointment.

Except there were two dates. Two. Two performances in the UK. One of them was at a festival and I knew I didn’t want to bother about all of that, but there was also one London gig at a little place called Omeara.

London, now London I could do. London’s just over an hour away by rail. Except, of course, for an evening performance, there’s no guarantee you’ll make it back to the station before the last train leaves. It even said, on the Omeara website, that concerts could finish late. I’d need somewhere to stay, which was more money and more logistics and frankly my first instinct when something looks like it might be complicated is to just label it impossible. I put the idea aside.

Well, mostly. I did really, really want to go though. I couldn’t remember the last time discovering a new artist had hit me quite so hard, and there was only one album in recent years that had given me a comparable number of feelings. Funnily enough, it was the album I’d been lucky enough to see, at least in part, live at The Forum earlier in the year. Life Love Flesh Blood by Imelda May.

I say in part because it was the tour for 11 Past the Hour, so obviously those were the tracks that got the most airtime. As for the even older stuff, the rockabilly stuff, she’d warned us before the show started that it’d only make two or three appearances, making sure we wouldn’t be too disappointed. I wasn’t because I do adore the newer sound, but I couldn’t help but wish that’d I managed to see her earlier, when the back catalogue was smaller and it was easier to guarantee which songs would make it to the setlist.

My brain began to persistently nag me that going to see someone performing from their first album was the best way to make sure you heard every song. Leave it until later in their career and there would be picking and choosing, like with Imelda May. I didn’t know when Allison Russell would be back in the UK or if it’d be a convenient time and place for me.

Plus, Imelda May had been my first concert in years and it had been incredible beyond words. Of course I wanted to find a way to do it again, to try and recapture that feeling that only exists when you and the singer are in the same room and their performance saturates the air. Yes, it also made me more sceptical that I’d be able to make it work, as two dream concerts in one year seemed a bit much, but I knew I’d regret not trying.

I am not, as a general rule, a social person. My mother believes that interacting with lots of other people is healthy. I personally try to avoid it. On this particular occasion, however, her suggestion that I find someone else to go with me to make the logistics easier was a good idea. In theory. It’d have probably been better if I had a friend network of more than three people, none of whom lived anywhere near me, or London.

However, I am still a Revver at heart, even if Revelation Rock-Gospel Choirs is no more, and being a Revver means having at least one acquaintance in every city. A little memory snuck into my head, whispering that I did have one person who lived in London. Or she had done, last time I saw her. Someone with excellent taste in music and who was generally a delight to spend time with.

Me being me, I focused on the potential problems:

I hadn’t spoken to her for three years. Not because we’d fallen out or anything like that, just life (and lockdowns) had been happening, but messaging someone who you only known middlingly well after all that time just to ask a favour seemed a little rude. I wasn’t sure if we were close enough friends for such an out-of-nowhere request. Would it be weird?

I didn’t know if she still lived in London. A quick glance at her Facebook said she was in Manchester. Now, you might think this brought my planning to an end, but I happened to know that she had lived in Manchester before London, and she was also notoriously bad at social media. It wasn’t entirely inconceivable that she just hadn’t got round to changing it. For over three years.

In line with her general uselessness on social media (possibly her only character flaw, which for a woman who rebuilds villages destroyed by earthquakes seems pretty minor), she was also notoriously bad a replying to messages. I could Facebook, e-mail and text her and it wouldn’t be a surprise if I received only silence on all three.

The chances of her being available on that night were slim. We’re talking someone who travels, and volunteers, and helps construct schools in remote corners of the world (see, being bad at responding to messages does seem a small annoyance, doesn’t it?). Her calendar tends to be pretty packed.

I cannot emphasise enough, with so many things that could go wrong and so little chance of success, just what a big deal it was for me to ask her anyway. The music had enough of an impact on me for me to consider it worth it.

I sent a message in the most casual tone I could possibly manage, and put a lot of energy into preparing for a negative response, or even more likely, no response at all:

“Are you still living in London?”

Not only did I get a reply, it arrived within two hours:

“Hi Devon! Yes, still here!”

Now a series of questions, each asked in the assumption she’d say no:

(This is the abbreviated version. I tend towards wordy, as you may have guessed by the fact that I’m over 5000 words into this and we haven’t reached the venue yet)

“There’s a concert in London that I’d like to go to but I’m not sure I’ll make the last train. Do you have any floor/sofa space available?”

She needed to check her calendar, as she was away from home, but it was a conditional yes.

That could have been enough. It was enough, really, I didn’t want to push it. I had the most important thing. But then I dared the final hurdle, grasping for the star:

“Is the concert itself something you'd be interested in, on the off chance?” I sent her the link to “Nightflyer”, to the exact same video that had stopped me in my tracks. A concert is meant to be a communal experience. Imelda May had been shared with one of that network of three friends. And it was too long since I’d seen this particular acquaintance.

I knew she had good taste in music, after all, we’d met in the choir. The first concert we sang in together, she wore her steel-toed work boots because they were the only black shoes she had to hand. That meant I could stand on her feet as much as I wanted but she had to be extra careful not to tread on mine. From such moments are friendships made. Every concert after that point, I tried to stand next to her because I knew if I got lost, she’d help me find the right note. The fact she had impeccable taste in books was just a bonus.

This time there wasn’t an instant response. Days went past as my jitters grew. I wanted to buy my ticket; I wanted solid confirmation that this could work. Perhaps she’d changed her mind. When five days had passed, I finally poked her, in the most unobnoxious way I could manage. It turned out she was just being bad at Facebook again, and still didn’t have access to the calendar. I did get a proper answer to one question:

“Did you like the video?”

“Yes, she's got an amazing voice!”

That was what I needed to hear. I gave a big sigh of relief, because at least it meant she really did want to come and wasn’t just trying to gently put me off. A few days later, without me needing to harass her again, she finally returned to her calendar and within minutes of her confirmation, I’d booked two tickets. There was still some finagling to do about trains and times and where we were going to eat, but we were on track.

*

Which brought me here. The sun and the glare outside Vauxhall station. The crowds full of brunettes with glasses who aren’t her. I’m trying to connect to the Wi-Fi in the nearby Starbucks. Perhaps I can message her that way. If not, my brain is busy trying to calculate how long I can stay here or if I’ll need to make my own way to London Bridge and hope she joins me.

Yes, I overthink things.

I’m leaning on a lamppost, fingers and head focused on my phone, wondering if she cut her hair short and dyed it purple since our last meeting and that’s why I’d been unable to spot her. It seems unlikely, but you never know. Then a familiar figure pushes past, in too much of a rush to notice me. It takes me a moment to notice my own recognition, especially after the false alarms.

No, this is definitely her. It’s the back of her head, no face or glasses, but I’m so certain that I wonder how I could have doubted my memory. She’s missed me in passing just as easily as I missed her, hurrying a bit too urgently to make up for the delay. That’s what a dentist appointment will do to you. The one thing I hadn’t accounted for in my long, long list of reasons for things to go wrong? The length of time needed to polish up your teeth.

Still, my original plan was now half an hour out and I really, really need to make sure we reached Omeara in time. There’s a rush to her flat, just enough time to drop my bag (not even long enough to properly inspect her bookshelves) and then back to the Tube and the baking furnace of the Jubilee Line.

I’d told my companion she was in charge of directing us, her being the one with local knowledge, but once we step out at London Bridge, I take the lead again. I’d carefully traced the route on the map before I’d left the house this morning, reciting the turns over and over again, peering at the Streetview option but not quite spotting the Omeara sign. I’m just heading in the general direction and hoping it’ll be there. I’m still not certain it’s all going to happen.

In an astonishing twist, it turns out that if you follow the directions exactly, Omeara is exactly where it’s said to be on the map. For avoidance of doubt, as we walk past the clearly labelled door, a strain of music floats out from behind the nearest wall:

“Yeah I’m a midnight rider

Stone bonafide night flyer.”

Soundcheck time. Yep, definitely in the right place.

In Part Two, we take a slight detour as I reminisce on some of the other big concerts I’ve seen, from Joan Armatrading to Imelda May.

[stimiez]

♡ because that's what love is

[christakisbang]

[pinkfairiesteaparty]

[in-tenebris-et-in-solitudine]

In Darkness and in Solitude

[yesloulou]

Charles spends winter break in LA 🌴

[anonymusical]

NYAH! :3

[hanan-family]

FREE PALESTINE

A Call for Help Amidst the Devastation in Gaza

My name is Hanan Al-Salout, a Palestinian mother and children's counselor. I write to you today with a heart heavy with indescribable pain and sorrow, due to the loss and destruction my family has faced as a result of the war in Gaza. 💔😢

The relentless violence has taken everything from us our home, our livelihoods, and even the sense of safety we once had. I lost my job, and my husband He lost his job too is fighting with all his strength to keep our family standing amid unbearable suffering. 💔😓

But the most painful part is watching my little child, Yaseen, who is not even two years old, live in constant fear. Every day, he wakes up to the horrors of war, sheltered by a torn tent that no longer protects us from the cold, wind, or rain. Winter storms have destroyed the last bit of shelter we had, leaving us exposed to the harsh elements. We have sold everything we owned, and now all we have left are our prayers and hope that your compassionate hearts will hear our plea. 🙏💔

This war has turned into an extermination of innocent families, children, and dreams. We live each day in fear of becoming another number in the growing list of casualties. 😢

We plead with you to look upon us with mercy. Your support could be the difference between life and death for my family. 🙏🤍

$1,347 USD raised of $20,000 goal

Donate and share

@90-ghost @rawliverandgoronspice @imjust-a-girl @timogsilangan @el-shab-hussein @buttercupsticksntricks @school-of-the-infected @brutaliakhoa @staff @buttercupsticksntricks @palestine @sayruq @xinakwans @dlxxv-vetted-donations @komsomolka @remindertoclick @mostly-funnytwittertweets @atlas-of-galaxies @ghostofanonpast @gothhabiba @ashwantsafreepalestine @xclowniex @ashwantsafreepalestine

[deafsignifcantother]

if music be the food of love chapter three

♥ here you go lovies, it's series time | chapter one, chapter two, chapter four ♥ relationships: aroace Alastor x deaf female reader (queerplatonic to romance) ♥ word count: 2.4k ♥ pinterest board ♥ notes: chapter summary: alastor is a bit uncomfortable with how close he is with reader, which has never happened before since their friendship was private, but now that she is in the hotel he realizes that he has a potential weakness ♥ no tag list rn :3

Every now and then, in the room across from you, quiet jazz would play, rich only under the sound of your music, but it still reeks of exclamation uncharacteristic of the music's Earthly presence. It's a blistering noise that requires the knock on a door to stop. The sight of Alastor whenever he opens his bedroom door at the interruption of a knock strikes fear into the other residents. His smile is deadly, and his eyes burn into his peers. They get reminded of his power.

His charming mystery.

.

And he made the dress less than six inches from you when you slept. After a stirless sleep, you wake up to a dress draped on the mattress by your feet. The first thing you notice is the lace layers that are guaranteed to itch your skin. Tonight is your welcome party, a last-minute plan (due to your sudden appearance). There will be no dress code, no inch of modesty, but Alastor decides himself that you will be covered. Suffice it to say it is not a surprise, especially considering he isn't a fan of modern nudity, puffy skirts with breasts peeking out, heels too high to walk comfortably on dirt, and so forth, and would throw up if he saw you in such. Possessive or protected?

What you want to reveal is no business with him (as if you really would). But you are ready for your life to be led by his smiles and soft touches, as your new public appearance will need guidance; you are ignorant of current times. Or that's what you tell yourself.

Your old clothes, once your trusted companions, are now reclined over the lounge chairs by the fireplace. They have transformed like you (how did you end up at the Hazbin Hotel after being a fierce overlord?) into something different, something less familiar. But still, a better thought fuels you: this is a chance to renew.

After dressing, loosening your collar, and fidgeting with the length of your sleeves, you enter the hallway, not at all shy but not confident enough to assert your presence. The first good morning to Alastor is the hardest. You quickly discover that it flusters you to greet him so close to the time when you wake up. By his smile, you just know that your music is playing a symphony; curse that thing.

Your mind wanders into a world of memories, the fancy clothes you used to dress him in, the smile he would give you, and your music conjures the same smile; that's where you remember it from.

"See?" He motions up and down you. "The most exquisite lady I've seen in my death."

You almost finish an eye roll before he grabs your hand and kisses the back of it. The movement is not prolonged at all but so swift that you barely have a chance to process it. The way he swiftly turns around, his head going before his body, hints as to why. He must pull away before anybody spots the affection.

There could have been a better banner, but Angel spilled paint over one of the corners, and Charlie spent a few minutes crying in the limited time. You stare up at it with amazement anyway. Whose handwriting is that? It's better than most of the overlords.

"I don't think I've ever painted a banner before," you sign to Alastor. He nods, looking up at it, his smile growing. You continue, "I wonder if they would have let me help."

"Your own welcome sign? Not a chance, though Charlie loves a group activity, perhaps it was a bonding exercise."

Charlie hops over at the sight of her name sign, finally overcoming the awkwardness and not wanting to interrupt a conversation. Somehow, she thinks ASL feels more personal. Well, as do most hearing people.

"Do you like it? Do you like it?" She signs in only two motions, her eyes bright when she sees you understand her.

You give a small smile, placing your hands on hers to calm her down, her touch is extremely warm, before signing. "Thank you so much for this, I feel very welcomed. You're so kind."

"Yes," a simple word as her eyebrows furrow slightly with frustration at her small vocabulary. "I tried!"

Your eyes look around at the people, each patiently waiting for you to initiate a conversation by walking up. Since when did they get so awkward?

The moment you walk away, Charlie turns her attention to Alastor.

You give Nifty a small smile, looking at the cookies she impatiently holds. In contrast, Angel holds onto her waist, ensuring she doesn't rush over to you the moment she sees you. She drops the tray when you approach conversation stops, and they rattle on the metal. Angel lets her go with a slight look of hesitation. He doesn't even acknowledge you.

"A dress! A beautiful one!" She runs her fingers down her own dress as a classifier.

You nod. "That's due to Alastor, he—"

"Worked his magic? Your red matches his."

"Does it?"

You turn around, glancing for a second at the shade of his suit and then down at your dress. You suppose, but it is a bit darker, though that might be due to velvet. What you notice is your matching sleeves. While looking back at Nifty, she immediately starts signing again. Angel stands awkwardly, unsure if he should walk away, but he pays attention to the signing anyway. Would he be willing to learn? You hope.

"How full is your closet? What do the dresses look like? Are they naughty?"

You pick up a cookie awkwardly, giving it a small bite and signing with one hand only for the first sentence. "Well, Alastor is the one who needs to fill my closet and he hasn't yet. I doubt he'd let me wear something he would consider distasteful."

"How dare he..." she squints her eye at him.

"Right?" The slight smile on your face is contagious enough to lighten her face.

"How's the cookie? Do you like it? I didn't put any roaches in it this time." An invisible laugh leaves her lips.

You look down at it momentarily, a bit skeptical, lifting it again. No insect legs are visible, but you still put it back down, no longer taking bites. You started the day with the same soft classical music from your heart, but now it is a more jolly sound. Praying that you don't start making Angel uncomfortable, you give a small wave, which he returns. Then Husk comes to save the day with a freshly opened bottle in his hand while he signs with the other.

"Ain't seen a lick of sign language before."

"You hadn't either."

He smirks, the friendliness catching you a bit off guard. "First time for everything."

With the most neutral face you can muster in such a friendly environment, you begin to turn away. "Of course there is."

The air lightens as you turn back around, letting Husk and Angel have their conversation. Charlie is still excitedly talking to Alastor, copying his signs, and surprisingly so is Vaggie.

Once they notice you're watching, they stop. Charlie puts her hands behind her back and smiles awkwardly as if she had been caught in an act.

Less than ten minutes later, the event feels tiresome. Having Alastor interpret for you and dealing with hearing people attempting to sign becomes unbearable. Just like at the overlord meetings, you and Alastor side-eye each other constantly. The only positive you can think of is that Husk is not hiding away.

"Awfully tiring," says Alastor, crossing his legs from the couch where he sits next to you. "Why must I be subjected to these superficial conversations."

His claw circling around his knuckles is smooth enough to allure your interest. His hands are so careful, so lovely. Hiding your interest, you give him your usual small smile.

In your imagined scenarios, you can force a yawn and say you are going to bed, and Alastor would be there to tuck you in as he did years ago. Perhaps you'd wake up to a bouquet of dead roses. Foolish girl, you can almost imagine him telling you if he were a mind reader.

As you look around again, scanning to ensure no one has been trying to get your attention, Vaggie's eyes connect with yours. Her brow raises in recognition, understanding. Your shoulders stiffen, and the shame pulsating in your heart is the worst feeling in the world. But that is before Charlie captures your attention again, flashing her same old smile and hopping up and down.

And then she motions behind you. Angel brings out a cake, holding it steadily, looking down at it with a bit of jealousy. Instead of helping when the cake was baking, Angel stood at the kitchen doorway and watched how the residents came together. He was invited to help of course, but he hated what they were celebrating.

You can't help but let your eyes widen. The cookies and now this?

While you wait for Charlie to get ahold of herself and her squeals (as if the cake was made for her), you stand and hold your hands in front of you, not exactly understanding what to do at this moment. Nifty comes to distract you, climbing up your body and fiddling with the collar of your dress. You let her.

"I hope it's good," Charlie figures out how to say. "We cooked together, for you!"

Charlie believes in ending a day with something that can make somebody smile. And here you are, smiling at her, not caring to hide your facial expressions. Your music exposes your emotions enough.

The cake gets placed on the table in front of the couches, and you sit on the carpet, legs folding under you. Your soon-to-be friends huddle around. Will they trust you with a knife? Apparently so, and you make sure to hold it carefully. You're not going to let your status as an ex-overlord scare them enough to not trust you with something as simple as a knife. It slices perfectly, the cake having a perfect texture, looking so soft inside. Your hand twitches, your claws digging a bit into your palm, but not noticeable enough to worry anyone. Is this a trap? No, Charlie wouldn't allow that. But what if this is why Husk has been so friendly.

You finish slicing, managing to cut it evenly. It reminds you of the living world, the times you've watched people cut cakes, especially as a kid. Alastor doesn't mind your souring mood until he notices that your melodies are transitioning into a minor key. In an instance, unconsciously (well, regrettably subconsciously), he uses his shadows to form next to you, leaning in close while taking the knife from your hand and spinning it, making it disappear into flames. The overall mood hasn't changed, but the moment he moves to summon a plate, your eyes lock on his movements. Alastor has gotten so considerate towards you that he touched something so sweet, holding the plate in his hand with a fork.

It happens, something unpredictable.

Everybody watches as he lifts a bite and holds it to your lips. You blink before your eyes brighten. Just like that, you lean forward and wrap your lips around the fork, your focus sharpening; everybody is watching. It distracts you from basking in the enchanting taste.

"Excellent," he puts the plate down and puts all his effort into not grimacing at the sight of it. "Wasn't that nice?"

You hold your breath, determining whether that is rhetorical or sarcastic. You go along with it, shrugging and leaning a bit forward, tilting your head, something you used to do when you wanted him to touch his forehead with yours.

You pretend he does, closing your eyes to ignore his stiff posture, and you pull away.

Charlie mends you with a gaze as kind as an innocent child. Something passes between you two. Is your attraction to him that obvious? Curses.

That's the most sinister part of Hell.

He walks you to your bedroom just as you hoped he would, but he doesn't step inside. He does wrap his arms around you, though, his voice vibrating against your body. Stop speaking, you want to say, but you don't dare pull away. All you can do is drown in the gratefulness of the once-ordinary affection. His constant withdrawal is obvious, and of course you understand why. But you assumed behind closed doors he would revert back to the lovely language you two share. But no, he doesn't. He doesn't even try.

Pulling away involves letting go of the warmth of his body. You already miss the feeling of his breathing. He puts a hand behind your neck and does what you crave the most, rests his forehead against yours. His bangs brush your hairline, and you smile.

"Thank you," you sign. Alastor's smile grows, becoming soft, and his eyes flicker around, his shadow spinning down the hall before he takes your hand, just like in the morning. He presses his lips to your knuckles, closing his eyes and exhaling while he pulls away. With the moment of eye contact, his hand slips away from you, and without further words, he leaves into his room.

Your bedroom feels especially empty when you close the door in front of him. That's not the way it should be.

The large window attached to your room hardly offers a view of the beautiful city. This hill should be high enough to spot the different sections, but the huge buildings within the middle of the city shields a lot of the environment.

You only get three steps closer to the window when you worry he's just standing in front of your door. It's such a pointless thought, a momentary wish. Maybe he is waiting for you to realize his presence and offer him entrance. But when you open it, you're met with nothing, nobody. Unfortunate.

You need to stop fantasizing like a little girl.

You decide to distract yourself with the privilege of staying at such a prestigious building.

You cut through the sign on the roof toward the dark red lining of the end of the roof. Awestruck, your eyes widen, and you halt in place. You can see the entire Pentagram Circle from high above, and your music gets loud enough to hear from the ground. The different gradients of red you would have never been able to see until now reflect in your eyes, the same way moonlight would. A cool breeze messes with the lace on your sleeves and rubs against your skin as you knew it would when you put the dress on.

When the rare clouds begin to hide the lighting from the radiant Pentagram above, the breeze starts to freeze, and Heaven's clock becomes the brightest light. Back inside you go. As always.

[this-tastes-lemony]

Falsettos Food Theory

Okay so someone asked what this is and I really wanna explain! So the falsettos food theory is that food represents love throughout the Marvin trilogy.

In the show, In Trousers, Marvin is very strict about what kind of food he wants, and he gets very upset when he doesn’t get it imminently or the way he wants. For example, in the song ‘How Marvin Eats his Breakfast” there is the lyric,

“No one looks busy in this kitchen

And my breakfast isn't ready

And my stomach aches.”

This is in reference to that no one at that moment is giving him the love that he wants, and that he aches for it. Later in the song he also says ,

“I don't want miracles from heaven

Just some eggies over spinach over toast

No, I will not apologize!

She should win a prize:

Very best emoting

That girl can't cook”

When he says the first line he doesn’t literally mean he just wants a basic breakfast, he means that he doesn’t want much, he just wants to feel loved. By saving “that girl can’t cook” he doesn’t mean she’s lousy at making food, he means that she doesn’t give him the kind of love that he wants. One of the other ladies says

“maybe she can’t cook, but have you seen her milk a cow?” Implying that sexually she “provides” to Marvin, even if he doesn’t romantically like her (obviously this means nothing, just because they can be sexually active does not mean that it is love).

Another one is in Whizzer Going Down he says,

“he hates my wife

I hate his food”.

He’s saying he hates when Whizzer shows him love because he is not ready to accept the fact that he can be loved and he can love another man.

There are many more references of this in the show In Trousers and if anyone wants to hear them I’ll gladly go into it in another post!!

The ones in Falsettos are even more obvious references to love. In the song Tight Knit Family, Marvin sings,

“We all eat as one

Wife, friend, and son

And I sing out as they cook

I love my tight-knit family

I love the way they cook linguine”

They all eat as one meaning they are all receiving love from one another, even if it isn’t good. The next line being “I sing out as they cook” (singing out meaning to say or shout something loudly, most likely implying the unhealthy relationship he’s in with his family) this line is saying that while they provide him love and what ever he asks, he continues to complain about it.

However, in the next line he says “I love the way they cook linguine” which is a considered normal traditional meal for a lot people. This is showing that he enjoys when they provide him with basic normal love, instead of arguing or disagreeing with him.

Another reference later on in the musical is in the ENTIRETY of the song “This Had Better Come To A Stop”. The first set of unique lyrics though is what I’ll cover.

“Whizzer's supposed to always be here

Making dinner, set to screw

That's what pretty boys should do

Check their hairlines, make the dinner

And love me”

This is saying that Whizzer is supposed to always be at Marvin’s command, loving him and giving himself to Marvin sexually at all times. He mentions making dinner twice in these lyrics, again implying that he doesn’t want Whizzers love unless it’s later in the day once he’s gotten his love from his other family ( breakfast specifically).

Another general reference to food equaling love is Cordelia’s entire character. All she does throughout the show is provide food and such to the characters, this being her giving them constant love. Since Cordelia was giving Marvin so much food (presumably) during the two year gap during intermission, we can assume that her unique and (sometimes) not so great food taught him that he doesn’t always get to choose what to eat, but that he should be greatful someone is cooking for him anyway. I think Cordelia is one of the most amazing characters in the story.

For all of the song “Days Like This” she’s trying to get Whizzer to eat something, meaning she’s trying to share her love with him.

In the song “Jason’s Bar Mitzvah”, Dr. Charlotte says

“She's cooked for some 200 guests

[CORDELIA]

We number not that many

Actually... we're seven”

This shows that she has provided so much love for all of these people, even though there’s only seven. Only a couple lines later, she tries the food Cordelia made, and says that the food “tastes really yummy.” (in the pro shot Trina nods her head to agree).

This is important to me because it shows that Cordelia finally found a way to show/express her love with the rest of the characters, and have them reciprocate it for the first time on stage, showing that they are all at peace and finally love each other.

Just like in trousers there are hundreds of more references in Falsettos so if any of you would like me to go more into it I’d be happy to!

This is all speculation of course, we don’t know if any of this was intentional, buts it’s by far my favorite thing to talk about that’s falsettos related. Hope you enjoyed reading!

[53v3nfrn5]

Katamari Damacy Novita OST ‘塊魂ノ・ビ〜タ」オリジナル・サウンドトラック「かたもりだましい’ (2012)

[bookwormbluee]

🖤

[ecoharbor]

📍Chiang Rai, Thailand 🇹🇭

[pinkfairiesteaparty]