#in spite of hearing so many contradictory things about yourself that you have no idea what to believe in anymore. a big reputation if you w

[marquisecubey]

you know a common criticism of reputation when it first came out was that since the marketing was so heavily based on taylor's feuds with other famous people it would age really poorly, but my hot take is that could literally not be further from the truth. Like I cannot stress how little I have thought about any of the tabloid drama that some critics claim is essential for understanding this record's concept in years. It's 2023. this is just an album about taylor swift robbing a bank with her boyfriend now and it fucks

[margarethelstone]

Our Sleeves Were Wet With Tears | Chapter 3

Chapter 3 / Read on AO3!

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

He could barely hear her voice, so weak and unsure it was. And yet, there wasn't any real hesitation in it – as if she'd been sure about her own wish but not at all confident as to whether she should voice it, whether it was alright for her to admit what that wish was.

Taichi didn't know if he wanted to crush her in an embrace and apologise for making her feel anything of the sort or kick his own bottom for causing that, first.

It had never been her fault.

No.

It was his.

"Come on, then," he replied simply, stepping aside and reaching for both of their bags, hanging them over his shoulders as if it was the most natural thing for him to do. Chihaya didn't react to his actions in any way, but he was no longer surprised by that. She was clearly not herself, lost and confused, bouncing from one emotion to the other, regardless of how contradictory they might have seemed.

He could hardly expect her to flinch or move just because he suddenly wasn't standing next to her.

He shifted his gaze back to her and saw that she was, once again, turned to her right and staring into the distance, presumably focused on the same spot she'd been looking at before. No longer having to choose his priorities, Taichi allowed himself to follow her gaze this time, curious to see what it was that had managed to catch her attention not once, but twice... To determine whether it really was something worthy of paying attention to or if it was just the fact that it was in the opposite direction to where he was.

He was surprised to see that the object she'd been looking at was no less than the playground he himself had mentioned right before he'd stepped through that wretched gate.

Heck, she really had good instincts.

"Looks like you've found a perfect place to make that fall," he said cheerfully, though he still made sure that his tone was gentle. "This is the place I told you about earlier. Seems like I was right, too. About no children around, I mean."

Chihaya nodded in confirmation, her eyes still fixed on the small yard. Then she turned around, sharply, unexpectedly – and winced, seeing the bags in Taichi's hands.

She reached out for hers immediately, but he raised his arm to stop her.

"It's fine, Chihaya, I've got this. Let's just go."

He set off towards the entrance to the playground, about a dozen metres away. He didn't wait for her, didn't insist that she should walk by his side and not behind him; if she had followed him before, there was no reason to think that she wouldn't follow him now.

And the one thing Taichi had no doubts about at all was that she sure needed her space today.

They reached the yard in no time and soon were looking for a bench they might sit on. Taichi made sure that the one they chose wasn't placed directly next to the street, but at the same time, he certainly didn't wish to settle down in some distant, secret spot on the other side of the playground, and not only because it would be foolish to make Chihaya walk any more than she had to. They wanted some privacy; they didn't need absolute seclusion.

He still didn't trust himself enough to stay with her like that.

So he looked around and soon he found a seat that was perfect for their needs. It was close enough to where they stood not to make their stroll towards it seem like a strain, but far enough not to make them feel like they were sitting by the pavement they had just left behind. Without asking Chihaya's opinion, Taichi began to walk towards it, with nothing but a nod to indicate his intentions.

She didn't need a decade of friendship between them to understand that clue.

He glanced back at her a few times, both before and after reaching the bench and couldn't help but notice that her attitude had changed. It wasn't much; just a simple fact that her eyes were no longer cast down, but instead searching the environment around her, as if she'd been trying to determine something, though he couldn't for the life of him tell what it was exactly she was pondering about. She looked calm, on the outside at least. Like... like she was too preoccupied with her thoughts to think of all the distressful issues that had been bothering her so far.

She joined him next to the bank just a few seconds after he'd arrived at it himself, her gaze still scanning every bit of the yard she could view from where she stood. Her arms were folded now; her fingers tightened around the fabric of her shirt as she rumpled it unconsciously, completely unaware of the damage she was doing.

Just as he had thought, she was too lost in thought to care.

"You’d better sit down, you don't want to harm that leg any further," he said evenly, putting both of their bags in the very middle of the bench. "I know you don't think it's serious and you're probably right; still, it's no reason to overstrain yourself when there's no need for that."

Chihaya turned towards him then, though her gaze still wasn't fully focused. "It's just a cut, Taichi, not a broken bone. It doesn't matter if I stand on it or not."

"So it's not hurting, huh?"

"It won't hurt less if I sit down, that's all I'm saying."

She did sit down, however, and without any more prompting on his part. Taichi smiled weakly, his expression a mixture of contentment and relief, and took his seat next to her – or better said, next to the bags he'd so cleverly put in between them.

Perhaps he should have thought it through more carefully.

"I really hope it will heal quickly," he offered, randomly shifting his attention back to the conversation at hand. "You've injured that knee quite severely, given the circumstances. I'm still having trouble understanding how you even managed it."

She shrugged. "I must've fallen on a pebble or something. Anyway, I'll just need to wear the bandages for a little while until it's back to normal. It's not like I'm entering any beauty contests in the near future, so I don't really care how long it takes to heal."

Taichi gave her a curious glance. "It probably won't be very comfortable to kneel on the tatami with it, though. You might want to think of a cushion or something – Doctor Harada has been using those for years, it can't be much of an obstacle. And it would only be for a short while for you."

"That won't be necessary," she cut him off, her head bowing a little lower again. "I mean, the cushion. I won't be needing it. I'll be fine."

"The mat is pretty rough though, if you rest your knee against it, even wrapped up it will get-"

"Taichi," she interrupted him again. "That won't be a problem. I promise."

He didn't contradict her again, in spite of how little he understood her protest. And so they sat together for a while, wrapped up in an awkward silence, neither of them knowing when or how to pick up the conversation again. There was so much to talk about, and yet, each and every subject appeared to be banned, as they all led back to the moment they had last talked openly.

On one hand, Taichi wanted nothing more than to throw himself into it, without hesitation, without second thoughts, ready to risk the last bit of sanity he had left, if only that meant learning what was really going on in Chihaya's mind and heart at last. To finally hear her answer in full, with all the excuses and explanation she might provide, with her telling him what exactly his confession had meant to her – to see for himself if it had left any other trace than the cursed abashment and confusion she displayed every time they as much as passed each other by at school.

On the other, he was terrified by the very idea of what she might say to him if she decided to open up in this way.

At some point, she let go of her crumbled shirt and straightened her arms, choosing to tighten her fingers around the edge of the bench instead. Yet again, Taichi found himself watching her, mesmerised by the sight of her focused, composed expression that at the same time left no doubt about how busy her mind was.

Just what was she thinking about so intensely?

"It's here, isn't?" she asked suddenly, once again managing to take him aback with her volatility. "This playground. It's the one we used to go to when we were kids, right?"

"I... suppose so," he answered her eloquently, unable to understand why she should bring that particular thing up now. "I mean, we went to so many playgrounds over the years, it's hard to stay on track. Though I guess this one is close enough for us to visit it, from time to time anyway. And it does seem... familiar."

"I'm sure it's the one," she continued relentlessly, her gaze still fixed on some distant spot. Suddenly, she straightened up and pointed with her finger at the direction she'd been looking at. "See that swing over there? They always build those in a way where there are two, so kids can swing together with their friends. But here... There's only one. I don't remember any other playground with a single swing like this one."

Taichi's eyes widened a little in recognition, but also in astonishment at the thought process she had just presented to him.

"You may be onto something, actually," he agreed. "I never even thought of it. I guess it didn't seem important at the time."

"How so? It made us take turns swinging, and we couldn't do our jumping contests properly, and-"

"And half the time you made me rock you, no matter how many swings there actually were. I could bet that the jumping contests you've just mentioned were the only reason why you didn't insist on me doing it all the time."

She opened her mouth to oppose him but closed it almost immediately, short of a proper argument. Taichi smiled good-heartedly, amused with her fierce reaction that seemed so contradictory to her previous behaviour, however, one that was so typical of her in general that he couldn't even bring himself to question it.

"Chitose hated coming with us, you know," Chihaya changed the subject, but again, he didn't protest. "She would always whine about how childish we were and how she was forced to babysit us, even though in reality, she was too young herself to be doing that. It didn't stop her from complaining though... And since I've always looked up to her, I really felt bad about it every time."

"Even though you knew she was exaggerating?"

"I didn't know it then. She seemed so much older at the time, and acted as if she really had been. And we surely were a handful when we were ten."

"Speak for yourself," Taichi disagreed humorously. "I was a good boy, who listened to his mother and followed rules all the time. I was the easiest kid to look after in the world."

The playful brag earned him a glare from Chihaya, who then said, "In the fifth grade you dared me to race you all the way from school and then cheated by taking a shortcut I didn't know of. I was so confused when you disappeared that I ran into the nearest lamp post and bumped my head so bad that I thought I'd faint on the spot. I actually had to get stitches afterwards."

"Oh, I remember. I was the one who let your parents know, while you pretended to be fine," Taichi replied. "Funny, how often that happened. Also, I didn't cheat. We never agreed on the route we should take."

This time Chihaya didn't even try to argue her point. Instead, she brought her legs to her chest, grimacing slightly at the stinging she felt after bending her injured knee. Still, she didn't back out, and only made sure that her chin rested on the good one instead. Yet again, Taichi was left wondering as to what she might be thinking of, but chose not to pester her about it. It was one thing to tease her about their childhood adventures and the many messes she'd found herself in – messes he'd sometimes provoked but always made sure to get her out of whenever he'd noticed it was too much for her to deal with; but to bother her with his questions when he still couldn't be sure how much she was willing to tell him...

That was just not the right thing to do.

So he waited, his eyes opened wide and his ears pricked in anticipation for when she would finally decide to speak. He could feel the atmosphere around him thicken and the tension build up; it wasn't long before he felt like after a silence like this the words she said next would be ones that would knock all air out of him, regardless of what subject she decided to touch upon.

You don't take that much time to think of an answer that would bear no meaning to it.

And yet...

"Those were good times, weren't they?"

It was all she cared to say.

And Taichi just stared, because hell, how was he supposed to react? Yeah, I guess, he might have said. It really was, he might have added afterwards. Or perhaps something like, The time outside was fun, though I sure wish my mother hadn't made me take all those violin lessons and extra classes, or that she at least wouldn't have made such a great deal about it and just let me spend more time with you.

He almost did say all that; but just like in most of the matches he'd played against her, he simply wasn't fast enough.

"Taichi..." he heard her whisper so quietly that he could barely tell it was his own name she was pronouncing. "Is... Is it true? That you've had all those feelings for me for so long?"

So, there they were. The words that knocked him out.

He didn't answer her, staring at her wide-eyed instead, swallowing nervously as he thought of the best way to respond. It was then that she finally turned towards him, even though the lower half of her countenance was still concealed behind her legs. Her big eyes bored into his with expectation for a short while, before she turned away again, slouching even further as she hid her face in her knees.

She shouldn't have asked him that.

No, he berated himself. It's exactly what she should do, what she should have done all those weeks ago when he'd told her that he was in love with her. Back then she'd been too stunned, too terrified to ask about it, to ensure that she'd heard him correctly – now, calmer and with more than a few hours of thinking it over (he was now sure that she had thought of it), she was finally requesting the confirmation of what she suspected.

Of what she feared, perhaps.

"You mean, if I was in love with you when we were in primary school?" he asked placidly. "I don't know. I didn't really think of it in these categories back then. I don't suppose ten- or even twelve-year-old boys do in general. I liked you; I was fond of you. You were important to me."

"That's what you could say about any close friends, though," she muttered under her breath.

"Not like this, I couldn't," Taichi refuted. "I mean, of course: I liked Arata as well. I was fond of him. And in a way, he was important to me, too, though I'm still not sure if it was because of him or simply because you were so determined to stick with him yourself. We both know he wasn't someone I would've chosen for a friend on my own."

He half expected her to cry in protest again, telling him how she had no doubt that he would have, even if it wouldn't have happened as quickly as it had with her help. However, she remained silent; and as uncomfortable as it made him feel, Taichi had no choice but to continue.

"You were special to me, Chihaya, much more so than I was ready to admit," he said. "When we graduated... When we got separated in middle school, I hated it. I almost told my mother that I wouldn't go to the one she chose for me," he added with a small smile, one which only grew when Chihaya turned her head to glance at him instinctively. "Of course, I knew she wouldn't hear of it, so I never even tried. It was a horrible idea to back down like that; I can't tell you how many times I wondered what it would have been like if I had said that to her. Technically, I knew the answer – and still, it wouldn't leave me alone. Probably because it was yet another proof of how much of a coward I really was."

He raised his hand and buried it in his hair, combing the slightly too long locks sheepishly. "You came all this way today to tell me that I'm not a coward and I hope to God that you're right. That... I have managed to fix that about myself, to some extent at least. But the fact remains: I was a coward at that time. All the way to high school and well into it, I had to constantly push myself not to give in, not to choose the easier path."

"But you never did that," she broke in. "I can't remember a time when you would even consider it. If anything, I always felt like you were pushing yourself too hard."

"There's a difference between doing things, though, and doing them courageously," Taichi explained. "Truth is, half the time I was throwing myself into one activity or another because it was the simplest way to run from the problems I didn't want to think about."

"Even in primary school?"

Taichi shook his head.

"No. Back then, I didn't realise any of this. I think I was too full of myself to even consider that – my parents told me I was apt, my teachers confirmed it with their praises and grades. My friends liked me and said that I was cool, and I believed them. You... you were probably the only one who actually challenged me back then, but even you didn't recognise what I hid behind that wall of confidence. I didn't, either."

He paused, thoughtful, and inhaled deeply, taking in as much oxygen as he could in that one go; heavens knew he was going to need it.

He turned a little, and looked Chihaya directly in the eyes before adding,

"And that's when Arata came in."

He saw her eyes widen a little as she eyed him carefully, clearly surprised by the sudden turn in his tale. That reaction took him aback a little in turn – he was sure that even without knowing all the details, she should have felt the connection and therefore expected their childhood friend – his childhood rival – to make an appearance sooner or later in his story. However, he now realised that Chihaya really didn't have a clue; apparently even the admission of his wrongdoings those few weeks back wasn't enough to put her on track.

It looked like he needed to start over and go back to the basics, building her understanding of it from scratch.

Somehow, he didn't mind at all.

"Arata was the one who first called me a coward," he said, his voice steady despite the whirl of emotions that rose in his heart. "After I gave him back his glasses, he said that to me. You're a coward, Mashima. No words had ever stung me so much."

"Was it because you'd stolen them?" Chihaya asked, hesitantly. "Because you were afraid of losing to him in that tournament?"

"Those surely were connected, yes," he agreed. "He obviously referred to my stupid theft and the fears behind it. They weren't what had prompted him to say those words, though."

He paused for a second, waiting for Chihaya to chime in again with another question or objection, but none came. He clenched his jaw, realising that he had no other option but to go on without a prompt – to confess once more, risking her anger or (worse) disappointment again.

How many more of those statements was he to do?

"After I'd given him his glasses, I also asked him not to tell you about it," he admitted eventually. "I was so scared of what you might think of me if he did, so sure you would never speak to me again after learning something like this. Not only would you have had every right to do so... but I also knew that you'd have no problem lasting in such a resolve. After all, I had only just tried to shut you out because you'd dared to speak with Arata against my wish, made our entire class do that as well – and you didn't even blink. The natural conclusion on my part was that you didn't care enough to feel hurt or rebel against it... That, if given the choice, you would have chosen Arata without a second thought. And that was before I had acted like a total cheat and jerk."

Both of his hands were in his hair now as he slouched down, resting his elbows on his knees and shutting his eyes, ashamed.

"I know now that it's not what you would've done. You didn't choose Arata because it was him or because you didn't like me. I gave you an ultimatum that was as ludicrous as it was cruel; I told you to make a choice between a lonely kid that everyone was picking on already and a group of self-important teenage twits. Even without your kindness, your pride alone would have been enough to determine your decision. The problem was, I didn't know any of that back then.

"When he called me a coward afterwards, it was like a punch in the guts, painful and unexpected, partly because at the time, I had no idea how ruthless he could be. What hurt the most, however... was the fact that he was right. That the hit I'd been given was one I very much deserved. It made me think my own behaviour over and eventually, it also made me realise the reasons behind it as well. And it isn't just that little, pathetic theft I'm talking about."

"What else then?" she asked at last. "Your reaction to Arata? Or that – what did you call it? - ultimatum you gave me?"

"Both," Taichi replied. "Chihaya, back in primary school, you were my best friend, you know that much. I teased you and I tried you, and I bet there were moments you hated me for it – but even then, I couldn't imagine not having you close all the time. It just... felt wrong. Whenever you stayed home sick or left early because of some family issues, I always felt at a loss, though I certainly couldn't point out the reason so clearly as I can now. The point is, when Arata joined our class and you stood up for him, I felt threatened. You weren't even choosing sides then, quite the opposite. But I got scared anyway, and being the idiot I was, I acted on it."

"You were twelve. You can't expect a child like that to always act rationally."

"There's a difference between being irrational and purposely hurting people because of your anxieties. And trust me, I did want to hurt you. Probably more than I cared about upsetting Arata."

His words lingered in the air for a while before he added, "And then I lost to him anyway."

He was sure she would contradict him with another one of her agitated cries, and if not that, that she would at least turn away from him, abashed, embarrassed, guilty. It hadn't been his intention to pick on her or to make her uncomfortable with his final words – in fact, he wanted to take them back as soon as he'd pronounced them. They'd just slipped out, regardless of his will; no matter how much of an accident it was, however, no matter how much he regretted not being able to have stopped himself in time, it was too late to undo his mistake.

He could only hope that she wouldn't take it too much to heart.

However, when he looked at her again, he was met with a steady, teary gaze, her big bright eyes fixed on his face. Her face was no longer pressed to her knees; instead, it was raised again, with an expression of quiet disbelief painted all over it. She wasn't happy, that much he could tell... but she didn't seem annoyed. He couldn't quite tell what it was she was thinking of or what to expect from her next, except now he knew that she wouldn't run away, at least.

"That's not what happened, though," she whispered finally.

Now it was Taichi who wanted to run.

"Is that so?" he asked, his throat tightening all of a sudden. "How is it not?"

He knew it wasn't the right thing to say, not if he didn't want to upset her further, which he didn't. However, what he also knew was that the only way they would gain something from this conversation was to maintain perfectly, utterly honest, despite the discomfort – or heartbreak – such candour entailed. That meant more than just telling each other the truth, too; but to tell all of it, without holding back or pretending that certain topics were of no interest of them, while in fact they were more than crucial.

It wasn't the right thing to say – but it came from his heart and therefore was the one thing he should have said.

One he had to say.

"You'd chosen him long before you even realised that you needed to," he picked up before she could cut in with her answer. "Look... We spent so much time together these past two years – going to and back from school, practising for tournaments and playing in those, even studying together during our club hours. Sometimes it was just the two of us, sometimes the whole group. We worked, we fought, we had fun. I was having the time of my life, and frankly, more often than not I was ready to admit that it really were the best two years I'd ever had. Only..."

He trailed off and turned away, his hands moving from his hair to his face, now hidden in them. He could feel Chihaya's gaze burning his side but didn't dare to look back at her.

"Only no matter what we did, how engrossed we were in things, be it karuta matches or your birthday celebration, I could always feel Arata's shadow hanging over us," he explained. "On your birthday, he texted me to give you his wishes – but the truth is, he didn't even have to do that. As often as not it was enough to look at your face to see that something was missing – and since I knew how much he'd always meant to you, it wasn't difficult to figure out the rest.

"I know I was being petty, and jealous, and that I had no right to be," he added after a moment. "I let my own dreams take over me, in spite of knowing full well that I'd never really stood a chance against him. Never stood a chance with you. But I wanted to hope anyway; and it made me go crazy every time I was reminded of what my situation really was."

He fell silent then, and this time, he was determined not to make any further comments, no matter how many imploring looks Chihaya might give him. Instead, he decided to sit up straight again and raise his head to the sky, inhaling deeply as he waited for her to speak. His eyes remained closed at first; his hands now rested on both sides of his thighs, fingers curled around the edge of his seat but not really grasping it.

He kept this pose for a while, patient; then he opened his eyes and turned towards her again, a small, gentle smile tugging on his lips despite the hint of hurt and disappointment that he couldn't eradicate from his gaze.

That little smile was the best he could do for her.

He never would have thought that this tiny gesture, this most insignificant expression might cause the reaction that it did cause. He realised something was off as soon as  their eyes met; and yet, even that hunch wasn't enough to prepare him for what was about to come next.

He saw a blurry gaze and a bitten lip; a trembling chin and eyes that begged for mercy.

He saw distress and guilt, and reproach, a quiet plea that somehow seemed like the loudest crash, ringing in his ears with a thousand decibels of what should have been a perfect silence.

And then...

Then he saw Chihaya burst into the ugliest sob he had ever seen.

And he had seen a lot.

[kuwkuwtk]

KUWKUWTK S17E8: “Rumor Has It”

I first started watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians on a study pill binge at the end of my Freshman year of college. I would wake up at 9am, pop a pill or two, drink a cup of coffee, and work nonstop until 2am. Study pills are so strange to your body. They distance you from generalized ideals of time and make Enlightenment-era dialectics of mind/body actually apparent in a physical way. So when my mind had turned to word gobble but my heart was still thumping at appalling rates, I realized I needed a way for my mind to sleep. Therefore, KUWTK. That finals week, I watched the first 6 seasons, up until episode 14: “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding pt. 1.”

How strange that all episodes have names, as if naming scripted banalities deserve a type of chapter-like commemoration. They are geniuses, was my takeaway. Easy on the camera, they were born to be watched but then also to watch themselves back. I wondered: do the Kardashians keep up with themselves? How involved are they with the editing process? How does the concept of a family secret or the familial banality of talking behind someone’s back work when it is projected to millions each Sunday for primetime television?

Anyway, about a year ago, I got back into it when I realized they were still strong in season 16. Now it is season 17 and I am still hooked. And awaaayyyyy we go… 

In last night’s episode, “Rumor Has It,” there was a Freudian return to childhood and early adulthood trauma-- namely, Khloe went to prom with a highschooler, Kris and her friend reminisced about their deceased friend Nicole, and Kim, Kourtney, and Scott (with others) returned to Costa Rica because North wanted to and it was her birthday.

The episode was one of memories and how to move with and beyond memories of hurt in order to establish yourself in the present. Perhaps like the Kanye-ed editing techniques of nostalgia, both with the credit sequence of the iconic image of all the Kardashian/Jenners innocently crawling upon one another on their old couch in their old house and the vintage-esque camera cuts between scenes.

On Mourning, Freud writes that “the ego wants to incorporate this object into itself, and, in accordance with the oral or cannibalistic phase of libidinal development in which it is, it wants to do so by devouring it” (Freud Reader, 587). He posits that by making the loss of someone or something into an object, by rendering it an object, the ego wants to get it back via eating it. So how very intriguing that Kris and her friend voyage to the very same restaurant where, 30 years ago, they dined with their friend Nicole… only for the waiter to coincidentally announce that, seeing as this week is the 30th anniversary of the restaurant, they have reverted their menus for extra nostalgia… at which point Kris and her friend break into tears. Oh, this is exactly what Nicole would have seen! I remember exactly what she ate! Oh Kris, what photographic memory you have!

They dine, they remember, and then Kris surreptitiously adds in the one-on-one interviews that it is so sad that their friend is remembered for her death instead of her life. Which brings me to the absurdity of the situation: her friend is none other than Nicole Brown Simpson, famed ex-wife of OJ. She was murdered by her ex-husband and, of course, Rob Kardashian, patriarch, defended him. We begin to understand this is a rather on-the-nose incident of emotive cathexis. I was like… wait, WHAT!? Did Kris introduce OJ and Nicole? How is this part of the story not the first thing we hear? Of course, in the narrative of the rich and famous, the gossip and the murder only follows the banal remembrences of oh, what a great friend she was, how much life did she bring to the party, etc. They dine together to eat the same thing their dead friend ate, and then Kris announces later in the episode she is suing the Daily Mail because OJ is now spreading a rumor he fucked her so hard she had to be hospitalized… The anniversary of Nicole’s death calls for another hospitalization story, this time with OJ bragging about hurting a woman. How compelling and how narratively intertwined that this episode redeems the social plight of Kris not once but twice: She is such a great friend to still cry over Nicole’s death and to remember her exact lunch order, and also, she was NOT fucked by OJ and decides to once and for all END the rumors and to SUE.

More on Freud: the melancholic is an interesting character because their relationship with their ego supersedes such of the one in mourning. It is not only that Kris eats her old friend, but, “we perceive that the self-reproaches are reproaches against a loved object which have been shifted away from it on to the patient’s own ego” (Freud Reader, 586). Perhaps Kris is tormenting Nicole by her prolonged suffering, as does the melancholic. Freud’s conflict of love which pulls together ego and object in a relationship not of direct switching, but of metaphor or comparison, botched, in a sense, like too much botox or a nose job done too well.

Or, what really strikes me about Freud’s turn to the melancholic is the contradictory association of ego and object. What he means is this: you love an object (for example: Kris loved Nicole), but then this “narcissistic identification with the object… becomes a substitute for the erotic cathexis, the result of which is that in spite of the conflict with the loved person the love-relation need not be given up” (587). Basically, Kris’s identification with Nicole, though she seems to mourn her, is one of ego-transposition. With Nicole, Kris experiences the trauma of loss, sure, but also, more importantly, it is the trauma of responsibility which drives her, 25 years later, to still be moved to uncontrollable bouts of emotion at mere remembrance. Which makes sense: Kris Jenner was propelled into fame, which then propelled her daughters, her daughters’ daughters, and her entire billion-dollar empire into even more extravagant fame by the OJ trial where her then-husband, Rob Kardashian, defended the man who had killed her friend to such an extent that OJ went free and Nicole’s death remains unavenged. Kris has transferred her own guilt of narcissism into the action of public, televised mourning for Nicole, not unlike the power reserved for Kim to self-heroise when it turns out the name of her brand is deeply rooted in western imperial structures of market, fashion, and gaze when she makes it out that she had no idea that Kimono was the wrong call for her shape-wear brand. More on that later.

Meanwhile, Khloe also imbibes heavily whilst craving heady high school nostalgia. A long-time KUWTK fan invites her to his prom and she goes. Equipped with a stretch limo, a ball gown, and what seems to be a sippy cup full of forbidden teenage cocktail, she empties it quickly. Calls her mom: Mom what do I do I’m scared for prom. Kris: Oh don’t worry hunny, drink some more. Which she does. In tipsy rambles, Khloe reveals she was homeschooled so never went to prom. Long story short, she picks up this guy and takes him to prom with many fluffed up girls in wedding cake dresses. Khloe is drunk but still slow dances. She is filmed the whole time and her name is chanted. She leaves early because she’s too drunk and “was starting to not be able to remember…” Basically, Khloe has a typical prom minus heartbreak but hey, she goes home to her child whose father was too busy sleeping with another woman to see her born… heartbreak intact!

The Costa Rica trip becomes a redemptive few days for Scott who, last time in Costa Rica, got a drink poured on him by hero Khloe because he flew out another girl to fuck while on (a filmed) vacation with his ex-girlfriend, three children, and his about 10 ex-in-laws. This time he does better and plays daddy shark in the pool. The REAL drama plays out because Kim, who wants to be a good mother, is absent for her LA photoshoot of Kimono, her new shapewear line. Yadda yadda yadda, she envisions a vintage take of an infomercial to commemorate her mother's first foray into the reality scene… 

But the REAL REAL drama comes at the end of the episode with that deliciously juicy “To Be Continued…” cut because… apparently… Kim is accused of “culturally appropriating” the Japanese outfit known as the “kimono.” The mayor of Kyoto even calls her to voice his complaints. Note that the first assistant we see when Kim’s Kimono meeting is shot is Asian. She doesn’t bring anything up, herself, creating a narrative of: why did we need to worry. Anyway, better wait until next time to see how this unfolds. Though we already know: Kim renames her line “SKIMS.” How lucky is she to have such a versatile name to fit into any brand!

My number one takeaway is this: memory conforms only to present reactions in relation to the past. In other words, going back to a place becomes a redemptive stance. If only I could return to that time and do it again… this can be done and is done three times over in this episode. We return to places of loss, confusion, major wrongdoing, and each time, we leave revitalized by the knowledge that we have grown, even if just in relation to the odd fact that such places have not….

[madamlaydebug]

INTRODUCTION We take great pleasure in presenting to the attention of students and investigators of the Secret Doctrines this little work based upon the world-old Hermetic Teachings. There has been so little written upon this subject, not withstanding the countless references to the Teachings in the many works upon occultism, that the many earnest searchers after the Arcane Truths will doubtless welcome the appearance of this present volume. The purpose of this work is not the enunciation of any special philosophy or doctrine, but rather is to give to the students a statement of the Truth that will serve to reconcile the many bits of occult knowledge that they may have acquired, but which are apparently opposed to each other and which often serve to discourage and disgust the beginner in the study. Our intent is not to erect a new Temple of Knowledge, but rather to place in the hands of the student a Master-Key with which he may open the many inner doors in the Temple of Mystery through the main portals he has already entered. There is no portion of the occult teachings possessed by the world which have been so closely guarded as the fragments of the Hermetic Teachings which have come down to us over the tens of centuries which have elapsed since the lifetime of its great founder, Hermes Trismegistus, the "scribe of the gods," who dwelt in old Egypt in the days when the present race of men was in its infancy. Contemporary with Abraham, and, if the legends be true, an instructor of that venerable sage, Hermes was, and is, the Great Central Sun of Occultism, whose rays have served to illumine the countless teachings which have been promulgated since his time. All the fundamental and basic teachings embedded in the esoteric teachings of every race may be traced back to Hermes. Even the most ancient teachings of India undoubtedly have their roots in the original Hermetic Teachings. From the land of the Ganges many advanced occultists wandered to the land of Egypt, and sat at the feet of the Master. From him they obtained the Master-Key which explained and reconciled their divergent views, and thus the Secret Doctrine was firmly established. From other lands also came the learned ones, all of whom regarded Hermes as the Master of Masters, and his influence was so great that in spite of the many wanderings from the path on the part of the centuries of teachers in these different lands, there may still be found a certain basic resemblance and correspondence which underlies the many and often quite divergent theories entertained and taught by the occultists of these different lands today. The student of Comparative Religions will be able to perceive the influence of the Hermetic Teachings in every religion worthy of the name, now known to man, whether it be a dead religion or one in full vigor in our own times. There is always certain correspondence in spite of the contradictory features, and the Hermetic Teachings act as the Great Reconciler. The lifework of Hermes seems to have been in the direction of planting the great Seed-Truth which has grown and blossomed in so many strange forms, rather than to establish a school of philosophy which would dominate, the world's thought. But, nevertheless, the original truths taught by him have been kept intact in their original purity by a few men each age, who, refusing great numbers of half-developed students and followers, followed the Hermetic custom and reserved their truth for the few who were ready to comprehend and master it. From lip to ear the truth has been handed down among the few. There have always been a few Initiates in each generation, in the various lands of the earth, who kept alive the sacred flame of the Hermetic Teachings, and such have always been willing to use their lamps to re-light the lesser lamps of the outside world, when the light of truth grew dim, and clouded by reason of neglect, and when the wicks became clogged with foreign matter. There were always a few to tend faithfully the altar of the Truth, upon which was kept alight the Perpetual Lamp of Wisdom. These men devoted their lives to the labor of love which the poet has so well stated in his lines: "O, let not the flame die out! Cherished age after age in its dark cavern--in its holy temples cherished. Fed by pure ministers of love--let not the flame die out!" These men have never sought popular approval, nor numbers of followers. They are indifferent to these things, for they know how few there are in each generation who are ready for the truth, or who would recognize it if it were presented to them. They reserve the "strong meat for men," while others furnish the "milk for babes." They reserve their pearls of wisdom for the few elect, who recognize their value and who wear them in their crowns, instead of casting them before the materialistic vulgar swine, who would trample them in the mud and mix them with their disgusting mental food. But still these men have never forgotten or overlooked the original teachings of Hermes, regarding the passing on of the words of truth to those ready to receive it, which teaching is stated in The Kybalion as follows: "Where fall the footsteps of the Master, the ears of those ready for his Teaching open wide." And again: "When the ears of the student are ready to hear, then cometh the lips to fill them with wisdom." But their customary attitude has always been strictly in accordance with the other Hermetic aphorism, also in The Kybalion: "The lips of Wisdom are closed, except to the ears of Understanding." There are those who have criticized this attitude of the Hermetists, and who have claimed that they did not manifest the proper spirit in their policy of seclusion and reticence. But a moment's glance back over the pages of history will show the wisdom of the Masters, who knew the folly of attempting to teach to the world that which it was neither ready or willing to receive. The Hermetists have never sought to be martyrs, and have, instead, sat silently aside with a pitying smile on their closed lips, while the "heathen raged noisily about them" in their customary amusement of putting to death and torture the honest but misguided enthusiasts who imagined that they could force upon a race of barbarians the truth capable of being understood only by the elect who had advanced along The Path. And the spirit of persecution has not as yet died out in the land. There are certain Hermetic Teachings, which, if publicly promulgated, would bring down upon the teachers a great cry of scorn and revilement from the multitude, who would again raise the cry of "Crucify! Crucify." In this little work we have endeavored to give you an idea of the fundamental teachings of The Kybalion, striving to give you the working Principles, leaving you to apply therm yourselves, rather than attempting to work out the teaching in detail. If you are a true student, you will be able to work out and apply these Principles--if not, then you must develop yourself into one, for otherwise the Hermetic Teachings will be as "words, words, words" to you. THE THREE INITIATES.

[writingwithinwriting]

Honest, soft spoken knicker-untwisting: I should probably say something about this whole Hollie McNish debacle, because I can.

(Hollie McNish, disagreeing with me.)

I have always maintained that some of the best insights you can hear in any field often comes from the person two-weeks into their endeavours rather than a person who has been doing it twenty years. 

This is also horrible, horrible advice and there is a reason I run a blog and not a full-blown literary journal. But then again, I have only been doing this for a year... Thus, I present to you my nicest hat I have to be trampled in the ring: here’s what I have to say about this whole PN Review debate...

If you have our ear to the ground on the poetry scene, someone said something not at all positive towards the current state of spoken word poetry. The piece is loudly proclaiming how it feels and I am not going to say what they are saying is totally invalid, I know I am a humble peasant in all of this. It is well worth a read. You can read Hollie McNish’s response here and, what I think is the most succinct defence out there, Melanie Branton’s well-written retort here. This isn’t a reply, it is a report from how things look from my point of view.

I hope not to prove that spoken word at large is indeed academic, or needs to be more technical or artful, or that the what reaches people fore-mostly is necessarily the best of what is out there. I think everything is fine, knickers simply need to be untwisted in this situation. Instead, I put forward that there is a reason that people are being reached by the poetry of this ilk, and it isn’t because we’re all beginning to drag our poetic knuckles as we frollick in delirious circles over the plug-hole of impending illiteracy blinded by our own conveniences.

I could use words like spiteful or vicious about the review, but I think the review knows that it is spiteful, and it is happy with its life choices. Watts doesn’t jive with spoken word as a genre and has mistakenly decided to attack it as a whole. 

“What good is a flourishing poetry market... less appreciative of nuance, less able to engage with ideas, more indignant about the things that annoy us, and more resentful of others who appear to be different from us?” 

I could write an entire piece around this statement which seems to misunderstand the fundamentals of the contemporary spoken word altogether but other poets have said it better and will continue to say it better than I can. But I will instead focus on what Watts missed.

She doesn’t deserve to be attacked for expressing her frustration and opinion in a genre that can often be an echo chamber of ideas. I welcome her voice as an outsider to spoken word. I read some of her work and it’s perceptive and has a lot of effort put into it, her voice deserves to be heard, she makes many good points but draws few good conclusions in my opinion.

I can’t even say I am neck-breathingly familiar with the work of Rupi Kaur or Hollie McNish or even Kate Tempest, of whom I consider myself a fan, who are all dragged into this piece. I decided to catch up on the work of Kaur and McNish for the sakes of this post, discovering I rather liked what I read and listened to. I won’t distract from my point by going out of my way to expand on my feelings. What I can say is that I am very familiar with the criticisms at hand here.

Mostly because Lindsay Ellis beat me to the punch with what was going to be one of my main points...

This came out after I had finished my first draft of this bloody blog post and I had to redo it all over again. I was going to talk about my unquestioning love of Jupiter Ascending and everything.

Ellis says it better than I ever could: this isn’t anything new, people just don’t like women. Even women don’t like women-y things. Our presence does not imply success. I’m not a woman myself, but I am easily mistaken for one all the time so I understand the resentment people have for when a medium is invaded by the feminine youth of today. People love to shake their fists at teenage girls; harbingers of degeneration in everything they touch with their grubby, right-swipey, manicured fingers.

Thankfully, I can ramble on more than just that aspect of why I think the review isn’t anything to be worried about. This isn’t a totally gendered issue, there are many facets to this and from what I can see it is a generational issue in many regards. Watts isn’t exactly middle-aged, but I know plenty of people who could be safely counted as millennials who dislike the technology that defines us as a generation and the possibilities that come with it. 

Social media allows us to show too much our lives to other people, it ruins the magic. Social media lets us show the best bits of our lives, its all false. Social media lets everyone have a platform regardless of quality, everyone has a blog these days. etc etc. Which brings me back to the review: Watts makes a few logical leaps in the piece which seemingly amount to ‘this ideal of honesty before technique has come to the forefront of these popular pieces of work no one can take them seriously anymore and they are the knell of the populist take over.’

I don’t want to attack Watts when I say perhaps she believes there is a throng of seraphic artistic thinkers whose opinions are the only ones we should care about thereby making her statement non-contradictory. Maybe in a few years time I will no longer be a sparkly-eyed amateur and agree. For now, I personally think that spoken word heading into the mainstream is a sign that it is being taken more seriously, not less. As well as a sign that more people are engaging rather than mindlessly teething over it. 

I think Watts has inadvertently proven that things are going rather well for spoken word; the piece brought up a defence hot on its heels and sparked rich debate, and must have been relevant enough to publish in the first place. Which is why I’m not angry, its why I don’t think McNish is all that bothered in her response. The review misunderstands how people take part in poetry these days. You can’t maintain that “the reader is dead” and also say the consumer has taken over; readers are consumers. 

People read and listen to Kaur’s work, they make hundreds of choices a day, they listen to Elliott Smith on their turntables whilst they eat toast with almond butter, or play Drake on repeat on their iPhones on the way to work as they shove a meal deal into their face. They might own tote bags, they might own tote bags and constantly forget to use them. They may or may not use groupons or own houseplants. You can’t just call the people consumers when things don’t go your way.

These are people, teenage girls on Instagram are people, many of whom care about things like caesuras and others who just feel resonant with the work of people they find in their every day lives. Maybe they are both.

I’m sorry not everyone knows where their local independent bookseller is and regularly listens to BBC radio shows on the latest publications but I don’t believe correlation is causation. Kaur and her colleagues across the social media spectrum are not discouraging engagement beyond their own works.

The internet just happens to be where young people live and I mean that literally. Online is where our friends are, where we watch our favourite vloggers, where we listen to our podcasts about shrimp and not, say, something useful. We aren’t always doing something ethical and studious, I’m afraid, and neither are you. I think poetry should embrace being a part of people’s lives when they aren’t wanting to feel smart.

Something I’d like to propose, however, is that you can listen to podcasts concerning jokes about shrimp that and know where your independent bookseller is in your city. The internet is another home, so I am going to allow myself to appreciate the poetry I find closest to home. 

I don’t know what to suggest about poetry outside the internet and spoken word, it is where I choose to engage with it, as a reader and consumer, thus I cannot say let it wither away and die nor can I list ways to engage us further in strictly paper publications. This is a false dichotomy.

I think it is pithy for anyone to complain when you don’t think a surge in interest in your passion is being done properly. I think it is ludicrous to say that short, clipped insta-poetry is akin to Orwellian Newspeak and “celebrating amateurism and ignorance...” All in all, it’s a bit mean-spirited and not all opening the floor to the people the attack is aimed at.

And the targets are not just McNish, although it was addressed personally in some regards, they are the people who brought McNish and others to prominence. Which brings us back to the Millenials and our self-created habitat of knee-jerk reactions, instant gratification and social media platforms that singlehandedly allowed Donald Trump to happen. We, the club-footed careless Godzillas crushing the old without thought, to make way for our new world order.

T.R. Darling’s work is a good example of something beautiful and lichenous that would not survive in its entirety outside of the ecosystem to which it has adapted. I wouldn’t call one screenshot of T.R. Darling’s work on Twitter a whole representation of what they do, I highly recommend scrolling through the muttering cavernous archives of Quiet Pine Trees yourself.

But in an interview on Wordpress Darling brought up something that I thought applied very well to the situation at hand, as a fellow peddler of literary internet snippets they had something to say on the nature of their work:

“Being brief isn’t enough. You can boil down a story to a sentence or two, but often you need context.“

It’s almost as if there’s a skill to this. Much like a haiku isn’t just about syllables but grounding in place and time, one of the online microfiction’s essential tools is the fact it is cut off by Twitter character count. Even Darling will admit their failures often curtail to not following through with the setting they’ve placed their work in. 

McNish is more than honesty. They are more than just an outpouring of what they feel, and if Watts can’t see that then it shows they are not seeing past the vehicles that have brought the work to a book’s pages. Rupi Kaur is more than soft-spoken delicately typed Instagram posts. Kate Tempest is more than blasting the tories on youtube. They are more than just what we perceive their draw to be, they are more than their audience, and the audience is more than that.

As I was watching McNish’s piece ‘Embarrassed’ and searching for devices to make some sort of argument against a professional poetry reviewer that her work is just as well crafted as anybody else, left me realising that what cannot translate to the page are the breaths held and spaces left open for thought and reply. As well as the fact my scrutiny was a fool’s endeavour.

Maybe McNish doesn’t want to do a finely tweaked disembodied personification of her feelings on breastfeeding in public because she wants people to reply and that would impede the voice she has created. I have absolutely no doubt that someone who shows as much intelligence and depth in their observations and work could do something adequately complicated to please us.

In my head, as I listened to Embarrassed and other poems, I felt myself start conversations in the pauses she left. Not just mmmms and yeahhhs, but actual interjections directed at the poet. And this is part of the medium, in finger clicks, in retweets and reblogs, there must be room to reply.

And it is not just about accessibility or the fact it says something you can tutt about my generation’s need to butt in with their opinions at all hours of the day. I think this could be what people are finding nuance in, I think there is an art to this. It isn’t just the legion drawling consumers with their apps and scant free time, but the people who buy poetry books and go to open mic nights. 

This is why people care. And I believe that is the goal in all of this, not in how many gold stars we get in using devices for devices sakes (or for the sakes of halting the rise of fascism, as the article implicates as the social media generations fault... somehow...) but communication and engagement.

I think the aforementioned authors have hit upon this better than almost anyone before them, and whilst I might be a scraggly infant on the scene, I do believe I care. And that is why I decided to write this, not because I necessarily had the most nuanced, experienced contribution but because I could.