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wrenhyperfixates · 4 years

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Love Poison

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: You plan to take extreme measures to catch Loki’s eye. Unfortunately, things backfire terribly. Can something good come of the mess? Warnings: use of a love potion (putting this here because in case that bothers some people) but I think that’s it A/N: For @tom-hlover. Thanks for requesting and hope you enjoy!

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @thelokiimaginechroniclesficrecs

Disclaimer: Picture not mine

You glanced out the window of Tony’s lab. In the week since you’d been promoted to his personal assistant, you’d seen more of the Avengers than you had in your almost five years of working at the Tower. In fact, you’d seen all but the one you’d really been hoping to. Loki. You had a little crush on the god, you would admit, but you had no hope of getting to know him if he never stopped by the lab. You considered asking your boss about him, but decided that the embarrassment wasn’t worth the risk. So, instead, you kept on waiting.

Your lucky break came one day when Tony sent you to the kitchen to get him some coffee. A large part of you wanted to suggest sleep instead, since he’d pretty obviously been up since you’d left the Tower last night. But you were still too new to the job to be so bold. You were in the middle of pouring Tony’s drink when a certain raven haired god came rushing in, snickering to himself. He stopped in his tracks when he noticed you.

“Who are you?” he asked sharply, as if he had been caught in the middle of something. Judging by the box of glowing vials he had with him, you supposed he might be. “How did you get in here?”

“Oh! I, uh, I work for Tony. I’m his new lab assistant,” you responded shyly, telling him your name.

“Ah, I see. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Loki of Asgard. That doesn’t happen to be Stark’s drink in your hands, does it?”

“Actually, yeah, it is. May I ask why?”

Loki peered over his shoulder before turning back to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You were almost certain your heart would beat out of your chest if you stayed in this close proximity to him any longer, but he finally began to explain himself.

“I was hoping to slip a potion into it. I had been planning on just dumping it into the coffee pot, but it would much easier if you could help me sneak it into the cup. Do not worry, I will not let you get into trouble. I will gladly take full blame. And, before you ask, it is completely safe.”

You contemplated for a minute trying to choose between your new job and Loki. The choice was pretty obvious, though, as you always tended to think more with your heart than your head. Maybe this could even spark a friendship between you and the god.

“Ok,” you nodded. “What’s it going to do?”

“It will make him burst out into uncontrollable laughter,” Loki explained as he set a few vials on the island, looking for the right one. “A harmless prank, really, but all I can get away with these days.”

A few moments later he was saying goodbye and hurrying off to enact his next prank. So much for that friendship you were hoping would bloom. Except, he’d left a potion behind. Maybe you could return it to him, and at least get another conversation out of it. But then you looked at the label and got another plan entirely. It was a love potion.

Ten minutes later you were staring at the bottle of glowing purple-pink liquid. Tony had run out to yell at Loki, knowing immediately who had been responsible for his sudden laughter. There were blueprints to be working on, you knew, but you’d had an idea, and it was proving nearly impossible to get it out of your mind. If you could just see Loki again, find him again, you could give him a drink with the potion in it. Not a lot, just a drop. Just nudge him into having feelings for you. Then once he got to know you, maybe the potion would have worked its way out of his system and his feelings would be real.

Almost without knowing what you were doing, you were pouring some of the contents in a cup of water. You poured yourself a cup of water, too, suddenly feeling very anxious. Was this right? You hadn’t technically stolen it or anything. But deep down, you knew that wasn’t the issue. This was crazy. It was manipulative. Everything about your relationship will have started out as a lie. Maybe you just needed another sip of water to calm down.

“Shit,” you whispered to yourself as you realized you’d drunk out of the wrong cup. Your mind went into full panic mode before focusing solely on Loki.

You skipped through the halls of the Tower, looking for your otherworldly prince. He said your name in a question as he almost collided into you. Immediately he knew something was off, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It would bug him until he could.

“Did Stark send you after me?” he questioned. “I do not suppose you would be willing to help me out a second time?”

“Tony didn’t send me,” you brazenly replied. “I’m here to ask you on a date, Loki.”

“And why,” he said in a sharp laugh of disbelief, “would you do that?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

His eyebrows shot halfway up his face. Not only was that an outrageous thing to say because you hardly knew each other, it was unbelievable because he was, well, him. Plus, you seemed a lot more bold than you had earlier. He almost didn’t believe it was the same person. Maybe you had a twin running around. Or maybe it was drugs. But no. He’d seen the effect drugs had on Midgardians before, and this was different. Still, he could not figure it out.

“That is lovely, but-”

“He would love to!” Thor cut his brother off as he appeared from around the corner. “How about you get some coffee? You like coffee, right brother?”

“No.”

“It’s perfect considering how we met,” you giggled as Loki grimaced. “I know a place that has coffee and tea, if you like that better.”

Loki desperately wanted to decline, but it was the last thing he needed for his image. Besides, he was pretty sure Thor would drag him there even if he said no.

“Very well. I shall meet you in the lobby at seven.”

“See you later, Loki,” you giggled as you waved goodbye, leaving to go doodle his name in your notebook.

“Well, well, brother,” Thor said. “I had no idea you had finally realized what an eligible bachelor you are. Good for you, putting yourself out there.”

“I suppose you were not at the same conversation I was,” Loki said wryly. “You put me out there. I was about to say no.”

“Come now, it will be good for you. Why do you seem so dismayed?”

“It does not make sense that they like me. No, they said love, actually. For one, I hardly know them. For two, I am me, don’t forget. Harbinger of destruction in the Battle of New York. Something is not adding up.”

“Just enjoy this, brother. Someone has realized how wonderful you are and asked you out. It is just how things work on Midgard.”

“Perhaps,” Loki mused, wracking his brain. “But I must do some research. There may be magic involved.”

“You know what,” his brother sighed, “I am going to help you just to prove this is real.”

“If you must.”

The search proved fruitless, but Loki was determined to comb through more of his enchantment books later. Right now, however, he had to meet you. For a date. The whole thing still sounded absolutely absurd. Though, he would admit you did look rather adorable bundled in your coat, ready to go out in the cold night air. Being the gentleman that he was, he offered you his arm, which you excitedly took as you giggled. That was another thing, why were you suddenly so bubbly? It was a far cry from the shy, easily flustered person he’d met earlier. He added it to his mental list of possible symptoms of whatever was afflicting you.

About an hour later, the two of you were still seated in the small café you’d brought him to. Loki was, surprisingly, enjoying himself. He had to keep reminding himself that this was not real, that he shouldn’t get too attached, for he was sure he’d figure this out sooner or later.

“Really?” you laughed as he finished his story.

“Yes, the entire chair just gave out from under him,” he recalled, telling you of one of the many times he’d pranked Thor in their youth. “After all, he’d just said to stop gluing him to it. Everything else was fair game. The best part was father never could prove I was behind it.”

“I wish I was clever like that. Or could do magic.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of a Midgardian working seiðr before, but I suppose nothing is impossible. I fear I may not be the best teacher, though. I lack the patience a good teacher should possess.”

“You seem plenty patient to me. Loki, you’re...” you said, nervously casting your eyes down to the floor, “well, you’re amazing.”

He blushed at your words, but accepted them with a small thank you. You’d calmed down considerably throughout the course of the evening, now seemingly fully captivated in your conversation with Loki. And he even found himself thinking that he didn’t mind your company, a rare thing indeed. Maybe Thor was right after all. Maybe this was real. As much as he wanted to believe that, deep down, he still knew something was very, very wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loki took you out again a week later. After a dinner out in the city, he had nervously brought you back to the Tower for a movie on his couch. It had been Thor’s idea, though he seemed to have been hinting at something else by suggesting Loki bring you back to his quarters. But, thankfully, you didn’t seem particularly interested in any of those things. Rather, you were content to just sit with Loki and let the movie play. You were curled into his side, cuddling him. It took someone actually wanting to be near to him to make him realize how touch starved he actually was. It alarmed him at first, to have you so close, but he relaxed as you began methodically braiding and unbraiding a few locks of his hair. A small smile played at his lips as he thought of the domestic simplicity of it.

“Hey, Loki,” you said. “I’m really glad I met you.”

“I am too. And to think, it all started with a simple prank.”

Loki suddenly stood up from the couch, accidentally pushing you off him. He apologized as he rushed over to his bookcase. Remembering how you’d first met had made him think of something; he’d been searching for an enchantment, but he’d never considered it being the effect of a potion. Reading the page in the book, he realized you were exhibiting all the symptoms. He sighed and checked his potion box, hoping against hope that he would find nothing missing. Unfortunately, he did.

He’d packed up his things so quickly that he must have left one behind and, one way or another, you’d consumed it. And of course it had to be that one of all the options. It was more love poison than love potion, he thought to himself as he scoffed. He sat down and plopped onto the couch, burying his head in his hands.

“Loki?” you hesitantly asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. It is all my fault,” he apologized, taking your hands as confusion sparked behind your eyes. “It may take a little time, but I will fix this. For now, you should go home.”

“But, Loki,” you sniffled. “I don’t want to. What’s happening? Can I see you tomorrow?”

He hesitated. He really shouldn’t let this continue, for both your sakes. “I... Yes, I will you see you tomorrow. Do not worry about what is going on, I will take care of it.”

You sniffled some more, but acquiesced. After placing a kiss to his cheek, you set off towards your flat, leaving the unfinished movie playing in the background. Loki immediately started preparing the antidote. It would take nearly a week to fully brew, and he tried to figure out what to do with you in the meantime. He feared that if he kept seeing you, you would hate him when you came to. But, if he rejected you now, you might become violent and unpredictable. Better to keep you safe. And, if he was lucky for once in his life, maybe he could have a chance with you once you were in your right mind.

As soon as the antidote finished, Loki prepared to give it to you. He’d found the bottle of love potion hidden in Tony’s lab and concluded you couldn’t have used more than a few drops. He even dared hope for a second that you hadn’t used it, after all, but then he noticed the seal had been broken. The small dosage must have been the reason he didn’t recognize the side effects as belonging to it right away. The larger the dosage, the more intense the effects.

“Hi Loki,” you greeted as he opened the door for you.

“Hello, darling.”

“Is something wrong?” you asked, cupping his cheek. “You seem upset.”

“I am fine. May I interest you in a glass of water? Tea? Anything to drink, really.”

“Oh! I guess water sounds good. Thanks,” you smiled.

He handed you the cup and waited while you took a sip. The effects were almost instantaneous, filling him with both joy and sadness at the same time. You gazed around the room with a dazed look on your face. Loki helped you to a chair as you regained your senses.

“Oh my gosh,” you gasped. “Loki, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, darling? I am the one who left the potion lying around.”

“Yes, but,” you started, wondering how much you could get away with. You decided it was just best to come clean. “I should have returned it as soon as I saw it. Not... not try to give it to you. Serves me right that I accidentally took it myself.”

“You were trying to give it to me?” Loki inquired with furrowed brows. “What would you do a thing like that for?”

“Because,” you gulped, “I really do have a crush on you, Loki. I was desperate, I guess. But that’s no excuse, so yeah, I’m sorry. I should go now.”

“Wait,” he called after you before you could run off. You were rather charming, he thought. And he did believe that he got to know a bit of the real you through the potion. Besides, maybe Thor was right, and it was time he put himself out there. “I know we did not start under the best circumstances, but I would like to take you on a real date if you will allow it. Say, tonight?”

“Really?” you squeaked in disbelief. “I would love to, Loki.”

“Just do me one favor, darling. Stay away from potions, please.”

“Believe me,” you nervously laughed, “I plan on it.”

You scurried away to text your friends about the crazy turn of events. Loki smiled after you before destroying the rest of the love potion, happy that some good was able to come out of the whole mess. But there was one thing he knew for certain; he’d be swearing off potion making for quite some time.

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michaeloneillwords-music · 3 years

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Oasis: Knobworth. Cocaine, Caricature and ‘The Culture Industry’s’ wet dream.

This week sees the release of the documentary film ‘Oasis Knobworth 1996’ which marks 25 years since the Manchester rock band played to over a quarter of a million disciples in a field in Hertfordshire across two nights. Obviously brand Oasis couldn’t miss the opportunity to celebrate its own greatness, in what is now being understood and accepted as some sort of era defining moment in pop cultural history. As a native of Manchester, who whether he likes it or not is psychically entrenched in the cities musical and cultural legacy and who was 15 years old when this event took place, I equally cannot miss the opportunity to challenge this retro fetish overstatement and present my own subjective understanding and experience of watching these caricatures of sex, drugs and rock roll as they rose to prominence. Let's face it ‘the culture industry’ has always needed fodder to sell to a teenage audience who in coming of age are flirting with the mask of social identity which is heavily informed by pop culture, and from late 1995 onwards Oasis, led by the brothers Gallagher were that fodder. The juggernaut of utter nonsense that they were peddling really began with the release of their sophomore effort (What’s the story) Morning Glory on the 2nd of October 1995, which to this day has gone on to sell in excess of 22 million copies worldwide, figures that depressingly highlight the state we are in as a species. Upon hearing the album as a 14 year engrossed in pop music culture I immediately disliked it. Gone were the walls of thick guitars, punkish irreverence and embellishments of baggy Northern Psychedelia that marked the best moments of their debut album, instead the listener was subjected to an overly clean, acoustic, commercial sounding record that was lyrically lazy, pedestrian and trite, to me it was and always will be an artistic car crash. It sounded immediately like a band uninterested in challenging itself or its audience, who instead were solely concerned with mass appeal, shifting units and making money. Whilst it should always be noted that the Gallagher brothers made no attempt to hide their aspirations for commercial success, material wealth and brand ubiquity, I simply find such sole motivations a turn off, that, more often than not result in utter dross, the kind that defines Oasis’ discography. Indeed, any ascent to the summit of pop culture will rarely be the sole result of an absolute desire for honest and uncompromising artistic expression, to just ‘make something’ regardless of economic reward or consideration for the consequences of what that expression communicates, represents or signifies. Indeed, such an approach will often come into direct conflict with the bottom line of the music industry, which is solely concerned with profit, monopolistic market control, the dissemination of ideology and projection of archetypes. And so it is that far from the ‘deviant bad boys of pop’ peddled by the culture industry press from 1995 onward, Oasis were actually a very obedient market vehicle for profit, who promoted nihilistic hedonism, idolatry, narcissism, misplaced masculinity, benign sexism, cocaine, lager and a depressing caricature of working class identity, and last but not least a brand of Beatles infused substance devoid pub rock. The ‘culture industry’ had been peddling this sort of shit from the mid 60’s in pop music and long before in general pop culture and as a result dear reader it was obviously very marketable once again to the mid-nineties teenage generation and to many subsequent generations for that matter. The game doesn't change. Oasis were and remain a wet dream of ‘the culture industry’, all too happy to short change a generation of youth culture with their destructive notions of cool, short sighted egocentric one dimensional outlook, and celebration of pack animal conformity under a banner of ‘rock and roll’ which signals ‘defiance’ ‘deviance’ and ‘hope’ but when unpacked and interrogated actually reveals a concession and obedience to the drudgery, depression and anomie of a top down controlled market culture by both the band and its disciples. They were without doubt a grey cloud of hard materialist understanding and sense pleasure that would leave Saint Francis of Assisi empty inside and reaching for a razor blade. I think it was the idolatry, narcissism and the reductionist mask of masculinity (that were all no doubt in the air at Knobworth, I couldn’t actually say as I wasn’t there, I had seen them on 26/11/1995 at the Manchester Nynex, and although I certainly do have deep seated masochistic tendencies everybody has a limit, and once was enough) that the band and its followers displayed that really didn’t sit well with me when the cultural juggernaut of Oasis and Britpop took off. These traits were for the most part distilled, embodied, displayed and performed by the band's frontman Liam Gallagher, a man whose answer to all of life’s existential conundrums is a pint of Carling. To me, Liam always carried a look of someone who had been asked a question they didn’t understand and was just trying to front it out with a gormless stare in an attempt to display some presence of depth and mystique to his onlooking disciples and celebrity obsessed media. When he did speak his articulations rarely got beyond how he was ‘mad for it’, how he was the ‘best frontman’ in the ‘best band’ and when his adopted mask of self-confidence was ever threatened would often bark ‘fook off’ in deflection and defence. Gallagher became the ‘Archetype’ that the modern-day British working class (and wannabe working class) alpha male identity is built on. Replete with feather cut, stone island jacket, adidas originals and cheap cocaine, ready to perform the identity prison they have adopted until the cows come home. I occasionally ponder as to whether the clinging too and performance of such a symbolically material identity merely masks an innate fear, and serves to deny the unpacking and unmasking of the ‘authentic self’, and how that process would more than likely contradict the projected ‘tower of strength’ that is indefinitely projected and protected by this deflective mask. I mean I thought we were an expression of consciousness with the innate capacity for creativity, who are looking to integrate the inner self into the ‘persona’ so as to not be imprisoned and tormented by the demands of the social mask, the gulf between the two and its insistence for the inauthentic? Who knows, and ultimately who really cares in this day and age. In terms of the idolatry, the fans deification of Liam and his brother Noel, alongside their deification of John Lennon, the two Paul McCartney's, Bozo and Poor Weller also really pissed me off when I was 15 and still doesn’t sit right with me today. It's the rock n roll hierarchy-musical establishment-gotta pay your dues-know the classics-they’re a fucking genius claptrap that really gets me goat. I mean fuck off, they've just made a record aided and abetted by an industry who want to flog them to death for moolah, and i’m expected to sit here and believe they're some sort of god like genius that captured the feelings of a mass populace, nah mate, it was capital backed exceptional marketing and mass gullibility. Limmy would capture working class culture in a 20 second video clip shot on his phone for nothing entitled “She’s turned the weans against us” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I5VaPQflLq0&ab_channel=Limmy) in a far more profound and meaningful way 15 years after Knobworth. Furthermore, music solely informed and inspired by music and music history makes me want piss on my own face. That whole disciple of rock n roll dogmatic cultish crap, we want to be like our hero's motivation is so very depressing. I mean you’re having a unique subjective sensory experience, migrating through your own orbit of experience, and then when you engage with your creative faculties as a singular human being you adopt wholesale the principles and goals of those who’ve gone before you, or equally when simply embodying your identity it’s one built on the fetishization of a vapid celebrity archetype? Really? Really though? You’re not gonna take the opportunity to figure yourself out and project the uniqueness of your experience, reject or accept the external organising principles or merely just ‘mix the fucker up’? Hey who am I to pose such questions I guess, and in the immortal words of Oasis “You have to be yourself, you can’t be no one else”. Ha. I do think that line should now be updated to “you have to be a caricature of yourself because you cannot be anything else” though. Ooooh. Anyway, I shouldn’t really be blaming the current mask of one dimensional male social identity or celebrity deification on Oasis, they’re merely a cog in a machine that reproduces this reproduction over and over. However, that doesn’t detract from the fact that they are Manchester's greatest cultural own goal (shame really cause after the opening 5 or 10 minutes I was thinking we've got a team here), who made and continue to make to this day nonsensical grey groove-less drudgery a viable commodity with posthumous releases and as solo artists. Now that may be easy for me to say, as I was without doubt somewhat spoiled by exposure to the cities compelling history of DIY music from a young age, from the shadowy existential concrete corridors of Joy Division to the sharp witted marriage of high/low brow culture and realism/surrealism presented by The Fall, all the way through to the theological and philosophical street politics of The Stone Roses. Come 1995/96 I maybe expected more, but therein was a lesson for me, never expect, and indeed, always take the art and never the artist, and never ever deify. Musically Oasis were breathtakingly boring, real stodgy laboured stuff, and lyrically, to be brutally honest they were cringeworthy and embarrassing. However, to give them their due they did have conviction, but I’m sure that fellow Northerner Harold Shipman also had conviction in his creative output, but ultimately that doesn’t mean it was any good now does it? To me Oasis sounded like they were sent from the back of a battered cement mixer, or the lounge of the Robin Hood, or from the bottom of an overflowing ashtray on a coffee table in a council flat where shit cocaine is being relentlessly sniffed and Sky Sports News plays indefinitely. Symbolically they may be best defined as a scrunched up and discarded losing betting slip on the floor of a bookmaker’s that is heavy with the air of momentary hope, desperation, and inevitable loss. No thanks. P.S Look, all subjective criticism aside, Oasis spoke to millions and for that I congratulate them, they just never really spoke to me. Initially Liam and Noel were a breath of fresh air with their straight up lads with guitars attitude, riding their obvious desire with endlessly projected self- belief. However, to me there was just nothing after that initial Jab of intent present on Definitely Maybe and in interviews circa 94/95, there was no hook, combination or knock-out punch. Couple that with a general lack of grace, rhythm and finesse in the ring and to me as a spectacle it became boring very quickly, and as the rounds wore on that predictable Jab looked tired and stale, and the self-belief turned to coke fuelled narcissism. The ‘flock identity’ that materialised in the slipstream of their ascent and especially the attitude mimicry that was present then and remains today in the ‘Oasis Fan’ to be truthful is touch tragic. Furthermore, I've always held a deep-seated scepticism of the dynamics and motivations of 'the crowd' at the point of critical mass, especially when corporate power is deeply involved and invested in the relationship between the art and the audience. D'you know what I mean?

#manchester #music #social commentary #philosophy #cultural critique

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ourimpavidheroine · 3 years

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You always post your writing soundtracks. Mind sharing your top ten albums with us?

I actually laughed when I read this because I’m thinking of the Anon who complained that all of my music was OLD. I mean. I’m old! What did you expect?

Never mind me, I’m easily amused. Thank you for using the word album so I would not feel like Lady Danbury with my lethal cane.

Yes, sure I can do that! I don’t know that these are my forever and ever amen top ten, but they are the ones that are coming to mind right now. So.

Under a cut, it’s long.

In no particular order.

Brutal Youth - Elvis Costello

My ex-husband was in love with Elvis Costello and who could blame him? The man is a genius lyricist. This is not one of his more commercially popular albums but I love every single track. (I also lined up at Ticketmaster in Oakland, CA when the man was touring in order to get tickets for my ex. I got there at midnight and spent the night, meeting a group of drag queens who were getting tickets to see Barbara Streisand. God, that was a fun night, we ate donuts one of them went on a donut run for and sang showtunes for hours. One of my favorite memories.) This verse, from Clown Strike, is one that has resonated with me since I first heard it.

Tell me what you want of me Or are you terrified of failure? You put on a superstitious face Behind all this paraphernalia We're not living in a masquerade Where you only have three wishes It isn't easy to see In a lifetime of mistaken kisses

Unrepentant Geraldines - Tori Amos

I remember the first time I heard a Tori Amos song. It was the summer directly after I’d graduated from college, I was driving my ex-husband’s car and Silent All These Years came on the radio and I was just fucking gobsmacked. I bought Little Earthquakes that day and haven’t looked back. I have all her albums. I am a big, big fan.

Unrepentant Geraldines, though. God. It came out the year before my wife died and it got me through her death. The song Weatherman is about a man losing his wife, and how he sees her in the nature surrounding him.

And.

No, sorry, I can’t write more about this, not right now. But I sing it to her sometimes.

He is not a weatherman But his bride lies with the land And she will whisper to him I'll be dressing up in snow Cloaked in echo it's almost As if only Nature knows How to paint his wife to life With every season's tone "One more look from her eyes One more look can you paint her back to life"

Ray of Light - Madonna

This album got me through my divorce from my ex-husband. I’d go out every single day during my lunch hour, this on my walkman, and walk and walk and walk until I got myself in enough control to go back and finish my work day. It’s a great album and I still listen to it a lot. It empowers me. And then my daughter was born and Ray of Light has always been her song to me, even though that wasn’t the song on the album that Madonna herself wrote for her daughter.

Faster than the speeding light she's flying Trying to remember where it all began She's got herself a little piece of heaven Waiting for the time when Earth shall be as one And I feel like I just got home And I feel And I feel like I just got home And I feel

Seven and the Ragged Tiger - Duran Duran

This one was a difficult choice. For one thing, I really love their album Big Thing, which almost nobody’s heard about but one I love deeply. This one though...I think it’s the memories, including going to see them at the Oakland Coliseum with my cousin during their tour for this album and finding out they were partially filming the video for The Reflex that night. I like to think of us as being one of those girls in the audience. (Although I wasn’t screaming. I am a Capricorn. Have some dignity.) Duran Duran were responsible for my first fanfic and I’ve had a love for them since my Dad bought me their first album for my 13th birthday. I am nothing if not loyal. I have all of their early albums, all of their 12″ singles, too, including Secret Oktober, which I have always loved with a passion.

Also, Roger Taylor can still get it.

Freefall on a windy morning shore nothing but a fading track of footsteps Could prove that you never been there Spoken on a cotton cloud like the sound of gunshot taken by the wind And lost in distant thunder racing on a shining plain And tomorrow you'll be content to watch as the lightning plays along the wires and you'll wonder

Touch - Eurythmics

Another band I still love and listen to on the regular. Annie Lennox could sing me the telephone book and I’d be thrilled. Seeing her at age 14 in the Sweet Dreams video for the first time in my Grandmother’s living room quite literally woke something in me that led to moving across the world for a woman years later. (GOD.) I have all of their albums and choosing a favorite is difficult but this one won by a narrow margin, if only for the song Regrets, which is one of the songs that describes me until I became a mother, really. Like I RESONATED with that song. Still does in certain ways, if I am being truthful to myself.

I've got a delicate mind I've got a dangerous nature And my fist collides With your furniture I've got a delicate mind I've got a dangerous nature And my fist collides With your furniture I'm an electric wire And I'm stuck inside your head

Combat Rock - The Clash

Ah, teenage Impavid first understanding that music can also be political. Listen, I didn’t know much about what was going on outside of my own miniscule sphere - I was young and the internet didn’t exist yet. We got what news we got from our local paper and TV stations and they weren’t really reporting on what was happening in the world, not in 1982, let me fucking assure you. I got this album because my Dad was a part time DJ at a radio station that played mostly country music and the general manager of the station would just toss the rest of the non-country albums they’d get as promotions. My Dad would bring them home to me to listen to. You can imagine thirteen year old me listening to this album that opened with “This is a public service announcement - with guitars!” going WHAT THE FUCK? Let me just say there were a lot of trips to the library to read various newspapers after that.

Not to mention Rock the Casbah. What was a muezzin? I had no idea. I spent half a year reading books about Islam, about the Middle East and Northern Africa, which led to a curiosity about other religions beyond the Roman Catholicism in which I’d been raised, about other cultures as well. This album and The Color Purple by Alice Walker were the two things in my teen years that woke me the fuck up.

Now the king told the boogie men You have to let that raga drop The oil down the desert way Has been shakin' to the top The sheik he drove his Cadillac He went a' cruisin' down the ville The muezzin was a' standing On the radiator grille

Synchronicity - The Police

This fucking album. This fucking album. This album reached deep down into me and pulled out my soul and kicked it around for awhile. Every single song on this album hit me like a brick wall. Still does. Most likely always will.

Listen, you either like King of Pain or you live it. There’s no in between.

There's a little black spot on the sun today It's the same old thing as yesterday There's a black hat caught in a high tree top There's a flag pole rag and the wind won't stop I have stood here before inside the pouring rain With the world turning circles running 'round my brain. I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign, But it's my destiny to be the king of pain...

Sign O’ The Times - Prince

The soundtrack to my University days. Jesus, it starts out with “In France a skinny man died of a big disease with a little name,” and it just keeps going. Pain, sex, wonder, glory, politics, love. It’s all there. I wore the vinyl out on this one. Amazing, amazing album. In fact, I still play it so often my kids practically know it by heart, and they don’t even like Prince!

To this day I think If I Was Your Girlfriend is the sexiest song ever written.

I will tell you this much: Sayuri’s main writing soundtrack song is Starfish and Coffee off the album, the same song I used to sing my kids as a lullaby. This should tell you a lot about her.

Cynthia wore the prettiest dress With different color socks Sometimes I wondered if the mates where in her lunchbox Me and Lucy opened it when Cynthia wasn't around Lucy cried, I almost died, U know what we found? Starfish and coffee Maple syrup and jam Butterscotch clouds, a tangerine And a side order of ham If U set your mind free, honey Maybe you'd understand Starfish and coffee Maple syrup and jam

Nina Simone Sings The Blues - Nina Simone

This was one of my Daddy’s albums. He loved it and so did I. As a child I just loved the sound of her voice - something in it both soothed me and pulled at me, made me want to run and just keep running. She still makes me feel like that. If you don’t know Nina Simone I urge you to change that, right now. There’s nobody at all like her. She’s irreplaceable. All of her material is good, not just her blues songs. Not to mention, she was an absolute brilliant genius at the piano, never mind the strength she had as a Black woman in a time when doors were shut in her face on a daily basis. Seriously. Read about her.

When I became a woman, of course, her songs took on a much deeper meaning for me, one that I could relate to. Isn’t that the hallmark of a good album, though? One that stays with you and changes with you? I think so.

If you’ve never heard her cover of I Put A Spell On You then do yourself a favor and go right now and listen. You’re welcome.

Oh and Buck from this album? Nuo to Wing, right there.

Also one of the sexiest songs ever written, this one. Especially how she sings it. The Hot Frenchman (have I ever told you about The Hot Frenchman? no? OH BOY THERE’S A STORY) told me he thought it was about drugs and I was like, honey, this tells me a whole lot about you, more than you probably wanted it to.

I want a little sugar In my bowl I want a little sweetness Down in my soul I could stand some lovin' Oh so bad I feel so funny and I feel so sad I want a little steam On my clothes Maybe I can fix things up So they'll go Whatsa matter Daddy Come on, save my soul I need some sugar in my bowl I ain't foolin' I want some sugar in my bowl

I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got - Sinéad O’Connor

This is a beautiful album, full of pain and joy, her hallmark. She sings every single word with everything in her; she’s far too intense for many, many people (and while she’s been open with her mental health struggles I’ve often wondered if she isn’t somewhere on the spectrum as well) but never for me. Her raw honesty has always appealed to me. She’s political, she’s a lover, a mother, a survivor of horrific abuse, someone who keeps reinventing herself as a way to find her way through pain. I always feel, when I am listening to her music, that I am bearing witness. I’m not afraid of pain; I’ve survived it as well. This album, one of her oldest, is still my favorite.

The line “You used to hold my hand when the plane took off” is the most evocative lyric I have ever heard with regards to the ending of love. It’s a punch to the heart - she felt it and she shared it with us, her fragile heart in her palms. Oh, Sinéad.

This is the last day of our acquaintance I will meet you later in somebody's office I'll talk but you won't listen to me I know what your answer will be I know you don't love me anymore You used to hold my hand when the plane took off Two years ago there just seemed so much more And I don't know what happened to our love

#personal #favorite albums #long post #Anonymous

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pigtownchronicles · 4 years

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Chapter 1.7 - Home Safe

The ride home was quiet. Dennis was driving, Barry was sitting in the passenger seat, and Kyle was in the back, slumped against the window, not quite sure whether he should be angry or terrified. Barry wasn’t quite sure what Dennis had in mind with this whole thing--was he really going to out the kid to his asshole father, just for wanting to get into a gay club? It seemed...cruel, but then, Dennis had always had a bit of a cruel streak in him. Barry had largely been able to avoid it, but his husband had never had much sympathy for gays who fell outside of the normal range of behavior that his rather conservative upbringing could tolerate. Assimilation or scorn were the choices, and Barry had chosen the first. He regretted it at times, but at least he was comfortable.

It took about half an hour to get out of the city and into the suburb where the three of them lived. It was an older subdivision, built in the early 90’s. The lots still had yards in the front and the back, rather than the strips of grass that passed for outdoor space in more modern construction, with your neighbor’s prying eyes six feet away from you next door. Barry expected him to drop Kyle off at his house, but they drove past it and arrived at their own, pulling into the driveway.

“So, do your parents know you were out tonight, or did you sneak out?”

“I...I told them I was over at a friend’s house for the evening. They don’t mind if I get back home late.”

“Look, I’m doing this for your own good, alright?” Dennis said, “I know that places like that seem fun, but trust me when I say, they’re dangerous--”

There was a light scoff that came from Barry at that, but Dennis ignored it, aside from a little pause.

“--Guys do a lot of drugs in places like that, and there are guys who will take advantage of you, alright?”

“I’m not a virgin, you know,” Kyle said, “I know what sex is, you don’t have to treat me like a kid.”

“You are a fucking kid though, and I know you don’t see that, but when you’re grown up, and have a job, you’ll understand that this was for the best, and I expect a thank you note when you get there.”

Kyle looked away at the window. “Are you gonna tell my dad?”

“It depends--”

“Of course we won’t.”

Dennis looked over at Barry, who was glaring at him from the passenger seat. “We’re not going to tell his dad, that’s fucking awful to even suggest it,” Barry said.

“Alright, I’m not going to tell your dad, this time, but you know what Kyle? You need to tell him. I know it’s scary, alright? My parents weren’t exactly the...most supportive people, of the lifestyle.”

“You didn’t come out to them until you were thirty, Dennis, stop making it sound like you’re some brave soul,” Barry said, and flipped around, “I don’t think there was anything wrong with you being there, I think you were right to get out of from under your parents thumb, and I don’t really think you should listen to Dennis on this one. Live your fucking life while you still can, alright Kyle? And if you go out again, and you get in trouble, then call us and we’ll come pick you up, alright?”

“Barry, that’s--”

“Let it go, Dennis, I think you got your little snitch high from this already, he’s scared enough. Go home Kyle.”

Sensing an opportunity to get away from this uncomfortable situation at last, Kyle nodded, thanked them for the ride home, and took off down the sidewalk at a quick stroll, leaving Barry and Dennis in the car, silent. Barry got out first, and went into the house, with Dennis following close behind. “Is there something you want to say to me?” he asked, “It seems like there’s something you’d like to talk about.”

“I can’t fucking believe you sometimes, you know that?” Barry said.

“What! He’s underage! He shouldn’t be in a place like that, and you know it.”

“Just because you were immature, and too scared to do anything fun when you were younger, doesn’t mean the rest of us weren’t willing to take a risk now and then. And threatening to out him to his father! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“He’ll have to tell him at some point, he might as well rip the bandaid off now.”

“Brave words from you. Why didn’t you tell your parents, huh?”

“That was different, and you know it.”

“Why weren’t you brave, Dennis? Just rip the bandaid off, you know, it’s easy!” Barry said, cooing at him. “We both know full well why you didn’t, and you were right to not tell them until when you did. And Kyle is right for not telling them too! Why the fuck are you like this? Why are you such a fucking hypocrite?”

“Excuse me?”

“You think you know exactly what’s best for everyone else, all the fucking time, and you dole out all of this mealy-mouthed advice, which everyone knows you would never do in a million years. You’re a fucking coward, Dennis, and you want everyone else to do the work so you don’t have to change.”

“It’s called being an adult, Barry, maybe you should try it sometime. You act like a child, you know that? You’re almost forty for fuck’s sake, why can’t you act like it? You have a good time tonight, pretending you’re a cool kid again? Make you feel better about getting turned down for that amazing promotion yet again?”

“You know damn well why I got turned down.”

“It’s not because you’re gay, Barry. It’s because you’re unserious. Because you’re immature. You think you can go out and party and still be treated like an adult, well at some point, you’re going to have to grow the fuck up.”

“I can’t fucking deal with you sometimes!”

“Well we both know you’ll never leave, because as much as you want to be a little party whore, you want the nice house and the respectable life more, and you’re lucky I’m willing to put up with your shit to give it to you. We both know who pays the fucking mortgage, after all.”

Barry gave up at that point--as soon as Dennis brought up the bills, he knew he’d lost. It was his husband’s favorite point of leverage. Barry made good money, but he didn’t make money like Dennis did, and as much as Barry might resent him for it, he did like it. He liked being taken care of, he liked the comfort. He went upstairs to the bedroom, Dennis stayed down in the living room after getting a beer out of the fridge--most likely, he’d end up sleeping on the couch, which is what usually happened after one of their arguments. Come morning, neither of them would apologize, and they would just move on with their life together, pasting over their frustrations again, and again, because usually, things were fine. Usually. Barry found himself peeling back layers, unable to help himself, wondering how many times you could cover something up before it just came apart anyway.

He got out of his clothes and into bed without a shower, closed his eyes and thought about that pounding bass on the dance floor again, thought about being swept away. Thought about how he’d been too scared to do it, too old. He was getting old, he was getting fucking old! He hated that, he hated how it felt like he had wasted his youth trying to be a good gay, trying to be a smart, clever, business gay, and now here he was, stuck in a job he hated, with the ladder rapidly getting pulled up away from him. He’d been passed over for a promotion again, for someone younger than him, a good little straight boy, twenty-eight, with a wife and a kid on the way. He knew the reasoning. He had a family to support, after all. But Barry didn’t want a family, Barry just wanted to be respected. He wanted his work to be seen and appreciated. He wanted the money too, of course. But why had he worked so hard, and missed so much, if all he got for it was a boring office job as he just kept getting older, and older, and older.

He got up again, dug around in the pocket of his pants, and pulled the card out Hugh had given him. None of what Hugh had told him seemed possible. None of it had even made sense. If he told Dennis about it he would scoff at the fantasy, but after the argument, that just made it more appealing. Mostly he was tired. Tired of things being safe, tired of being bored. It couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

#pigtown #drama

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mandarinastronaut · 6 years

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Homoromantic subtext in ‘The Goldfinch’

The Goldfinch is a novel written by Donna Tartt, published in 2013. It follows the characters Theodore Decker and Boris Pavlikovsky. The relationship between the two is a bit controversial. Literary critics have completely ignored the implications of a romance.

Let’s start with Theo’s toxic masculinity and internalized homophobia. Since the Tumblr user @borispav has already made an excellent analysis regarding the subject, I’m going to quote them.

”…Internalized homophobia is a fear and aversion toward homosexuality that is felt by a member of said sexuality. It’s an inclination toward projection, a way of securing confidence and self-image (two things which are threatened both systematically and socially) by registering one’s own sexual identity as a flaw in other people.

Toxic masculinity (or hegemonic masculinity) is a series of behaviors and traits found in men who have been molded by the ideologies of patriarchy. This mode of thinking presents a set of standards and conventions which men are expected to both adhere to and promote interpersonally.

When it comes to men, the ultimate goal—in both these cases— is to embody the widely advertised image of what is considered to be a ‘normal’ or ‘average’ man. This man is able-bodied and strong (both physically and mentally). This man fulfills the roles expected of his gender. He is ‘masculine’ in that he does not cry nor outwardly express any emotions outside of anger and lust. As a child he is sociable and sporty. He has many friends and does not struggle with fitting in. As a teen he is rowdy and full of life, armed to the teeth with a ‘healthy’ sex drive; the ultimate manifestation of the phrase “boys will be boys”. As an adult he is married and financially stable. He is on his way to achieving the American Dream: a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and a wife that he feels responsible for protecting. He is straight and always has been.”

”Naturally interwoven amongst the pillars of toxic masculinity sits homophobia and its internalized counterpart. Heterosexuality, after all, is a core part of being a ‘normal’ male. Any other errant attraction is therefore meant to be deftly identified and expunged.

Given the sexual nature several of Theo’s fears toward masculinity take on, I believe it is more than safe to assume that he struggles with accepting and acknowledging his own sexuality (whether it be bisexuality or homosexuality, I don’t have a definite stance) as it is at odds with what has been presented as ‘normal’ male behavior.

Sexuality very nearly serves as an antagonist in this novel. It’s depicted as an emotionally draining entity, a wildness, a physical allure, tangible threat, and elusive dream. Theo is almost always at war with it—a sort of subplot to the story that mainly reveals itself in behavior and attitude, rather than direct dialogue or thought.

Sometimes the terror Theo harbors toward homosexuality (and, at its core, his own sexuality) is visceral enough to manifest itself as a palpable real-life danger. For example, aside from being verbally and emotionally abused by kids at school, Theo is also able to recall an instance where several boys held him down and attempted to sodomize him with a stick of deodorant (615). This memory, like the other, is mentioned in a passing, blasé, way. However, the fact that Theo remembers it at all as an adult—and in enough detail to recall the exact names of his aggressors— speaks to the experience’s traumatic weight.

In a similar vein, we have Theo’s negative re-entry into New York: the two different adult men who were implied child molesters (who cornered Theo and physically chased him down the street) serving as more literal manifestations of his own homophobia (404-409). This is the fear, and false pretense, that gay men are ‘perverts’ or ‘child molesters’ brought to life. It’s Theo’s repressed sexuality taunting and confronting him in a brutal, nightmarish, form; an expected effect of having been taught that a part of his identity is inherently ‘bad’ and unremovable.

This, and the bullying incident, are two prime examples of a fairly common literary technique used in which a character’s strongest fears or desires are made physical, rather than just emotional. Such a device works to symbolize/convey their fervency, demonstrate just how pressing and real they are to the afflicted character.”

A few examples of Theo’s internalized homophobia:

He can’t tell his doormen he’s going to miss them, because he thinks it would sound ”gay”. (238)

He feels uncomfortable in the cab because the driver saw Boris kissing him. (396)

He’s embarrassed to be seen with Popper because the breed is seen as ”feminine ” or “gay”. (402)

He’s distraught when Boris asks if he’s Hobie’s partner. (615)

“As for the internalized homophobia, it’s as ever-present as ever in his adulthood. In fact, I think it actually might even be morepronounced and focused than it was in his youth, when his fears primarily manifested themselves in vague and ambiguous ways. As an adult, his aversion is blunt and easy to identify. He graduates from steering clear of things that might insinuate homosexuality, to steering clear of gay men almost altogether. He’s able to acknowledge that they tend to make him uncomfortable, but in terms of trying to understand or mediate on why this is so, little is done. Instead he deems it suffice to drop in a few cursory sentences here and there whilst on the subject of something else, leaving it at that. No bigger picture is addressed, and no critical issue is implied.

For example, what we get are brief and loaded anecdotes like the following:

“I’d inherited my mother’s light-colored eyes, which short of sunglasses at gallery openings made it pretty much impossible to hide pinned pupils—not that anybody in Hobie’s crowd seemed to notice, except (sometimes) a few of the younger, more with-it gay guys— ‘You’re a bad boy,’ the bodybuilder boyfriend of a client had whispered into my ear at a formal dinner, freaking me out thoroughly. And I dreaded going up to the Accounts department at one of the auction houses because one of the guys there—older, British, an addict himself—was always hitting on me.” (472)

The sheer weariness and disdain with which he views threats to his heterosexuality is palpable here. There’s something almost sinister and deceptive about the way he chooses to portray these scenarios, something nightmarish in the way both men seem to be implicitly taunting him, confronting or incriminating him with the knowledge of a secret he pretends not to know. Both cases are clearly sources of great distress to him, as he feels the need to bring them up in context of something that didn’t exactly need the reference. It’s all fine and good that he mentions the "younger gay guys” noticing his pinned pupils, since the topic of thought was drugs, but then to go off and suddenly engage in the quotation of very specific dialogue (“you’re a bad boy”), and the discussion of very specific fears (being hit on by a guy), suggests that there is some deeper trauma demanding acknowledgment at the root. Theo is bothered by this. He is tormented by this. He uses the word dread (dread!!) to try and convey just how much he does not want to be in the same vicinity as someone who may act upon the assumption that he’s gay. (He wants us to assume that’s only because he’s confidently straight and doesn’t want the attention, but we know, in truth, that it’s because he’s both afraid and enraged at someone knowing and confronting him with such an unbidden part of himself).

Either way, it’s clear that he’s aware of the irrational severity of these fears, otherwise he wouldn’t have brought them up of his own volition or chosen to detail the day-to-day effects of their disproportionally crippling nature (i.e. him now despairing a certain department of his work environment). So yes, at some subconscious level, he knows that this isn’t normal, that he is stunted, emotionally, in some way. However, as I said before, he doesn’t ever think about why this is. He doesn’t try to find the problem, or even allude to there possibly being some small discrepancy in the way he’s always perceived his sexual identity. His aversion toward gay men simply remains a ‘mystery issue’, something of obvious weight that Theo wants us to feel, but not know. (Though, we know what it is anyway.)

And as if all this wasn’t obvious enough, we also get the very particular way in which Boris is framed in reference to Kitsey. He reenters Theo’s life right as Theo’s in a crisis over her, the engagement, and the fact that he’s not in love. And I mean this literally; Theo runs into Boris at St. Marks because he’d been on a walk in efforts to find ease of mind, a refuge from the daunting prospect of upcoming marriage (525). What he does find is Boris. Boris, who then, briefly, assumes the role of a hero— the knight in shining armor who’s come to sweep Theo up and away from the worldly snares of expectation and social-rule. This image is only further enforced when Boris comes billowing into his life again at the engagement party, graciously saving him from what (to Theo) was a downright nightmarish scenario. “Let’s get out of here,” is what Boris implores of him, leading them both to the door excitedly (635). Theo’s immediate response is to recognize that this is what he’s been unknowingly hoping this entire time, that Boris’ plea to run away from the engagement party with him is the “only thing that has made sense” to him all night (635). This is the ever-warring sides of illusion and reality at direct confrontation with each other. Choosing to stay at the party would imply that he has an unwavering loyalty to Kitsey (as in to heterosexuality/convention), while choosing to leave would imply that there are other, more genuine, desires drawing him away to something else at heart (his love for Boris, his lust for that wild edge; life without restraint and rule).

Theo chooses to leave. Or, I should probably say, he has no choice but to leave. When given such an enchanting window of escape, at such a precise moment of emotional distress and internal turmoil, it is impossible to resist. Of course his instinct would be to leave with Boris, even without knowing the details of their destination or circumstance. There’s an innate trust and draw that has been built up inside him from their Vegas years; Boris knows the deepest parts of Theo inside and out, and there are little to no other people in his life that he is tied to like that, little to no people that would provide the same type of relief from social-performance and self-deception as Boris would. On instinct (on instinct) Theo is true to himself for once. He physically runs after the thing he prefers, the thing it is that he actually wants. However, I do emphasize ‘on instinct’ because this is certainly more of a one-time, impulsive, occurrence than it is anything else. In the end it’s still Kitsey who Theo deems worthy of a suicide-note, not Boris. It’s still Kitsey who, despite everything, he continues to remain on the fence about all the way through the end of the novel. So, yes, it’s evident that the instinct (to be honest with himself, to go after what he wants etc.) is there, that—even after all these years—it still remains strong enough to be acknowledged and acted upon. However, the pressures of compulsive heterosexuality and toxic masculinity have not lessened their grip either, and, in the end, they are the ones that win.”

(all of this was from the amazing @borispav ‘s blog, thank you for letting me quote you!)

The story is told in retrospect and therefore is completely dependent on memory. Well memory, as we all know, isn’t very reliable. You forget, remember something incorrectly, manipulate and so forth. It is also sort of implied that Theo’s been using all sorts of substances, from hard drugs to alcohol. On the pages 622-623 we find out that Theo’s a ‘black-out’ drunk (he passes out and forgets things). Boris brings up the painting which baffles Theo since he himself has shown it to Boris but completely forgotten about it. Just the fact that he’s forgotten something so insanely important and significant, makes it more than possible that there are other important things he’s forgotten about. Theo tells us that he’s written the book for his mother, and in the hopes that Pippa would read it one day. This makes him quite biased and sets up an agenda for him, therefore implying that he’s willing to manipulate the story to fit his purposes. And because he’s trying to convince everyone (mostly himself, but also the reader) that he’s in love with Pippa, it wouldn’t make much sense for him to write about the true feelings he has for Boris. Though it’s very clear that he doesn’t actually love her. He even says this on page 570;

”Worse: my love for Pippa was muddied-up below the waterline with my mother, with my mother’s death, with losing my mother and not being able to get her back. All that blind, infantile hunger to save and be saved, to repeat the past and make it different, had somehow attached itself, ravenously, to her. There was an instability in it, a sickness. I was seeing things that weren’t there. I was only one step away from some trailer park loner stalking a girl he’d spotted in the mall. For the truth of it was: Pippa and I saw each other maybe twice a year; we e-mailed and texted, though with no great regularity; when she was in town we loaned each other books and went to the movies; we were friends; nothing more. My hopes for a relationship with her where wholly unreal, whereas my ongoing misery, and frustration, were an all-too-horrible reality. Was groundless, hopeless, unrequited obsession any way to waste the rest of my life?”

Even if you were to interpret it differently (Theo actually being in love with her, or at least being sexually attracted to her) it still doesn’t overrule Theo’s love for Boris (Theo could be bi-, pan-, or polysexual etc.).

Now when talking about Boris’ internalized homophobia, it’s not as severe as Theo’s. He’s a lot more accepting and openminded. On page 314. Boris brings up homosexuality;

”…Old poofter?” he asked. I was taken aback. ”No,” I said swiftly, and then; ”I don’t know.” ”Doesn’t matter,” said Boris, offering me the jar. ”I’ve known some sweet olf poofters.” ”I don’t think he is,” I said uncertainly. Boris shrugged. ”Who cares? if he is good to you? None of us ever find enough kindness in the world, do we?“

It’s very clear that by bringing up homosexuality casually like this, he wants to hear how Theo feels about it. This dialogue also tells us that Boris is a lot more accepting than Theo, who’s shocked and troubled by the idea of Hobie being gay.

Boris doesn’t have trouble expressing his feelings, he often even exaggerates them.

Boris says he’s in love with Kotku even though he doesn’t know her (326)

Boris says that he ”loves” Kotku and that she’s ”the truestthing that has ever happened” to him (328).

Boris says that the 'fight’ he and Kotku had, was ”only out of love”, and that they realized ”how much they loved each other” (360).

Boris tells Theo how he and KT became ”so close” in one night, and how they ”opened up their hearts” for each other (602).

Boris says that Bobo was like a father to him (613).

Boris is telling Theo about his tattoo, and says this; ”…This is for Katya, love of my life. I loved her more than any woman I ever knew.” To which Theo responds with; ”You say that about everybody.” Theo’s comment proves that this is something Boris does all the time.

But with Theo, he can express himself only through action, rather than words. It’s important to bear this in mind whenever interpreting his actions.

Quoting the Tumblr user @queer-deckovskij ;

”…Part II of The Goldfinch Book contains the chapters Badr al-Dine and Wind, Sand and Stars, in which Boris and Theo meet, go on adventures, live a pair of year together, fight, love each other, then say goodbye. These 200 pages are introduced by a quote Donna put right before chapter 5, that comes from the poet Arthur Rimbaud and says,

When we are very strong, - who draws back? very gay*, - who cares for ridicule? When we are very bad, - what would they do with us?

So where do I start? This quote accurately depicts Boris’ and Theo’s friendship in a way that takes my breath away. It contains all the force and stubbornness and courage of the angry youth they represent. She couldn’t have picked a better quote to represent them. But that’s not all. The small poem doesn’t end here - Donna cut the second part of it, which says,

Deck yourself, dance, laugh. I could never throw Love out of the window.

Yes, the poem used to represent Theo and Boris’ relationship is a love poem. I think it’s really important the notion of who Arthur Rimbaud was. He lived in France during the 19th century and while still very young he had a homosexual affair with another poet, named Paul Verlaine; they ran off together and for quite some time they shared a really unhealthy and irregular life, mostly based on drugs and alcohol and dangerous experiences. Les Poètes maudits, yes? They lived in the same house for a few years and ended up splitting up in quite a violent way (Verlaine shot Rimbaud twice). Does this experience remind you of someone? A couple of guys who drank beer and did drugs like it was a packet of chips and a bottle of pepsi? Inserting that quote, Donna Tartt literally compared Theo and Boris to Rimbaud and Verlaine. Which means that, officially, Theo and Boris’s love was not a platonic one.

*I do not know if Donna inserted this translation or a more neutral one, like cheerful or jolly; the original French poem uses the word gai, which literal translates as gay.”

When Boris starts dating Kotku, Theo is forced to think about what his and Boris’ relationship was for the first time. Though, it’s already been implied earlier that Theo might have a crush on Boris.

Subtext of Theo’s attraction toward Boris;

He’s staring at Boris’ stomach (272).

He’s staring at Boris’ neck (284).

He’s staring at Boris who’s wearing nothing but Theo’s underwear (307).

He’s staring at Boris’ shirtless chest (308).

He’s staring at Boris’ lower abdomen (383).

Theo is jealous of Kotku, he’s even depicted as a pissed ‘house-wife’.

Page 327; ”…But what did bother me -a lot- was how Kotku (I’ll continue to call her by the name Boris gave her, since I can’t now remember her real name) had stepped in overnight and virtually assumed ownership of Boris. First he was busy on Friday night. Then it was the whole weekend–not just the night, but the day too. Pretty soon, it was Kotku this and Kotku that, and the next thing I knew, Popper and I were eating dinner and watching movies by ourselves.”

(Theo’s been depicted as a ‘house-wife’ before on page 277.)

Even though he’s feeling jealous and left behind, he still tries to convince himself and the reader that their relationship was nothing but platonic, that he doesn’t really care whether Boris has a girlfriend or not. Still, it isn’t so simple. He can’t find a right word to describe their relationship.

”…But who cared what crappy girl Boris liked? Weren’t we still friends? Best friends? Brothers practically? Then again: there was not exactly a word for Boris and me. Until Kotku came along, I had never thought too much about it.” (333)

If their relationship was really platonic, Boris having a girlfriend wouldn’t affect their “friendship” or “brotherhood” in the slightest.

Theo’s projecting into Boris because of his internalized homophobia. We find out that Theo doesn’t mind Boris showing physical affection, and that he even enjoys it (it’s the only thing that calms him down from his nightly terrors). This is something that he doesn’t want to admit. He’s constantly trying to convince the reader that there aren’t any stronger, possibly romantic, feelings attached. It’s actually quite comedic.

”The funny thing: I’d worried, if anything, that Boris was the one who was a little too affectionate, if affectionate is the right word. The first time he’d turned in bed and draped an arm over my waist, I lay there half-asleep for a moment, not knowing what to do: staring at my old socks on the floor, empty beer bottles, my paperbacked copy of The Red Badge of Courage. At last–embarrassed–I faked a yawn and tried to roll away, but instead he sighed and pulled me closer, with a sleepy, snuggling motion. Shh, Potter, he whispered, into the back of my neck. Is only me. It was weird. Was it weird? It was; and it wasn’t. I’d fallen back to sleep shortly after, lulled by his bitter, beery unwashed smell and his breath easy in my ear. I was aware I couldn’t explain it without making it sound like more than it was. On nights when I woke strangled with fear there he was, catching me when I started up terrified from the bed, pulling me back in the covers beside him, muttering in nonsense Polish, his voice throaty and strange with sleep. We’d drowse off in each other’s arms, listening to music from my iPod (Thelonious Monk, The Velvet Underground, music my mother had liked) and sometimes wake clutching each other like castaways or much younger children.” (335)

In the end, we finally find out that they’ve even been sexually intimate. Since this is something they’ve done regularly, it’s more than safe to say that they’re at least sexually attracted to each other. Still, Theo keeps projecting into Boris, saying that he’s the one ”who might have the wrong idea”.

“…And yet (this was the murky part, this was what bothered me) there had also been other, way more confusing and fucked-up nights, grappling around half-dressed, weak light from the bathroom and everything haloed and unstable without my glasses: hands on each other, rough and fast, kicked-over beers foaming on the carpet–fun and not that big of a deal when it as actually happening, more than worth it for the sharp gasp when my eyes rolled back and I forgot about everything; but when we woke the next morning stomach-down and groaning on opposite sides of the bed it receded into an incoherence of backlit flickers, choppy and poorly lit like some experimental film, theunfamiliar twist of Boris’s features fading from memory already and none of it with any more bearing on our actual lives than a dream. We never spoke of it; it wasn’t quite real; getting ready for school we threw shoes, splashed water at each other, chewed aspirin for our hangovers, laughed and joked around all the way to the bus stop. I knew people would think the wrong thing if they knew, I didn’t want anyone to find out and I knew Boris didn’t either, but all the same he seemed so completely untroubled by it that I was sure it was just a laugh, nothing to take too seriously or get worked up about. And yet, more than once, I had wondered if I should step up my nerve and say something: draw some kind of line, make things clear, just to make absolutely sure he didn’t have the wrong idea. But the moment had never come. Now there was no point in speaking up and being awkward about the whole thing, though I scarcely took comfort in the fact.” (335-336)

Boris feels troubled because his and Theo’s relationship has become so intimate. He’s not sure if Theo feels the same way about him, and that creates a lot of stress and confusion for him. He makes a subconscious decision to resolve the situation by jumping into an impulsive relationship with Kotku (there aren’t any strong feelings attached). The relationship is completely physical, (they’re sexually attracted to each other, that’s it) even though Boris tries to convince Theo it isn’t so. Soon after they start dating, they begin to argue like an old married couple. It even goes so far that Boris punches Kotku (in the face).

Then Theo’s dad dies, and Theo has to leave Vegas in order to avoid his worst nightmare; social workers. Tartt depicts the 'goodbye’ scene quite dramatically, starting it with Boris humming a song by The Velvet Underground called After Hours. The song is about, you guessed it, unwilling goodbyes, love etc. By inserting this song to the very start, Tartt creates the perfect atmosphere for the whole scene, implying that there are strong romantic feelings between the two. They’ve listened to the song together, and so, Boris tries to manipulate Theo into staying by humming it.

”…Boris, I realized, was looking up at the sky and humming to himself, a line from one of my mother’s Velvet Underground songs: but if you close the door… the night could last forever…” (392)

The certainty of the situation starts to sink in on Theo, and he starts expressing his true feelings for the first and last time in the novel, in fact, he’s lost all control over himself. Boris realizes that Theo’s expressing his real feelings (probably predicting a confession) and since Boris has stolen the painting (something Theo’s completely unaware of) he’s accepted that he’s completely ruined any chances of continuing the relationship, (knowing that Theo would hate him after finding out) and just can’t bear to hear any more of what Theo’s saying. So, he interrupts Theo by kissing him on the lips. Now, besides the suggestive placement of the kiss, (not only is it in the goodbye scene but its right before Theo’s confession as well) the way Theo reacts to it makes it very clear that this is unusual behavior, and not something Boris has done before, (Theo wouldn’t have missed a chance to make the whole situation seem as platonic as possible, he would have tried to pull some bullshit like ”oh yeah this is something Boris does all the time lmao doesn’t mean anything”. And they know each other so well that they can communicate without words, so I think it’s safe to say that Theo would’ve known about it if it was usual behavior for Boris.) the kiss is clearly more than platonic, to say the least.

”…Really, you have to come. We can go to Brighton Beach—that’s where all the Russians hang out. Well, I’ve never been there. But the train goes there—it’s the last stop on the line. There’s a big Russian community, restaurants with smoked fish and sturgeon roe. My mother and I always talked about going out there to eat one day, this jeweler she worked with told her all the good places to go, but we never did. It’s supposed to be great. Also, I mean—I have money for school—you can go to my school. No—you totally can. I have a scholarship. Well, I did. But the guy said as long as the money in my fund was used for education—it could be anybody’s education. Not just mine. There’s more than enough for the both of us. Though, I mean, public school, the public schools are good in New York, I know people there, public school’s fine with me.” I was still babbling when Boris said: “Potter.” Before I could answer him he put both hands on my face and kissed me on the mouth. And while I stood blinking—it was over almost before I knew what had happened—he picked up Popper under the forelegs and kissed him too, in midair, smack on the tip of his nose. Then he handed him to me. ”Your car’s over there,” he said, giving him one last ruffle on the head. And—sure enough—when I turned, a town car was creeping up the other side of the street, surveying the addresses. We stood looking at each other—me breathing hard, completely stunned. ”Good luck,” said Boris. ”I won’t forget you.” then he patted Popper on the head. ”Bye, Popchyk. Look after him, will you?” he said to me.” (394-395)

When Theo gets in the cab, he acknowledges his feelings for Boris and confesses his love for him. This is the first and last time he does this (at least according to Theo’s narrative, which as we know, isn’t very reliable).

”Later—in the cab, and afterward—I would replay that moment, and marvel that I’d waved and walked away quite so casually. Why hadn’t I grabbed his arm and begged him one last time to get in the car, come on, fuck it Boris, just like skipping school, we’ll be eating breakfast over cornfields when the sun comes up? I knew him well enough to know that if you asked him the right way, at the right moment, he would do almost anything; and in the very act of turning away I knew he would have run after me and hopped in the car laughing if I’d asked one last time. But I didn’t. And, in truth, it was maybe better that I didn’t—I say that now, though it was something I regretted bitterly for a while. More than anything I was relieved that in my unfamiliar babbling-and-wanting-to-talk state I’d stopped myself from blurting the thing on the edge of my tongue, the thing I’d never said, even though it was something we both knew well enough without me saying it out loud to him in the street—which was, of course, I love you.” (395)

When they run into each other as adults, Theo starts commenting on Boris’ appearance almost immediately. This isn’t something Theo’s done before, his internalized homophobia won’t allow him to. Boris is the only male he depicts this way.

”…There he was, sliding in across from me, slingin the hair from his face in a gesture that brought the past ringing back. “I was just about to leave.” “Sorry.” Same dirty, charming smile. “Had something to do. Didn’t Myriam explain?” “No she didn’t.” “Well. Is not like I work in accounting office. Look,” He said leaning forward, palms on the table, “don’t be mad! Was not expecting to run into you! I came as quick as I could! Ran, practically!” He reached across with cupped hands and slapped me gently on the cheek. “My God! Such a long time it is! Glad to see you! You’re not glad to see me too?” He’d grown up to be good-looking. Even at his gawkiest and most pinched he’d always had a likable shrewdness about him, lively eyes and quick intelligence, but he’d lost that half-starved rawness and everything else had come together the right way.” (596)

Then we find out that Boris has been embittered this whole time because he ruined his and Theo’s relationship (Thinking that Theo holds a grudge for him because of the painting). So, Boris projects onto Theo. He brings up their sexual intimacy, and offends him;

”…why do I feel like you’re trying to change the subject?” ”Not trying to judge! It’s just—we did crazy things back then. Things I think maybe you don’t remember. No, no!” he said quickly, shaking his head, when he saw the look on my face. ”Not that. Although I will say, you are the only boy I have ever been in bed with!” My laugh spluttered out angrily, as if I’d coughed or choked on something. ”With that—” Boris leaned back disdainfully in his chair, pinched his nostrils shut—”pfah. I think it happens at that age sometimes. We were young, and needed girls. I think maybe you thought it was something else. But, no, wait” he said quickly, his expression changing—I’d scraped back my chair to go— ”wait,” he said again, catching my sleeve, “don’t, please, listen to what I’m trying to tell you, you don’t at all remember the night when we were watching Dr. No?” I was getting my coat from the back of my chair…” (622)

Theo is clearly hurt by Boris’ words, even though he doesn’t admit it.

As if all of this wasn’t already obvious enough, Tartt’s sprinkled all sorts of subtext all over the novel;

Theo takes extraordinary notice of the sex books his therapist has. Tartt is already, this early into the book, implying that sexuality might be a theme for Theo. (162)

During Theo’s and Boris’ first conversation, Theo asks Boris to say something in one of the multiple languages Boris speaks and he decides to say something quite suggestive, which is; ”fuck you up the ass”. (265)

Theo’s internalized homophobia is taunting him, he says he feels ”shameful”, ”worthless”, ”tainted” and ”wrong”, and that he doesn’t know the origin for these emotions. (440-441)

Theo thinks about Boris every day and everything reminds him of Boris. (465)

Theo still remembers Boris’ home phone number in Vegas and even uses the last digits of it for the combination padlock that’s securing the painting. (532)

Theo confesses that he has googled Boris in the past. (595)

”You know what I did in college?” I was telling him. ”I took Conversational Russian for a year. Totally because of you. I did really shitty in it, actually. Never got good enough to read it, you know, sit down with Eugene Onegin—you have to read it in Russian, they say, it doesn’t come through in translation. But—I thought of you so much! I used to remember little things you’d say—all sorts of things came back to me—oh, wow, listen, they’re playing 'Comfy in Nautica,’ do you remember that? Panda Bear! I totally forgot that album. Anyway. I wrote a term paper on The Idiot for my Russian Literature class—Russian Literature in translation—I mean, the whole time I was reading it I thought about you, up in my bedroom smoking my dad’s cigarettes. It was so much easier to keep track of the names if I imagined you saying them in my head … actually, it was like I heard the whole book in your voice! Back in Vegas you were reading The Idiot for like six months, remember? In Russian. For a long time it was all you did. Remember how for a long time you couldn’t go downstairs because of Xandra, I had to bring you food, it was like Anne Frank? Anyway, I read it in English, The Idiot, but I wanted to get there too, to that point, you know, where my Russian was good enough. But I never did.” (614-615)

Theo depicts Pippa by referring to Boris. (678)

Tartt has placed a character from one of her earlier novels The secret history, Francis Abernathy, a homosexual man who was forced by circumstance to marry a woman, in Theo’s engagement party as a parallel for him. (710)

”Only what is that thing? Why am I the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet—for me, anyway—all that’s worth living for lies in that charm? A great sorrow, and one I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to choose the people we are. Because—isn’t it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture—? From Willian Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: ”Be yourself.” ”Follow your heart.” Only here’s what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement, the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or—like Boris—is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name? It’s not about outward appearances but inward significance. A grandeur in the world, but not of the world, a grandeur that the world doesn’t understand. That first glimpse of pure otherness, in whose presence you bloom out and out and out. A self one does not want. A heart one cannot help.” (852-853). Since the main themes of the novel are authenticity and unauthenticity (good and bad, right and wrong) it makes perfect sense to have sexuality be a subtheme.

Love restricts one’s personal life. Committing to something so uncertain and scary, as serious romantic relationships are, is impossible for Boris due to his traumatic childhood. This (aside from thinking he’s ruined their relatonship) is the reason why he’s stayed out of Theo’s life for all these years.

”…Boris laughed. “And you love her, yes. But not too much.” “Why do you say that?” “Because you are not mad, or wild, or grieving! You are not roaring out to choke her with your own bare hands! Which means your soul is not too mixed up with hers. And that is good. Here is my experience. Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you. What you want to live and be happy in the world is a woman who has her own life and lets you have yours.” (667)

Later, in Amsterdam, during the shootout, Boris physically follows this ideology and his true feelings- he’s ready to die for Theo. Theo confessed his love verbally, this is Boris confessing his love in the way most natural to him, through action;

”…Again Boris moaned, as the guy yanked his hair once more, and from across the car threw me an unmistakable look—which I understood just as plainly as if he’d spoken the words aloud, an urgent and very specific cut of the eyes straight from our shoplifting days: run for it, Potter, go.” (760)

Can a Pulitzer prize-winning author write this blatant subtext accidentally? Is this just another case of cheap queerbaiting? It’s up to you to decide.

———————————————————————————————————–

A look at internalized homophobia and toxic masculinity as presented in the character of Theodore Decker; https://borispav.tumblr.com/post/179768610308/a-look-at-internalized-homophobia-and-toxic

by https://borispav.tumblr.com/

Post on Arthur Rimbaud’s poem; http://queer-deckovskij.tumblr.com/post/171833208225/so-very-important-detail-i-dont-know-if-any-of

by http://queer-deckovskij.tumblr.com/

All page numbers are from my copy of the book, meaning that I’ve changed the ones in the quotations from the original ones to my own.

I received technical writing help from a friend of mine, as I am dyslexic and have trouble expressing myself sometimes, who wants to stay anonymous, thank you anonymous!

#the goldfinch #boreo #theo decker #boris pavlikovsky #donna tartt #theodore decker #tgf #rin's analysis

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kob131 · 4 years

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https://www.oneangrygamer.net/2020/04/cook-serve-delicious-3-update-includes-gay-and-trans-pride-flags/106835/

David Galindo, the developer behind Cook, Serve, Delicious 3?! announced that the game’s latest update was designed to include trans flags and pride flags for the LGBTQIA+ community. This yet another game aimed at kids including propaganda to further push the gay agenda into your home.

“Propaganda”

Noun

information, especially of a biased or misleading nature, used to promote or publicize a particular political cause or point of view.

-the dissemination of propaganda as a political strategy.

There is no info presented thus, it CANNOT BE PROPAGANDA.

You on the other hand...

Galindo made the tweet on March 31st, 2020, looking to virtue signal in hopes of gaining viral attention on social media.

Proof? ... No? Cool, so that person over there claiming every depiction of straight people in media is propaganda should also be considered right since we’re listening to baseless statements right?

This is similar to when VoidPoint and 3D Realms donated money to an LGBTQIA+ organization as remittance for offending ResetEra with the hidden jokes they had in Ion Fury.

Bullshit pseudo-news quoting itself hoping you don’t look at the origin of the link.

Take a shot.

This is similar to when Matt Makes Games updated Celeste to include the trans flags, indicating that they support youth transitioning, a sick and twisted agenda being pushed by the Rainbow Reich.

In other news, The Mary Sue reports that all men must remove their dicks with rusty knives or they will mutate every night into rape machines.

This is what you sound like to me.

The idea is that if you can convince people to transition their kids, then the next step will be to convince people that hebephelia should be legalized so long as minors give their consent, and then after that it’s going to be pedophilia getting legalized so long as minors give their consent.

The first and second things have NO correlation, let alone with the third.

It’s a chisel that etches away at the statue of morality, with the erosion of each block being met with cheers by the purveyors of degeneracy for the Poofer Prefects… better known as Centrists™ .

Demonizing centrists because they don’t just mindlessly consume whatever biased bullshit is in front of them.

Take two here.

Transitioning is not a fucking moral conundrum and no sane person is gonna actually transition their kids. And if they do, they’ll pay for it when they rot away in a nursing home somewhere because they fucked up their kid.

Anyone who speaks out against the invasion of this culturally erosive agenda are shouted down by said Centrists™, even while drag queen story time continues to expand.

They say as the boogeyman in their heads also venhemetly hate centrists while centrists usually hate BOTH of them.

Number four.

Heck, even lawmakers are being drowned out by the degenerates even when all they’ve asked for is for parents to have a say in whether they want their kids exposed to sexual deviancy, as reported by The Daily Signal.

Checked the source, all it really cites is a tweet (https://twitter.com/BenBakerMO/status/1220354131124088832) and the just trucks along pretending anyone gives a shit about their unsubstainated claims.

We’re seeing the aberrant lifestyles promoted in kids’ shows such as Clifford The Big Red Dog, Adventure Time, and Young Justice, as well as gay weddings appearing in children media such as Steven Universe, Voltron, and Arthur.

None of the cartoons or kid shows admit that LGBTQIA+ lifestyles come with higher substance and drug abuse compared to heterosexuals, as outlined in a study by by the National Survey on Drug Use and Health.

None of them cover how lesbians and gays also have higher rates of domestic abuse than heterosexuals, as reported by the HOSB, and

None of them discuss how lesbians in particular are involved in more spousal abuse than heterosexuals, as reported and the NCADV.

They completely avoid mentioning gay men have higher percentages of contracting and spreading sexually transmitted diseases, as detailed in a CDC report.

And LGBTQIA+ suicide rates are much higher than heterosexuals due to shame and depression caused from fighting against their own biological standards, as outlined in a litany of resources on The Trevor Project.

Already addressed this but these studies are being manipulated to oversimplify things or even go AGAINST what they are meant to do.

Nevertheless, we’re seeing the promotion of LGBTQIA+ content more and more in kids media, with companies attempting to force people to believe it’s “normal behavior”, despite the fact that gays and lesbians only make up 1.6% of the U.S., population, as reported by Time Magazine. That means it’s not “normal” behavior, it’s aberrant behavior.

Cool.

Most living creatures on planet earth do not think or act like human beings. Therefore, we are aberrant behavior As was the freedom of slaves, the equality of women and the rights of the people over the king. Aberrant means ‘deviantion from an accepted standard’ you dumbass: it does not mean anything negative,

Even rappers noticed the abundance of gay material in cartoons and kid shows, as discussed in the clip below from Vlad TV.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QC6oxBLXtkU

And a certain youtuber noted that women tend to be ‘trophies’ for women, what’s your point other than ‘eat my bias’?

So why is such a small portion of the demographic gaining so much attention?

Cultural shift due to equal rights.

To normalize the behavior. To force acceptance of said behavior, lest you be castigated by the Craphole Communists that control social media.

Doesn’t Twitter have a fuckton of Nazis on it’s platform?

Also, what is your opposition? Replace ‘Craphole Communists that control social media’ to ‘Craphole Neanderthals who wish they control social media’: you’re both the same damn movement, just with tiny differences.

They use cultivation theory to continually pepper people with iconography (i.e., flags in games like A Hat In Time) and social inculcation (i.e., LGBTQIA+ references in games like Animal Crossing), and censorship for anyone who speaks out against it (viz., behavioral control via Big Tech, which is what happened to Meghan Murphy, as reported by The Federalist).

Yeah, unlike you, someone who has lied repeatedly and tried to trick people into gobbling up biased sources.

The idea is forced normalization, and more and more people are being brainwashed into accepting it.

While your idea is forced demonization, trying to play to people’s fears and worries to brainwash them.

You’re just pissy you lack the power to censor people.

There is some hope, though.

When Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon tried convincing parents that the lifestyle was a-okay for kids via social media posts, parents fired back and criticized both companies for trying to foist sexual content onto kids.

Thank god I’m drinking beer for these shots.

Expect the Centrists™ to run to the defense of said propaganda, as they always do. Just like a decade or two from now you’ll see them condemning anyone who isn’t okay with MAPs and legalized pedophilia.

You say as I bet if I were to bring up the Catholic Church’s protection of pedophiles, you’d go into a fit because you perceive the church as ‘on your side.’

You have no identity or purpose outside of opposing a certain group. And when that happens, you basically BECOME that group because you have no morals or standards other than ‘Oppose X’.

Fuck off, you’re making the COmmunists look right.

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lateasalways · 4 years

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(Damn, I had to make a new post because something weird happened to the cut when I edited, it went into the ask itself and isn’t working and I can’t fix it lmao, sorry!)

Anon asked:

it would be interesting to me if you made a post about the elton books you have read. like how they differ and your opinion on them. ive only read Me but im interested in finding some other reads

Hi! I’m sorry this took so long, I’ve suddenly been CRAZY busy with work now that there’s proper concerts happening again (and yay for that), but Anon, you have no idea how much I would like to answer that question and I’ve been thinking about it all week lmao, I think it’s super interesting to look at the differences between them. So of course I went amok and wrote way too long so just bare with me.

I’ve read 5 books in full and I’ve listed them in the order in which I read them.

1. Me by Elton John. You’ve all read that so I don’t have to explain it. It was the first one I read and my fav thing about it is how funny it is, and of course it’s very personal and therefore more emotional than some of the others. I absolutely love it and I honestly haven’t read a book that has engaged me so much in yeeeeaars, I would recommend that book to anyone, not only Elton fans.

2. Captain Fantastic by Tom Doyle. This book focuses on the 70s (but also includes his childhood/youth). I thought it was a great supplement to Me, because many of the same stories are in there, but since the time span is shorter, it’s more detailed, and we get to hear other people’s versions of the events. What I particularly found interesting is the part about Elton breaking through in America. He’s always described it as sheer luck and being at the right place at the right time himself, and I’m sure that’s his experience of it, but that’s not what happened. I find that extremely fascinating. Here we get to hear from his first American label who basically got Empty Sky for free because it had been rejected by many others. Before they got the chance to release it Elton John came out which is obviously a step up production wise and they dropped everything and started pushing that album instead. Everyone at the label thought it was so great they really went all in with the promotion and managed to create a hype even though he was a complete unknown and that’s how he got the Troubadour gig. This book in several ways I think show that Elton is too humble when it comes to his talent, like you don’t get to headline over established and popular artists before the most important people in the industry as an unknown by sheer luck. It happened because the album was so great, the label were convinced he was going to be a star and they went for it. I really liked the book in general. Even though there is no shocking new info there, it shines a different light on several stories from Me which I find very interesting.

3. Sir Elton by Philip Norman. This book is about his life up until 1991 and it’s really long and super detailed, like some impressive work went into this one. (I listened to the audio book on scribd as they had a 30-day free trial because of corona, I don’t know if that’s still an offer but if it is I really recommend it.) It’s a bit weird because on one side the author managed to detail and capture Elton’s personality SO well (he’s said so himself too) and the way he writes makes some of the stories so vivid it almost felt like watching a movie. I actually found myself getting as emotional as I did reading Me at several points, like I literally shed tears here and there. But then on the other side, there are several things that bothers me a lot about this book. First of all it seems like Norman for some reason think Stanley was a great father and is trying to convince us that Elton is wrong about everything he’s said about him. Like, why? He’s clearly talked a lot with his 2nd wife Edna and her perspective is obviously very different from Elton’s. But some of his points are just really weird like f.x. he says that Elton says his dad didn’t care about him but this is wrong because he actually had a framed photo of him in his room when he was in the RAF. Like….????? How does that prove anything? As long as Elton didn’t know about it, it means fuck all! You don’t get a gold star because you keep a framed photo of your only son wtf? Another example: One Christmas after the divorce Elton didn’t get a present or a card or anything. But this was because they had very little money and their new son was ill. Well that’s sad, but Elton didn’t know that? You could at least have called and explained it or just sent a card to let him know you were thinking of him too? The whole problem is that he didn’t SHOW that he loved him or was proud of him, he can have as many framed photos he likes but that doesn’t matter when you never show any kind of affection. Another example cause I’m on a roll: Edna says Elton in fact enjoyed his visits to them (which he himself has said he hated) she says he used to sit alone and play with their typewriter. That sounds sad AF??? Why are you trying to convince me this is great parenting? I know it was a different time but fuck! One thing I do believe though is that Sheila probably helped along the narrative that Stanley was awful, I think it’s very likely that she has exaggerated or even made up stories about him, but that’s not Elton’s fault. Another downside with the book (imo) is that Norman is apparently the world’s biggest fan of Dick James and there’s just sooo much boring stuff about Dick James there, I’m sorry but when he starts talking about Dick James I recommend you fast forward. The whole point is to set up the court case between him and Elton that happened in the 80s (in which he clearly thinks Dick was in the right) but I’m just not interested in that at all. If you are though, this is the book for you lol. Then there’s the things the author got wrong. First of all, he didn’t know about Elton’s drug use which is quite essential. Although you can easily read between the lines of what the interviewees are saying, so it’s not that distracting. Second, he seems to believe that Elton is actually bisexual which he obviously isn’t (and before I get accused of bi-erasure, he has said so himself time and time again that he’s never been interested in women and his coming out as bi in 76 was a “chicken out”) and it really bothered me cause it reads a bit homophobic to me as he seems to believe Sheila when she said that he “wouldn’t have been gay if it weren’t for show business.” So I’m a bit conflicted about this book. It has more negatives than the others but the good parts are SO SO GOOD. I would be very interested in hearing other people’s opinions about it.

4. Elton John by David Buckley. Another one I listened to on Scribd. This is a quite new one so certain things have come to light which makes it more accurate. It’s another book that didn’t have a lot of groundbreaking new information, but he’s for some reason the only one who’s talked to Gary Osbourne and he has a lot of interesting things to tell. I think Gary deserves more credit and he was very close to Elton in a very interesting part of his career/life so it’s worth reading for that. This book is also about his whole life but way shorter than Sir Elton so obviously not as detailed, but there’s some fun stuff and new anecdotes in there.

5. Elton, my Elton by Gary Clarke. Gary was Elton’s on/off boyfriend between 1982 and 83 (ish) and obviously knows him in a way these other authors don’t. I was a bit unsure about reading this as I think it’s a bit tasteless to expose someone to that extent (and he goes into some seriously intimate details), but otoh I felt like it was kind of the missing puzzle piece so I bought it in the end (on ebay) and I can’t really say if it actually answered the questions I had or just gave me more. I thought Elton was weird before reading this and it certainly didn’t make me think he’s any less weird. It starts kind of cute, it almost reads like one of those self-insert popstar fanfics at first (not that I’ve ever purposely read any of that but you know, it’s hard to be on tumblr without stumbling upon that stuff now and again) but then it gets really dark. Which is because Elton apparently was clean when they first met but then after some time he started spiraling, so it’s just… it actually made me a bit nauseous tbh and it’s so frustrating too, I genuinely yelled “Elton, no!” out loud at one point lmao. But I have already talked at length about this book, particularly what I found disturbing about it and you can find that post here. If you’re interested in reading this book though, you should be warned there’s some rapey content, (though to be clear, that has nothing to do with Elton) and dubious consent.

So anon, since you’re looking for some further reading, these are all good and interesting books I think. It’s a bit hard to say which one I liked best because obviously, for every book I read there’s less new info. But then all of the books have stories I hadn’t heard before so they’re all worth reading if you’re crazy obsessive like me and wants to know absolutely everything lol. I really enjoyed reading all of them (well enjoy isn’t the right word for Gary’s book but yk.) so I guess you should just consider what sounds more interesting to you and go for that :) If you take away the negatives I think Sir Elton is probably the one I enjoyed the most, while Elton, my Elton is the most revealing. Elton John is more complete while Captain Fantastic is really good if you’re more interested in the 70s and his breakthrough.

Thank you so much for the ask! I hope you found what you were looking for and enjoy some further reading! To anyone else who might be reading this: if you have thoughts on any of these books or things you want to discuss, please, my inbox is open! :D

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chiseler · 5 years

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Sinner’s Holiday: An Ode to Pre-Code

Once upon a time, Hollywood movies showed us Spencer Tracy skinny-dipping with Loretta Young, Barbara Stanwyck ducking into the ladies’ room with her boss in exchange for a promotion, and chorus girls warbling hosannas to marijuana.1 This, of course, was pre-Code: shorthand for the era of Hollywood movie-making between the advent of sound in 1929 and the ascendance of Hays Office censorship in 1934. The term is in fact a misnomer. The Production Code was written and officially adopted in 1930, but for the next four years, like Prohibition, it was flouted with near impunity. A look at a representative film of the time provides ample evidence of the Code’s impotence. Take Night Nurse (Wellman, 1931), starring Barbara Stanwyck: a fast, tough, sleazy and thoroughly enjoyable tale of a nurse who uncovers a plot to murder the children in her care for their trust funds.

The Code proclaimed that Undressing scenes should be avoided, and never used save where essential to the plot. Stanwyck and her roommate, played by Joan Blondell, often speak their lines while casually changing their clothes in front of the camera. An intern who walks in on Stanwyck in her scanties assures her, “You can’t show me a thing. I just came from the delivery room.” The Code said, The use of liquor in American life…shall not be shown. The mother of Stanwyck’s charges, who is never seen in any other state than blotto, boasts, “I’m a dipshomaniac—and I like it!” Stanwyck befriends an amiable bootlegger when she treats his bullet-wound and agrees not to report it, contrary to law. In gratitude, he sends her a bottle of rye. “But you’re not allowed to drink,” a square nurse objects. “No,” Blondell cracks, “But it’s swell for cleaning teeth.” Adultery and profanity are both proscribed by the Code. The dipsomaniac is plainly carrying on a tawdry affair with her chauffeur, Nick (Clark Gable), and at one point Stanwyck, disgusted to find her passed out while her children are on the brink of death, rebukes her with, “You mother.” The Code said, Methods of crimes should not be explicitly presented. When sent out to get milk for the sick children, the amiable bootlegger breaks into a grocery store. As for Revenge in modern times shall not be shown, the movie ends with the bootlegger arranging for Nick to be “taken for a ride.” Did I forget to mention that Apparent cruelty to children or animals, the central trope of the plot, is also forbidden by the Code? Or that Gable socks Stanwyck on the jaw, or that Stanwyck gets her job by flashing her ankles at a doctor?

Code? What Code?

The appeal of pre-Code movies lies not in sex, violence or vulgarity (there’s more than enough of those in the infinitely more explicit cinema of the last forty years) but in their attitude, which conveyed the pessimism and irreverence of their time. Radical cultural changes in the wake of World War I, the farce of Prohibition, the 1929 stock-market crash and the Great Depression combined to create a pervasive disillusionment and loss of respect for authority and traditional values. With rapid changes in fashion and technology, violent upheavals in economic and political conditions, society was wide open, hectically elated in the twenties, confused and frightened in the thirties. For a few years the lack of rigorous censorship allowed movies to channel the mood of the country and to capture society warts and all. They depicted adultery, divorce, rape, prostitution and homosexuality; bluntly portrayed alcoholism and drug addiction, glorified gangsters, con artists and fallen women. With a distinctive blend of cynicism and exuberance, they offered escapist entertainment but also bitter and sometimes radical visions of a society on the verge of breakdown. Oscar Levant famously quipped that he he knew Doris Day before she was a virgin; Hollywood too was grown up before it was innocent.

The Con Man as Comic Hero: Blonde Crazy

During the silent era, censorship of films was piecemeal. Not only states but individual towns had boards of censors who screened movies and ordered cuts of shots or scenes they considered too racy. Projectionists simply snipped out the offending material, a practice that accounts in part for the incompleteness many surviving films from the twenties.2 In the early twenties, Hollywood was hit with a string of off-screen scandals, culminating in the trial of comedian Roscoe Arbuckle on charges of rape and manslaughter. The movie moguls, terrified that bad press would scare away audiences, invited Will Hays to become the guardian and public face of Hollywood’s morals. Hays, a Presbyterian elder and former postmaster general, became director of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors Association. He was an ideal choice to project a more wholesome image of Hollywood, but as a censor he proved ineffectual, and movies continued to be attacked for their evil influence on the country’s moral fiber.

Silent movies contained many elements that would not be seen during the Code era, including nudity, drug use and comic vulgarity. But the absence of sound gave film a degree of unreality that lent itself to fantasies like Valentino as an Arab sheik and Douglas Fairbanks riding a flying carpet, as well as to timeless moral fables like Sunrise: a Song of Two Humans, whose characters are called simply The Man and His Wife. From Mary Pickford as a spunky urchin to Harold Lloyd as a college freshman, actors frequently played much younger and more naive than they were in real life. Even the flapper films of Clara Bow and Joan Crawford, which purported to expose the shocking mores of modern youth, presented their heroines as pure though misunderstood. With the change to talkies, the silent era’s swashbuckling heroes, Great Lovers, ringleted sweethearts and carefree flappers suddenly seemed antiquated. Sound punctured fantasy and brought movies down to earth and up to date: never again would they soar to the heights of romance they had reached in silence.

The coming of sound involved a complete reinvention of movies, amounting to the development of a new medium. The fluid spectacles of the silent screen gave way to small-scale films confined by the technical limitations of early sound recording technology to interiors and studio sets. The bulk of films from 1929 and ’30 are clunky and static, with stilted dialogue and acting. When talkies hit their stride in the early thirties it was with urban settings that could be recreated on studio backlots and zingy vernacular dialogue delivered at machine-gun pace by Brooklyn-bred voices. As the old screen gods faded, snappy young urbanites like James Cagney and Joan Blondell entranced audiences with their unaffected style and wised-up attitude.3 This new earthiness brought the censorship issue to a crisis; everyone agreed that movies were going “from bad to voice.” In 1930, still hoping to render external censorship unnecessary through self-regulation, the studio moguls officially adopted the Production Code, written largely by a Jesuit priest named Daniel Lord (hence it should, aptly, be known as the Lord’s Code rather than the Hays Code.) But this effort coincided with the onset of the Depression, when the movie studios were struggling like other businesses. Desperate to lure audiences back to theaters they defied the Code to create daringly risqué entertainment, treating the list of “Don’ts and Be Carefuls” as a list of “Do’s.”

The kick in pre-Code movies comes from the awareness shared by the actors and filmmakers that they are pushing the limits, getting away with something. Since today’s films must work so hard to raise an eyebrow, they can never recapture the harmless fizz of Maurice Chevalier taking Jeannette MacDonald’s measurements in Love Me Tonight, or Jean Harlow slipping a portrait of her boss into her garter in Red-Headed Woman, or Miriam Hopkins and Herbert Marshall in Trouble in Paradise picking each other’s pockets over the course of a romantic meal. (“I trust I may keep your garter?”)

There was a Code, after all, and movies were never completely uncensored. Because they couldn’t get away with explicitness or profanity, pre-Code movies specialized in innuendo. A line that would register with sophisticated adults but fly over the heads of children or more naïve viewers was considered ideal; it would protect the innocent while enticing the experienced. In The Half-naked Truth, a scheming promoter played by Lee Tracy checks into a fancy hotel with a Mexican carnival dancer he is passing off as a Turkish princess. Also with them is rotund Eugene Pallette, wearing a turban. The hotel clerk looks at the register Tracy has filled out and does a double take at Pallette. “Oh, they have them in all Turkish harems,” Tracy says, adding confidentially, “He’s very sensitive about it.” The joke is carried through the movie without a word being spoken that could bring a blush to the most prudish cheek. Pre-Code wasn’t always this artful—there’s nothing subtle about Dick Powell singing “I’m Young and Healthy” in a tunnel of chorus girls’ legs, or Tarzan and Jane romping around the jungle in loin cloths—but in general the naughtiness was low-key, not flaunted but there to be discovered by the alert viewer.

Movies offered vacations from reality in sleek art deco style: gleaming penthouses with twinkling views of Manhattan, shimmering bias-cut evening gowns and shiny top hats, buoyant jazz scores and intoxicated gaiety. Beyond mere escapism, there’s a loopy, zany, surreal streak in pre-Code that flourishes in the early Marx Brothers and W.C. Fields films, in Busby Berkeley musicals with their kaleidoscopes of semi-nude chorines and in the cartoons of the Fleischer Brothers, where Cab Calloway lends his voice to a ghostly dancing walrus singing “The St. James Infirmary Blues.” There’s a dizzy feeling, as if the whole of society, like Jack Lemmon in Some Like it Hot, had an empty stomach and it went to their heads.

Maybe it was the effect of hearing so often that prosperity was just around the corner while the country sank deeper and deeper into despair. Demented optimism was parodied—or endorsed; it’s hard to tell—in a bizarre cartoon short from Columbia Studios called Prosperity Blues. A world of wretched, baggy-eyed, trembling sufferers, of cobweb-infested banks and pitiful apple-peddlers, is transformed into a fascistic spectacle of crazed cheerfulness as the hero, to the tune of “Happy Days Are Here Again” slaps disembodied grins on people’s faces with the command “Smile, darn ya, smile!”

“The age of chivalry is over,” James Cagney declares in Blonde Crazy (Del Ruth, 1931). “This, honey, is the age of chiselry.” Tough yet ebullient, Cagney personifies the essential pre-Code flavor of hard-boiled high spirits, sarcastically knowing and gleefully amoral, but not sour or misanthropic. Like nightclub owner Texas Guinan who greeted her customers with a hearty, “Hello, suckers!” the con artist hero of Blonde Crazy seems high on his own cynicism. Or maybe punch-drunk: you need a score card to keep track of how many times Joan Blondell slaps him, and he keeps coming back for more.

The films of Hollywood’s classical period are tight, smooth, polished. The scripts, dialogue, acting, lighting and art direction all gleam with controlled craftsmanship. Blonde Crazy, by contrast, skates on the verge of chaos: the actors seem to be winging it, cutting loose, seeing how far they can go. Cagney revels in this freedom, indulging in outrageous vocal mannerisms, flaunting his virtuosic control of his body as he darts and weaves through the role like a boxer in the ring, going from crafty schemer to world-class chump, wise-cracking operator to heart-broken lover. The anarchic, free-wheeling atmosphere of pre-Code, mined with slapstick and doubles entendres, often leaves modern audiences incredulous. Did I really hear that? Did they really mean...?

Like Night Nurse, Blonde Crazy methodically defies the Code. Undressing scenes? Cagney walks in on Blondell in the tub and appreciatively examines her underwear, doing a little shimmy with her panties, playfully holding her bra over his eyes like a pair of goggles. Liquor in American life? In an early scene Cagney, a bell-hop in an anything-goes hotel, peddles bootleg booze to a traveling salesman (Guy Kibbee). Adultery? Cagney and Blondell’s first con involves setting up the same salesman: caught “parking” with Blondell and a bottle of hooch, he offers a hefty bribe to the “cop” who’s actually their accomplice. Methods of crimes? The depiction of the movie’s confidence tricks, including a daringly simple ploy by which Cagney lifts a diamond bracelet from a jewelry store, is so detailed the viewer could easily copy them. Revenge in modern times? The movie lovingly details the means by which Blondell succeeds in fleecing a fellow con man who previously fleeced Cagney.

One scene is set in an elegant hotel lobby where men discuss the races while women share their plans to blackmail men with love letters. Every single person here is on the make. “Everyone has larceny in his heart,” Bert (Cagney) explains to Ann (Blondell) when he asks her to join him in the rackets. She’s reluctant, but only because she’s afraid of getting caught and sent to jail. Still, as the movie’s only hint of a conscience, she objects to out-and-out thievery and feistily protects her virtue. Bert keeps making passes at her and she keeps slapping his face, without harming their affectionate partnership. But the pair’s toughness keeps them from admitting the depths of their feelings. “I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you,” he tells her earnestly, then shrugs dismissively, “But if I can’t have you I’ll have someone else.” Still, by the time Ann tells him she’s marrying another man, your heart bleeds for Bert, the chiseler with the wandering eye. The other man is Joe Reynolds (Ray Milland) who chivalrously takes a cinder out of her eye and sends her a book of Browning (the poet, not the automatic, as Philip Marlowe would say.) She tells Bert that she’s going to marry Reynolds because he and his family know “a better way to live.” They care for “music and art and that kind of thing.” Of course he turns out to be the biggest louse of all, stealing from his firm and exploiting Bert’s devotion to Ann to make him the patsy. Bert winds up in jail and shot full of holes, but at least Ann finally admits her love and promises to wait for him.

Joan Blondell was the best love interest Cagney ever had. More than able to stand up to him, she brings out an unexpectedly tender and sexy side of his cocky, wound-up persona. With her wide-eyed, appetizing looks, Blondell has a warm, open front but an inner reserve and caution. Like her fellow Brooklynite Barbara Stanwyck, she was born wised-up. Cagney too, for all his extroverted energy, has a core that is aloof, introverted, nervously intense. It is touching to see these two wary, skeptical souls embrace each other so openly. They have good reason to be wary; only suckers trust anyone in the world of Blonde Crazy. Con artists con fellow con artists, and “respectable” citizens lack basic decency. Near the end of the movie, another con man tries to interest Bert in a ploy that involves tricking the relatives of the recently deceased into paying for good luck charms that the dead supposedly ordered just before “kicking off.” Anyone stupid or trusting enough to be conned deserves to lose his money. Life is a continuous game of one-upmanship, a contest to see who can laugh last.

In Guys and Dolls, Sky Masterson explains that among his people, “to be marked as a chump is like losing your citizenship.” During the early thirties, audiences who felt like victims of an economic swindle reveled in the exploits of sharpies, shysters, smart guys who know all the angles and who outwit hypocritical representatives of wealth, authority, respectability. Cagney played more con men than gangsters: in Jimmy the Gent, as “the greatest chiseler since Michelangelo,” he asserts, “There’s only two kinds of guys in business, the ones that get caught and the ones that don’t get caught.” But for all his street smarts, Cagney has moments of child-like naivité. “The consummate urban provincial,” as Andrew Sarris called him, Cagney is irrepressible rather than unflappable. His driving energy, self-mocking humor, hot temper and sentimental streak expressed the pre-Code mood—fast-paced, excitable, hustling for a buck—as Bogart’s world-weary postwar cool expressed the mood of noir.

Later in the thirties, Frank Capra would glorify his own version of the sucker: in his films Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart embody the soul of America as innocent, optimistic, easily fooled. Smart cookies like Stanwyck and Jean Arthur would crumble in the face of such purity, renouncing their hardened attitude and determination to get ahead by any means necessary. Even pre-Code movies often bow, sometimes wistfully and sometimes perfunctorily, towards the old-fashioned virtues. Chivalry makes a come-back in the final scene of Blonde Crazy, one of the few genuinely romantic moments in Cagney’s career as he gazes up at Blondell with shining, worshipful eyes. Bert has demonstrated that love can turn a crooked guy into a knight in shining armor. But he’s got a prison stretch ahead of him, and then—what? Will he go straight, get a job? It’s hard to feel any great confidence in his future, since the lasting impression left by the film is that the cornerstone of American society is the confidence trick.

“The End of America”: Heroes for Sale

The pre-Code years corresponded to the nadir of the Great Depression, when disgust with Herbert Hoover’s government deepened the country’s black mood, when the homeless called their shanty-towns “Hoovervilles” and the newspapers they wrapped themselves in “Hoover blankets.” Law-abiding citizens made folk heroes out of bank robbers like Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde, while hoboes sang of a utopia where “all the cops have wooden legs” and “the railroad bulls are blind.” The “bulls” were notorious for beating the hoboes they caught, shooting at them or forcing them to jump from speeding trains; even young teenagers weren’t spared. Being broke, jobless and homeless was treated not as a misfortune but as a crime. In the South, many towns used transients as slave labor: arrested on freight trains or in rail yards, they were put to work on chain gangs, and when their sentences were up, put back on the trains they’d been arrested for riding and told to get out of town. Communities posted signs, “Jobless men keep going—we can’t take care of our own.” Some towns denied medical care to travelers who fell ill or were injured, simply dumping them outside the city limits. Before the 1932 election of Franklin D. Roosevelt, many people felt the country was drifting towards anarchy or revolution.

Not all movies of the time were escapist fantasies; many pre-Code films were “ripped from the headlines.” Warner Brothers even confronted the Depression in a musical, Golddiggers of 1933. The opening number, “We’re In the Money,” is pure wish-fulfillment, as chorus girls wearing only strategically placed gold coins crow that “Old Man Depression” is through and that, “We never see a headline about a breadline today.” This giddy fantasy shatters when it is revealed to be a rehearsal for a show that has to close down because the producers can’t pay rent for the theater. Soon the chorus girls are staying in bed all day (three to a bed) because they have nothing to eat. The plot invites us to enjoy watching Joan Blondell earn money the easy way again, squeezing it out of a man who is rich, self-righteous and not very bright. Golddiggers is fluff, but it concludes with a musical number that makes a powerful if disconcerting stab at social realism.

This is social realism à la Busby Berkeley, so Blondell dons a black satin dress and stands under a lamppost, suggesting that unless the government helps jobless men their wives will be reduced to peddling themselves in the street. “Remember my forgotten man,” she sings, “You put a rifle in his hand / You sent him far away / You shouted hip hooray / But look at him today…”4 The song is taken up by a black woman sitting in an open window, surrounded by other women posed to look like F.S.A. portraits: a gaunt and worried farm wife, a starved and empty-eyed grandmother. Meanwhile endless lines of men are seen marching off to war, stumbling through the muddy trenches, then shuffling along in breadlines. This was torn from some very fresh headlines: in the summer of 1932 thousands of World War I veterans, known as the Bonus Army, had camped out on the Mall in Washington, D.C., asking the government to pay them the financial bonuses they were promised for their war service in advance, since many of them were unemployed and destitute. The army under Gen. Douglas MacArthur violently dispersed the men and their families, inspiring outrage. In this frivolous Hollywood musical, Blondell confronts a policeman who is rousting a bum out of a doorway, pointing to the military medal pinned to the inside of the man’s shabby lapel. Her eyes burn with pure hatred for the cop.

In these desperate times, both socialism and fascism were touted as viable alternatives to America’s problems. Several Hollywood movies offered glowing visions of benevolent totalitarianism: in Gabriel Over the White House, produced by William Randolph Hearst in 1932, Walter Huston plays a president who seizes dictatorial powers for the good of the country and proceeds to get rid of gangsters by trying them in military courts without constitutional protections. (Sound familiar?) In The Mayor of Hell, the boys in an ethnically diverse and racially integrated reform school are offered the chance to run the place as a children’s democracy, and when a tyrannical director tries to destroy this system, they try him in a kangaroo court complete with flaming torches.

The government’s helplessness or callousness in the face of economic crisis was not the only source of disenchantment with authority. The prohibition of alcohol, enacted in 1920, turned the vast majority of Americans into criminals, law enforcement into hypocrites, and bootlegging gangsters into society’s pets. Meanwhile, in the late 1920s the lingering wounds of the Great War, initially suppressed by a generation desperate to forget, resurfaced as people began to take stock of what they now viewed as a ghastly waste of life. Pacifism was widely embraced; in 1933 the hallowed Oxford University Student Union debated and passed the statement, “That this House will in no circumstances fight for its king and country.” Movies like All Quiet on the Western Front and The Last Flight expressed horror at the costs and pointlessness of the war, while others called attention to the plight of veterans struggling to survive in the country for which they had fought.

Heroes for Sale (Wellman, 1933) is one of the bleakest films to come out of Hollywood during the studio era. What the confidence trick is in Blonde Crazy, gross injustice is in Heroes for Sale: the basic building block of American society. Richard Barthelmess plays the American everyman as Job, afflicted not by mere bad luck but by unfairness, misunderstanding and the heartlessness of the powerful. In the teens and twenties, Barthelmess had played pure-hearted farm boys in silent melodramas like Way Down East and Tol’able David; he stood for integrity, trustworthiness and boyish optimism. By 1933, his fresh handsome face looked tired and worn, prematurely defeated even at the start of the movie, when he supposed to be just 25. The story begins in the trenches during the War, and the first thing we see is an officer issuing a command for a raid intended to gain prestige by capturing a German officer. When a subordinate objects that the plan will amount to suicide, he snaps, “Suicide or not, it’s orders,” and tells the other officer to take nine or ten men, because “that’s all I can afford to lose.” This kind of callous abuse of power will recur throughout the film, until the penultimate scene in which armed policemen drive homeless men from their shelter into the rain, ignoring the plea that they are not bums but veterans.

Tom Holmes (Barthelmess) is one of the nine or ten expendables chosen for the mission, and when his superior officer turns yellow and refuses to leave the shell-hole where they are hiding, he single-handedly knocks out a machine-gun nest and captures a German officer, only to be wounded and left for dead on his way back. His own officer, Roger, takes credit for the escapade and wins the Distinguished Service Cross, while Tom is taken to a German hospital where he is treated humanely but given morphine to ease the pain of shell-fragments in his spinal column, starting him on the road to addiction. Back home, he winds up working in the bank owned by Roger’s father, who self-righteously fires him when he learns of his drug problem. Roger is a weak, nervous, sweaty-palmed villain; he feels bad about stealing Tom’s glory and allowing him to suffer unfairly, just not bad enough to do anything about it.

For a while things look up for Tom. In Chicago he falls in with a friendly father and daughter who run a café, gets a good job at a laundry, and marries a beautiful young woman (Loretta Young). But as soon as he reaches higher he is shot down. He agrees to help promote a friend’s invention to mechanize the laundry, but when his benevolent boss dies, the new owners use the machine as an excuse to fire all their workers. The workers blame Tom and start a riot, in which his wife is accidentally killed. As if that weren’t enough, he is blamed for leading the riot he was trying to stop and sentenced to five years hard labor. When he gets out, he’s still marked as a “Red” and driven out of town by government agents. By now the country is in the grip of the Depression, and he joins the army of hoboes riding the rails. Achieving secular sainthood, Tom gives away the fortune he earned from the laundry machine to fund a soup kitchen. And when he finally encounters Roger again, also on the bum after serving jail time for embezzling, Tom counters Roger’s pessimism (“The country can’t go on this way. This is the end of America”) with a pat speech about how the country isn’t licked and will rise again, just like Roosevelt said in his inaugural speech. Angry and anguished throughout much of the film, by the end he has slipped into a kind of haloed masochism. Despite his clichéd words, what he embodies is not can-do optimism but the kind of enlightened detachment that comes from having nothing more to lose.

“The only thing that matters is money. Without it you are garbage. With it you are a king.” These words are spoken by Max, the German inventor who makes Tom rich and indirectly ruins his life. Max is a ludicrous stereotype, starting out as a ranting communist and abruptly turning into a greedy plutocrat (when someone points out that he used to hate capitalists he responds, “Of course—because I had no money then!”) In its one idyllic interlude, the film shows a workplace where capital and labor cooperate in smiling harmony and the boss is even willing to use mechanization to give employees more leisure and easier jobs without cutting the workforce or lowering salaries. This utopian fantasy, along with the café whose owners give to the poor even as they struggle to survive, suggest that the only solution to the country’s problems is selfless generosity. Unfortunately, the movie also implies that heartlessness and blinkered malice are far more common.

Heroes for Sale is not a lucid analysis of economic problems, and despite a gritty atmosphere it lacks the objectivity of neo-realism. At once bitter and sentimental, it portrays the whole of American society as a “you-must-pay-the-rent-I-can’t-pay-the-rent” melodrama, with villains as vile and heroes as pure as those in a D.W. Griffith tale of wronged innocence. Many pre-Code movies invite the viewer to identify with and root for people who cheat to get ahead: gangsters, con artists, gold-diggers. Heroes for Sale instead asks us to identify with an innocent and virtuous but hapless and often helpless hero. If people fantasized about being one of Cagney’s confident, cynical operators—predators rather than prey—they saw themselves as Tom Holmes: down on their luck, taking one hit after another, but struggling on and clinging to hope.

Wellman’s next film was Wild Boys of the Road, his famous portrait of teenage hoboes, which grinds through hardship and injustice only to veer into shining idealism in the last five minutes. Two middle-class high-school boys turn into ragged panhandlers, one a cripple, the other stooping occasionally to petty theft. A crowd of vagrants bands together to attack and kill a brakeman who has raped a teenage girl, and to fight off the “bulls” who try to put them off a freight train. It’s easy to imagine audiences cheering as the young bums pelt the cops with eggs and fruit, and booing when the cops use fire hoses to drive them from the shanty-town they have built in disused sewer pipes. The hobo community is painted as loyal, diverse and supportive (blacks and girls are treated as equals), but no one is having any fun. They’re not wild, just bone-weary. The protagonists wind up in New York, living in a garbage dump, and one is tricked into taking part in an attempted robbery. But when they are hauled before a judge, instead of coldly meting out injustice like the judge in Heroes for Sale, the kindly man lectures the youths on how things are going to be better now, they will get a fresh chance, as the camera pans up to the National Reconstruction Administration poster above his head (“We Do Our Part”). The ending looks like a cop-out now, but audiences of the time probably cheered it too.

The pre-Code era was vanquished not only by stricter censorship but by the mood swing following Roosevelt’s inauguration, when the desperate country embraced the promise of a “new deal for the American people.” Pictures of FDR went up next to icons of Jesus; at the end of Footlight Parade, another Warner Brothers musical, solders marching in formation create an American flag, the president’s face, and the NRA eagle. Roosevelt campaigned to the tune of “Happy Days are Here Again,” and one of his first actions in office was to repeal Prohibition. The New Deal failed to end the Depression but it did stop the free-fall of the country’s spirits, ending the sense that the people had been abandoned by their leaders. Hollywood diligently promoted the new tone of wholesome optimism, strictly punishing vice and rewarding virtue. But can you regain innocence once you’ve lost it?

The Age of Experience: Baby Face

Pre-Code movies finally went too far. The last straw may have been the lesbian “dance of the naked moon” in The Sign of the Cross, Miriam Hopkins getting raped in a barn in The Story of Temple Drake, or Mae West just being Mae West. America was divided then as now, and the backlash that ushered in the Code crackdown was driven in part by heartland resentment of movies pitched at sophisticated urban audiences. 5 Outraged by the increasingly salacious tone of Hollywood, in 1934 the Catholic Church formed the Legion of Decency and ordered its congregations to boycott the movies it condemned. In fact, box office receipts rose for movies that were banned by the Legion, but Hollywood’s producers panicked at the prospect of shrinking audiences; of being attacked as foreign corrupters of America’s youth, since most were Jewish immigrants; and of federal government intervention. They capitulated. After 1934, the studios could no longer flout the Production Code Administration and its viciously anti-Semitic head, Joe Breen; unless movies earned its seal of approval they would be blackballed. For a few years filmmakers fought hard against the Code6, but as ticket sales rose with the easing of the Depression, they settled into acceptance of its strictures. For the next twenty years married couples would sleep in twin beds and no couple would kiss for longer than three seconds. The most damaging aspect of the Code was not that it limited what could be shown, but that it forced movies to uphold conservative values, to show respect for authority and religion, and to present a simple dichotomy of good and evil, virtue and sin. The censors did not want controversial subjects like abortion, prostitution or racial tensions discussed from any angle, no matter how morally serious. Hollywood managed to produce great movies under the Code’s restrictions, but sometimes its stifling effect gave them a sterile, airless, homogenized quality.

Some of the pre-Code spirit survived in screwball comedy, a genre created by the Code—the sexes must battle lest they wind up in bed. Even at the height of the Code, Preston Sturges and Billy Wilder consistently subverted its precepts, probably because their dialogue was too clever or just too audaciously dirty for the censors to decipher. After World War II the hard-boiled, wised-up attitude went underground, flourishing in film noir, but what became of the pre-Code sensibility after the end of the noir cycle? Our own time may be rife with irony and black comedy, but sneaky innuendo can’t thrive without restrictions, and all-pervasive, indiscriminate irony becomes shallow and facile. The gritty, sassy tone of pre-Code flourished precisely because it still had the power to shock.

The proponents of censorship cited the overwhelming power and mass appeal of movies, which made them particularly dangerous to the young. And after all movies were not art, so they couldn’t claim first-amendment protection as books or plays might: one journalist wrote in 1934 that no “classic” movie had been created yet. Hollywood’s producers were all too ready to agree, viewing their creations only as commercial products. Even pre-Code films weren’t safe from retroactive censorship. Those that were re-released during the Code years or the early years of television had bits cut out: Myrna Loy trilling “Mimi” in a sheer nightgown in Love Me Tonight, Edward Woods tussling in bed with Joan Blondell in Public Enemy. Ironically, films that were considered too thoroughly offensive to be salvaged remained intact. In 2004 a complete, uncensored print of Baby Face, perhaps the crown jewel of pre-Code, was discovered at the Library of Congress. Baby Face (Green, 1933) was so sordid that it was rejected outright by state censorship boards and heavily altered before being released, but a copy of the original camera negative showed the film as only censors had ever seen it.

Sold-out crowds packed New York’s Film Forum on a snowy Monday in January 2005 to be the first audience ever to watch Barbara Stanwyck smash a beer bottle over the head of a man molesting her, then lie down in the straw with a brakeman in return for a free ride on a freight train; to hear a sinister German cobbler quote Nietszche to Stanwyck and advise her to stamp out all emotion and use her power over men to get the things she wants. A New York Times piece on the rediscovered print stated that “you couldn’t make this film today.” Baby Face’s heroine, Lily Powers, is sexy and heartless, with a hidden, wounded fury built up during a lifetime of mistreatment. Accompanied by a growling rendition of “The St. Louis Blues,” she climbs a ladder of weak and venal men from a dreary steel-town speakeasy to the inevitable Manhattan penthouse. With her all the way is the only person she really cares for, her black maid and best friend, played by the beautiful Teresa Harris. Baby Face has all the kick, the style, the shocking laughs and underlying bleakness that exemplify pre-Code.

During the Depression, with so many men unable to support families, women became responsible for their own and their children’s survival as they had rarely been before. Many pre-Code movies focus on the predicament of women looking for ways to support themselves outside of marriage. While the flappers of the 1920s were young girls sowing their wild oats, the women of pre-Code are looking for security, and they aren’t too scrupulous about how they get it. They are neither virtuous helpmeets nor destructive vamps; they are adults who have faced some cold, hard facts. Actresses like Constance Bennett and Miriam Hopkins played a new kind of woman who was hardened, experienced, far from spotless, but who instead of paying for her sins usually triumphed in the end.

World War I shattered the traditional manly and womanly ideals of the nineteenth century; World War II brought back the celebration of the he-man and the homemaker. Between the wars there was a blurring and mingling of the sexes. Women bobbed their hair, smoked and drove cars; men got manicures, sang falsetto and danced the Charleston. A novelty song of the time complained: “Masculine women, feminine men / Which is the rooster, which is the hen? / It’s hard to tell ‘em apart these days.” Homosexuality was an object of sniggering fascination, and caricatures of effeminate men and butch women show up regularly in pre-Code movies. In Ladies They Talk About, a new inmate in a women’s prison is warned about a hefty cigar-smoking lady in a monocle: “Watch out for her, she likes to wrestle.” In Wonder Bar, a fey young man cuts in on a dancing couple and dances off—with the man. “Boys will be boys!” Al Jolson comments with a swishy gesture.

In the Victorian era, Europe and America embraced the ideal of woman as untouched by experience, the “angel of the house.” One of the arguments against granting women the vote or allowing them to enter universities and the work-place was that if they left the domestic sphere they would lose their purity and moral authority. The working women of thirties Hollywood triumphantly backed this argument: they are hard-nosed, pragmatic, independent. The “double standard” for pre- and extra-marital sex was a common theme in films of the early thirties: why shouldn’t women act like men? The feisty yet vulnerable pre-Code woman was more compromised than the fast-talking dame of later screwball comedies, who usually worked as a reporter or secretary and relished her self-sufficiency. One aspect of pre-Code movies that might actually shock contemporary audiences is the ubiquitous equation of sex and money. It’s taken for granted that women will sell themselves for furs, jewels and apartments, as “kept women” or free-lance party girls. This reflects the Depression too, a time when—so the movies warned—the scarcity of honest jobs might tempt girls to take “the easiest way.” Men, meanwhile, might turn to crime, bootlegging, gangs: selling their souls for flashy suits, cars and women. Unlike their female counterparts, the fallen men always pay, dying in the gutter or going to the chair. Women who break commandments—even a hard-bitten ex-felon like Constance Bennett in Bed of Roses—can be redeemed through the love of an honest man, in this case the poor but hunky Joel McCrea.

The thirties were a golden age for women in Hollywood movies, the only decade when they were regularly allowed to be smart, competent, funny and sexy all at once, and seldom required to be tamed or put in their place by men (Female is a dispiriting exception.) Throughout the decade, women continued to embody the toughness and cynicism of the Depression years in romantic comedies, where they were habitually both more dazzling and more down-to-earth than their male counterparts. The experienced woman paired with a naïve, virginal man is partly a comic reversal of a more traditional trope, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. But while these women take economic advantage of their male prey, they are also seduced by male innocence. They yearn for what they themselves have lost.

The uncensored version of Baby Face makes it clear that Lily was forced into prostitution by her own father when she was fourteen. Hence the cruel irony of the title: while she poses as girlishly helpless (“Nothing like this has ever happened to me,” she pleads when she’s caught in the restroom with her boss) she has been, as the cliché goes, robbed of innocence. This is the festering wound behind her hard, defiant poise. No one could play the part better than Stanwyck, with her devastating ability to face the facts; her sudden lashing rages; and the enticing warmth that she could—chillingly—turn on or off at will. Douglas Sirk spoke later of how Stanwyck seemed to have been “deeply touched by life.” Her most arresting trait is her level, unwavering gaze, both bold and sad—what Sirk called her “amazing tragic stillness.” The simplicity of her style comes from a steely inner resolve, a hard-won self-mastery that allows her to look at the world without fear—but not without anger or sorrow. “My life has been hard, bitter,” Lily tells her husband. “I’m not like other women. All the gentleness and kindness in me has been killed.”

Movies of the early thirties revel in the victory of experience over innocence, but they mourn it too. James Cagney stumbles into the gutter in the rain muttering, “I ain’t so tough.” Ann Dvorak, as a drug addict whose sleazy lover has kidnapped her son, crashes through a window and plummets to the street below to save the boy’s life. Paul Muni, fugitive from a chain gang, fades into the darkness, answering his girlfriend’s question, “How do you survive?” with the despairing words, “I steal!”7 It is this sense of bitter knowledge, of deeply-felt experience, that makes the best pre-Code movies truly “adult.” W.H. Auden said that the purpose of art is to make self-deception more difficult: “by telling the truth, to disenchant and disintoxicate.” Enchantment and intoxication have always been Hollywood’s stock in trade, but occasionally—in Out of the Past, in The Lady Eve, in Blonde Crazy—the studios blended cocktails of fantasy and disillusionment, of disappointment and romance. Hollywood in the 1930s cast its lingering spell not with cynical magic, but with magical cynicism.

by Imogen Sara Smith

NOTES

1. In, respectively, Man’s Castle, Baby Face, Murder at the Vanities.

2. What happened to the cut footage? Most of it probably wound up in the wastebasket, though some found a home elsewhere. In his book The Silent Clowns Walter Kerr recounts how a boyhood friendship with his local projectionist enabled him to amass “what must unquestionably have been the most extensive collection of shots of Vilma Banky’s décolletage existing anywhere in America.”

3. Native New Yorkers Cagney and Blondell were appearing together in a play called “Penny Arcade” when they were both offered contracts by Warner Brothers, the studio that, with its Vitaphone process, had pushed the changeover to sound. “Penny Arcade” became the film Sinners’ Holiday; Cagney and Blondell made six more films together and formed a life-long friendship.

4. Harry Warren and Al Dubin wrote “Remember My Forgotten Man,” which echoes the great Depression anthem, “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” in its complaint that the men who built the country and fought to defend it were now reduced to begging for bread. These two songs were exceptional; Tin Pan Alley churned out hundreds of “keep smiling” ditties during the Depression, leaving it to Woody Guthrie to express the nation’s bitter mood in songs like “I Ain’t Got No Home in this World Anymore.”

5. The pre-Code Two Kinds of Women opens with the governor of a western state rehearsing a passionate speech decrying the evil influence of New York City on the rest of the nation, leading America’s youth astray with the lure of glamour and fast living. The scene cuts to the next room where the governor’s daughter (Miriam Hopkins) lounges on a sofa in sexy pajamas, reading The New Yorker and listening to a radio program broadcasting jazz from a Manhattan nightclub. The movie makes no secret of which side it’s on. At the end the daughter says that she and her New York playboy husband will announce that they are moving to South Dakota for the fresh air and clean living—until her father is re-elected, after which, “We’ll come back and live on East 58th Street!”

6. Producers and filmmakers at Warner Brothers were particularly hostile to the new regime. Busby Berkeley’s Footlight Parade features a puritanical censor who keeps popping up to warn Cagney, a director of musical prologues, “You’ll have to put some bathing suits on those mermaids—you know Pennsylvania.” Ultimately, he’s revealed as worse than just a buffoon when he’s caught in flagrante delicto with the film’s floozy.

7. In, respectively, Public Enemy, Three on a Match, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang.

#Imogen . Sara Smith #The Chiseler #Sinner's Holiday: An Ode to Pre-Code #Joan Blondell #James Cagney

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boarix · 5 years

Text

Wraith in the Ruins: A Fallout 4 Story Part XVII

Personality Conflict

Trigger warnings: Canon language/violence/gun, drug and alcohol use. Drug addiction/intervention.

Game spoilers

Please enjoy!

“I should have known better when you wouldn’t charge me for your services. After all, you get what you pay for.”

“Our services are for Atom’s benefit, Sister Marie. Not yours.”

She folded her arms and glared at the ghoul, “You wouldn’t have even known of Wraith’s existence were it not for me! I would say the destruction of a false profit and her network of infidels is to Atom’s…”

Infamy’s high, psychotic laughter cut her short, “You have strayed from Atom’s path and you lust for her ruin for your own satisfaction, yes? He he he!”

“SHE IS AN ENEMY OF ALL OF ATOMS CHILDREN!” She spat her words and threw her arms wide, “I have given you all the information you should have needed! I see no results.”

“No?” The glowing one moved uncomfortably close to look directly into her eyes, “Then you are blind. We have seen her people scurry and scramble in desperate confusion; like mole rats when their queen’s gone rabid. We struck low one of her most powerful fighters. We have better information now. We know how her network functions. How quickly they come to each other’s aid and the total weight of her fist.” Looking self-satisfied they leaned away and ran their eyes from her toes to her crown, “We’ve a clear picture of you as well; still wandering The Fog, looking for visions with eyes firmly shut…”

Fury colored her face scarlet, “You… how DARE YOU!”

They turned their back to her and walked away, unconcerned for her wrath, “We do not see Atom’s Plan lay before us like a smoothly-paved road, but we will walk the trail that’s there for those who dare to look for it.”

“Looking rough, man. You sick?”

“Say something?” MacCready’s mumbled query took form around an enormous yawn. He had been taking the third watch so that he could have dinner with his son and put him to bed, get him up and have breakfast, have playtime, have lunch and then put him down for nap. Shaun, Marcy or Carol Peabody would watch Duncan in the afternoon so Mac could either teach lessons or attended to various projects. Ultimately he was getting precious few hours of sleep and despite his youth, his fatigue was starting to show. Happy to see the sun rise, he was fantasizing about grabbing a nap before his child woke up, and fought the urge to pretend he didn’t hear the other man.

“I said you look like shit.” Lloyd smiled blithely, “Your beard is out of control and your bags are so big, your eyes look pregnant. Don’t sleep well when the General or Mayor ain’t here to snuggle you? Cause the lack of beauty rest is glaring.”

“Well, we all can’t be as beautiful as you, Mr. Lloyd.”

“Mr. Garvey, actually.”

“Garvey? Like Preston Garvey?”

“I knew it! Fucker! Don’t even know my last name… Bossy owes me twenty caps.” He made a great show of turning his back to MacCready while flourishing his binoculars, “Just cause you all use your last names like they’re titles…”

“Wait, wait, wait… you’re related to Preston? How… how, did I not know that?!”

“I’m his older cousin… or maybe once removed on his mother’s side… I’m his aunt’s kid with her second husband, but she kept the last name and ditched… you know what? Doesn’t matter. Point is, I am Lieutenant Lloyd Harvest Jeremiah Garvey and you can take that to the bank!”

MacCready tried to look as unimpressed as possible, “Since when are you a Lieutenant? Wraith handing out pity promotions again?”

“Fuck you too!” His laugher softened his harsh words, “No, she recognizes my impeccable aim and stalwart reliability.” Humor fled from his face, “I would fall on a grenade for her, although I know she’d never ask me too.”

“Naw, she eats ‘em for breakfast.”

“Ha, true! She’s the most bad-assed… you don’t need me telling you the kind of loyalty she inspires!”

“Actually, have you heard anything from any of the ghoul Minutemen?” MacCready felt bad for even asking, “This whole Infamy sh… fiasco has me paranoid.”

There had been reports of missing settlers as well as feral ghoul horde attacks on provisioner caravans. The frequency and precision seemed to indicate there was an insider informant. Wraith had been on the road with Preston and Dogmeat for the better part of a month and with Hancock back in Goodneighbor, MacCready’s irritation and loneliness had reached its peak. He just wanted it to be over.

“I know everybody and if they aren’t ready to die for her cause they love her, than they are too terrified of her to even try stabbing her in the back.”

He stuck out his lower lip, “Their scared of her? I don’t think half of them have ever even seen her fight. She’s not really frightening when she’s just… walkin’ around, is she?”

“Oh man… wait, wait, hold up! You’re askin’ me to tell you about your lady?” Lloyd shook his head violently enough his neck made popping sounds, “No, no you’re asking me to talk about my General? Cause all you’re getting from me is ‘she’s great’ and ‘fuck you sideways’.”

MacCready blew an exceptionally loud raspberry.

“I see you tryin’ to get me fired, man. I thought we were close.”

Turning his back with finality, MacCready waved over his head as he went down the stairs, “I’m close enough to smell you. I’ll see you in a few hours. Do me a favor and have a really boring day, okay?”

“You got it, MacBeardy. Why don’t you go trim that shit? Looking like that, it’s a wonder anybody wants to kiss you.”

Too tired to fight back, he was grateful for gravity’s help down the stairs. Once his feet were back on the ground he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dim light before sweeping them along the street and in-between the nearest homes.

Yawning aggressively, he clicked his teeth, “…really should have a patrol going inside the walls too… don’t know who might be creepin’ around…”

As if on cue, a small, shadowy figure left the clinic and made its way toward Wraith’s house.

Tiredness forgotten, MacCready raised his rifle, “HEY! STOP RIGHT THERE!”

“Don’t shoot! It’s me!” Shaun all but fell to the ground, “I’m sorry!”

“Did you spend the night in the clinic?!” Torn between sympathy and anger, he opened and shut his mouth wordlessly; fighting with his impulse to tear into the child.

“I’m sorry! Yes, but…”

“Shaun, I… understand that you’re worried about Danse, but I… I trust you to help me with Duncan…”

“I know! That’s why…”

“DON’T INTTERUPT ME, MAN!” Instantly regretting raising his voice, he took a deep breath, “He shouldn’t be in the house by himself.”

Shaun squared his shoulders and set his jaw. Thrusting his right hand into the air, his voice was filled with righteous indignation as he shook an item at the heavens, “BABY MONITOR!”

“WELL, I DIDN’T KNOW THAT AND I’M SORRY! DID YOU MAKE THAT YOURSELF?!”

“NO! I JUST FIXED IT AND BOOSTED ITS RANGE!”

“WOW THAT’S REALLY COOL!”

“OKAY, BUT WHY ARE WE STILL YELLING?!”

“I DON’T KNOW YOU STARTED IT!”

“NOOOOOOO WAY, RJ!”

A settler opened a nearby window and stuck her head out, “Boys, it is too early in the morning for you to be yelling like that!”

Laughing now, Shaun apologized while the other flipped her off by pretending to itch his eye. MacCready patted the kid’s shoulder as they crossed the yard to their door. Just as he touched the doorknob, Lloyd’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie.

“MacCready, I got a new face at the gate.”

He ushered Shaun through the door and walked back to the street before responding, “I thought we agreed you were going to have a boring day. Besides, there are Minutemen at the gate checking on newbies. What’s the big deal?”

“He’s a big deal; six feet plus. Dark hair and light eyes… looks like you and Capt’n Danse had a baby… oh, shit. Sorry, man. That was a stupid…”

“It’s fine…” MacCready pinched the bridge of his nose, “That could literally be anybody…”

“He’s probably not Infamy, right? They’re all ghouls?”

“I don’t think we know who they all are...” He really just wanted to go and sleep for two seconds, “Lloyd, I am really tired…”

“MacCready, I know everybody, remember? I don’t know this guy!”

A chill ran down his back and the hairs on his nape stood up. He jogged down the street toward the gate, “Where are they exactly?”

“He’s standing behind Carla’s brahmin… hold on… shit!”

“Lloyd?!”

“I lost him! I’m going to the open channel!”

Swallowing hard and fighting the urge to sprint to the gate, MacCready turned back toward the house he shared with his new family. It was obvious that Shaun would be a primary target to anyone looking to damage Wraith. Switching his walkie to the open channel, he listened to the Minutemen as they searched for this mysterious stranger.

I’ll take the boys through the river to the Rocket. Ain’t no way Strong will let anything happen to his little brothers. Then I’ll go hunt this bastard down.

“Robert Joseph MacCready?”

The disembodied voice came from a shadow just to his right. Preoccupied with the safety of the children; he cursed himself internally for allowing the threat to get so close.

His rifle seemed to materialize in his hands as he spun away. As fast as he was, it was a surprise when his intended target had already breached his circle of defense; placing a hand on the weapon and forcing it skyward. An immediate tug of war began as both men tried to secure the gun.

Despite the difference in overall size, MacCready was well able to hold his own. In a last-ditch effort to dislodge his large foe, he deliberately fell backward, hooking a boot into his opponent’s midsection and flipping them over his head. Vaulting to his feet he quickly turned, once again making an attempt to pin the other man with the barrel of his gun.

The enemy activated a Stealth-boy and vanished before his eyes.

Croup Manor was all but lost. The horde of ferals, shepherd by Infamy, washed over the settlement like a tidal wave. Wraith, Dogmeat, Preston and their small troop of Minutemen were hard pressed waiting for Dragoon reinforcements.

“WRAITH!” Knocked to the ground by an enormous bloated glowing one, Preston’s cry reverberated through the ruins.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” She had gathered what soldiers she could find in an attempt to preserve what was left of their group, and had guided them to the platform that surrounded the remains of the roundabout’s fountain, “Keep the high ground! Dogmeat stay here.” Wraith popped a Buffout and leaped into the mass of gyrating ghouls. Keeping her weapons holstered, she punched, ducked and dodged as she tried her best to not get hung up with one opponent for any longer than it was necessary to move them out of her way.

Out of her peripheral, she could see that the one feral that had turned friendly was pacing her. They had a tattered, red-plaid shirt and like her seemed to be heading toward Preston’s voice.

That’s lucky!

The ally feral reached Preston first and threw itself bodily at the bloated ghoul. The green-glowing monster seemed taken aback and the look of betrayal on its twisted face was almost comical. Recovering quickly, it back-handed its smaller, plaid-clad attacker, sending it flying.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Wraith hefted Preston into a fireman’s carry and zigzagged her way back to the rally point.

“Preston, are you alive?”

“Uhhhhh.”

“Oh, good.” She laid him down gently, “Medic, I need RadAway right away! Ha-ha!” She patted Preston on the shoulder, “Hang in there Colonel.” Turning away she adopted her General’s voice and addressed her frightened soldiers, “The Calvary will be here very soon! They know I’ve an appointment in Diamond city, and I cannot be late! Stay calm and pick you’re targets. Aim for the legs! And don’t hit me or I’ll be extremely vexed!” So saying she unsheathed her Shem Drowne sword and unholstered her revolver, and took a swan dive right back into the sea of feral ghouls.

“Philippa Lynn Keita-Johnson, kindly get off of my case!”

“Val…”

“I am fine. I am recovered. I am well.”

“I know you say that but…”

“I am… I need backup…” Turning his head slightly, Nick Valentine called over his shoulder, “Ellie, please tell Wraith to leave me be!”

Laughing, Mrs. Valentine came into the living room brandishing a file folder, “I will do no such thing! You tell me I should take it easy, well, same goes for you. It hasn’t been that long since you were moo-lightening as squirrel-on-a-stick… what’s so funny, Wraith?”

Giggling, she made the mistake of making eye-contact with Valentine and then fell to laughing so hard she stopped making any sounds at all.

He smiled indulgently at his wife, “I think you meant ‘moonlighting’, my dear.”

“Oh… Wraith… Honey, you must be really tired; it wasn’t that funny.”

“Mooooo! Hahahaha!”

“At any rate; I am more than well enough to go with you to Sanctuary,” Valentine was becoming increasingly irritated at being handled like glass, “and for anything else, for that matter. I will not miss this just because of a minor intestinal perforation!”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“For the last time, my guts are one hundred percent fully healed and operational.”

“Prove it.”

“Alas, to my great shame, I cannot break wind on cue.”

“ALLY, ALLY, ALLY! FRIENDLY!”

MacCready struck a dramatic figure; rifle at the ready and backlit by the dawn, tracking an invisible enemy by sound alone, “Show me some raised and empty hands, then we can talk about being friendly.”

“I’ve no guarantee that you won’t shoot as soon as you get a glimpse. No offence meant, but I’d prefer to remain alive.”

“Have we met? You seem vaguely familiar...”

A low whistle to his left was all the warning he got before some unknown liquid came flying through the air. Able to step out of its path, MacCready watched in confused fascination as his opponent was momentarily outlined before the Stealth-Boy compensated and they once again shimmered out of existence.

“That was motor oil and kerosene.” Shaun was outwardly calm as he flicked the sparkwheel on the lighter in his hand, “Don’t worry RJ, Duncan is with Strong…” His smile was almost pitying as he addressed the air, “I’m sure I hit you with enough to ignite. I wonder if the Stealth-Boy will hide you as you burn.”

“OKAY! Okay, I’ll show myself. Please believe me when I say that I’m a friend to Nyx Morningstar and an ally to General Wraith in her fight against Infamy.”

MacCready moved close to Shaun and whispered harshly in his ear, “Not your name.”

Phasing into view, the large man held his hands aloft, palms forward as he favored Shaun with a raised brow, “You are a terrifying young man.”

“HEY! You don’t get to talk to Peter! You talk to me. Got it?”

“Yes… MacCready. Or do you prefer RJ?”

“Might as well call me the Grim Reaper.” Stepping close, he held his weapon level with the other man’s eyes, “Name.”

“We’ve actually met…”

“If you know me then you know of my short, short fuse.” His voice was steel.

“Harkness! My name is Harkness and Nyx told me that if you give me too much trouble… to… to call you ‘Buttface’?”

Lowering his rifle, MacCready cocked his head to the side, “I do know you. Huh.”

“May I put my arms down now?”

“Nope. Keep ‘em high and walk back to the gate.” He turned to Shaun, “Squirrel, you have a sidearm?” He knew the answer, but the question was more for Harkness’ benefit.

“Uh… yeah. Yes!”

“Good. If he makes a run for it shoot his left knee. We are heading to the storage shed next to Bear’s place.” He motioned Harkness forward with his rifle, “Nice and easy. Just a lovely, morning stroll.”

As they walked, Shaun whispered out of the side of his mouth, “I thought my name was ‘Peter’.”

“Same kid.”

Some few days later Wraith returned to Sanctuary with the Valentines in tow. Notified at the Rocket of the captured intruder, she called a meeting and had Harkness brought to her office under heavy guard. MacCready, Sofie, Lloyd and Cait arranged themselves on Wraith’s furniture and collectively glared at him.

“I would prefer to speak with you privately, if that’s alright with you, General Wraith.”

“No. That is not alright with me.” Weary and road dirty, she hoped that she at least looked impressive and authoritative, “Nyx has never mentioned a ‘Harkness’ to me, nor has she written an introductory letter on your behalf.” Arms folded she let some iron creep into her voice, “With all that has happened I think you might forgive me if I keep you under as many eyes as possible.”

“Do you have a Geiger counter?”

MacCready popped to his feet and clapped his hands before opening the door to the street, “Okay, everybody out!” He stuck his head out the door and gave a shrill whistle, “Dogmeat!” He favored Wraith with a forced smile, “His eyes are as good as anyone’s, right?”

As the grumbling group filed out, every single one of them gave the canine a pat as he trotted inside. The last to leave, MacCready gave a small cry of surprise as Panther dashed between his legs just as he was shutting the door.

Dogmeat immediately came to greet Harkness; tail wagging and tongue lolling leisurely. Taking their cue from their canine friend, Panther hopped atop Wraith’s desk and sat next to her. Whiskers extended toward the stranger, they made the chuffing sounds that were the great cat’s purr.

“I can’t believe it!” He patted the dog as best he could with bound hands, “I’m convinced, now more than ever, that you’re an immortal!”

“If he vouches for you, then I suppose I have no choice…” Unlocking his cuffs she offered him water and then flopped into her chair. There she sat, eyes trained at the ceiling and completely silent for several seconds.

“Do you have…?”

“I’m retired.”

“Hardly.” He leaned forward, left brow raised over an ice-blue eye.

“I can’t believe you are still using that pass phrase…”

“Do you have…?”

“Fucking sake! Mine’s in the motherfuckin’ shop!” She slapped her palm onto the tabletop, “I am officially retired and if you are still using that, you probably should fucking stop. MacCready never even…”

“We don’t. Harley told me it’s the one you’d recognize though.” He made note of the flash of pain that crossed her face, “He also told me that you and MacCready would give me the most hassle and that you were both, ‘monstrously terrifying’.” Giving Dogmeat another pat he matched Wraith’s glare with a smug smirk, “If he vouches for you, then I suppose I have no choice.”

“Cute. Why does the Railroad care about Infamy in Boston?”

Making a show of taking a long, slow drink, Harkness stalled; trying to find a delicate selection of words to hide the truth, “The Railroad cares deeply for all liberated synths. The loss of Danse is distressing, not just for the Minutemen and…”

Wraith rocketed to her feet and grabbed him by the collar. Easily lifting Harkness, she slammed him into the wall, “ENOUGH! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR DE… HARLEY’S LIES FROM YOU!” Letting him drop she backed away. Her voice turned terrifyingly emotionless but her eyes promised death, “I want the truth. Otherwise, I’ll go with my first instinct; consider you my enemy and rip you in half.”

He glared at her from the floor, “We have highly valued agents who could be compromised or killed if your struggle with Infamy goes to shit!”

Wraith’s expression softened, “Ah. People I know. People I’d miss if they were to suddenly relocate. People I wouldn’t stop looking for if they were to suddenly disappear.”

That was not tactful at all. I just… I almost killed him. Deacon and Morningstar sent him and I almost took him through the wall! What the hell is wrong with me?!

“May I stand, or will that get me bifurcated too?” Failing to hide his anger, he couldn’t help but take a jab at her, “I can see where Shaun gets it…”

That was a mistake.

Lost in a flash of rage, she aimed a punch at Harkness’ face.

Dogmeat saved his life: his sharp bark cut through Wraith’s wrath-filled haze and at the last second she altered her aim and slammed her fist through the wall.

Both breathing heavily, the two stared into each other’s eyes. Her regret showed clearly and a sudden revelation filled his blue orbs with understanding.

“You… you have lost so much. Father and the Institute were just the tip of the iceberg. You understand what it’s like to have your past and future manipulated by an uncaring puppet master. You know what it’s like… to not feel real…”

“I… I’m…” Slowly removing her hand, she backed away, eyes fixed on his, “I think that I can’t properly apologies to you for what just happened… but I am sorry.”

“I know you’ll find this hard to believe but I trust you more now.”

“You can’t trust…”

“…everybody. I know. I know.” He laid a hand gently over-top her blooded fist, pushing it down toward the floor, “Both Nyx and Harley are very important to me. They say you are one of the greatest allies the Railroad has ever known. So whatever just happened, let’s chalk it up to, you’re over-taxed and I’m an asshole.”

Motioning to him to take a more comfortable seat on her couch, Wraith went to her office first aid kit. Resuming her seat next to Panther, she began a deep breathing exercise while treated her injuries with a dermo-fuse.

Gotta calm. In, two, three. Calm. Out, two, three.

“So, you have all the intel on me from Harley. You know Shaun, you know… everything?”

“Actually, the dossier came from Nyx. So, I probably don’t know as much as you might fear.” Tenting his fingers, he briefly touched their tips to his lips before leaning toward her, “I would really like it if we could start over. Hello, I’m Harkness. I’m a Railroad heavy from the Capital Wasteland. I’ve known Nyx for over ten years. I was sent by our new leadership to protect our interests in the Commonwealth by offering you informational aid in your conflict with the organization known as Infamy.”

She offered him a wan smile, “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?

Laughing, he shook his head, “I tried. No, really! MacCready and Shaun just about turned me inside-out!”

“Do you know Mac too?”

“I only met him a couple of times. He didn’t recognize me and I hardly even recognize him; he’s way healthier looking now.”

She frowned, thinking that he actually looked a little haggard, “He eats better these days. Speaking of which, have they offered you food recently?”

“I could eat.”

Radioing Codsworth, she put in a request. Having finished repairing the lacerations on her hand, she returned the knitter to the first aid kit and once again flopped into her chair. Not sure how to begin, or if she should even start, an awkward silence hung in the air.

Harkness was watching Panther groom itself with a child-like fascination. When the cat jumped down and came over to rub on his legs his face beamed with joy. “She’s a synth, isn’t she? Incredible!”

“Technically speaking, Panther isn’t a ‘she’ or ‘he’. Although Danse…” She swallowed hard and looked at her hands in her lap.

Pretty sure my finger’s dislocated… ouch. Why am I having such a hard time? I used to be really good with people! Part of the reason I became a lawyer…

Harkness misunderstood her reaction, “I am very sorry that Danse was killed. I… met… him. He definitely wouldn’t have remembered me though.”

“How did you find out?”

“Nyx told me when she asked if I would come up here.”

“Asked, huh? Okay, how did Morningstar find out?”

A flicker of realization crossed his face, “We have a network of tourists… but you’d know that… he’s still alive, isn’t he?”

Wraith rose at Codsworth’s polite knock, “Food’s here.” She patted one of the robots eye stalks, “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“No trouble at all, mum!” He made happy whistling noises as he left.

While chewing his first, enormous bite, Harkness offered a morsel to Panther. His face broadcasting his delight when the cat oh-so-delicately accepted it. His smile became that much broader when Dogmeat also partook of his charity. When Wraith cleared her throat to bring him back to their conversation his cheeks momentarily reddened with guilt.

“Ah-hem, that’s interesting. Our information has him being killed outright. A sniper shot to the head.”

“He’s in a coma and has been for some time. He’ll have another scar on his brow… when he wakes up.” Stirring her vegetables distractedly, she stared at the wall in the direction of the clinic. “I have almost no information on Infamy. Mac and Hancock told me that they were a mercenary faction of the Children of Atom and that Morningstar had some dealings with them, but that’s about it. Islode had only so much more to add.” Setting her now completely forgotten meal on her desk, she stood up and began to pace, “I need to find them. I need to wrap this up. I can’t have another war of attrition, like with the Gunners!”

“I’m not familiar enough with this area to pinpoint them for you, but they would probably take up residence in the Glowing Sea, or similar sites that would be considered holy to Atom worshippers.”

“I’m not going to send the Dragoons into the Sea to wander around aimlessly. I did send my radioactive-resistant Hound pair to get a sitrep on Quincy Quarries. There’s a empty Vault-Tec installation there…”

“And what will you do when you find them?”

That gave Wraith pause: her first response was for a very percussive, terminal encounter.

You told Islode that you weren’t a conqueror. And that the Children were your neighbors. They are being fed false information from Marie. She is the real enemy.

“I don’t suppose they’d listen to reason, would they?”

“Are you suggesting you can be reasonable?” He waved his hands and laughed at the face she made, “I’m sorry! I’m joking!”

“Lay it out for me, Harkness! I’m obviously struggling. Normally I would attempt diplomacy immediately, but they never even gave me an ultimatum. I can’t bargain with a group who wants nothing I have!”

“Sister Marie wants some things though; your status as a profit discredited. Then your happiness. And then your life.”

Bringing her right hand up she began running it back and forth across her close-cropped hair, “I never once claimed to be a profit! If they want me to stand in front of the entire Atom nation and declare myself…”

“It wouldn’t be enough for Marie, but it might be enough for Infamy,” Harkness set his plate on the floor and leaned toward her, “and she is powerless without their backing.”

“Who are they?”

“When Nyx declined to detonate the warhead at Megaton, it shattered the hopes of the Children who lived and worshipped there. Denied their ‘Day of Division’, some of the members endeavored to become closer to Atom by taking a rare chem, that would either transform them into ghouls or…”

“Or kill them.”

He nodded, “Infamy developed soon after Nyx helped the BOS destroy the Enclave. My guess is that the glowing one that acts as the leader is the former Brother Gerard, from that Megaton sect.”

“And how would I use this information to begin peace talks?”

“One of our agents has suggested that you have some small control over feral ghouls, perhaps…”

“You can just say ‘Hancock’.” She made a dismissive gesture at his attempt at mock confusion, “I suppose you stopped in Goodneighbor before you came here. He has seen that ferals will… become docile around me… occasionally. It happened in front of him again, just a short while ago, so it would be fresh in his mind.”

“He told you he was an agent.”

She dropped her shoulders and rolled her eyes, “Yes, of course. We are very much intertwined in each other’s lives. And with me being a former agent; he can trust me with sensitive information. So please, let it go.”

“Very well.” He leaned back on the couch and smiled as Panther draped its self across his lap, “What is it like? Are you able to direct the actions of these ferals?”

“Nope.”

A flicker of irritation crossed his face, “Have you tried?”

She felt her face heat, “No! I would never! They have suffered enough. I wouldn’t presume to make them my puppets.”

“If you were able to command feral ghouls, or even pull some away from Infamy’s hoard, your clout as a profit in good standing would be beyond repute.”

“You’re asking me to win them over by masquerading as one of their most important religious figures.”

“No, I’m asking you to prove to them that you are the Mother’s Favored One.”

“But, Harkness that would be lying. And as you know, falsehoods make a poor foundation on which to build peace.”

He held his hands out and looked to the ceiling, appealing to some higher power for strength, “Why are you so adamant that it’s a lie?”

Wraith sputtered and scoffed, “… I wouldn’t… I’m not, I’m… well, okay maybe I’m not normal but…”

He knew he had her on the ropes and began tallying off his bullet points on his hands, “One, you are highly resistant to radiation, much like the Children’s Gift. This combined with pre-war experimentation has turned you into what could be described as a smooth-skin ghoul. Two, you have experienced visions in which the Mother appeared and seemed to guide you. Three, you have a charming effect on feral ghouls to the point that they will come to your aid, and apparently, follow you around like puppy dogs!”

Wraith quickly crossed the room, “Okay, how the fuck… There should only be three people, aside from myself who know I’m ghoulish…” She struck her forehead with the heel of her palm, “Oh, I’m so dumb! Of course he would know. And what he knows, you do. That asshole.”

Who I miss terribly and would really like to talk to…

“I’m guessing that even though Nyx handed me your information, it might have been from Harley after all… Sorry.” Harkness at least had the decency to look abashed.

“Okay, if I were to explore this, how would I even begin?”

“I brought someone with me. His name is Sun of Atom, and he’s a glowing one who’s also a member of the Megaton sect. I left him in Goodneighbor in the off chance that I was met with… let’s say, extreme resistance, to my idea.” He gave her a mocking smile.

“So, what? This Sun is going to teach me to…”

“Fine tune your obvious ability to command feral ghouls.”

She was running her hand over her hair again, “If I hadn’t just recently fought a super villain, possessed by alien technology, who was able to manipulate objects with her mind, I’d really think this was crazy…”

Then again, all I could think of at Croup was ‘gotta help Preston’ and that plaid shirt feral went right to him…

“I can go pick up Sun and be back here…”

“Oh, no; I’m not bringing ferals here. I would never do that to MacCready. How about you meet me at Wicked Shipping in a week.”

“It won’t take me a week…”

“Okay, look, I just got back. I would like to visit with my people, my kids and my beloved, feisty boyfriend as well as be there for the Valentine’s first ultrasound, before I fuck-off again to do whoever-the-fuck-knows!”

He held up his hands, “Okay, okay. That’s fair.”

“I’ll send you with an escort.”

“No thank you. That won’t be necessary…”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Wraith,” He held his hands out pleadingly, “I’ve already garnered way more attention than is healthy! Please just, trust in my abilities. Harley wouldn’t have sent me if he didn’t think I could get it done.”

Wraith met with Sofie and then joined the Valentines for their ultrasound before returning to her house. She could tell MacCready had been napping as one side of his now ample beard and his hair were pressed flat to the side of his head. They held each other tightly in a hug that was almost desperate. When she felt the tears start, she buried her face into his shoulder. It had the potential to carry on through the evening, so Shaun cleared his throat and that made Duncan giggle. Doing her best to ignore the subtle protests of her pre-teen grandson, she laughed at Mac’s hair and gave her lover a huge kiss.

“I don’t know how you can stand to kiss all that hair…”

She reached out and scratched the former merc’s chin, not unlike how she would for Dogmeat, “I don’t know, Shaun; I kinda dig it.”

MacCready lifted his chin and cocked his head to the side, apparently appreciating the sensation, “Thanks, knockout.”

“Gross.”

“Daddy’s beard is not gross!” Duncan shook a finger at his adopted brother, “It’s purdy! It’s got nice red in it; jus like Miss. Cait’s nice hair. And it tickles fun.”

Scooping his son from the floor, Mac kissed his cheek and Duncan squealed with laughter. Favoring Shaun with a superior look, he batted his eyelashes at him, “See? Dunk says it’s purdy.”

“Yeah, it’s purdy gross.”

Wraith watched MacCready chase the boys around the couch, trying to allow their joy to erase all of her recent worry and grief.

Later that evening, Shaun and Wraith were playing Go Fish while MacCready gave his son his bath. She could tell he was trying to work up the nerve to ask her something, but didn’t want to put him off by asking outright.

“Hey, grandma?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you… umm… been to the clinic?”

“I went with the Valentines today.”

“Did you talk to Danse?”

Wraith very slowly lowered her cards, “He’s awake?!”

He waved his hands, “No! No, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hear you. Dr. Curie says that coma patients respond to their loved one’s voices.” He dropped his eyes to the tabletop, “I know you haven’t been to see him. You should go talk to him. I think… you might need to.”

It was true. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to go. Something about standing at Danse’s bedside, and seeing him in that condition, reminded her too much of her one-sided conversations with Nate at the gravesite.

“I think you’re right.” She stood and came around to hug him, “I’ll go right now.”

Wraith started to cry when Curie hugged her.

“Oh! Oh, madame! What is the matter?”

“I’m sorry…”

“Do not apologies! Please tell me how I can help you.”

Wraith sniffled and dropped into a chair, “I know I’ve never been a pillar of emotional stability, but lately… I’m as bad as I think I’ve ever been.”

“What do you mean?”

Wraith laughed humorlessly, “I can’t hug anyone without bawling all over them. I keep giggling like a drunkard over stupid crap and I almost just killed our visitor over a mild insult.”

“Buffout.”

“Wha…”

“You take it quite a bit, no?”

“I… guess…”

“It is quite unnecessary regardless.” Curie pulled her desk chair around so she could sit facing her. Reaching forward, she took Wraith’s hands in hers, “I have been meaning to speak to you on this matter for some time, but it has been difficult for me. I think you have been upping your usage lately; taking some before every possible confrontation. Of which there seems to be a never-ending supply.” She patted her hands as Wraith’s face turned red, “Monsieur Hancock has expressed his concern to you on this, oui? He came to me only because you have dismissed his warnings. You are already shockingly strong Madame, in spirit as well as muscle. It’s possible the Buffout lost its effectiveness long ago; you use it now as a habit rather than a tool.”

It was like getting slapped in the face by a deathclaw gauntlet.

I took some just before the meeting today… Hancock’s been telling me to take it easy? Damn, I don’t even remember…

“I… I think I’m going to cry some more…” She slid out of her chair and onto the floor.

“I will cry too.”

Wraith held out her arms and the two held each other for a time. When the sniffling began to subside, Curie got up to go and get them some water.

“I must apologies for my poor bedside manner; I had wanted to be much more delicate with this and possibly have messieurs Hancock and MacCready here with you.” She sat next to Wraith on the floor and offered her an Addictol inhaler as well, “You didn’t come in here to be ambushed by me. No doubt you’ve come to see mon amour, oui?”

“You’re not ambushing me, Baby Bird. I’m sorry I made you worry.” She nodded toward the ICU room, “How has he been?”

It took a while before she could answer. Her face transitioned from extreme grief to a hopeful smile and back again. “He is… alive. His heartbeat remains strong.” She suddenly stood, “I will leave you two your privacy. Monsieur Sturges has invited me to play cards to ‘get me out of the house’.”

Wraith sat on the floor for several minutes, trying to do breathing exercises, staring at the door to Danse’s room. She had wanted Curie to stay with her but couldn’t find the words to stop her from leaving. Working up the nerve to simply walk to the door and reach out for the knob, took a herculean effort.

He’s not dead, just sleeping. Not dead. He’s sleeping.

He was not sleeping.

Shockingly thin, his breath coming in shallow pants, Danse stood next to his bed, tangled in a mass of IV lines. He was covered in blood and worse from having ripped out as many of the said lines and tubes as he could reach.

He attempted to take a step toward her but stumbled and nearly fell. Holding his arms wrist-up at her, he shook them side to side before gesturing around the room, “Where is this?! Who are you! What...” Momentarily overcome by a coughing fit he lost the energy to stand and collapsed heavily onto the bed, “What happened to me?”

Wraith opened and shut her mouth like a dying fish. She felt the tears streaming down her face as well as a stab of guilt when Danse shot her a look of concern.

He’s reacting to my crying when he doesn’t even… wait…

“You don’t know me?” She grabbed a towel and some gauze, “Please stop pulling out your IVs!”

He studied her face, “You… your eyes… Please tell me…”

“Wraith. I’m Wraith. I’m your friend.” She figured she’d start small. “We have known each other for a couple of years now.”

“Are you a knight?” His voice was weak, gravely and slightly slurred.

“I was. You recruited me. Technically I was a paladin.” She rolled her eyes.

“Was? Why aren’t we in the infirmary on the Prydwen?” He moved the arm she was attempting to bandage out of her reach and attempted, without success, to stand, “Did we lose the police station? You aren’t Brotherhood?”

“No Danse…”

“Paladin Danse.”

“Actually it’s ‘captain’ now.” She wasn’t sure how far she could push it, “You are no longer with the BOS either.”

“Utter nonsense!” This time, his attempt to gain his feet landed him on his backside on the floor, “I demand you return my armor to me immediately!” Overcome yet again by a racking cough, he tried without much success to crawl under the bed.

“Stop hurting yourself!” She was starting to panic, “Look at your arms! Aren’t you feeling that?!”

There was a brief, flickering of recognition in his eyes, “Pain… is inconsequential…” He stared hard into her eyes, “It’s not real… just a damage prevention signal.”

Wraith remembered, “That’s what pain is, you fucking asshole.”

“Wraith!” He held his arms out to her like a small, scared child asking to be picked up.

Easily lifting him back onto the bed, she went to pull away but Danse’s grip around her shoulders tightened. She returned the embrace despite the mess; lying herself next to him. His body shook slightly as his memories returned and the tears fell down his cheeks.

“I’m so glad you’re awake!”

“I feel so foggy…”

“That’d be the meds. And possibly the fact you suffered acute neurotrauma due to a gunshot wound.”

“… explains the headache…”

“Look on the bright side, not many people can brag about having a cranioplasty.”

He chuckled, “Great, even more metal in my head. MacCready’s going to be insufferable.” He squeezed her tighter, his voice soft, “I can always count on you to guide me back to who I truly am. You… you are my sister, Wraith and I love you.”

“I love you too, tin can.”

Thank you so much for reading! Like what you’ve read? Looking for more? Please see my Wraith in the Ruins master link in my tags. As always, if you have any questions/comments/concerns my ask is open. Anon too! I will try to answer promptly and would love to hear from you. More to come. =^..^=

#wraith in the ruins #fallout #fallout fan fiction #fallout fanfic #fallout 4 #fallout 3 #nick valentine #rj maccready #maccready #fallout dogmeat #preston garvey #fallout danse #paladin danse #fallout curie #curie #fallout deacon #deacon #minutemen

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catalinaroleplay · 5 years

Photo

Gender & Pronouns: Female, She/Her

Date of Birth: November 11, 1989 (30)

Place of Birth: Catalina Island, California

Neighborhood: Ventura

Length of Residency: Native ─ Returned 5 months ago

Occupation: Speech Pathologist

Face Claim: Elizabeth Olsen

BIOGRAPHY

TRIGGERS: Parental Death, Substance Mention, Abortion.

I’m here, I said, and it felt shockingly comforting those words. When I’m panicked, I say them aloud to myself. I’m here. I don’t usually feel that I am. I feel like a warm gust of wind could exhale my way and I’d be disappeared forever, not even a sliver of fingernail left behind. On some days, I find this thought calming; on others, it chills me.

The legacy of the de Beauvoir Family in Catalina Island is prodigious. Multiple generations of the family graced town as they grew instantly to success with ‘Beauvoir Bicycles’. Years of patience and dedication to improving the family company, all of the hard work of their bicycle creation soon hit televisions at the 1982 Tour De France by French rider, Laurent Fignon. Not only did The de Beauvoir Family feel honored by a patron of their formerly migrated home of France representing their company, but the success brought endorsements and demands for an investment of more bicycles at a higher production rate. It caused the company to become known within the States and get used by future Tour De France contenders, Lawson Caddock and Ian Boswell. The promotion was simply the beginning of the success for the de Beauvoir family but as well of unbreathable reputation would soon be those generations to come.

Being born a de Beauvoir may come as a belle, anyone and everyone was full of jealously when the announcement of Jolie de Beauvoir was birthed on the 12th of August 1989, to the future monarch of Beauvoir Bicycles, Pierre de Beauvoir, and Charity de Beauvoir née Fitzgerald. The news of the doe-eyed sea-foam angel laced with honey locks instantly spread around Westlake without missing an entire beat. It was tears of happiness for the young couple. Hell, the birth of a child called for a celebration. Three days alive on this planet and Jolie attended her first official black-tie gala held by her family. Too young to even know what she was experiencing, per her mother words, everyone raved over the birth of Jolie and everyone swarmed her with gifts, lots of kisses and any excuse to take a picture with the newborn child who rumored to have cried her doe eyes out every time a camera flashed. People simply treated her as a doll within her first few days of being alive and present in the real world. Even though she was young and unaware of her surroundings, it was almost as if her gut aching knew more encounters and misfortunes in her life would tackle her as Jolie grew up due to her surname association. It was sadly one thing she couldn’t control – being born into this family but most importantly, having Charity de Beauvoir as her mother.

Misfortune soon rolled over once more. Pierre de Beauvoir, the future beloved monarch of his father’s bicycle creation, passed in a car accident before the paramedics and police could arrive on the scene. At this unfortunate incident, Jolie was only two years old. Memories were blurry. Voice of both of her parents instantly caused her ears to ring at the familiarity of them anywhere near her. It was burdensome for a young toddler, honey slow-growing locks secured in pigtails, dazzling heads with her distinctive taste of designer clothes, Chanel to be exact, to understand what death was or why her mother was crying in the first place. The noise alone made her shut her doe-eyed hues instantly in discomfort in the backseat of her car seat. The day, the accident, the sound of her mother reacting must’ve felt like an eternity to the young daughter. Yet, as the world moved at snail speed, everything of the bond between her mother and herself took an instant sharp change from that day forward. Nights, where Charity tucked Jolie off to bed, turned into her nannies’ responsibilities instead. Any moment and bond they formed before vanished into thin air. Whatever order her mother barked at her nannies, who were raising her, needed to be accomplished or else their heads would’ve been on a silver platter. Only at two years old, not only did Jolie end up losing her father but as well as her mother. It was a bitter beginning to what would be a cruel world ahead for her.

As Jolie grew into her age and beauty, were walking and talking was a first-hand nature without any struggles or assistance, the six-year-old came in contact with a new father figure in her life - Christian Howard. A gentle, dark-haired with facial stubble, knelt down to the petite fair toned girl, instantly bringing her into an embrace as this shown affection had become a rarity in Jolie’s youth from the only parent figure she had left – her mother. It was the first impression of the male which left a lasting impression on the young girl. It was like an ounce of happiness was finally on her side. Even if, as the time Jolie spent with Christian would somehow and someway get ruined by her mother and the toxic comments being thrown at her only daughter. It shouldn’t have been this way. Yet, it happened. It wasn’t as if Jolie did anything to her mother nor did she think so, it was the hostility at every given moment. It was unhealthy for a six-year-old to wish she was never born into this universe in the first place. As Christian became a permanent member of the family, new additions were around every corner. The birth of Jolie’s half-sister, Kimberlin, graced everyone’s life. For Jolie, it was for the worst.

As The de Beauvoir – Howard Family grew further into their looks, everything took a sharp turn in Jolie’s life. Drugs, sex, alcohol, boys – you named it, Jolie got her hands on it and was experimenting. Numbing all of the trauma, whiplash of words etched in her conscious and aching her deep within her soul, all of the substances made her feel at harmony at last. Even though, every night at a glorious evening out, the idea of returning back home to her mother and her half-sister, who started to become an identical version of the monster who has been ruining her life, made her want to scream. Christian, her stepfather, was a different story. The relationship between the stepfather and stepdaughter was the only sense of normalcy in her complicated life. Jolie was aware Christian knew about her sudden use of substances. It was clear by his disappointment at how he looked at his stepdaughter on the evening’s she stumbled into their glass mansion in Crystal Cove in a burst of hysterical laughter and happiness, never shown in her sober state. The teenage rebellion Jolie was encountering would proceed forward until her stepfather became her saving grace at seventeen. On the day of her birthday, when Jolie found out she was pregnant with her then boyfriend’s baby, she came running to the one person who would help her out. Her stepfather.

The secret on that frosty November eve brought the bond between stepfather and stepdaughter together. A promise, pinky promise, which could never be broken, had been sworn between both individuals in the parking dim lot before entering into the sterile office to remove what could be a definite change in Jolie’s life forever. And it did. Not in the way where she would have to commit all of her spare time to raise a child. Instead, to the consuming thoughts rattling her conscience about what life could’ve had planned for her and how Jolie potentially ruined life’s plan. She was never the type to think of these scenarios. As a young girl, she was constantly motivated to become her best self and honor her family surname by being the best and nothing less. If anyone ever found out about her pregnancy, even having a child at a young age and avoiding getting her education, it would’ve been more controversy than needed. That’s why she swore her stepfather to keep a secret. Only between them. Not even her then-boyfriend would find out about the brief existence of his child. On Monday morning, Jolie would attend school as if nothing traumatizing over the weekend happened.

Time after time, Jolie experienced trauma and agony from alternative sources. Left and right. Up and down. Things came flying her way. Every time, she stood tall, all she could feel were her knees were ready to buckle and begging for freedom from anyone who doubted her. Even when she didn’t allow other words to affect her on the outside, those words caused her to lay awake every night. It’s what drove her to accept a full-ride position at Saint Xavier University in the Fall, after high school graduation. While the heaviness of her mother’s words and hatred toward Jolie grew stronger along with breaking from the confines of Charity Howard, there were only a few people whom she would miss – her friends. It was why the decision to move to University out-of-town was difficult. But she begged for freedom. To live her own life without someone breathing down her neck and making her feel worthless. Two weeks before school started, Jolie started on a cross country road trip. Taking stops in cities she would’ve never expected herself to visit. Memories were flourishing. This was freedom. All by herself. The young adult was ready to experience her new life ahead of her.

The past eleven years had been some of Jolie’s favored. Having successfully graduated from Saint Xavier University with a Bachelor of Communications Science. Afterward, achieving a Master’s degree in Speech-Language to fulfill her long-term dream aspiration of becoming a Speech Pathologist. Ever since a young age, being there and assisting others came gracefully to her. The love and passion for the field caught her attention after meeting with an advisor her freshman year of university whilst as they provided her knowledge and fields they thought Jolie would succeed effortlessly in. Putting all of her hard work and effort into her education got her precisely where she wanted to be. Although, she studied and achieved the grades, graduating with Summa Cum Laude, along with the addition of having de Beauvoir as her surname, granted her internships and experiences, unlike other university students. It was never like Jolie took her surname for granted. If anything, she appreciated it. It was just the certain people – her mother and stepsister, who haunted her on the daily even with thousands of miles distance between both of them. Even though, she longed and missed for Catalina Island. After all, only one person could handle glacial weathers for substantial period of time. When her current contract with Northwestern University came to an end, the decision of her future was in her hands. It’s how Jolie decided to return back to her hometown and open up her private practice for her Speech Pathology in her quaint, seashore island of a hometown. With recommendations from the handful of trusted doctors at the Ronald Reagan University of California Los Angeles Hospital, patients flock onto a ferry port to Catalina Island for sessions with the trusted and highly reputable Speech Pathologist, Jolie de Beauvoir. As her work career is feverishly flourishing, the beginning for the doe-eyed seafoam graced, platinum tresses of a female, know the chapters of her future are only beginning. Being thirty years old never looked better on her.

PERSONALITY

Positives: Adaptable | Caring | Hardworking

Negatives: Anxious | Secretive | Stubborn

Jolie de Beauvoir is portrayed by Steph.

#parental death tw #substance mention tw #abortion tw #elizabeth olsen

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angeldrcps-blog · 5 years

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✧.° ░ come on girls...get on the floor...we just wanna have some fun !! hello !! it’s me, diana ( or di if u like ), ur resident girl group stan AKLSDHSDH i go by she/her pronouns & reside in the est timezone. i’m sooo sorry this is so late...pls plot with me anyway <3 now onto the intro !! tw: drugs, alcohol, & death mention ( nothing in like graphic detail or anything tho )

background

angelina was a product of her father’s second marriage

he was married for around 10 years to a publicist, but they split after he had an affair. they had a boy together, aka angelina’s half brother ( who is like 7 years older than her )

her father remarried to her mother in 1998, who was 22 at the time. there is a significant age gap between her parents, her father being around 35 at the time of their marriage

her mother was a huge model in the 90s, think like kate moss vibes. her father was a lawyer at a law firm famous for dealing with celebrity scandals and worked exclusively for the upper class. eventually, he would come to own this firm

their relationship was not strange to the media. it was common to see older men pictured with beautiful younger women

her mother fell in love, while her father didn’t feel the same way. he had done the whole ‘love’ thing with his first marriage. his second marriage was solely for his own selfish gain ( what i’m trying 2 say is her father was a gross guy )

her mother got pregnant with angelina shortly after the marriage, so she took a break from her career to have a child. most people said it was career suicide to have a baby while in the peak of her career, but her mother wanted to do the right thing. plus, she was in love. she did dream of starting a family with the man she loved one day, she just hadn’t planned it to happen while she was so young

her father wasn’t ecstatic about having another child, but there was nothing he could do. he could barely be a father to his son, unfortunately

angelina was born in february in the midst of a snow storm

her father was not there to witness her birth. he was promoted to head of his law firm and claimed there was some work thing he simply couldn’t get out of. or maybe it was another affair. at just 7 years old, even angelina’s half brother begged to come when her own father wouldn’t

due to the storm, they were snowed in for the day. even after she was born, her mother and half brother stayed in the hospital watching movies. her half brother had a great affinity to his step mother.

now that i’ve rambled on about her parents i’ll get into the important stuff. angelina can’t complain much about her childhood. it had many downs, but most of her memories were days spent with her half brother, or watching backstage as her mother walked the runway

her brother began teaching her guitar when she was just 6 years old. she fell in love instantly with music and transitioned into playing bass shortly after

her parents were not too happy about her getting into music, but they didn’t have much to say as long as it just remained a hobby

the media was obsessed with angelina and her mother. they were always pictured together wearing matching outfits. angelina was a princess and an heiress. but ultimately, her mother was more like a best friend than a mother. angelina never blamed her. she felt bad that she lost her youth because of her untimely birth

as expected, her father was rarely present. in angelina’s eyes, he was a hollow shell of a person. he never cared about her half brother the same way he didn’t care about her. he had no idea who his children were, and didn’t care enough to find out

that’s why when word of her father’s death reached her, she didn’t shed a single tear. he was found dead in his office, his cause of death being a drug overdose. no one in the family had any ideas he was a drug user. her mother was impacted heavily by his sudden death. despite the way he treated his family, she was in love with him

angelina’s mom found it hard to cope with the loss and was able to be there for angelina even less than before. all angelina had left was her brother, and it was them against the world

her brother was there for angelina as much as he could be. he never wanted to leave her on her own, but he needed to finish school and take care of business. when her father died, he was the heir to the firm

during her teen years, angelina was free to do what she wanted. with no one there to watch her, she knew she could get away with anything, as long as she could manage to stay out of the public’s eye

her passion for music grew, and she found herself doing all sorts of things with all sorts of people. she was introduced to a world of parties, drugs and alcohol, but for her that was just the beginning. she wanted more from life

eventually she began engaging in past times that put her at risk, but she had no regard for the consequences. her father’s death served as a constant reminder of how short life is, so she would do anything to make the most of it

angelina would try anything at least once. to her, experience was everything

at 17, she found her way back to her mother and told her she wanted to pursue music. her mother objected at first. she always had this dream that angelina would follow in her footsteps and pursue modeling. she had the look and the connections, it would’ve been hers for the taking

but music was her dream and her passion. her mother finally agreed, but only if angelina agreed to pursue a pop, mainstream sound. she didn’t want angelina to be associated with the image that came with some musicians, so she did everything she could to maintain angelina’s pristine image

angelina agreed, only because it was better than not pursuing music at all. she started playing shows at small venues with only a handful of fans, but eventually, the world fell in love with her as a bubblegum pop princess. she maintained the sound for a few years before deciding she could not lie to herself and her fans for any longer

she left her record label, leaving her mother and fans disappointed. the only people who expressed their support were her brother and her friends

this is where she is at now career wise, about to comeback with her new look and sound. she has no idea how the public will take it, but when the article about the brat pack dropped, her image was hurt even more. most people and critics think her comeback will kill her career, but a select few look forward to her new music

personality

angelina tends to go with the flow. she doesn’t have a very assertive personality and tends to adapt to fit a group of people, or a location. she doesn’t have a sense of self

while she values her alone time and tends to be more guarded with her emotions, she loves to be around people. she spent most of her childhood alone, so now that she has a good group of friends, she appreciates any time spent with them

she is extremelyyyy reckless. she’s never faced any consequences for her actions, so it’s thrilling to her. even if she were to get caught, she wouldn’t really care. she’s always seeking the next thrill and tries to convince other people to do stupid shit with her as well

she is an aquarius sun gemini moon. having two air placements as some of her most dominant placements has left her flighty and non-committal in most relationships. it’s not that she’s closed off to the idea of falling in love, she just needs someone to keep her on her toes. she gets bored easily

it takes a lot to make her actually angry because she gets over things fairly quickly, but there is a few fire placements somewhere in her chart that can make her a bit feisty if she gets really upset. it’s pretty rare tho

not rly personality but she’s bisexual !!!

wanted connections

party buddies - this is pretty basic and self explanatory, but someone angel can go out and have fun with. their friendship is might be more surface level, or prob started that way, but it’s possible they’re closer friends (maybe angelina opened up one day when under the influence of something

ex-fling/gf/bf - angelina is more the non-committal type so it’s more likely for her to have an ex fling than an actual ex bf or gf, but it could still have been a serious un-labeled relationship, actual bf or gf, or just an ex fling. they could be on bad terms, good terms, still have feelings, not have feelings, u name it

unrequited crush - ur character could have feelings for angel, but maybe she doesn’t feel them back or is unaware that they like her. this could develop into her eventually having feelings for ur muse or not, whatever we want! OR she could have a crush on someone who does not like her back. maybe they’re even more non-committal than she is, or they simply do not like her back. we could plot this out however

current fling/friends w benefits - someone she is currently seeing/sleeping with. could be no strings attached, or there could b some feelings there. maybe they don’t want to make it anything serious, or maybe they’re ready to take it to the next level. maybe one person is ready to go further, and the other isn’t.

enemies w benefits - imagine the tension!!! they started out hating each other, but ended up hooking up. maybe it was a one time thing, or maybe they can’t stop going back to each other. i think it would b cool if they kept it a secret, they don’t want anyone else to know. this could develop however we want

ex-friends - someone she used to consider a close friend, but they had a falling out for whatever reason n maybe they hate each other now. maybe they want to re-kindle their friendship but don’t know how

sibling-like friendship - someone she sees like a sibling. they’re there for each other and look out for one another, always have each other’s backs

dynamic duo - could be her current best friend. this person is prob one of the closest people to her and has actually managed to break down some of her walls

confidant - someone who confides in her or someone she confides in, or they confide in each other. they don’t necessarily have to be the closest friends ever, but they get along, trust each other, and maybe they talk more in private

rivals - they hate each other for whatever reason. maybe it’s jealousy or their personalities just clash, but for whatever reason they do not get along. i love a good enemies plot. they can just b nasty to each other!!! maybe they bring out a really bad side to angelina that most ppl dont see

safe haven - *mini drug tw* i did not know how to label this so i apologize for the name. but i think it would b cool if someone helped her out during a bad night. she typically saves herself from situations that aren’t looking too hot, and one day she couldn’t but luckily ur muse was there to help. maybe she drank too much or did too many drugs or mixed the two and ended up rly bad. either way, i would love for someone to have helped her during a rough. she would probably feel really confused and guilty and like she owes them, and also extremely grateful. maybe ur muse can manipulate her bc of it and make her do things bc she owes them, or maybe they genuinely had good intentions. i would also b down for a plot about her helping someone else out of a sticky situation!!

bad influence - i would loveeee for her to be a bad influence on someone. someone she can corrupt in a way, or just lead down a bad path akshkjhd and get them to try new, and not-so-good, things

good influence - someone to be a good influence on her. someone who brings out the best in her and tries to steer her down a better path

partner in crime - someone who does crazy, illegal shit w her. someone who is always down for the next adventure n they have crazy memories together

childhood friends - someone who knew her when she grew up. they grew up together in the media, or maybe their friendship was set up by their parents. maybe they were just friends out of their own free will, but grew apart when they grew older. the possibilities are endless!!!

#✧.° ░ 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒂 ╱ ooc.#bratsintro #i apologize bc yes this did get long.... and it's so late....#but i'm finally here <3 #and ready to plot !!!!#i'm so excited okay whew #i listed a few potential connection ideas that we can expand on #OR we can completely come up w something new #i'm so indecisive i had trouble picking a gif for this post...#this is so embarrassing..

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 5 years

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Congratulations, Joss! You’ve been accepted to play Amelina Martinez. Your request to change her FC to Emeraude Toubia has also been approved. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: I’m very excited for the future plotting! - Admin J

IC INFORMATION — CHARACTER DESIRED Amelina Martinez DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS I think the word that stood out to me most in Amelina’s bio is 'obsessed’. Her obsession with avenging Luis and her obsession with bagging Morgan seem to stem from the same unexpressed need. She’s stuck always being that 14 year old girl, never able to move on from seeing her brother selling drugs and then later finding out he was dead. The two events are sort of locked into her head, and after that, she stopped growing up so much as simply getting older. Other people can move on from grief, but there’s this block there for her, and I think it’s surrounding the fact that they weren’t actually that close, that he’d already been to prison by the time she was starting high school, that it embarrassed her in front of her friends to see her brother like that. I think there was a ton of shame for her with this screw-up of a brother of hers, and not just a little anger. Why couldn’t he just get his shit together and get a real job and be a real man? Maybe she even said that to him, and then later, he was dead, and she never really got to know him, or take back her words, or realize she should have told her parents. That getting him sent back to prison on a parole violation, which her extremely Catholic and law-abiding family would’ve done, would’ve been better than dying on the street like a dog. I don’t think her parents ever got over his death either. Him going to prison was hard enough, but then their eldest son dying before he was 25 just broke them. So there’s this house with three broken people, and they all handle their grief differently. To me, Amelina is Inigo Montoya, preparing to take out the whole damn Costello gang. What’s ironic is that she hasn’t done the math on Luis getting shot and realized he was probably shot by a Sinclair. In another life, Ameline became a cop and worked a gang detail, maybe working undercover. In another life, she became a community organizer and worked at a youth centre helping to keep other kids from ending up like her brother. In another life, she got married too young to a boy a lot like Luis and got sucked into a shitty life because she felt like she deserved it, as some sort of punishment. In this world, she swore revenge. She became a spy from the beginning, learning about a world that she had no doorway into by sheer will. She spent 15 years figuring out how to get access to a gang, when she could’ve just joined up. But she isn’t interested in being her brother and owned by someone else. She wants to own them. Which leads me to her interest in Morgan. Now, Morgan has a lot of animal magnetism and is obviously gorgeous, but I don’t really think if he were just a man, Amelina would look twice. I don’t even think it’s the power and the privilege he has, though she probably thinks that’s what it is, that drives her to him. She tells herself she wants to be his wife, to supplant Penny, to satisfy him on some level that he no longer feels, but I think those are just surface thoughts. What Morgan actually is for her, is death. Her death drive is jacked all the way up, not to the point of suicide, but to the point where death seems like an acceptable outcome if the result is revenge. She’s had this need for so long, she can’t plan for the future anymore. She can’t have dreams, she can’t have plans, she only has this one thing, and Morgan will use her to get it, and he won’t care if he breaks her to do it, and she wants that so badly. Everyone else in her life looks at her and wants to protect her or love her or just views her as unimportant. Only Morgan looks at her and sees a weapon. And that’s what she’s turned herself into. She can run a half-marathon in an hour and forty five minutes, she’s learned Krav Maga, she has killer aim, and most of all, she can lie so well that even she believes it sometimes. All she needs is for someone to just pull the trigger and fire her at the enemy. What was she up to in those fifteen years? Can you get experience in revenge? She couldn’t exactly go out and find a swordmaster to train her or something. She got a series of jobs that she hated and never got a promotion because she couldn’t care less. She went to school but never finished that accounting degree, or information management diploma, or even that administrative assistant certificate, because the idea of being anything for the rest of her life seems impossible to imagine. She made friends she couldn’t hold onto, and had relationships she didn’t care about, and she just … absorbed information. She went to Costello clubs, she hung with Costello people, she learned about them, and by doing so, learned about the Sinclairs. It actually took her a while to realize the Sinclairs were useful, because at first she thought she could do it all on her own, like people in the movies. After years of collecting evidence, only to realize it was useless because no one was going to prosecute them, and punishment meant nothing to people who owned the system, she finally turned her attention to the Sinclairs, under the principle that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. WRITING SAMPLE Her target, Luca Costello, was drunk as shit and just turned 18. Spending money like it had an expiration date and begging girls to help him celebrate. She wondered if he even knew what his family did for a living. On the one hand, how could he not, when he was surrounded by it all the time? But on the other, how could he really understand what they did and still throw bills around like the world was a game and he’d already won? “Hi.” “Hey. You’re … pretty. You wanna get married?” This wasn’t what she’d imagined. Was it really this easy? “I wanna go back to your place. Take me home.” “Okay. Yeah, let’s do that, we can totally … I have coke at home. And like, every booze. All the booze. I’ll even order pizza if you want!” He smiled and touched her hair. She let him. It didn’t matter what he did. None of it mattered. It was all just research. *** He lay on the bed, passed out after she’d fed him three more drinks and listened to him tell her about some girl named Juliet and how she’d broken his heart again. He’d done a few lines of coke and that had pretty much made him tell her everything she could’ve ever wanted to know, and several things that she didn’t, about his life. It was kind of sad how little there was of it. His beloved twin sister, who sounded like a little bitch, his parents who were equal parts proud and disappointed in him, his friends who sounded like the worst sort of entitled pricks, his older siblings who seemed barely aware of him and who were embedded in the business enough to be soaked in blood. Climbing off him, her t-shirt left back in the living room, since breasts seemed to make men more chatty, and her pants by the side of the bed, to give him hope that they might actually fuck, she sat on the bed and just breathed. What the fuck did she do now? She’d thought this part would be the complicated part, that she’d have to jump through hoops, talk her way in, be so smooth that no one suspected anything. She hadn’t really let herself consider what happened next. Mostly all she could think about was the other Costellos. It was obvious Luca wasn’t really involved in the business, but they were. The oldest ones might even have been a part of the business when Luis was still alive. Had they put him on that street corner where he died? Was he just a scratched out line for them in some notebook somewhere? Did they even care? How could they not realize that their choices had left a fucking cemetary worth of bodies in their wake? Did they look in the mirror and see a monster? She was up and pacing and hadn’t even noticed. No one had ever taken anything from them. No one had ever made them face the cost of 'doing business’ before. They were all pampered, precious little vampires sucking the blood out of Chicago’s poor and desperate. She was back on the bed now, straddling him, staring down at his sleeping face that had never known real pain. What did he have to grieve? A girl who didn’t fall at his feet? He was a stupid little boy, a waste of education and opportunity. He’d had everything that she and Luis hadn’t, and he hadn’t become anything more than they had. It was hard to look at him. He was a boy, younger than Luis, his hair curling at the edges. He was a Costello, his very existence an insult to her own loss. She had a pillow in her hand and pressed it against his face. He didn’t even struggle. He could die like this, and maybe his family would think it was just some sort of freak accident. They would know just a fraction of what she felt, with their money insulating them from anything real. They’d know something, even if they didn’t even know her brother’s fucking name. He was moving a little under her, trying to push her off, when she heard a noise. A door opening. Was someone else home? Had someone come in and she hadn’t heard them? Was it the police? The rest of the Costellos? Did they somehow all know what she was doing? Lifting the pillow away, Lina froze and Luca took a breath. He coughed and his hand reflexively grabbed her bare thigh where it pressed against his. She was straddling Luca Costello’s thighs in a mismatched bra and panties, clutching her murder weapon to her chest like she was about to start a pillow fight. There was a man standing in the doorway looking at her. He didn’t look embarrassed, which was the part that confused her. They both looked at each other for a moment, and Lina needed to think of a lie. Nothing stuck in her head, everything was blank. She knew, on some level, she was panicking. She managed to choke out a gasp, and hopped off of Luca and onto the floor. Stumbling, the blood rushing away from her head where it had been pounding moments before, her feet numb from kneeling on them, she moved like a drunk co-ed. Yes, drunk. She was drunk. She was just another drunk girl, probably one of dozens that Luca brought home. “Oh my God, what’re you doing here?” Her voice was unsteady and breathy, but that was normal, right? Was anything normal? “My cousin texted me that he’d just proposed to his future wife. You two aren’t married, are you?” The question was so unexpected that Lina just automatically shook her head and held out her left hand, as if showing that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring was the normal response in these situations. “Good. His mother would kill me if he got married the day he turned legal.” The man, Luca’s cousin, didn’t even seem to be really talking to her, he wasn’t even looking at her directly. “Could you … maybe put something on?” Snatching the sheet off the bed, Lina wrapped herself in it and sank to the floor, so much adrenaline in her system that she couldn’t breathe and could taste her own heartbeat. “I’m feeling … woozy. Can you find my shirt?” She just needed him to leave, to go away. He’d seen her face, but what were the odds he’d be able to ever recognize her again? If he would just leave, she could … Luca made a noise like a sad puppy on the bed and fell off of it onto the floor. He didn’t wake up, but was now curled up like a baby. Why had the cousin come home? Why was he here? What kind of fucked up family were they? “I don’t think I know you. What’s your name?” Oh fuck. He knew. He knew she wasn’t one of Luca’s friends, he knew something was up. Someone at the club had warned him, maybe? She didn’t know. But he didn’t know what she didn’t know, did he? She was just a dumb drunk girl. “I’m Lina. Luca told me he had coke. He asked me to marry him but I didn’t say yes … can you see my pants?” Why had she said her real name? She was a fucking idiot. Grabbing her pants, she went to stand up and fell into the bed, knocking herself into the arms of the cousin. She was pressed against his body, and he had a gun, it felt like a bad joke, is that a gun I feel or are you just happy to see me? Only it was a gun, it really was. And he was looking at her now, and she did the only thing she could think of. She passed out, dead dropping in his arms. He carried her. That was the crazy part. He carried her to the living room like something out of a romance movie, only it wasn’t romantic at all, and then just stared at her for a moment. Even with her eyes closed, she could tell somehow, that he was watching her. Trying not to shake, or even breathe too hard, she lay there and wondered if this was the part where he shot her. Was he going to press the muzzle to her head, or just pull the trigger? Would she hear it coming before she died? Christ, was this how it had felt to be Luis? She couldn’t even cry, weirdly calm, like there was a wall and all her fear was behind it, waiting to crash over her, but she couldn’t quite feel it yet. “Amelina Belinda Pilar Martinez. Where do you live?” Oh Christ, he knew she was awake, he was talking to her, oh God, she was going to die now. But then she realized what she was hearing. He was going through her wallet. The wallet that had been in the pants she was holding when she pretended to pass out. Oh fuck, this was even worse. He knew who she was. He knew her name. He had her goddamn driver’s license. “Mike, can you bring the car around? Yes, Luca’s. Just a girl. They’re both passed out, I don’t want her getting into more of his nose candy and OD'ing. Yeah, exactly. I’ll stay with him, make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit. Yes, well, it is his birthday. See you soon.” Lying there, a cold certainty hit her. She wasn’t prepared for this. She didn’t know what the fuck she was doing. She didn’t even know which fucking cousin this guy was. She’d made all these lists, all these observations, all these half-baked plans, but she hadn’t done anything about them. Here she was, lying on Luca Costello’s floor, and she had no idea what to do. What if anything had gone wrong before this? What if Luca had woken up while she’d been smothering him? Christ, what if Luca had been playing music and she hadn’t heard his cousin come in? She could just give up. Admit that it had all been stupid. Go back to her pointless life and just keep living, day in and day out, and eventually die, having accomplished nothing. Fuck that. She would just have to figure out how to be better. She would. And then next time, she’d know what to do. And she’d never feel like this again. EXTRAS She reads the tabloids religiously to keep up with the Costello siblings. Not necessarily a playlist, but pretty much the new album from Billie Eilish is Lina’s soundtrack right now, with a lot of Lana Del Rey thrown in and the Kill Bill soundtrack on top (just because she loves that movie and has seen it 10 times).

Her favourite book is the Count of Monte Cristo.

#accepted

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peacefrogg · 6 years

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Being a therapist is lonely and difficult.

Let me just say, I love my job. I work with delinquent youth at the most secure facility within my state. That's the most descript I can get in terms of describing the facility. My office is on the mental health unit where I'm assigned, so I'm in the thick of it, sometimes having to get involved in restraining these youth when they're acting violently. Compared to the other facilities in the state, we look like a prison (barbed wire fences, individual cells with a metal bed frame, desk, and toilet, must be buzzed through each door by a person in the security booth). However, we are a treatment facility and in my state, juveniles are not considered to be "inmates" and employees are not considered "correctional officers." We are staff. They are residents. This is a human services field.

Side note, I know some believe that adults should never put their hands on kids. I agree. Its hard to explain this job to anybody who has never been in it firsthand. I'm dealing with extremely violent youth. Yes, oftentimes (most times) many are acting out of emotion or trauma, and it is so hard to watch when you know they're not intending to harm others or when they're trying to stay safe themselves. Intervening in a physical manner is sometimes necessary to ensure and maintain safety when these youth are actively violent. There are some staff who go overboard or use restraints in, to put it gently, an entirely unacceptable manner. I've seen it firsthand, but I've also seen how higher up within the system they are embracing a no tolerance attitude whereas in the past a blind eye was turned. However, there is a time and a place where having to physically manage these youth in a safe way is unfortunately necessary, and in my specific position I have the advantage of teaching these kids ways to prevent themselves from becoming harmful as well as standing up for them if staff become out of line. Unlike others, I know these kids are just that, kids.

Back to my original point, this is a lonely and difficult job as a therapist. I end up playing multiple roles because of the nature of the job and where my office is located. To give some idea of what the specific youth I work with are like, they are (generally) between the ages of 16-21 (can be as young as 13, though that's rare), they have varying diagnoses. Most common being ADHD, Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, Autism Spectrum Disorder, Bipolar, and Intellectual Disabilities. Though we do often see other diagnoses such as Schizophrenia, Schizoaffective Disorder, Intermittent Explosive Disorder, and Oppositional Defiant Disorder. Many of them are violent. Many of them have problematic sexual behaviors (anywhere from exposing themselves to others to rape). Most of them have a history of trauma and abuse.

Although this sounds like a lot to deal with, they're still just kids who are struggling, and due to the nature of their histories and cognitive abilities, it's sometimes like working with younger children. They are needy, which is understandable due to their histories. Some of them have been completely abandoned by their parents and are completely alone.

Because of my caring nature and being around them frequently outside of therapy sessions, I'm considered the "mom" of the unit, which feels weird because I'm only 29 and nowhere near old enough to be a parent to these kids. I think that line gets blurred from therapist to "mom" because I also have to be an authority figure and hold them to their daily expectations and behavioral standards when I'm outside of sessions. I have to get involved in deciding consequences for major offenses committed while they are in the facility such as assaults and sexually acting out behaviors (law states there is no consent in placement/facilities). But I also am the person they want to see the most due to the nature of my position. I'm naturally good at what I do (the one time I feel confident enough to toot my own horn) and I'm as supportive, caring, and genuine as possible, which makes them form emotional bonds/attachments toward me. So I think because I have to be an authority figure on top of being their therapist, it gives off that motherly vibe. Which in any other setting I would say is problematic because it blurs the lines of my role, but its impossible to avoid in this environment, so I have to find creative ways to navigate this.

I do truly care about these kids which is hard to work through, especially because I have minimal supervision. When I say minimal, I mean my supervisor saw me in person three times last year. So I don't have any help in navigating how to properly maintain my boundaries.

On top of this, staff do not understand my role at all. There is only one other therapist in the facility. She used to be the only one for several years, and then two more were hired but left within a year (two years ago, which is when I was promoted). Most therapists do not want to work in this environment once they see what its like and how their offices are directly on the unit and how they have to get involved in restraints (blurring the line even further). I began as a line staff for a year before I was promoted (when the two other therapists left), and I was a line staff for three years at another facility, so I knew what I was getting into. But because there is such a high turnover for therapists and because we only had one for several years, staff have never seen what my position is supposed to look like, only what they've assumed. So I get a lot of scrutiny from staff. They criticize because they have no idea how difficult this position truly is. They believe its just therapy sessions. They don't understand that I also have to be an authority to residents, work on staff development, be a liaison with various probation officers, placing counties, judges, CYS workers, write court reports, testify in court, administer assessments, write psychological and psychosexual reports, etc. I have to train staff on various mental health topics, which is rough because I'm young for the position, so I'm often looked at as if I have no idea what I'm talking about.

Its hard for me to rely on the other therapist. On one hand, shes been in our facility for 10 years, so she knows the position inside and out. It's a very political position at times, and she is a big help for that. However, she doesn't connect with the kids. She's very invalidating and unsupportive of the emotions of her residents, and she's one of those people who are always right. So the kids don't enjoy her as much, and in return, she handles that by criticizing everything I do. Her way is the right way, even though many approaches can bring about the same result. But if it's not her approach, it's wrong. She's very traditional in the sense that she's very pro-medication and mainly talk therapy. I'm more holistic (I'm called the hippy therapist, and it's not inaccurate) and creative with my interventions, because I know the kids understand it more and it reduces their anxiety, helping them feel more safe to talk about their problems. Keep in mind these kids didn't ask to go to therapy or be here, so you have to get them to buy into it on top of finding a way to get them to trust after feeling like they can trust nobody (remember, trauma and abuse histories). So although I'm effective in what I do and I'm proud of it, I'm constantly facing scrutiny from those who don't understand and judgment from the other therapist, who is also 16 years older than me.

I feel like I have these super high standards I have to meet just to be taken seriously, and since nobody else understands my position, I don't have anybody to vent to who gets me. Even my own therapist doesn't truly understand. It's a very lonely feeling. With my own mental health issues on top of it all (anxiety, depression, abandonment issues, PTSD, life-long emotional neglect), its like I have no escape. I'm constantly anxious that I'm doing horribly. I just began working through my own trauma in therapy, so sometimes I end up feeling triggered by or identifying with my residents. Which again is hard to navigate on my own without supervision. My own therapist just abandoned me (I'll save that for a later post). My friends are line staff, so their job is safety and security. I have to train my own friends on mental health approaches, and they see it as more of casual conversation and suggestions instead of training and necessity. It feels like my own friends don't take me seriously.

I co-run the unit with a supervisor of two counselors (essentially case managers who also do individual sessions to address behaviors) and two lower-level supervisors of line staff. He is my equal, but he focuses on behavioral issues and structure of the unit, where I'm in charge of mental health. He has power and control issues, so he tries to take over completely and he tries to supervise me. As if that's not enough, his wife is the other therapist so he's constantly trying to push her agenda on my unit (she works on the unit that specializes in sexual behaviors, and she and I "share" the general population unit essentially for the city thug type kids involved with drugs, guns, robbery/theft, and violence). He's super critical, which sucks because all I want is his approval and to hear that I'm doing a good job. I know I'm effective.

I know my kids enjoy me and I want to cry just thinking of how much they are growing and progressing. It makes me super proud of them because all I do is validate and support, and teach them the tools and resources they need to be successful. But they're doing it on their own and it's so heartwarming. Where that makes it all worth it in the end, its still a difficult and lonely journey.

I wish it didn't feel so lonely.

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