#kind of in line with what kitsch is saying in some sense

[cethvalier]

thinking hard abt elisabeth wearing the ich gehör nur mir nightgown in der schleier fällt

[agentem]

Emily watches "Deadpool and Wolverine"

I'm not sure where to start. I liked it. I don't think it's as good as No Way Home. But it's certainly better than a lot of Fox X-Men movies. It's not really the big cameo-fest that some internet people were suggesting. I mean, there are background mutant bad guys. But there are only really five or six characters from the 20th Century Fox and New Line Cinema Marvel movies that matter.

You need to have seen the Deadpool films, Logan, and the Loki TV series for this to make sense. I worry some people aren't going to know the TVA stuff.

And there are only really two characters from the actual MCU that make an appearance. (And one of them I didn't know about and if you had TOLD ME she was in it, I would've bought my tickets even faster.)

I guess I should spoiler cut

WUMNI MOSAKU!!! My beloved Hunter B-15 (I hope she has a name now?) I love that she gets to be, like, the head of everything in this. Once she shows up, you know shit's gonna be fine. I was told it was going to be Mobius. And B-15 is better in my opinion because I love a woman in charge.

The other is Jon Favreau as Happy Hogan, who turns down Wade's application to join the Avengers in the beginning. That is set in Earth-616 (which is what Kevin Feige insists on saying the MCU is even though Iman Vellani has told him otherwise). But then he's in another universe, which I assume is the Fox universe, later. And I'm not sure how that works because he had Cable's time turner thing but I didn't know he could leap universes. Whatever, he's Deadpool. He does what he wants.

The fact that Dafne Keen was in it as X-23 was spoiled from the trailers but I didn't realize she was the Laura from Logan until she took out the sunglasses. I gasped. (And I'm kind of bummed to find out those kids Logan saved got to have maybe 5-7 years before their entire universe went away? And that's it?)

But somehow she is magically saved at the end--even though the other cameos "died heroically"--which is the only thing that matters (thank you, B-15!!!).

After seeing Channing Tatum's Gambit, I am very glad that movie didn't happen. It looked quite bad. Honestly, I prefer Taylor Kitsch.

Do you think they are saving the actual X-Men actor cameos for Secret Wars? Like where is flying Rogue. I want to see Rogue fly.

[dharmadischarge]

Top 5 Novels: or it gets dark around here early.

So now I am trying to say something. That is all. No, that will not do at all... Here is a list of my top 5 novels, with one short review and four long ones.

1, Jim Dodge - Stone Junction. Reading Stone Junction by Jim Dodge is like meeting the father you never had

2, Thomas Pynchon - Gravity's Rainbow Subtlety is overrated... and just because you have a boner doesn't mean you're a terrorist. I mean, it doesn't mean you're not causing those rockets to come from the sky. But, still, that is beside the point.

For me, this book is about obliterating the arbitrary distinction between high and low culture. The ironically arbitrary distinction between good and evil and the dangerously subtle distinction between despondency and hope.

Fractured, layered, elusive, you could accuse Pynchon of all these things.

The way characters bleed into one another to make one voice. A hellish symphony of discordant cries of pain reaching out to a belief that there is a light at the end of the tunnel and paranoia is the glue.

Also, it is funny. Like in a dumb way and there are songs. Also, dumb.

Everyone will talk about how polarising this book is but I don't believe it. you can follow the bouncing ball and sing along or live in fear that at any moment the terror will become real and you will collapse into ellipsis...

It is the third and newer testament. An epilogue to western culture as racist cultural energy written by a crazy white guy. T.S. Elliot and his wasteland were a prelude, in hindsight, nothing but a john the baptist-like figure for the cross that Pynchon presents to all readers as their burden to carry with this book.

Hope is crazy painful, consciousness is such a fragile thing and the burden of consciousness is the pain of knowing that (beyond the act of effort itself) it is a futile one.

Jim Dodge once said, "a stone falls till it hits the earth, transcend what?" and that about sums it up.

3, Cormac McCarthy - Blood Meridian.

Blood Meridian is a kind of repetitious, primeval-hillbilly level of primitive interpretation of the morality expressed in the book of revelation fighting its way onto the page as barely literate poetry.

It is not a book of social niceties, justice, or the warm feeling you get when you do something good. also, this book could also easily be seen as porn for serial killers.

I scanned the reviews and saw all the campy (and not the good kind of campy) parodies this kind of book inspires in the age of irony we live in (though it seems like it is on its last legs). And while I like me a good parody, I find that Eli Cash did it better.

There is something to be said about how Cormac McCarthy (ab)uses the English language. The one good line I read from one of the negative reviews of his books was that a middle schooler could list what he doesn't like about the kids who bully him and that this list would have more emotional nuance and better use of punctuation than a Cormac McCarthy novel. This is fair.

The conceptional power of Blood Meridian though is that it frames cruelty and violence for what it is: reality. While also through its sometimes monotonous exaggeration of William Faulkners styled repetitions it creates a sense of unreality. A sense that like David Lynch's best work that we are walking, daily, through something so evil and violent that it borders on slapstick, and at last we laugh in self-defense.

I think the people who parody the book without much thought got trapt in the intellectual self-defense state that is part of coping and couldn't see the forest for the trees.

Civilization is a fragile thing, it is the human race trying to domesticate itself, and the longer it goes on the more it seems like we're just sweeping what we don't like under the rug.

4, John Crowley - Little, Big.

There is a kind of hokey-Americana style kitsch that most of my favorite writers could be accused of, from, Tom Robbins to Jim Dodge. John Crowley may be the peak of it. It could be because on the surface Americans don't have a unified culture we are a melting pot with capitalism only encouraging the lowest common denominator (the pursuit of greed as its own reward).

But in any creative act that does not presume to be the literal expression of anything but pure gratitude, there is politics. The politics of worth, of greatness, inherent value, and the desire to prove that the wisdom offered was truly earned. That a difficult pleasure does not mean that there is none.

This is an American fairytale. A once upon a time that seems eerily to remind of another Crowley, that codesigned the deck of Thoth tarot cards (A really good one for those curious) more than the writers of magical realism. And probably because I didn't read this in translation I preferred it to a hundred years of solitude. This may seem random to people of the fantasy crowd who know that genre is only a limitation to artistic merit if you want it to be (usually for cultural-political reasons). but people often compare this book to Gabriel Garcia Marquez's writing. And while they are both family chronicles with supernatural elements. this is kind of a shallow comparison.

Crowley's work is more in the tradition of an occult mystic, and Gabo is more a romantic using personal folklore as the vocabulary of that romantic expression (of which I think love in the time of cholera, is his masterpiece).

I am trying to not give away any spoilers, or even talk about specifics at all. but the ending is worth it. Like most things in life, it's your journey to go on so I won't ruin it for you, but they are out there waiting for you, where the lights never go out.

5, Neil Gaiman - The Ocean at the End of the Lane.

"words save our live's sometimes"

I was a frustrated borderline feral child, who could not deal with reality. My parents taught me how to read and not much else. I was homeschooled and weighed three hundred pounds by the time I was thirteen. I remember one night unable to deal with any more abuse that I laid down and decided my dreams would have to be enough, I close my eyes and went away for a long time. Lettie Hempstock's ocean is real to me I almost drowned in it.

When I was a teenager the cult-like fundamentalist atmosphere of my home life became less extreme, but the damage was done. I was still in the ocean. it says something about my state of mind that the closest I came to getting traction on reality was starting a habit of reading insistently, my favorite book was Stardust by Neil Gaiman.

Once on Twitter, I told him "thank you" for writing it. I later after reading this book I wrote a short review of this book and sent it to him. He said "thank you" to me in a @ mention. It was nice. I later @ mentioned him in a playfully sarcastic way and he deleted his original comment.

I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia when I was twenty-four or twenty-five. I have been told I had childhood-onset schizophrenia. I have been told I milk it. I have been told that I self isolate.

I have been writing reviews tonight, going through my favorite books, and just live streaming my mind. Thinking about how they made me feel and what they make me think. Neil Gaiman's work always makes my brain retreat on itself. Possibly because of stardust. But more than that it is the wisdom he has. He knows that stories are true in a way that transcends a mere list of facts. communicating for those with an ear to listen that there is more than what we know, there is more than our understanding, there is more than us. More than you, more than me. There is an ocean that is healing for some while necessarily absent for others.

We forget, and we remember. Each other and ourselves. Cruelty and innocence. But there is an ocean and it is Lettie Hempstock's.

[jaz-xedarix]

The Return of the Star

Thank you so much for your patience and your nice words. I really appreciated them too much. 

So finally I have finished part II, and things are starting to get really interesting.

As I promised there’s a new coloring among the text, I really hope you like it, and I put another one, but a bit older, since I couldn’t resist to post it in this part XD

Thanks so much to @buffaloborgine​ and @trinity-blood-translations for helping me correct this text, your effort is valuable to me. Send you lots of love my friends.

Let’s get started.

               ════════════╠☆╣════════════

                                      II

The Istvan Opera House was located on Andrássy Street, the main avenue of the city. It was an old style building that had survived Armageddon. After the liberation battle, it was the first place restored by the archbishop, to serve as a public building for the citizens. 

The building was built in a magnificent and delicate Neo-Renaissance style. It was an imposing work that could be compared to the Scala in Milan, the Opernhaus in Vienna or the Státní in Prague. The facade had a secluded air, but once inside the decorations in gold and purple colors overwhelmed the visitor with their luxury. 

The “guest of honor” entrance that Esther passed through was no exception. In the boxes facing the wide stage, the rugs were so thick that they reached to the ankles, as if she were in a lavish palace. The walls were lined with works of art and all the furniture had been expressly imported from Rome or Florence. 

However, everything paled when compared to the beauty of the woman who was waiting for her sitting on the sofa. 

“Welcome, Sister Esther. You may be exhausted after the trip...” 

The Cardinal Caterina Sforza, Duchess of Milan, Secretary of State of the Vatican and head of its foreign policy, gave a friendly welcome to the nun. Telling her to sit on the couch that was in front, where the two priests was already sitting, she laid her cup of tea on the table. 

“I've was told you've had a difficult time with the media at the station. I am glad that you are well.” “Nothing happened… More than anything, it was a surprise that…” 

Looking into the gray eyes that smiled at her behind the monocle, the nun awkwardly shook her head like a puppet. For Esther, the Cardinal was a person almost as sacred as the Virgin. Every time she presented herself to her, she couldn't help but get nervous and tense. She brushed off the sweat she didn't have and continued in an uneasy voice: 

“Your Eminence, the journalists called me Saint… what kind of joke is this? And why am I the protagonist of the play that is going to be performed here tonight?” “We'll talk about all that later...” Adjusting her monocle, the beautiful woman looked up at the stage, the curtain still closed, and sighed. “His Holiness will be here shortly. He is accompanied by the Minister of Information, who is the one who has organized all this. I myself know only part of the story. It will be better if he tell us all about it in person… What I want to hear now is what news you bring me from the Empire.” 

The cardinal spoke with the usual serenity. However, her voice had hardened slightly as she turned her gaze back to the nun and priest, as she crossed her legs under her habit.

“Were you able to contact the empress?” “Yes, we have to inform you about it.” Esther steadied herself and her voice changed as she began to recite the report that she had been rehearsing mentally in the way: “We were fortunate enough to have direct contact with the Empress in...” “Well, the truth is that we couldn't speak to her directly…” 

Everything Esther had prepared came to nothing when the other voice interrupted her, preventing her from speaking.

“Eh!?” She didn't even have time to stop him. As he turned to the voice, she saw that Abel was still speaking with an irrepressible verbiage, which did not leave her a space to intervene.

“We did our best to deliver Her Eminence's message in person, but, of course, meeting the Empress in person was beyond our means. Even so, you need not worry, because we asked a local noblewoman, the Marquise of Kiev, Astharoshe Asran, whom I already knew before, to serve as an intermediary. The message will have reached its destination; you can be sure of it.” “Ah? Bu... Father... Wait a minute...” But what was he saying!? Esther nervously adjusted her habit as if to signal him, but Abel did not stop chattering for an instant, gesturing exaggeratedly with his hands.  “Yes, we suffered the unspeakable to achieve it. Abroad, right? One does not know how things are done... To fulfill our mission we spend our days without stopping running up and down... tears come to my eyes just remembering it now that I tell you, and without doubt, you will cry too... Imagine, I lost three kilograms!” 

Where did all this nonsense come from? Esther managed to come to herself and resist the curiosity to see how far the priest would be able to go. 

“Wait... wait, father! Stop speaking nonsense!” She did not know what this foolishness was about, but if it continued like this, Caterina would end up thinking that they had not seen the Empress. Covering Abel's mouth with her hand, Esther yelled in the direction of the Cardinal:

“Ignore him, Your Eminence! We do…”

«We did speak directly to the Empress!» Just when Esther, red with exertion, was about to shout that phrase...

“Cardinal Sforza, I beg your pardon...” An elegant male voice echoed out as the door opened. Looking up, the Cardinal met a man who was greeting her respectfully and who was leading a group of three people. He was middle-aged and wore the purple sash on his habit that indicated his status as archbishop.

“Forgive us for interrupting your conversation, Your Eminence. His Holiness and Cardinal Borgia have arrived.” “Hello Beautiful!” The second voice would seem to have been made up of a frivolous shake spiced with kitsch. It was hard to imagine anyone less suited to wear the Cardinal habit than the young man with long dyed hair and a nasal voice who had just entered. This was Antonio Borgia, the Minister of Information. “How long, right?! Makes sooo much that I did not see how fantastic you are that seems that my aesthetic sense have atrophied, you know? How are we doing?” “Good afternoon, Cardinal Borgia. I see you are very happy. If I'm not mistaken, we met the day before yesterday in Rome, right?” 

Responding sharply to the young man, Caterina turned her gaze to the third figure in the group. Seeing the face of the teenager coming up behind the two men, her cold gaze softened. 

“Ah, Alec…! How was the flight? Are you dizzy again?” “Y..., y... yes, sister...” Dressed with beautiful white clothes, the Pope Alessandro XVIII spoke with a low voice. In addition to being extremely shy around people, to the point of bordering on autism, get out of Rome or even out of the Papal Palace supposed one horrible adventure for him. Anyways, the face of his sister seemed to calm him a bit, because he went on, stammering: 

“I..., I got dizzy a b..., a little... b... but now I'm fi... I'm fine...” “Really? But you don't have very good color. I'll make someone to prepare some medicine for you... Wait, I'll take the opportunity to make the introductions, since we're all here. This is Sister Esther from the Secretary of State. She is the Saint of Istvan” 

Exhorted by Caterina, the nun saluted respectfully. “Nice to meet you. It is an honor to be in your presence, Holiness.”All Vatican employees knew of the reserved character of the pope. In order not to startle him, Esther spoke in a calm voice as she placed a light kiss on his hand.“I am not worthy of you granting me the grace to kneel before you... “ “Ah...! N..., no...” At the touch of the young woman's lips, the pope went from pale to flushed. His breathing quickened, as if he were going to have a heart attack, and he withdrew his hand in embarrassment. ”And…, and…, I… And…, and…, I…, I…”

“Holiness, you must be tired...” said the first man who had entered, placing his hand on the shoulder of the babbling teenager. Maybe half a century of his life had already passed, but his face had manly features that surely wreaked havoc on the opposite sex when he was young. With an attentive expression, he made the young Pope sit on the sofa.

“The show will take a while to start. Get some rest here. If you allow me, I will handle the speech.” “Thank you, Archbishop D'Annunzio...” 

Before Esther's eyes, the Pope was panting hard, as if he were going to have a panic attack or something. The one who wiped the sweat from his forehead to reassure him was Caterina. 

“Forgive me for putting you through something like this, but this ceremony took so much effort that...” “Oh, does not matter! It is an honor to be able to do our bit to the work of her eminence and the Vatican.”

 Emanuele D'Annunzio, Archbishop of Istvan, smiled kindly as he took Caterina’s hand. After kissing her like a gentleman kisses a lady, he turned his serene green eyes to her beautiful face.  “I wrote the script for tonight's play myself. I am afraid that it will not be up to the refined taste of Her Eminence, but it will be my honor that you listen to it... I do not know how the representation will turn out, but...” “It'll be great, you know? Sure: super, super good.” 

The one who responded in this way to the humble words of the archbishop was not Caterina, but the other cardinal present. Antonio, adjusting his bangs, continued with a slightly annoyed voice.  “Because, hey, haven't we helped you with production from the Ministry? I mean, the stage, and the direction, and the actors... Aaaaall of it it’s super mega first class. So if it goes wrong, it will be because of the script, you know?” “We will be forever grateful for your support, Cardinal Borgia. It is an honor that you have dedicated your valuable time to our representation...”

D'Annunzio's words were kind, but there was a hint of provocation in his tone. His green gaze was fixed on the young man, like an adult lion facing the cub that wants to take his place. 

“Today's ceremony is very important to us, because our recovery will serve to show it to the world. Its success will also serve to show the power of the Vatican… We hope to continue having the support of the Ministry of Information from now on.” “...” 

Although the tone was defiant, it could not be said that there was anything really wrong from the archbishop's words. Antonio was silent, something strange in him, as if not knowing what to answer, clearly feeling the difference in maturity that existed between him and his interlocutor. 

In his fifties, Archbishop D'Annunzio was an experienced man who had played a crucial role in the Vatican since the time of the previous Pope Gregorio XXX. As the right hand of Alfonso d'Este, who was then head of the College of Cardinals, he had held important positions as Director of the Holy Inquisition and Chief Secretary of the Vatican. In his spare time he had written dozens of novels and more than two hundred plays, and was considered one of the literary geniuses of his time. However, his brilliance had provoked the envy of Alfonso, who ended up moving him away from the center. His fame was surpassed only by Cardinals Medici and Sforza, the Pope's stepsiblings. No one but a skilled politician would have gotten Istvan city reborn from its ruins just a year after the catastrophe of The Star of Sorrow.

“Ah, but I have not yet greeted the main guest...” 

After silencing the young man, the archbishop turned quickly to Esther, who was silently observing the dialectical combat between the two high religious positions.

“This is the first time we met, but I know you very well, Sister Esther. I beg your pardon for having you come from so far away.” “Ple…pleased to meet you, Your Excellency...” Esther rose, embarrassed, from the sofa at the friendly smile of the priest and lowered her head, blushing at his manly features.“I am much honored that you invited me. It is an honor to meet you personally.” “Not at all, the honor is mine for being able to greet the Saint in person. I did extensive research on you to write this script. I've been dreaming of meeting you for a long time, but... the truth is that you have surprised me. I didn't think you were so beautiful...”       “I… beautiful? Not at all…” 

At the Archbishop's compliments, Esther buried her head deeply and turned even more red. Half confused, half flustered, she looked around for Abel to come to her aid. “It's the first time I've been invited to a box of honor at the opera, but hey, what a sight! Heh heh, I feel like God...” 

The priest was lost in his thoughts, observing the theater, and did not realize that the nun was looking at him. In her imagination, Esther kicked him on the back, while scratching her head, wondering how to respond to the archbishop.

“May I ask you not to call me Saint? It's a too important word that I don't deserve at all...” “You don't deserve it? You are too modest, sister… ” D'Annunzio replied, still smiling, as if enjoying the young woman's bewilderment. Extending his hand to fix her cap, the archbishop looked at her with mischievous face “You are the holy maiden who protected the people and killed the evil demon... As Archbishop of Istvan I cannot be grateful enough. Tonight's performance is my humble attempt to help your feat remain in the memory of future generations.”  “I am very grateful to you, but...” 

With a tight smile, Esther awkwardly shook her head. Her face had suddenly lost its rosy color. Saint Esther? What all that was about? 

She murmured that inside her with downcast eyes, it wasn't just because the name disgusted her.  

A year ago a man had expired in her arms. He was someone who had loved his human wife, someone who had decided to fight the world as revenge because the humans themselves had taken the woman he loved from him. 

The “evil demon” that D'Annunzio referred to was that being. Esther had been elevated to the category of Saint for the "feat" of having killed him, but there was something that did not convince her. All this seemed like a farce in which she did not want to be involved... 

“Ah, by the way, Your Eminence, what about Cardinal Medici? I thought he was also going to be present at the ceremony for the fallen...” “Unfortunately, his commitments do not allow him to leave Rome. He said he would send a representative, but… still not arrived?” 

D'Annunzio and Caterina began to talk about practical matters. Relieved that she was no longer the center of the conversation, Esther turned her eyes to the audience. 

More than a thousand spectators filled the theater. They were all famous people from the city, but Esther didn't recognize any faces. During the reconstruction of Istvan, D'Annunzio had given preferential treatment to the industrialists of Rome and Venice to install their factories and banks in the city. The attendees were all rich people of that kind. The echoes of the conversations that were heard were not in Hungarian, but mainly in the official language of Rome. 

The curtain was still down, but the actors could be seen waiting behind the scenes, probably to come out to say hello before the performance. Among them was a smiling young nun, the heroine portrayed in the flier. The hunchback next to her would be the Marquis of Hungary. The sinister makeup highlighted his monstrous appearance and showed long predator fangs. It couldn't be clearer that he was the bad guy in the story. 

The fragile and beautiful heroine would go through many difficulties, but in the end she would defeat the monster and bring peace to the city. It was such a predictable story that just by seeing the actors you could already imagine. 

But… 

«But the fight end was much more complex», thought Esther, grabbing unconsciously the rosary that hung from her neck.                                                                                                                                                                        «It’s not the urge to kill. I don't have such bad taste as to enjoy killing others. This is a fight for life» 

The man who had said those words was not a mere “evil demon”, nor had Esther fought him for strictly holy motives. There were still many things that she did not fully understand, but it was clear that this had been a struggle for survival. If she had lost, it would have been Esther and her companions who would have died. Yet the young girl couldn't get a question out of her head: «Was it really an inevitable conflict?» 

A nun like her couldn't ask such a question out loud. As long as she worked for the Vatican, a doubt like that was tantamount to questioning her own identity...

“Eh?”

Esther was lost in her thoughts for one moment, but at once came back to herself. Among the actors who had gathered in one corner of the stage, a figure that had gone out discreetly from behind the curtain of the opposite corner had called her attention. 

 It was one girl more or less of the same age of Esther, she had brown skin, an unusual color in the region, and her hair of a raven black. The combination of the daring opening of her dress with the long gloves decorated with precious stones gave her an extremely dramatical air. But what attracted the interest of Esther was neither her figure nor the clothes she wore. Those purple eyes that glowed in the well-proportioned face... she had seen them before somewhere. 

“That girl looks familiar to me...” “Is there something wrong, Esther?”

The voice that echoed behind her was of the lanky priest, who was wandering absent-mindedly around the royal box. As he devoured with his eyes the plate of tea pastries next to the young woman, he asked:

“Suddenly you were silent, doing that face… Oh, do you have a stomach ache? Do you want me to eat those pastries? I don't mind doing you that favor...” “No,” Esther replied dryly, cutting off the priest and added, pointing at the girl with her finger: “Doesn't that girl looks like someone familiar to you, father? I've seen that face already... and not long ago.” “Eh, what girl?” The priest asked in an intrigued voice, and looking where Esther was pointing, he looked confused. “I don't see any girl… Ah, you mean that actress over there?” “No, I mean, the one that has come from the other si... Huh?”  

When she looked back to the stage, Esther furrowed her brow, as well as Abel. The female figure that she had seen an instant before had disappeared. “But how strange... she was there a moment ago...” “Wow! Is that the actress who plays your role? I had seen her in the flyer, but in live she is even more beautiful!” Abel had already lost all interest in Esther and was absorbed in watching the group of actors. He made no effort to hide the drool from looking at the actress. "But what a beauty! Both in style and in attractive it is much better than the original… Ah, but don't be angry, Esther. It is undeniable that she is much more beautiful, elegant and seductive than you, but you have your special appeal. You don't have to worry.” “I have to take that as a compliment!?” 

Esther put the cup of tea on the plate, ready to answer the priest as he deserved, but...

“Ah! The representation is about to begin...” murmured the Archbishop, raising the eyes to the clock and got up to say goodbye to the Pope and the Cardinals. “Holiness, Eminences, I hope you enjoy with the performance. Excuse me, I will give the welcome the public... Come on, Sister Esther.” “What!? Me?” 

Esther was stunned, pointing her finger at herself as she blinked in surprise.Why did she have to accompany the archbishop to greet those people?Seeing the nun's confusion, the archbishop smiled and in a sweet voice, he dropped the bomb:  “Let's greet the audience together… I suppose you have prepared a little speech.” “Sa... say hello to...? A speech!?” 

At those completely unexpected words, Esther was dumbfounded. It was a joke? He couldn't expect for her to just come out on stage in front of the crowd and improvise a speech! 

“Wait ... wait! It's a bit hasty...” “But haven't you come prepared? How clueless my Saint is... Well, what can we do? As I assumed something like this could happen, I have allowed myself the freedom to prepare a small draft. You just have to read it.” “Eh…? But…” 

The archbishop seemed to be completely serious and handed her a pile of papers. Esther received them without knowing very well what to do and looked doubtfully to the priest, looking for his help...

“Ah, Esther! If you go on stage, can you ask that actress to sign an autograph for me?” Let it say,«To Father Nightroad, sweetheart» or something like that, okay? Heh heh heh...!” “!” 

Saving her killer instinct for later Esther heaved a deep breath.There was no way out of it.            

 "Ugh, I'm late!"

Although it was still early November, the winter cold had already fallen on Istvan. Gloomy clouds covered the sky, and although the building was supposed to be equipped with heating, the white breath of the people walking through the lobby of the Opera House could be seen. 

However, the male figure that rushed into the hall seemed immune to all of it. From the gigantic man who crossed the room devastating the carpet emanated a suffocating sensation of summer heat. It goes without saying that such a figure attracted all eyes, as if a monster from another world had suddenly appeared in the room; but the man seemed oblivious to it and advanced with a hard look, as if he were entering enemy territory. 

“What a misery to have suffered a setback precisely when I am representing Cardinal Medici! This mistake can be very expensive, Petros!” 

Dressed in the uniform of a secret police officer, Brother Petros looked up at the clock as if observing an ancient enemy. Although there were still twenty minutes until the start of the performance, he had committed a very serious fault by not having arrived before His Holiness made his entrance. 

Anyway, he had only arrived in the city a few minutes ago, sent by his superior, who had too many business holding him back in Rome. He had not arrived by air, like the Pope, but had taken the land route. The planned inspection of the military facilities had taken him longer than planned, and that had caused the delay. 

Although the inspection had been satisfactory, it was scandalous that the director of the Holy Inquisition arrived after the papal retinue. No doubt a severe reprimand from Francesco awaited him when he returned. If it was just a row that awaited him... There was one other thing that Petros had to worry about... 

“Where will the honor box be?  Eh…? Where the hell am I?” 

As soon as he went through the lobby, Petros stopped. He had to accept that he was lost and began to look around, but none of the doors he saw were the ones he was looking for. 

Indeed, he did not know where he was. He had stormed across the lobby, but had no idea how to get to the honor box. Resigned to search blindly, he began to scan the surroundings with a fierce grin, to see if he could find any sign, but could do nothing more than make a passing child cry.

 The issue was that the box of honor was not accessible from the general entrance but it had its own access, but Il Ruinante had no way of knowing that. He gritted his teeth and prepared to undo his way when...  

“Oh!”

Behind the intrepid warrior monk came a small cry of pain. 

Turning around, Petros had collided head-on with a girl who was walking behind him. The girl fell on her back to the carpet, dropping what she was carrying. 

“Aaah! Forgive me, sister! How clumsy you are, Petros!” 

The man tried to apologize as he picked up the papers, which had been strewn down the hall. The nun was still moaning on the floor, clutching her bonnet.

 “Excuse my ineptitude! Are you OK? Eh? You!?” As he helped the nun to stand up, Petros' face changed as he roared in surprise at his interlocutor, who was still reeling: “You are Esther Blanchett!” “Ah, brother… Petros, right?” Moved by the violence with which the inquisitor had spoken her name, the young woman stepped back, raising her tearful gaze to Il Ruinante, and bowed to him. “We haven't seen each other for a long time… Ah, thanks again for your support in Carthage.” “No, please, I'm the one who owes you... But what am I saying?!” Petros began to respond to the greeting automatically, but quickly came back to himself. This was not the time to chat! “Esther Blanchett! What are you doing here!? This is not the place for you!” 

Finally the nun straightened with surprise in her eyes. “Well, I was getting ready for the speech. Archbishop D'Annunzio has ordered me to greet the audience with a few words and was reviewing the script...” “Has the archbishop ordered it? Impossible. How can it be that...?” Laughing like if he was talking to a little girl, Petros glanced at the script, his expression suddenly turning from skepticism to surprise. Topping the sheets was… the archbishop's seal!? The inquisitor began hastily reading the text. “Wha... but what...?! «Before all of you gathered here I want to raise my voice to denounce...»”

«Before all of you gathered here, I want to raise my voice to denounce that there is pure Evil in the world. I want to raise my voice to say that as long as that Evil is not exterminated, we will have no future. We must unite to fight and defend everything we love, everything we respect. It will be a difficult and tough fight, but all united in our Faith we must face…».

 It was unbelievable, but it seemed to be, indeed, the script of a speech. And it took up almost fifty pages. The tone was a bit affected and overly dramatic, but the closing archbishop's signature seemed authentic. 

“Hmmm! And the archbishop signed it... But I can't believe it! Why did he ask you to…!?” He said, looking at the nun with suspicious eyes. “Are you plotting against me!? Tell me the truth or you will regret it!” “Eh? The truth is that I have no idea what you are talking about for a while now...”

The young woman scratched her head, honestly confused. It was like talking to a drunk who did nothing but repeat the same story. 

“It's not that I don't find it strange to be here, really. First I receive a notice from the Duchess of Milan to come to Istvan, then they ask me to give a speech... The truth is that the...” “The Duchess of Milan… Cardinal Sforza!?” Petros reacted quickly to the young woman's words. The Cardinal... what was that viper up to? 

Actually, Petros was most concerned about what the Pope's stepsister might do during the visit. Taking advantage of the absence of Cardinal Medici, she could try to manipulate His Holiness or do some strange maneuver... He had to be prepared for anything, and the facts gave him reasons to suspect. So the viper had already set off... But he would not trip over the same stone of Carthage again. This time they would not escape from him! 

Staring at the nun, who was staring at him in bewilderment, Petros clenched his fist. That witch had played with him in Carthage. Just when he was about to uncover her plot, all evidence had been destroyed. He knew with certainty that she had had contact with the vampires, although it had escaped him at the last moment. But this time he would catch her. He would discover what is she plotting around the Pope and would denounce it to the world!

 “Ah, there you are, Sister Esther...” 

A cold voice roused the inquisitor from his inflamed musings. It was an elegant male voice, interrupting him as if to protect the nun. 

“I've been looking for you for a while. Eh? I think we've met before… What brings the Inquisition here, Brother Pietro Orsini?” “Yo... Your Excellence!” Hearing his secular name after so long, Petros turned as if an electric current had passed through his body. Seeing the archbishop approaching, he gave a forced salute. “How long! What a joy to see you again!” “Yes, a long time, Orsini. The last time we saw each other was when I left my charge as Director of the Inquisition, right? You were just a kid and look at you now. How time flies!” “I will never be grateful enough for your advice and your attention back then!” Said Petros, bowing deeply, as if he were a spring doll. 

Il Ruinante’s sword was feared inside and outside the Vatican, but there were four people he bowed his head to. One of them was Archbishop D'Annunzio. 

“Please excuse my delay. The review of the troops has taken me longer than I had calculated and the roads were collapsed...” “You can tell me that later...” the archbishop cut him immediately, turning around and say with sweet voice to Esther, who was watching them in astonishment. “Sister Esther, have you had a chance to read the script? It’s almost time for your speech. Let's go up on stage.”  “Yes, I have read the text…” replied the nun, embarrassed, taking the papers that the inquisitor had returned to her with an impetuous gesture. “But, Your Excellence, am I really supposed to read that speech?” “Eh? What do you mean, sister?” 

The archbishop was surprised to see the dark light that had covered the young woman's eyes, and asked with a cautious expression: “You don't like the parliament I have prepared for you? Does it not meet your literary expectations?” “No, is not that. It is wonderfully written and conveys the ideas very well… But the message…” The nun choked with her words… After hesitating and stammering for a few seconds, she looked up, determined. “Why make such a clear call to war? A year ago we fought the Marquis of Hungary, it is true. But it was a pure struggle for survival. We did not think of pretty phrases like «divine glory» or «security of human society»...” “Ah, that's what you mean...” D'Annunzio interrupted the young woman's fiery voice with great serenity. The archbishop's smile keep its charm, but his tone had a certain inhuman echo. “You don't have to take it so seriously, Sister Esther. The public gathered here tonight have not come to hear the truth. What they expect is a dramatic and exciting story… They want the story of the heroic maiden who struck down the evil vampire. Isn't it our obligation to meet those expectations?” “B... but...” “Listen to me, Saint...” D'Annunzio silenced Esther with a gesture and shook his head. The hallway had begun to fill up, and the archbishop lowered his voice, returning greetings to passing guests. “You are a very sweet girl, Esther. I fully understand that you don't like harsh words. But think about it for a moment. Although it has recovered a lot this year, Istvan is still going through difficult times. The life of the citizens, your compatriots, is still very hard. Think how important it would be for them to have a heroine...” 

The archbishop placed a very white hand on her shoulder as he looked deeply into her eyes. “Esther Blanchett, you must be their Saint. You must be the image that encourage their hearts. You must be the strength and the hope of all those you love, of all humanity. I will show you how.” “...”

Esther was doubtful at the powerful words of the archbishop, after opening and closing her lips as if not knowing what to say, the girl sighed deeply.

“Good. I'll try.” “Good girl.” Nodding with satisfaction, D'Annunzio opened the door that led to the stage.“Sister Esther, it's time to go on stage. The public awaits you.” “OK…”

«The public awaits you». She would have felt joyful, but the worried expression of the girl did not changed. Even it could be said that the suffering is evident in her face. Anyways, Esther began to walk dragging her feet. She went through the door the archbishop had opened for her and disappeared down the dark corridor. 

 After closing the door, D'Annunzio made a sarcastic face. 

“What a difficult Saint to handle... one breaks one's back to turn her it into a star, and she, in return, complains...” “Ah?”  At the archbishop's cold laugh, Petros looked up in surprise. Opening the door again, D'Annunzio said in a clear voice, to the surprise of his former subordinate: “I never know how to treat smart ass girls. It's so boring having to lecture them like that… The tools should be quiet and just do what they are asked to do…” “A tool...? Your Excellence, when you say «tool» do you mean that girl? And what does it mean to «turn her into a star»?” 

Petros asked in astonishment. So he didn't really think she was a Saint? 

“Ah! So the director of the Inquisition is still there...” 

The Archbishop of Istvan turned as if he was seeing a stranger and responded with the tone of someone who had just discovered a stain on his clothing.

“You heard me perfectly. Saint Esther is nothing more than an image created by the Vatican. It is a huge fiction promoted through the management of the media and the investment of large amounts of money...”

 The bishop spoke confidently in the dark corridor, as if explaining everything to a tough-minded subordinate.  “As you know, the Vatican is losing power over the secular states. To stop this trend, it is necessary to regain the center of social attention. Creating a Saint is part of that project. Esther Blanchett is nothing more than a tool for our plans...” 

«You shall not worship idols», the Bible made it very clear. Didn't the archbishop know? D'Annunzio spoke as if he did not feel any apprehension or guilt for playing with the life of a girl and the faith of millions of people like that. “Besides, as a tool, it's first class. Her past is impeccable, and it doesn't hurt that she's so pretty… She has a very cute face, don't you think, Orsini?” “Eh? Well, I wouldn't know...”  At the knight's embarrassment, the archbishop looked at him with mocking eyes. “You don't know about that? Well, it doesn't matter… I have to introduce my Saint to the public. Orsini, you can go to the box of honor. Then we will talk about your delay. Get ready.”  

D'Annunzio turned, dropping those cold words, and reached for the door that led to the stage.

“Ah!?”

Frightened, Petros started to run away from his former superior, but just as he was about to give a farewell bow, he remembered that he still had something to ask him about. “Your Excellence... I really have a question to ask you before I present myself before His Holiness.”  Half-closing the door, the archbishop turned with an annoyed gesture at the voice of his exasperating interlocutor.  “What?”

D'Annunzio's voice was reminiscent of a teacher announcing to a student that he had failed. Petros barely repressed his desire to flee and ran from the archbishop just to ask: “I have just reviewed the City Guard, but… Your Excellence, what does this deployment mean? I have seen a complete division or even more. What about those tanks and aircraft!?” D'Annunzio continued walking as if he was unaware of the alarm that echoed in Il Ruinante's words.  “I admire how you have managed to reform in just one year an organization that had been completely destroyed. But for a public order force it is a bit out of proportion. Is there something going wrong?” “Eh? What is going to go wrong?” The archbishop stopped for the first time.

 Twisting his mouth, he answered coldly to Petros’ puzzled gaze. “Certainly the Guard's strength now exceeds what it was a year ago. Nobody hides it. But if the situation of the city is taken into consideration, it cannot be said that they are sufficient. After all, Istvan is the central column of the Vatican's eastern defense line. Their defensive potential has to be as great as possible... don't you think?” “If you will allow me to speak frankly, I think there is a problem of magnitude! The Second Division of the Vatican Army is deployed in this area, which is responsible of the defense work. The City Guard should only perform police functions. What is the point of equipping the police as if it were an army?”

The only response Petros' fiery speech got was a cold smile.  “Well, well, I see that you still don't understand anything, Orsini...” 

The archbishop made no effort to hide the malice and contempt on his face. As if he felt sorry for the stupidity of his interlocutor, he made a face, laughing through his nose. “Yes, there is an army division stationed here. But in the event of war, those troops will leave the region. Won't Istvan have to defend itself, then? That is why we have increased the strength of the Guard... Of course it costs us a lot of resources, but that is why we can’t afford to reduce it.” “But that dismantles all the plans of Rome and Cardinal Medici! Also, you speak of war, but now that the region has stabilized, where is the risk of war going to come from? Neighboring countries respect the authority of the Vatican and there is no sign of any disturbance to happen so...” “Brother Petros!!!” 

The scream echoed like an ice whip. Throwing a defiant look at the inquisitor, the archbishop harshly carved his words into the dark air of the hall.  “Are you the Director of the Holy Inquisition and you don't understand something like that!? Have you forgotten who the mortal enemy of humanity is!? Have you forgotten that this Empire of terrible devils is next to us!? If you've forgotten, I'll remind you. Never forget: this is Istvan, the front line of the battle against vampires!” “Ah…? But...” 

Anyone who had attended their dialogue would have been frozen in surprise.Il Ruinante, known as the most implacable man in the Vatican, had fallen silent. 

When he noticed Petros is not going to reply, the archbishop softened his expression. “Well, I don't want to lecture you anymore. Go back to the lobby. Didn't you come to escort His Holiness? That's all you're worth for. At least accomplish the mission you've been given.” “Y... yes! With your permission...” Gritting his teeth, Petros bowed. 

He was not at all convinced by the reasons given by his former superior, but he had no proper reply at the time. He didn't have time either. He turned towards the exit when... Just then the door closed in front of him. And, as if they were waiting for that moment, the guards locked the door from outside.

“Hey…”

Had they locked him up!? Petros looked around him, bewildered. The doors that led to the stalls were all closed with bolt. The lighting in the hall began to dim as the lighting on the stage took hold. The warrior priest then heard the sound of the presenter's voice through the microphone: 

“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the Istvan Opera House! In a few moments the Star of Sorrow will begin before all of you.”

“Petros, you are so clumsy!” 

The inquisitor began to get nervous. He had to find a way to get to the Pope's box as soon as possible! However, as much as he searched everywhere he was not able to find an open door. Apparently the security measures were meant to keep the public effectively locked inside the theater. 

He actually couldn’t make someone to open one of the doors invoking his authority as head of the Inquisition, if he did it, that would divert the attention of the speech that was about to start on the stage, and when they found out, the archbishop would scold him again some more. 

“Before we start, the author of the script will say a few words of welcome… His Excellene the Archbishop of Istvan, Emanuele D'Annunzio!” “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” 

While Il Ruinante was sweating while desperately looking for a way out, the welcome speech had begun on stage. Taking the microphone, the Archbishop smiled with all his virile charm. However, the voice that began to echo through the room had the serenity of a servant of God. 

“Welcome everyone. It has been a year since I received my appointment as Archbishop of this city. The road has not been easy, but with the help of the Lord and the collaboration of all of you, we have managed to happily overcome all the difficulties that have been presented to us so far. During this year we have defended in Istvan the glory of the Lord, who brought us a girl. I think we can be proud of it.” 

After uttering those phrases almost without breathing, the archbishop was silent for a moment. He closed his eyes as if he were remembering all the efforts of that year and raised his face to the ceiling. Petros realized that this was not more than a theatrical gesture, but the audience seemed to understand it as one reaction of sincere religious piety. Some mature women even began to sob quietly in the excitement.  Then, after checking that the entire room had gone completely silent, the archbishop opened his eyes again. Still smiling serenely, he raised his right arm to point to the small figure waiting at the base of the stage. 

“Tonight I am moved to have the opportunity to express our appreciation to the person who made the rebirth of this city possible. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the heroine who freed Istvan from the evil monster! Our hope before the devils that threaten us! Sister Esther Blanchett, Saint of Istvan!”

As thunderous applause rose, the hesitant figure of the nun appeared, equipped with a microphone. Blinking because of the bright spotlights and shrugging, the girl looked tiny in the middle of the huge stage, as if she were just a child.

 «She's just a poor kid…» Petros thought as he watched Esther walk across the stage. Come to think of it, the poor girl deserved his compassion for many reasons.First, because she belonged to the Ministry of Vatican Foreign Affairs, which was the lair of that witch, Caterina Sforza. Besides, she had to work with those agents, who had a horrible reputation of being sacrilegious. He couldn't imagine how she could lead a pious life as a nun between them. 

Above all, the entire show that night had not been sought by her, but had been implicated by the surroundings of D'Annunzio. At her young age, being worshiped as a Saint and being commissioned to make a speech to such an audience could only be considered a misfortune. 

“Uh... uh... Go... good night to every... Oh, no...! Good evening, la… ladies and gentlemen. It is an honor to introduce myself to you. I am Esther Blanchett. I do not have words to express my gratitude for this opera to be performed in my honor...”

  While Il Ruinante looked at her with compassionate eyes, the nun had started babbling. The inquisitor’s heart cringed just to see how her forehead was beaded in sweat and how her blue eyes were moving full of insecurity. Trying to smile faintly, the young lady put on the table the script that the archbishop had given to her before. Just when she deployed the first pages and prepared to start reading... the tragedy happened. 

“Ah!?”

The first thing that echoed through the speakers was a small groan. The pages of the script Esther was going to read flew across the stage. 

“No!” Cried Petros, as the papers fluttered like leaves blown up in the wind.Had she forgotten to re-tie the rope that held the pages together? The nun was trying to pick them up in haste, but many had already fallen off the stage. The girl's tensed face had lost all traces of color. But Petros and the rest of the audience didn't have to hold their breath for long. 

At first, the nun was so stunned that she couldn't even speak, it was natural.

 Having to improvise a speech in front of such a crowd, and also being people of such power in society… Even a veteran politician would have found it difficult. How could it cost to a girl who had just turned eighteen? 

In view of the events, no one would have criticized her if she had fled the stage. But the Saint did not.Biting her lip as if she had made up her mind, she rose to her feet, adjusting the hem of her habit. She was still a little pale, but a powerful light shone in her blue eyes. As if attracted by that look, the audience's attention was concentrated on the girl's face when she began to speak... 

“I beg your pardon for my clumsiness… The fear of speaking in front of so many people has left me a little stunned…” Esther began in a vigorous, almost savage voice. “A play will be performed in my honor tonight and I want to express my enormous gratitude to you for taking the time to attend the performance”.

Was this the same nervous nun who had trembled a few minutes earlier? Esther addressed the audience with her head up, as if all the perplexity of before had disappeared. 

“Well, to be improvising she does it very well...” Petros said to himself with admiration, as he looked for the archbishop with his eyes. At the backstage, D'Annunzio seemed to be more tense than before, but he was still looking at the young woman with a satisfied smile. As the nun had read the script before, a few as she remembered, things would go more or less as he had planned. Petros expected the same when he looked back at the girl. She would probably invoke God and the Vatican, would praise the courage of the combatants a year ago and call those present to remain united. If she said that, nothing would be noticed... 

“Thank you all. That was my intention... But now I have changed my mind...”

It would take a long time for Petros to forget how the atmosphere in the room changed with just that short sentence.What she’s going to tell them!? Glancing to the backstage, he saw how the archbishop had stiffened, staring at the nun in amazement, as if observing a ceramic doll that had suddenly begun to speak. 

Esther was not looking at the archbishop, but at the room full of spectators. In her pupils were reflected the innumerable puzzled faces that had been nailed to her. The audience seemed hypnotized by the words of the Saint, who whispered slowly:  “I have come to pray with all of you for the souls of those who shed their blood in battle a year ago. For that I have returned here, to my city.”  The voice was not overly powerful, but it completely dominated the room, where not a cough was heard. Without being too high or too low, it filled the air with a clean and serene feeling. It was the perfect example of a pleasant voice. As proof of this, when hearing her, Petros had completely forgotten that he had to go to the royal box, nothing further from his mind at the moment than to get away from there.

Il Ruinante had been lost in thought, listening to the flow of that voice.

“A year ago, we got a lot of blood flowing. Blood of our comrades, blood of our enemies… It was a horrible battle. But then I thought there was no other option. To survive you had to fight. We couldn't help but spilling that blood. In those moments it seemed that we were at a crossroads between life and death. Yes, that was really the situation. That's why we took up the sword... But now, a year later, I have the feeling that «there was no other option» is not a sufficient explanation for that fight...”

Esther was silent for a moment after the long speech. At the view of the girl closing briefly her eyelids to soak in those memories, Petros thought that this nun did not seem at all like the girl that he knew. More than someone alive, it recalled to the images of Saints that appeared in the murals and religious paintings of the cathedrals.  When she opened her eyes again, a sweet but intense light shone on them. Looking at the audience, which was in absolute silence, she continued with a calm voice. 

“During that battle I met one person... one person who back then was my enemy. He was the man I was trying to kill. But he also believed he had to kill to me to survive.” 

Her expression could not be said to be very refined, nor the sound of the words to be very beautiful. In spite of this, there was nobody in the room that was not captivated by the voice of the Saint. None of those celebrities and distinguished people uttered a single word. They were all focused, listening to the girl, who kept talking as if this was the most normal thing in the world.  

“But it wasn't true, no one should have died; However, due to a misunderstanding, at first, both he and I thought that we had to kill ourselves to survive… And not only him. I believe that among those we killed and who killed us there were many like him. Many who laughed like us, cried like us. Many who we hated. All possibilities were destroyed by a misunderstanding.” 

Perhaps it was the memory of that man that made a trace of suffering appear in the serene voice of the girl. The audience also felt the sting of that painful memory in their chest. Looking ahead, Esther spoke without hurrying, without forcing the words, penetrating every corner of the hearts of the attendees.

“Ladies and gentlemen, distrust yourselves. Be suspicious of justice. Maybe we are too simple. Be suspicious of your ideas about justice in the world. Are they really correct? Aren't they often just what we want to believe? Don't we impose them on our neighbor many times? Be suspicious. Mistrusting these issues is not bad.” 

«Be suspicious of justice».

Hearing those words, the audience felt a slight shudder. Since the nun had started her speech, that was the first moment of doubt. The audience had been rapt with her until then, but little by little the audience began to come to their senses. Esther was not flustered by the change in the audience, so she pushed herself even harder in her speech, expressively moving her arms.

“It may be that these words make you sad. You may think that everything is false and that nothing is certain. God and justice are nothing more than mirages… But they are not. We can distrust, distrust and distrust, but something will always remain. There is always something that cannot be denied… For example, on a winter night like this, meeting with the whole family in front of the stove and feeling the warmth in the heart…” The families in the audience exchanged glances, as if encouraged by the girl's words.“Or look at the starry sky from a deserted meadow and feel how precious our little existence is...” 

As to embrace to all those present, the nun extended the arms and continued talking, pretending this time caress the soul with the voice. 

“Love of oneself and of neighbor ... that's what remains in the end. That is what makes me believe in God. Because God loves us and has given us these gifts. So let's pray together. Let us pray for all the blood that was shed and the souls of all the fallen… Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.”

 Although they had wanted to rehearse it before, the response of those present would not have come out more conjoined. It seemed they had coordinated not only the breathing, but even the pulse. The echo of those words had scarcely been consumed when a thunderous round of applause went up. The ovation did not diminish after the nun finished bowing in thanks. After the archbishop's speech, the audience had remained seated, but Esther's words made everyone in attendance stand up to cheer her on. Even Petros, seeing the reaction from the room, was unable to suppress a cry of admiration.

“And she's just a little girl… What a charisma!” 

 N: A very old Petros’s coloring ;) 

Just with the dubious name of Saint, the girl had managed to move more than a thousand people. This was not normal. Thinking ahead, Petros felt a slight concern.  

If the artificial Saint that D'Annunzio and Borgia wanted to make was added that ability to attract the public, the potential of the girl was not negligible. If she developed her career under Sforza's guidance, she would be a formidable opponent for Cardinal Medici and his followers...

“Hey you! Where do you think you are going!? This is not the time for that yet!” 

Those reproachful words that came from the base of the stage brought the warrior monk to his senses. Turning, he saw a Guard soldier in his gray-blue uniform arguing with someone carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. Probably wanted to give it to the Saint. The one who carried the bouquet was a young adolescent. From the daring evening dress she was wearing, she seemed to be the daughter of one of the attendees. However, her dark skin and pronounced features were a rare combination in these lands. Her eyes were slanted and her pupils a stunning amethyst color.The soldier holding her in the gray gloves began to speak in an increasingly harsh voice.

“Didn't you hear me? If you want to give the Saint a bouquet of flowers, you have to wait for her to come down from the stage. Go back to your seat and stay still.” “Stand aside,Terran!” 

The young woman slightly moved the arm that the other was holding, It seemed a only symbolic gesture, but what happened then was anything but that. 

The soldier, who was six feet tall and weighed a hundred kilos, flew off incredibly and slammed his face against the wall. The impact must have made him pass out. The horrible noise of his nose breaking was the only thing that accompanied his collapse to the ground. 

The scene did not go unnoticed. Muffled shouts of astonishment began to be heard from the audience, and in the box of honor the cardinals had risen with tense faces. However, Petros wasted no time in observing the reactions of the attendees, because he had noticed that the young woman had too long canines between her lips...

“No! Get away from her you all!” Shouted Il Ruinante, wielding with each hand the screamers that he wore on his waist. “She is not human! Is a…!”  “Nice to meet you, Terrans. My name is Shahrazad and I come from the True Human Empire…” said the girl, with a voice as beautiful as a bell, but at the same time full of defiant force.  

As the bouquet of flowers was dropped, the long jeweled gloves she wore began to glow. Leaning them against the wall, the girl, or rather the vampire, looked directly at Esther, who made no sign of wanting to flee. 

“This evening I come to see the killer who you call the Saint... and to kill her!”

 With a thud, the wall began to crumble, looking like a spiderweb. 

                           ════════════╠☆╣════════════

And this is it my dear friends, I hope you have enjoyed this and the new Petros’ coloring I added. I tried hard not to include personal notes in the translation, because I love Petros so much and I was like reacting to everything that happened to him.  Maybe that’s the reason I love this arc so much XD  I want to thank you a lot for your patience, for those who still support this and help me out with it, and to those who share the love by rebloging and liking this. I truly apreciate that.  See you soon on the next part, stay tunned because the best part is next to come. Please stay safe and healthy <3 

[st-just]

Semi-coherent thoughts on The Man From The Diogenes Club

Well, I got this book for Christmas and read it because of the endearingly pulpy cover art, and I suppose ‘endearingly pulpy’ is probably the most charitable summary of it I can think up. Or, well, maybe pulpy isn’t quite the right word. ‘70s Kitsch? Schlock? It’s got real b-movie-barely-keeping-a-straight-face energy, if you know what I mean. Very Hellboy-by-way-of-Austin-Powers.

And, okay, that sounds really mean. It’s just very airport quality literature, I guess? Like, the most sincere(ly) damning praise I can give the thing is that it’s retroactively made me appreciate the prose and originality and restraint in all the other genre fic I’ve read recently. Which isn’t to say the prose or storytelling are bad, really. Just, well, uninspiring?

Though beyond the actual quality of prose, I am really kind of curious whether all the really eyeroll inducing stuff was intentional genre emulation of old pulps or if published writers do just write Like That. I guess if the short stories were originally scattered across anthologies and such it would be a bit less overwhelming, but at a certain point the amount of word count spent on Richard’s hair, outfits  and fancy cars, and the filling of the rest of the cast with unpleasant/middle aged/fat/brutish/balding men and beautiful young or preternaturally ageless women does just become a bit much. (The fact that one of the major supporting characters is, its repeatedly emphasized, an absolutely gorgeous redhead who basically walked out of that one Strong Female Characters webcomic and who is brainwashed or possessed as a key part of multiple stories doesn’t particularly help, granted. Always in a sexy way, of course).

The plots themselves are usually fun enough, but, well, it’s a collection of short stories all sharing the same main character, so there’s a fairly hard limit on how much real sense of danger or suspense you can get for any given one (though being honest it’s not like that line is ever really approached). Really it’s rather like some old superhero cartoon or bond movie – by far the most interesting thing in the stories are the various bizarre and wacky villains and their schemes. Really at a certain point you end up rooting for the hippie moon wizards trying to destroy the Apollo mission before it lands, or the early-porn-star-turned-occult-dancer-turned-wife-of-Mythos-worshipping-puritain-crusader, or the sleazy writer/director who does hits by writing a thinly fictionalized version of the victim getting horribly killed as a plotline in his massively popular daytime soap ritual and Britain’s collective unconscious and a bit of magic do the rest (they really are by far the best part of the book).

Really, I’m sure I’m being a bit harsh – the whole thing would make some great very tongue-in-cheek shorts to watch and tear the shit out of with friends while drunk. Very, like, mediocre power-fantasy anime. The occasional gestures towards self-awareness (the ‘psychic’ book with a version of the protagonist who solves every cast via seduction, the psychic who rewrites the world into the imagined story operated on Bond Villain rules with them as the villain) honestly hurt more than they help, at least to me.

But anyway, I really am probably being more negative than the thing deserves. It’s just very much not for me, I suppose.

(Not really going to bother going into the book’s politics, except to say that Thatcher being the great work of a psychic brainwashing program designed to remove all human feeling from her did make me smile for a second).

[thefolliesofmen]

History in the Making - Panel Discussion

Hi folks!  Today I was honored to be a part of Concordia’s History in the Making Conference and speak on the making of meaning through Death Tourism. As not everyone was able to attend, or just prefer learning in a different format that isn’t Zoom, I figured I could at least share my slides and speakers notes here for posterity.

As these are speaking notes, please excuse if I do not catch every grammar or spelling mistake, but I hope you enjoy them nonetheless. 

Today I am going to be going through how meaning is made at Death Tourism sites, and how that meaning changes over time. To do this, I am first going to explore some brief definitions of death tourism, the history of it, and how it is viewed by the general public. So please buckle up and join me as we go on a speed run through three prominent dark tourism sites – particularly what they are, how they qualify, and how meaning is made around them through the perspective of thanatourism. The site we will be using are Pompeii, Salem, and Chernobyl.

In my introduction alone, I used a mired of terms interchangeably. Death Tourism, Dark Tourism, Thanatourism, and just for funsies I am going to throw another one in there, Disaster Tourism. Some scholars will separate all these terms to represent specific aspects of the field, the site in particular, and the intentions behind the visitors themselves.   Foley and Lennon are often credited with coining the term “Dark Tourism” and have defined it as a “product of the circumstances of the late modern world.” Intent is something that will come up often during my talk, as it is hard to concretely define a field like tourism that has so much to do with the intentions of the people taking part in it as well as the people presenting the history. Today, I will be using these terms fairly interchangeably. A definition to start us off: Dark Tourism taps into the macabre, secret, and shunned interests of humans; the world we create; and the one we leave behind.

The Macabre The Secret The Shunned Creation and Destruction Are real and valid reasons for someone to visit a site I said before that the intention of the visitor is a hot topic when trying to figure out how to define this field. Most of us have probably been to Death Tourism sites and have never really thought about, because it fit into a different category in our mind. The image here is a graveyard, which makes sense on the surface to count as death tourism especially if you are visiting it for a reason outside of knowing someone who is buried there – this cemetery in particular is Old Burial Hill Cemetery in Salem Massachusetts and would be a hotspot for that, as it was a filming location for Hocus Pocus, Old Burial Hill Cemetery in Salem Massachusetts. Dark Tourism deals largely with the commercialization of sites associated with large amounts of human suffering and death. Commercialization can happen in a variety of ways, whether it be through charging admission to a specific site, merchandise and materials relating to the event, or economic benefits that are by-products of the sites being visited, such as surrounding towns gaining revenue from hotel rentals, meals, etc.

Since the enlightenment, European and North American cultures have taken a strict stance on separating the dead from the living. Death occurs in buildings, cities, countries removed from us and we only see the sanitized version – the more removed we are from something with our engagement with death the better it is. That isn’t a hard and fast rule however, because the distance from the death and disaster in question can be spatial or temporal in nature, as long as there is some kind of way in which you can convince yourself that all this death and destruction happened to an Other. Caitlyn Doughty, a mortician who found notoriety through her YouTube Channel Ask a Mortician has done some research on what she refers to as the “witch to kitsch factor”, that being how much time has to pass before it is socially acceptable to take tragedy and make it into a thing of entertainment? My argument here however is that, the meaning that a dark tourism site creates and is created unto it has both to do with the temporal separation between the entertainment and the tragedy, but also the spatial and cognitive space between the two. I know I am probably preaching to the choir when I say that history permeates pop culture, and the line between tragedy and entertainment can be seen here. Pompeii occurred close to 2,000 years ago and is now a 13 years old Doctor Who Episode wherein even an Alien that alters many historic events, even this could not be stopped. Salem Witch Trials took place over 300 years ago, and the Halloween edge of kitschy witches have taken over the narrative of Salem, as the town has gained even more infamy in recent years due to the popularity that Disney has continued to experienced in the 26 years since its release. Chernobyl occurred 35 years ago. It is most recently a 2019 somber but still drama packed mini-series on HBO exploring the disaster and aftermath. These are not the first nor are they the last instances of Pompeii, Salem, and Chernobyl influencing popular culture.

The temporal and spatial separation that I just spoke of is what Foucault would use in the argument that dark tourism sites are examples of Heterotopias. That, and the Othering.

These dark tourism sites are marginal spaces, that are infused with the juxtaposition of sameness and contradictions. Foucault breaks down what a Heterotopia is through examining its:

Precise and determined function within a society, but can still have multiple functions

The power to Juxtapose the incompatible

A break with traditional time

Presupposition of opening and closing the isolation and penetration

Illusions of real spaces that create and Other

Each of these criteria hit on the combined need for things relating to death and destruction to be both intimate to our experience of the world, but also separate from us in a way in which we can walk away from them afterwards and cease to think about it. Dark Tourism is assumed to be an escapist pastime in which we as humans can displace our fears of death, decay, destruction, and general apocalyptic fears onto this physical place – particularly because of its seemingly socially acceptable mode in which we can grapple with these kinds of topics. I said before that it was after the Enlightenment that death became removed from our day to day life. But before that? It was common and fashionable to interact with death on ones down time – morgue tours in Paris were all the rage, with some people even asking to be locked in the display room with the unknown corpses to scare their friends and other visitors.

Death has been removed from us, and so these romanticized ideas of escapism and morbid contemplations are the simplistic and incomplete theories as to why people are drawn to Thanatourism.

Now don’t get me wrong, while I say that these theories are simplistic and incomplete – I am not denying that they have some merit and nuggets of truth and wisdom to them. We come back to intent. Why people engage in Disaster Tourism does not interest me so much as what their interaction with the field tells us about our own society. We make meaning out of everything, that is who we are as academics but also who we are as a general species. But how do we make meaning out of sites and events through the lens of dark tourism? I believe that the reasons we are so fascinated with these sites, outside of just general morbid curiosity (pun intended) – for starters, our fascination with these places, I posture, has to do with our false yet engrained belief that we are no longer experiencing such death and suffering anymore. This all happened in another time, in another place, to another group of people. Our fascination shows our ignorance. We think, Pompeii happened so long ago, it is more of a story than anything. We think, Salem will never happen again, we are past the time of believing that witches walk among us. We think, Chernobyl was the fault of the Soviets, we are a democracy. We don’t think – that this could happen again and is still happening.

I have mentioned Pompeii, Salem, and Chernobyl quite a bit now – lets get into how they are case studies for us making meaning out of dark tourism sites. First up: Pompeii The eruption of Mount Vesuvius and subsequent destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum was first recorded in the letters of Pliny the Younger to Tacitus. On October 24th  79 AD,pumice stones and ash started pouring down onto the city, killing part of the population before those who were unable to escape were buried by the hot volcanic ash and burned alive by pyroclastic flow. By the end of the day, the city was buried in six to seven meters of debris, and it remained as such until its re-discovery in the seventeenth century. During his tenure as the lead archaeologists working to recover Pompeii from 1863-1875, Giuseppe Fiorelli is credited with not only the Fiorelli process of pouring plaster of Paris into cavities in the ash to discover what created those cavities – but he was also a driving force behind excavations being done on the city from the top down, rather than the streets first to further pillage the homes that were uncovered.

Pompeii is a special case when it comes to tourism of Roman ruins. To Victorian and Edwardian tourists – Pompeii was a disappointment to finally see. Mary Beard discusses how to these visitors, the depictions of Pompeii in art and literature, outshone the real ruins. From the beginning of tourists coming to the site though, it was always known that what they were coming to see and what would shock them the most, were the casts of the bodies that had been excavated were front and center as soon as you entered the site along the aptly named Street of Tombs. For most of its history, Pompeii has existed on this marginal plane, being both a city of the living and of the dead. Rome as a whole has always been plagued by the stereotypes and ideals placed upon it by people outside of Italy’s borders – namely it being an eternal city that should be temporally static, anchored in its own heritage – and Pompeii has been subject to the same expectations in many respects. has been constructed many times since its unearthing. First, through its own use as a city, and then during the Romantic period as a theme park for tourists, and even in the modern era as a place of education and where “the processes of historical discovery are laid bare”. The overall shift in identity for Pompeii was its change from a city of the living, where people went about their daily lives, to a city of the dead populated by corpses and ruins, now being re-populated annually by millions of tourists. Because Pompeii is a ruin, empty of life, and so far removed from the present reality in terms of time, it is very easy to project meaning onto – both meaning for itself and meaning for the visitors.

One of the darkest moments in American history was the Salem Witch Trials of 1692. The “largest and most lethal witch hunt in American history” began in Salem Village (now Danvers, Massachusetts) when several young girls, including Elizabeth Parris, who was the daughter of the town minister Samuel Parris, began to experience “fits” that had no discernable cause other than what the town doctor declared to be bewitchment. While the accusers themselves and many of the “witches” they targeted lived in Salem Village, the Town of Salem was where the hangings took place, with the first ones occurring in the fall of 1692 when Sarah Good, Elizabeth Hose, Susannah Martin, Rebecca Nurse, and Sarah Wildes were executed. From the Fall of 1692 to the summer of 1693, there were 20 executions, 19 of which were hangings and one pressing.

Salem is a place of societal ruin. The entire community turned on itself, before coming to the confusing conclusion in 1702 of the magistrates declaring the trials that were held unlawful, and decreeing that the good names of the victims be restored. I mentioned that Salem Village is now know as Danvers Massachusetts and while Salem and Salem Village, share the terrible history, Salem Village works hard to separate itself from the narrative, as seen by it renaming itself to Danvers in 1752. It desperately wants to be removed from the story of the witch trials, when arguably it has more geographic claim to the narrative than Salem itself. Danvers has gone about making visiting any sites within its border nearly impossible. Homes and buildings related to the trials that remain in situ have continued housing families and businesses, memorials have little to no parking available, and heavy traffic on the roads makes it difficult to visit them as a pedestrian, meaning only a specialized tourist who was bound and determined to see the locations would make the Herculean effort to find them. For Salem, the buildings that it claims connections to the trials have either been moved or demolished in the time since the witch trials, and key places like the exact location of the gallows have ended up being lost to memory. The markers that denote the locations also denote their own inaccuracy and obscure the events that took place during the trials – thus disappointing tourists when they learn of the deception. Salem capitalizes on a false authenticity of place It is not through education that Salem profits off of its dark history, but through the kitsch-based fascination of pirates and witches existing in one of the oldest colonial ports. The Salem Police Department logo even contains a witch motif. With souvenirs, dungeon experiences, and large events such as a Witch’s Walk, Salem revises the tragedy in its history in a way that romanticizes and idealizes it, similar to the way that Disney movies present history. There was a monument erected to the victims of the witch trials in 2017. It stands apart from the rest of the city in aesthetic and in placement, silent and innocuous that it can be missed: it does not loudly advertise its existence like the rest of Salem. It works in the way that dark tourism sites overall do, in the fashion of “visitors deciding the meaning”. By being ambiguous in its specific design, it allows for the tourist to see what they think is fitting for a monument, whether that be the gallows, a jail, or a ruined building.

Chernobyl to this day still has the reputation for being the world’s worst nuclear accident. Through a surge of energy to Reactor #4, the unit caught fire on April 26th, 1986, leading to its rupture and explosion later that same day. As people fled and were evacuated from their homes, with instructions to leave everything behind as they were promised they would be able to return in a few days, Pripyat, the closet town to the reactor, was re-born as a ghost town. Across the Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia, an estimated 200,000 people have died due to radiation exposure, and an even greater number of people suffer from ongoing health conditions. As expected, the argument for the inclusion of Chernobyl in these case studies is that it represents a man-made ruin through the folly of trust in technology.

With Chernobyl, it is important to remember that it took place against the backdrop of the Cold War. The USSR and America both had agendas that they were trying to further in their coverage or lack there of, of the reactor blowing. Seeking any advantages they could claim in exposing or concealing the situation, inflating or deflating the numbers of people harmed. It wasn’t until 2011 when Ukraine finally allowed tours to take place through Pripyat, before this it was only illegal tours led by members of the surrounding communities or family members of those impacted by the exodus. The tourists have a wide range of reactions to the site – expressing indifference to the history, excitement about the danger that they perceive, and some individuals even schadenfreude, pleasure of witnessing the misfortunes of others. For dark tourism concerns, it’s authentic for being in situ, adding the aura of the place to the experiences and representing death in a more immediate way. Chernobyl is prime for the romanticization treatment of media due to being within the living memory and located in Eastern Europe, a place that is already seen and depicted as a foreign Other to many, adding to the forbidden allure of visiting. With the rise of social media, the number of tours to Chernobyl see spikes in the fall and winter, when the nature around the abandoned ruins is dying and decaying as well, lending itself to the desired aesthetic for people to show off that they visited. “Chernobyl is both real and imagined,” where one can go explore and tell others about later – but it is also staged. Knowing that people are drawn in by the heterotopic binaries of the real and the contrived, items within Chernobyl and Pripyat are posed to illicit the maximum emotional impact when photographed, the creations of juxtapositions within a juxtaposition itself.

Death Tourism deals with sites of ruin, that are explicit reminders of the circle of life and death being indiscriminate. Tragedy has happened here, and it will happen again. Someone was here before, and someone will be here after, until one day in which there will no longer be an after for humans to inhabit. The meanings of these sites and those who visit them is continually in flux, and relates largely to the society that is taking note at the time. But how we make meaning of these sites tells us about our current society, whether we like what we are hearing or not. It is romantic to think that we only travel to dark tourist sites because we are contemplating our own mortality, but it is ignorant to forget that history is a spiral – events will happen again if not in the same circumstances. Witches are replaced by minorities and religious groups that we don’t want to understand. Natural Disasters like Vesuvius are happening more and more as we continue to ignore climate change. Chernobyl will not stay the worst nuclear accident in mans history for very long, as every year we outpace ourselves in technological advancements. A hopeful part of me wants to think that we are participating in Dark Tourism because we want to learn from our mistakes, but the way history is presented to the visitors, both intentionally and unintentionally and interpreted, seems to always come back to schadenfreude. Death has been removed from us for so long that we seek it as a macabre pleasure, one that society doesn’t allow us to have – and that’s fine, but only when it is the death and suffering of someone else, somewhere else, sometime else. Our fascination stems from ignorance, but not from wanting to learn from our mistakes, but from a place of relief that it wasn’t us. ________________________________________________________________ I hope you enjoyed this! I know the writing isn’t as high quality as a paper traditionally would be, but if there seems to be interest I can do future posts breaking down each site further <3  Thanks! 

[gothhabiba]

talk more about sonnets, maybe?

I could talk about sonnets for hours. I once wrote a sonnet about how I could talk about sonnets for hours. I don’t know that I have anything particularly original to say but there is a lot that I like about them.

sonnets are, I think, perceived in the popular imagination (insofar as they are thought of at all) as a very rigid form. this interacts interestingly with the fact that many of them, especially early sonnets in Italian and English, are about the experience of love: Peter Holland writes in the Pelican Shakespeare introduction to Romeo and Juliet that

The form of a sonnet, whatever its particular choice of rhyme scheme, encloses the explosive desire of which the poem tries to speak. As the poet describes the limitless extent of his love, the claim of infinite emotion is held within the rigidity of the formal structure.

(the sonnet that Romeo & Juliet compose together in the play, by the way, fascinates me because, as a form of communication between the two characters, it actually enacts or embodies that love in a way that goes beyond the merely descriptive. I don’t think that he quite makes this point, but Robin Headlam Wells talks a lot about the language of R&J in “Neo-Petrarchan Kitsch in ‘Romeo and Juliet’” [The Modern Language Review, vol. 93, no. 4, 1998, pp. 913–933.] I also expand on the point in an essay I wrote in uh undergrad that I can dig up if anyone is interested.)

for me, though, the underlying rigidity of the form is more of a jumping-off point or a tool than a constraint (and any decent writer in any fixed form will, I think, think about it like this). the form becomes a kind of framework--meaning both, in a fairly literal sense, a gridwork of interlocking parts vertically (rhyme) & horizontally (meter), but also, more figuratively, a conceptual structure or frame of reference that you can consider any given sonnet in relation to. when we understand every sonnet as strategically differing more or less from that underlying (idealised, impossible) frame, what comes to the fore is in fact not the sonnet’s rigidity but its elasticity. Laynie Browne calls for “serious playfulness in form” & I think that’s a perfect expression of what’s needed when writing a sonnet (or sonnet variation, or “vagary” as I’ve been calling them).

within the first definition of “framework” & when we consider (to draw a slightly artificial line) only traditional sonnets, some of that meaningful variation from an underlying structure comes from accepted metrical substitutions in iambic meter (where multiple adjacent stressed syllables arising from e.g. trochaic & spondaic substitutions can slow down a line, & multiple adjacent weak syllables arising from anapestic or pyrrhic substitutions can speed it up, as Alexander Pope famously demonstrates in “An Essay on Criticism” [“when Ajax strives...”]). using this kind of variation can also conversely make stricter adherence to iambic meter (a sort of “nursery rhyme” feel that can arise from using a lot of shorter words so that primary & secondary stresses within words don’t interact too much with the meter) meaningful in its own right, as in my “Sonnets to the Sickly”: the meter in “wake and doze / And wake by turns in restless fits and halts” mimics the motions that it is describing. talking about how meter structures & interacts with prosody (and syntax, and diction) is maybe beyond the scope of what I want to talk about right now, but the central point is that meter, in giving us a standard of comparison, lets us know how to evaluate these shifts in rhythm. rhyme, similarly, shouldn’t be thought of merely as a requirement to fulfil but as a tool that can be used to highlight similarly or to (ironically) highlight a disjunct between two concepts (Paul Fussell talks about this in the chapter titled “Structural Principles: The Example of the Sonnet” in Poetic Meter and Poetic Form), or to otherwise guide or alter our experience of poetic time.

the second sense of “framework” (to the extent that the two senses can be differentiated), though, is the one that’s especially interesting to me. the act of writing or reading a sonnet is in conversation with the entire history of the form, from the Italians, to the sonnet sequence craze in the late 1500s, to the revival of the form by English women in the 19th century, to the use of the form by Americans in the 1920s & its place with an African-American poetic tradition. I say “to the extent that differentiation is possible” because all of these variations on the sonnet tradition also altered its formal qualities: the use of iambic meter & the shift from a “Petrarchan” to a “Shakespearean” rhyme scheme were both variations on the sonnet form that were necessary or helpful in adapting it to the prosody and phonology of (the rhyme-poor, compared to Italian) English language. a lot of other variations on the rhyme scheme of sonnets (and especially the sestet) occur, including some idiosyncratic ones that are only really used for the space of one poem--& yet they produce results that clearly operate within the tradition of the sonnet form.

all of this history & expectation in both form and genre can yield a very rich jumping-off point for anyone who’s interested in using it--women, for example, merely in appropriating a kind of metered poetry that was thought to be the proper province of men, were already making a general statement that the particulars of their poetic language could then interact with, add to, rely upon, or try to disguise. Black writers’ formal innovations (think of Claude McKay or Wanda Coleman) took, I think, the sonnet as an illustration, container, working-out-of, or symbol of a particular kind of white patriarchal logic, such that changes to its form (& here’s where we get away from what would count as a “traditional” sonnet in terms of rhyme and meter, to whatever extent that line can be drawn) can introduce, suggest, work out, or demonstrate an alternative logic, or produce, act out, or reaffirm non-white, non-Enlightenment epistemologies. or to look at this the other way around, non-white epistemologies cannot be adequately “held” (to use Holland’s term) within the traditional sonnet form and must seek places of disjunction or rupture in form and diction. the question that arises is of course “then why not just write free form?”--but to me, the implied reference to European logic (& other educated European trends in poetry, including the body of references to e.g. classical Greek and Latin literature that are assumed to be shared) & the demonstration of its breakage or failure to contain something, its failure to make a certain kind of expression possible, is actually the point. the form (sort of like genre in music, I think) lets you know “how” to read something, tells you what is being referenced so that you can understand the poem immediately at hand in terms of its relation to it (whether it’s calling upon, praising, modifying, criticising, or any combination thereof).

to take a few small examples of variation from “traditional” sonnet forms, & how those variations can encode or suggest meaning, from my own oeuvre: “Sonnets for the Sickly” clearly draws upon the traditional of the sonnet cycle. according to Wikipedia:

A sonnet cycle is a group of sonnets, arranged to address a particular person or theme, and designed to be read both as a collection of fully realized individual poems and as a single poetic work comprising all the individual sonnets. A sonnet cycle may have any theme, but unrequited love is the most common. The arrangement of the sonnets generally reflects thematic concerns, with chronological arrangements (whether linear, like a progression, or cyclical, like the seasons) being the most common.

the poem is broken up on the page into five individual sonnets, it does address a particular person or theme (the trope of the sickly woman in 19th-century literature), & it does treat unrequited love--but none of the sonnets can actually be read on their own, & the poem’s logic is not linear or chronological. each sonnet in fact bleeds into the next one--the first sonnet, importantly, does so on the word continuation, such that the diction of the poem provides a kind of clew to how the sonnets will function (“I your continuation / And I your champion!”). the fact that I’m clearly referencing a form that is usually composed of self-contained sonnets allows the fact that these sonnets are not self-contained to stand out in sharp relief. & this bleeding over was, in fact, necessary to the logic of the poem, to what I wanted to talk about--the physically felt continuation of an idea or trope through (historical, bodily, literary) time. the rhyme scheme--a sort of combination of Petrarchan & Shakespearean schemes with an extra twist--is similarly mirrored & calls upon the idea of continuation: abba cddc effe aa.

“sonnetine / vagary no. 1″ similarly calls upon the 19th century & its sonnet tradition (though the title also echoes musical forms such as the sonatine, with which there’s of course an etymological connexion given the source of the word “sonnet”). it references smooth, silk-based fabrics popular in the 19th century (sarcenet & crepe de chine) as a short-hand to talk about the past, fragility, cruelty, unsustainability. the lineation in the poem is strange, and combines the idea of a royal flush sonnet (aaaa aaaa aaaaaa)--if you just look at where the line cuts off--with an envelope or modified Petrarchan sonnet (abba cddc ~efgefg or something similar)--if you look at the whole word (vetted / fretted, fetters / debtors). again, there’s a clew to what this sonnet’s form is playing with in the diction of the sonnet itself: “frett- / ed lining.” the volta is a transition from talking about destruction to talking about making anew (“retting” hemp to make cloth representing sustainability, durability, being forward-thinking). the sonnet cuts off before the end in order to demonstrate the slowness & the (by definition) uncompleted nature of this process. only the understanding that a sonnet “should” have a designated length allows me to say that I’ve cut anything off “early.”

“reversed sonnet / vagary no. 2″ also has a clew to its weirdness within its diction: “unexpected ictus,” where “ictus” can refer to the onset of an illness, but also to a stressed syllable in a metrical line. the “ictus” in the sonnet is unexpected because it’s written in trochaic, not iambic, meter. the sestet also occurs before the octave (putting the volta rather early in the poem), & the first, not the last, word of each line is rhymed. thus, kind of along the lines of what I was talking about where alternate epistemologies can be mapped out or explored through deviations in form, the “weird” formal innovation allows me to demonstrate the strange “logic” and “chronology” of sickness (understanding the poem, of course, not only as a fixed series of words upon a page but as an experience that occurs throughout time as you read it).

one last note: the fact that we experience poetry through time is part of what endears sonnets to me. they’re so compact in time & in space. more of the experience of reading them seems to occur within a perceptual present than can be said of a longer form. the spacing of the rhymes interacts with our cognition and memory to keep those sounds relevant within a small timeframe. Browne writes:

All form is time. I think of the modern sonnet as an increment of time within a frame. Something that often physically fits into a little rectangle (but not in thought). Something you can utter in one long convulsive breath or hold in your palm. When my hand covers the page it disappears. It's a controlled measure of sound and space within which one can do anything. An invitation.

“invitation” is a perfect description for how I conceive of sonnets. volta is originally the turn in a sonnet from the “problem” of the octave and the “solution” of the sestet, but imo a sonnet doesn’t so much solve or resolve a problem so much as invite you to think about one. it’s just long enough to encapsulate one thought, one perspective, or one proposed solution.

[sanstropfremir]

I absolutely LOVED reading your kingdom review. You gave me such an insight in things I never even considered, especially since our rankings are so different from each other. The Boyz was my favorite, the narrative was about RTK. How they felt bad for having to compete against their friends but eventually the groups only lifted each other up and it helped TBZ grow into the group they are now through the hardships and mental dilemma, falling into the next challenge right after they reached the top. It should have been more obvious though, I agree, it wasn't really visible for anyone who didn't know. I was wondering how you felt about the dancing in general? my reason for not ranking BTOB high was lack of choreo (and Peniel's verse), same goes for SF9. Mostly because I don't feel the hype when watching, it doesn't keep my focus on the stage. As a baby-performer myself, my goal is to make the viewer curious about what's next. is that the wrong way to look at it? that's what I've always been told, building the tension up and down to create focus. would love to hear your feedback on that! thank you so much for sharing, we need more reviews of people who actually know what they're talking about.

i'm glad that you got some insight from it! like i answered in the previous ask im here to hopefully bring some more depth and understanding for people that care and are curious!

you unintentionally proved my point about tbz’s performance: that is way too complicated! even the most talented solo dancers i can think of would have trouble distilling that down to something readable in 100 seconds, much less a group of like, a dozen people! the introductory stages are meant to show us the character of the group and their abilities in the most concise way possible, it's not the stage to do deep philosophical and emotional introspection. for a full stage? absolutely, go hog wild! but for this stage it was too ambitious and ultimately was ineffective to anyone that isn't a fan of them specifically. 

by dancing in general do you mean like, every group? i put most of my opinions on the dancing where i had them in each of the individual rankings but honestly? unless there is something that really stands out positively or negatively, a lot of ‘average’ kpop dance looks the same to me. i know it’s not, obviously, and if pressed i probably could do a more serious breakdown, but dance is only one element of performance. it has equal weight with all the others in my mind, and therefore i notice when it is either 

very good

does something unique

very bad, or

interferes with another element

which is the same as how i evaluate every element, if that makes sense. 

hmmmm. i thought about this a lot in the shower and turns out i had more opinions that i expected so i'll put them under a cut.

firstly, i don't think lack of choreo should be penalized or considered an ‘incomplete’ performance. at the end of the day, these are bands, and a part of their brand/product they sell is the music. complex choreo does not need to be attached to that to make it a successful performance. also, btob did have choreo. any movement on stage is technically choreography. but this terminology can cause confusion so usually non-dance choreo is referred to as ‘blocking.’ but they also did include the song’s original point choreo at 1.41. the blocking in their performance was well thought out and suited the arrangement, by placing spatial emphasis on each part of the song that needed it. obviously it comes down to personal taste if the performance is ultimately ‘successful,’ because all art is subjective, but just because something isn't as visually complex as something else doesn’t mean it doesn't have the same level of thought. think of it like this: one is a super clean-lined post-post-modern grey/white living room, and the other is a kitsch goth basement. both share interior design principles and have obvious care put into the space, but they are vastly different styles that appeal to different tastes.

part of the job of production designer/AD is to decide what gets emphasis. a question you're always asking yourself is ‘is this important to the story that we’re trying to tell?’ and btob/their AD made a very smart choice with their introductory stage because it says a lot about them and their abilities in a short amount of time. that stage said ‘our foundation is strong, we have the training and experience and confidence to be up here and not rely on visual tricks.’ because they know they physically cannot do the things the 4th gen groups can; they're a decade older and they only have four members, it's just not feasible. something you learn with experience is the power that specific and pointed emphasis holds, which segues into my answer to your last question. i don't necessarily think that ‘building hype’ is the wrong way to perform something, but i do think it is a flawed way to approach creating a performance.

i think that ‘hype’ is flawed concept at its core, and one that focuses on the idea that there’s always being something more, something next, beyond the work itself. now there’s nothing wrong with playing with tension within the internal structure of a piece, that's exactly how constructing a narrative happens. however, the flaws come once we extrapolate beyond the boundaries of that individual work. the idea of ‘whats next’ implies that you have to constantly be promoting, have a sequel coming, building hype etc so people will keep engaged with your work. which is deeply capitalistic in nature and operates on the assumption that art exists purely as a product to be sold. and in order to keep selling you need to keep making a bigger and better and more spectacular product. and this is not the case at all. marketability is not the essence of art, it merely a factor of creating it under this insufferable system. kpop in particular suffers from this because the industry is specifically fabricated to produce capitol. we can have discussions all day about idols and their artistic integrity but at the end of that day, they are all cogs working with a system that was specifically made up by essentially one person to be culturally exported and to just print buckets of money. so in following that train of thought, there is a constant attitude of bigger and better because shock value (whether positive or negative) gets social media attention and therefore it sells. and it has become exponentially easier (and also seemingly required) to make things that are bigger and better than ever before. i remember being blown away by the projection floor at the sochi 2014 olympics because something of that scale and complexity would never have been possible without literally having the funding of the olympics. now that technology is easily accessible to anyone with an amazon account and the time to learn how isadora works. in comparison, it took 2400 YEARS for just the job of a ‘theatre designer’ to be even become a job at all.

because of kpop’s fan culture it is especially prone to ‘hype’ behaviour. in general with the accessibility of the internet and social media, everything has turned into a competition, and who can generate the most buzz ‘wins’. but ultimately that has taken away the general public’s ability to recognize that you can enjoy something quietly and you can enjoy something slowly. that the enjoyment of something doesn’t need to be all exclamation marks and keysmashes and trending hashtags on twitter. there is value in a work engaging in an emotion within you that is not just excitement. most of the artists and companies that i consume the work of i don’t do so because their work makes me excited, i do so because i liked the experience of engaging with that work. several years ago i saw the eternal tides by legend lin dance theatre, which you can watch a really short clip of here. that is not slow motion, that is actually how slow the dancers are moving. and 90% of the show is performed like that. and its two hours long. and it was one of the most incredible performances i've ever seen. if i ever get the chance I will go see another one of their shows again, not because i care about how they can top that experience i had, but because i know they can produce that experience, and that is enough to make me want to seek them out again. the speed of the internet has also loosened the general public’s understanding of just exactly how long creating a performance work can take. the lead dancer in the eternal tides was with the company for eight years before she and the piece were ready enough to be performed. large scale operas, musicals, and plays often have a year or more of pre-production before they even get to rehearsal. smaller theatre companies workshop new pieces for years at a time. performance is hard and it takes time. you can eliminate some of that with sheer amounts of money and people, which is what the kpop industry has done, but it speeds up the cycle of consumption to a degree that is not sustainable, especially for companies and creators who do not have that kind of access. performers and performance makers often don't put enough trust in their audiences. if they like what they see, they will come back. they dont need to be constantly bombarded with content at all times.

now that i’ve said a bit about why i think hype is a flawed concept, let's bring it back to kingdom. sf9 did something very interesting with their stage in that they actively chose to limit their dance time. and this plays very well off the performance film stage that taeyang did a couple of weeks ago. taeyang is talented and confident (for good reason), and his solo was incredible. but when it came to the intro stage, instead of trying to one-up the solo stage, the group instead said ‘well people are going to be looking at us because taeyang is insanely talented, so let's show them that we ALL have the confidence and the attitude to be up here.’ no need for flashy theatrics, they had the foresight to do something that would make them stand out from the rest of the groups. even if i was just casually watching the stages without doing any analysis on them (like i did for rtk), i would still be able to distinguish them because they had the stones to stand around for half their stage time. now i recognize them and would like to see what else they can do. same principle as what btob and also what ikon did. there is a fine line between anticipation and hype that gets equated in media consumption nowadays, but the two are not the same.

i think the tldr on this is that you dont need to ‘build hype’ or ‘go all out’ to make an interesting work. just focus on telling the narrative that you want to tell, and the people that recognize that will come. i could have a lot more things to say about peoples shrinking attention spans and the constant stream of information that we consume on a daily basis that devalues the labour done by artists in the eyes of the public and promotes hustle culture that is burning out and damaging creators at a rate that is both exponential and frightening, but that’s probably for another time, because this is SO LONG

[fallout4holmes]

Nuka-World 6

We had a visitor the next morning. Mags Black left her two cronies at the base of the artificial mountain as she took the lift up herself. I don't know what she said to Gage to get him to stay put on the ground, but he wasn't happy about it.

Holmes had just finished his morning cigarette and a minimal breakfast. He stood as she stepped off the lift, "Ah. Ms. Black."

The raider boss raised an eyebrow, "Miz? It's like you're trying to stand out. You're the Overboss now, Mister Holmes, you get to be on a first name basis with everyone."

Holmes lit another cigarette and said with exaggerated politeness, "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Mags smirked, "You can blame it on giving the Disciples The Galactic Zone. I don't know what you're planning, but I want my people to come out on top at the end."

"At the moment, avoiding the animosity of an amusement park full of raiders is my primary concern."

"Bullshit," she said pleasantly. "You're the General of the Minutemen, the frozen vault-dweller that destroyed the Institute. I heard about your almost-war with the Brotherhood too, how you kicked them out of the Commonwealth after destroying their toys." She gestured to me, “Most of the raiders in Nuka-World are from west of here, where the Institute never had a presence. They think your friend is just a nifty robot bodyguard. Creepy, but nothing more. Those of us from the Commonwealth though?” She smiled, sinister, “We know exactly what he is. William and I know better than most. You never did find that janitor that went missing, did you Nick? What was her name, Amelia?”

“Annette,” I corrected, tried not to rise to the bait. “Not usually a fan of kicking folks out beyond the Wall, but in the case of you and your brother I’m glad Diamond City did.”

“Funnily enough, so are we. This suits us much better.” She said it smoothly, nothing but charm, but you don’t last long in my line of work if you can’t tell a bluff when you see one. She turned her attention back to Holmes, “Either your rumored nobility is all an act to get you into a place of power, or you’re going to throw a wrench into the fragile gears of this place. If it turns out to be the first one, you may want to consider showing my people a bit of favor before ugly rumors of synths and interfering Minutemen start circulating the park. If it’s the second one, well. Just know that every Operator in this park is watching.”

Holmes glowered, “I don’t respond well to threats.”

“As long as you respond,” Mags said, and took the lift back down.

As soon as she was down, Gage came up. "Mags pissed?"

"A touch upset," Holmes offered me a cigarette, which I took. "I was a little surprised she remembered you, Valentine."

"Guess it's hard to forget a face like this," I said dryly.

"What the hell are you two goin' on about?" Gage sighed.

"Nothing important," Holmes said, "just the Operators being unhappy with me. They can have the next park, it doesn't matter."

"Giving 'em the next park might look like you were intimidated," Gage said.

"What is the next park?" Holmes asked.

"Figured we'd hit Dry Rock Gulch."

"Hm, the American 'Old West' theme. A fake gold mining operation should suit the Operators, don't you think, Valentine?"

I chuckled, "I think the implication is gonna go over their heads, but we might as well check it out and get it over with."

Holmes agreed and we headed off. We made it to the park’s gate when I heard something moving through the earth, sort of like the sound a mole rat makes just before it leaps out and bites you. Only these weren’t mole rats.

A handful of big red worms with mouths that took up the whole head attacked, surprising the hell out of me and Holmes and earning an annoyed growl from Gage. They weren’t much of a fight, but, “Well that was unpleasant,” I said.

“You never seen bloodworms before?” Gage asked, skeptical.

I shook my head, “We don't get these things back east.”

“Better get used to ‘em, they’re a fucking menace around here.”

Hopefully we wouldn’t be staying long enough for me to get used to them, but I kept that to myself. I glanced around as we entered the park, the Old West frontier outpost aesthetic turned kitsch.

“How’s it go,” Gage sarcastically drawled, “This town ain’t big enough for you and me… ah, never mind.”

Holmes chuckled. “Let’s ask the local law enforcement for information,” he pointed to a protectron wearing a sheriff’s hat.

“Hope y'all are having a good day here at Nuka-World. Ready to saddle up and ride into the old wild west?” the protectron said.

“Great,” Gage grumbled, “More dumb robots.”

The protectron was unperturbed, “I'm the sheriff of these parts, and I need your help getting rid of those no good outlaws holed up in Mad Mulligan's Mine!”

“This is why I hate robots,” Gage huffed. “They don’t even know the world ended, this playtime shit is annoying.”

The protectron’s park personality programming stopped, “Processing: Hostile visitor. Ignore and continue explanation for the sake of the other guests.”

I laughed.

The sheriff continued his job, “The door to Mad Mulligan's Mine is locked up. I got a spare key in a safe by the theater, but wouldn't you know, I plum forgot what the combination to the safe was! You'll need to talk to my three amigos: Doc Phosphate, One-Eyed Ike, and the Giddyup Kid. Prove to them you're tough enough to take on the outlaws, and they'll give you their part of the combination. Good luck, little doggie! And don't forget your complimentary deputy uniform, courtesy of Nuka-Cola!”

The sheriff handed Holmes a costume, who promptly handed it to Gage, who scowled before realizing, “You got a weird ass sense of humor, boss,” and tossed it away. As we walked he asked, “We really gotta do all that, talk to three other robots just to get a key?”

“I suppose we could simply hang a banner and be done with the place,” Holmes said.

Gage shook his head, “Not with the bloodworms. Gotta torch the nest first, otherwise whoever moves in is gonna be pissed to hell you gave ‘em an infested base.”

Holmes made casual eye contact with me. He’d been hoping for a raider-bloodworm showdown.

“I mean,” Gage was still talking, “why do we need this fucking key in the first place? Can’t we just blast the door open?”

“I try not to do anything rash if I can avoid it,” Holmes said, “and surely you don’t think we’ll be bested by a few challenges designed for children?”

“I’m starting to second-guess making you Overboss,” Gage grumbled.

“Perhaps you should have considered that possibility before enthroning a stranger you know precious little about, against his will,” Holmes steely replied.

“I can deal with an ass of a boss,” Gage played it cool, “as long as he gets done what needs to get done.”

We did the tasks for the park protectrons, fighting bloodworms, overgrown crickets, and giant ants along the way. Once we had the key, we headed for Mad Mulligan's Mine… a roller-coaster.

Gage had kept pretty quiet til then, "People actually stood in line and waited for this crap?" He scoffed, "Bunch of suckers."

"Roller-coasters were a popular attraction,” I commented flatly, “though I can’t say I ever saw the appeal.”

Holmes gestured for quiet as we headed into the ride. The lobby held a souvenir shop and the entrance to the tunnels that would lead folks to the boarding area, decorated to look like you’re walking through a mine out of a Saturday morning western. Back then it probably lacked the dead bodies, of course. Holmes and I had heard rumors of traders who hid from Colter’s raiders in Dry Rock Gulch. We found ‘em. Bloodworms saw to it they didn’t have long to enjoy their freedom.

The boarding area was a massive pit littered with brahmin corpses, bulging with bloodworm larvae. In the middle of the pit was the massive queen herself.

“I believe we’ve found the nest,” Holmes said.

“No shit, boss,” Gage scoffed.

“Valentine and I will take care of the queen, you exterminate everything hiding in those brahmin.”

Gage nodded, “Sounds like a plan.”

I might be getting too old for fighting overgrown monsters in caves… but every time I think that, I know it’s not really true. Or it is, and I’m too stubborn to admit it. Anyway, we got the job done but the queen did a number on my leg. At least we know that Nuka-Town’s got a competent mechanic. I could walk, which is saying something, just going to have a limp until whatever got whacked out of place could get realigned. Gage was going to make a remark, but wisely shut up when Holmes glared at him.

We let the Sheriff know the job was done, got paid, which was a nice surprise, and Holmes climbed up to the top of the theater to hoist a flag with a black heart in a bullseye, bleeding gold.

“Gave in to the Operators after all, huh?” Gage said once Holmes was back on the ground. He didn’t sound accusatory, which was kind of weird, just like he was making conversation. Which was also kind of weird.

“If I have to secure Mags Black’s silence with a token gesture,” Holmes said, “then so be it.”

Gage shrugged, “Just let ‘em know you’re the Overboss, not some do-good General.”

“Gage, you conned me into this mess for the purpose of bringing the gangs together, yes? How does strutting around threatening violence serve that purpose?”

“Because we’re raiders?? That’s the language these idiots speak. You gotta treat ‘em right, but make sure they know you can end them at any time.”

Holmes made a considering sound and headed out of the park, “I often thought that if raiders could ever organize, they would be a force to be reckoned with. It seems I was right.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Gage exclaimed, relieved as if Holmes had finally come around. He didn’t know that every time the topic came up, it was followed with a list of possible ways the Minutemen would eliminate that threat.

Unfortunately, none of the hypothetical scenarios ever involved the General and his partner effectively being held hostage, with no way to call for help.

[bts-bringthescenarios]

Genre: fluff, hints of angst, hints of crack. Pairing: [romantic] female reader + bts!maknae line Contents & Warnings: multiple career!reader, physical contact, swear words, mention of mental health issues.

*** Park Jimin

It had all started with BTS’ increasing concern over Jimin. He seemed to be getting more and more anxious with time. He was such a perfectionist he couldn’t do anything without feeling an intense sense of responsibility: he practiced all the time, he was constantly dieting, he recorded everything countless times until he felt it was close to perfect. If he didn’t achieve the results he strived for, he would become stressed and testy. 

One night, Jimin stayed at the BigHit dance practice rooms until very late, going over the same choreography until he felt he had mastered it completely. The trouble was the whole band had spent the entire day practicing, and they were worried Jimin might injure himself if he kept pushing himself so far. So this time they decided to ambush him. 

“Okay, music out. This has to stop,” Jin barged in. 

“What are you doing? I’m still not confident with the final step sequence!” Jimin protested weakly. Still, he sat down on the ground. He was drenched in sweat and his hands were shaking slightly. 

“Then you’ll have to live with the uncertainty,” Hoseok said as he kneeled over Jimin, handing him a bottle of sport beverage. 

“You need to rest. Right now,” Taehyung commanded as he sat next to Jimin, eyeing him full of concern. 

Jimin downed the bottle, realizing he hadn’t had supper yet, and his lunch had consisted of an apple. He tried to persuade himself that it was best for him to keep practicing, but maybe his brothers were right. He needed to stop. 

The next morning they all gathered together with their manager to talk to Jimin about not overexerting himself, and they unanimously decided that he needed to find a new occupation beside the idol life, some way to blow off steam and distract him. They wanted to make sure that his new hobby was laid back, messy and improvisational, so that Jimin could not redirect his perfectionism toward a new activity and he could focus on simply doing whatever he felt like. 

That was how BigHit enrolled Jimin in a Clay Sculpting workshop. Horrified, he tried to persuade them to transfer him to any other kind of class: cooking, bartending, painting, expressionist dancing, anything, but BTS and BigHit knew him well, and they knew that anything that meant creating a product or involved dancing would only make things worse. So he began attending the classes, twice a week for two hours. He was not allowed to bring any unfinished projects home, and he had to submit his work every week. This forced him to just turn in whatever he had, regardless of his expectations. 

That was how he had met you. 

“Okay, (Y/N). Could you please tell us about your piece?” the teacher asked kindly, holding up a bulbous shape so that the rest of the class could see it. 

“Well, it was supposed to be a carriage, but looking at it now I’m tempted to just think of it as ‘abstract art’” you scoffed. “I guess I’ll have to name it something pretentious or whatever.”

Everyone laughed, and Jimin felt much more at ease at the fact that the frog that he had been working on looked like a deformed hut with eyes. 

At the end of the class, Jimin stepped out of the men’s room, ready to leave, when he overheard a conversation happening in the next room. 

“Ugh, I wish they’d let us bring our phones in! No one’s going to believe me,” someone complained. 

“No phones allowed, that’s true, but there are no rules over bringing a picture and asking him to sign it. I bet I could sell it for big bucks,” another voice added.

Jimin exhaled silently, deciding to remain hidden until everyone else was gone. He hoped they’d leave soon, Jungkook was picking him up and he was probably waiting in the parking lot already. 

“Oh! Let’s ask him next week, (Y/N)!”

“No.” Your voice, firm and clear, resonated in the quiet room, pulling Jimin out of his thoughts. He pressed his ear to the door. “Look, you can do whatever you want, but I’m not going to be a part of this.” 

“A part of what?” a man inquired. 

“Can you imagine what it must be like?” you countered calmly. “Can you imagine being unable to join a friggin’ clay sculpture class without people harassing you all the time?”

“It’s just an autograph, (Y/N). Jeez,” the same man jeered.

“Yeah, I bet everyone thinks that. And then everyone demands one. All day. Every day.” 

A low murmur broke after your words, and Jimin couldn’t hear anything else. Just in case he walked back into the men’s room and remained there until he was positive the classroom was empty. 

During the weekend, Jimin found himself thinking about you frequently. He appreciated you standing up for him with that group of people, since he knew it couldn’t have been easy to just go ahead and confront the majority. Besides, there was something very genuine about you, like the way you had mocked your own sculpture. Even the way you spoke felt honest and upfront. He wondered if there’d be a way to talk to you during class. 

As it turned out, one of your friends was on vacation and there was a free spot on your table when Jimin walked in. That wasn’t the only good news. It seemed that your words had an impact on the rest of the group, because no one walked to him requesting an autograph or a picture. 

Jimin sat next to you slowly, attempting to play it cool, like he’d chosen that seat because whatever. The way his eyes looked away from you bashfully contradicted that notion.

“Hi,” you greeted him smilingly as you put on your apron. 

“Hi,” he replied softly. You didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by being overbearing, so you began preparing the materials in silence. Jimin watched you awkwardly for a second, then he began preparing his things too. He tried to make conversation. “Um… any idea what you’re going to do today?” 

“Well, I’ll try to do a lotus flower, ‘try’ being the operative word.” 

“I think your carriage last week was pretty good,” Jimin chortled. 

“Oh, it’s not a carriage anymore. I’m calling it ‘The Burden of Constantly Failing Clay Class’. It’s an abstract piece,” you joked, and Jimin burst into quiet laughter. 

Jimin had a lot of fun with you during the entire class, and he soon discovered that when he didn’t take himself so seriously he actually enjoyed himself immensely. He played with the clay, experiencing the feeling of its texture under his fingers, and shaped up a bird with its wings wide open. Your lotus flower was looking pretty good too, and Jimin suggested you combine the two sculptures after painting them next class. 

You walked into the classroom overly excited the next class, and so did Jimin. He had been looking forward to this all week. You worked together again, goofing around with the brushes and joking constantly. When you turned in your final project, the colors were bright and tacky, and it looked quite kitsch. It wasn’t even close to being perfect, but that somehow made you both feel better.

“Why are you taking this class, (Y/N)?” Jimin inquired as you both waited for the rest of your classmates to finish their work. 

“Well… I was struggling with negative thoughts, and I needed something to force me to focus on actually doing something regardless of the outcome,” you explained. You didn’t mean to overshare with him, but he looked genuinely interested in knowing and it just slipped out. Besides, you thought, being an idol meant everyone knew so much about him already, it was only fair to give him some personal information about yourself. 

“Really? So did I!” he exclaimed impulsively, then looked away, abashed. You smiled at him encouragingly, and he continued. “I was actually working myself too hard, and my brothers decided it was time for me to find a hobby.” 

Both of you kept talking until the class was over, and then continued your conversation while Jimin waited for Jungkook to pick him up in the car. 

The conversations and joint projects quickly became a routine. This caused a lot of gossip at first, but it died out as time passed and your relationship didn’t change. In truth, you both liked each other quite a lot, but were reticent of asking each other out for different reasons. You didn’t know whether Jimin could date or not, and you were scared you’d make him uncomfortable by asking him out. 

Jimin, on the other hand, was simply too shy to do it. Of course, he thought about it quite a lot, and he had formed plans to do it a hundred times, at least. He’d fantasized and daydreamed about it countless hours, perfecting it, but when the time came to act upon it, he systematically chickened out: he walked into the workshop determined to ask for your phone number, but as soon as the class was over he walked away empty handed.

His brothers began to lose patience. 

“For fuck’s sake, Jimin, just go and ask her for her phone number after class. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Tell her you want to send her memes or something,” Yoongi complained. 

“If you don’t do it yourself I’ll do it for you,” Jeongguk teased. 

“Okay, okay! I’ll do it tomorrow,” Jimin whined, trying to end the conversation.

“You make sure he does that, Jeongguk,” Yoongi added maliciously. 

Jimin eyed them suspiciously. Maybe Jeongguk really meant what he said. He would have to act on this soon if he wanted to avoid a catastrophe. 

Needless to say, Jimin was fidgety during the entire class, paying little attention to his clay project. It was supposed to be a mug, but he didn’t even shape it properly and it looked like some sort of tower. As the end of the class grew impendingly close, his palms began to sweat. 

“I can’t believe I even got the handle right,” you boasted, showing your mug to Jimin as you put your projects away to dry so that they could be painted next class. “I mean, if I keep this up you’ll be keeping my best work yet.” 

Jimin looked up in alarm, and realization dawned on him. You had promised to give each other the finished mugs last class, but he’d been so caught up with asking you for your number he completely forgot. He looked down at his mug, beginning to despair. He wasn’t sure the thing could even hold any liquid inside it. 

As your classmates slowly filed out of the class, Jimin said goodbye quickly, excusing himself by going to the toilet. You felt uneasy. He’d acted weird today. He’d barely talked, his mug looked like a pepper mill and he stumbled over words the whole time. Was something wrong? Should you stay and ask him? You decided it was best to leave, perhaps he needed time alone. 

Feeling a little down, you walked out of the building and a chilly breeze tousled your hair, making you shiver. You remembered you left your scarf in the classroom, so you went back to get it. When you opened the door you found Jimin alone, placing his clay mug inside a cardboard box. His eyes darted up and he froze, turning crimson. 

“Hey,” you said quietly. “Er… what are you doing?”

Jimin straightened up, eyeing the box guiltily. 

“Nothing. I mean, I was just packing the mug.” 

“Why are you packing it?” you questioned dubiously. Then you noticed his backpack was open, and he’d made enough space to stuff the cardboard box inside it. “Wait. Were you going to take the mug home?”

“It just needs a few touch ups!” Jimin admitted, biting his lip as you stared at him. 

“Jimin, you’re supposed to let it go if it’s not perfect, remember?” you protested, your voice soft and understanding. “Are you having anxious thoughts again?”

“No, not at all. That’s not it.” 

“Then why are you so worried about it?”

“Because I forgot we were going to swap mugs!” he confessed. “My mind was elsewhere and I completely forgot, like an idiot. I want you to have something nice. I don’t want you keeping this— this—” he trailed off, glaring at the box. 

You were so touched by his words it took you a few seconds to react. 

You walked around the table to stand next to him and placed your hands over his shoulders, softly holding him in place as you fixed your eyes on his. 

“Jimin, I want you to understand something. I don’t care if the mug’s pretty or artsy or whatever. You know what I care about? The fact that you took the time and trouble to make it for me. That’s it. I’ve been watching you work on that mug, and I already love it. So put it back to dry, or so help me.”

You had meant for the playful threat to make him laugh, but instead Jimin remained still, his eyes burning with emotion. Of course you would have the perfect answer. Of course you would made him feel exactly right. As he pondered this, he discovered this was his chance to take the leap, and he was sure that he wanted to take it. 

Carefully evaluating your reaction, Jimin hesitantly lifted his hands to your back and pulled you just a fraction closer. The movement was enough for you to understand what he was trying to do. Your heart thumped loudly in your ears. You slid your hands up his neck gently, grazing your fingertips over his hair. 

As he held you in his arms, Jimin’s shyness faded away. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled your bodies closer together, so close you could taste his breath on your tongue. It lured you in, and for the briefest moment you touched his lips with yours. 

The sound of the elevator doors opening, followed by a series of footsteps in the hallway, had you pulling away from each other hastily. You had just enough time to collect yourselves before Jeongguk strolled in through the door. 

“Hey, what’s taking you so long? Class was over like fifteen minutes ago—” he stopped, his eyes darting from you to Jimin’s unmoving figures. 

“Oh,” he whispered as he understood what was going on. “You must be (Y/N).” 

Knowing that Jimin had talked to Jeongguk about you made your heart flutter. It had the opposite effect on Jimin, though. 

“We were just talking right now. Could you please wait for me in the car?” he snapped, indignation winning over the embarrassment. 

 “Okay,” Jeongguk replied and made to leave. Then he stopped in his tracks and turned around, a bit flustered. “I’m sorry, but I promised Yoongi-hyung I would check...” 

Jimin’s stomach dropped. Oh, no he wouldn’t. His eyes narrowed dangerously at his brother, unspoken threats festering behind them. Jeongguk seemed to reconsider for a second, but then he squared his shoulders and stared at you. 

“(Y/N), Jimin’s supposed to ask you for your phone number. You know, to send you memes and stuff.” 

Jimin learned there and then that it was not possible to die of shame, because if it were he would have dropped dead at that precise moment. He turned to look at your expression to measure the damage Jeongguk had done. For what felt like an eternity you appeared to be confused, your face scrunched up in concentration. Then, to his immense relief, the corners of your mouth quirked up into a wide grin.

“He was just getting to that before you walked in,” you affirmed happily, having realized that he had been so nervous during class because he’d been meaning to ask you out. 

“Oh. Okay. I’ll leave you to it, then,” Jeongguk mumbled, then turned around and walked out. 

None of you spoke until the elevator shut its doors with Jeongguk inside it. 

“So, would you like to take down my number?” you asked innocently, trying to break the ice. 

“I am… so sorry. I don’t even know how to begin to make up for what just happened. Memes...” he whispered to himself as he looked away, overcome with indignation. 

You beamed at him, trying not to laugh at his expression. When he gazed at you again, it knocked the air out of him. You were glowing: your eyes, your skin, your lips, everything seemed to have become even more beautiful. 

Jimin understood then that his chagrin was silly, because your feelings mirrored his own. He grinned at you and held your hands in his. 

“I could begin to make amends tomorrow night. Can I buy you dinner?” he asked, turning a light shade of pink. 

“Please,” you answered, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. 

***

Kim Taehyung

The other members didn’t mind it as much when someone from the BigHit team took their pets to the vet because it was unavoidable, but not Taehyung. Sometimes it couldn’t be helped, but he did the best he could to always be there for Yeontan when he needed his routine vaccinations or when he was ill. He would fuss and get stressed about it all the time, distrusting the vets, until another idol shared with him the number of her favorite vet in the city, who happened to have a home health service. 

That was how he had met you. Taehyung was immediately smitten with you since the first time you stepped on the dorm and all the members’ pets greeted you affectionately as if they’d known you forever. Even Yeontan was happily rubbing itself against your shins in demand of your attention before you had removed your coat. Oh yes, Taehyung had crushed on you instantly, and it wasn’t only because he found you very attractive, but also that you were humble, kind and easygoing. You greeted the boys warmly and set to work immediately, listening to all of their questions and lovingly stroking their pets as you checked them up. And what was even better, you treated them as normal people. 

When it was Yeontan’s turn to have his medical examination Taehyung lingered protectively around him, but he soon realized it was unnecessary: his pup was so comfortable with you he needn’t be worried. So instead he decided to watch you work, paying close attention to the way you frowned when you were listening to Tan’s heart through the stethoscope, or the graceful movements of your fingers as you checked inside his ears. You were so concentrated on Yeontan’s examination that you didn’t notice Taehyung gawking at you admiringly, nor how his mouth was hanging open during the entire check up. 

After suggesting to swap the food brand to make Yeontan gain a bit of weight and arranging to come in a few weeks for his routine vaccination, you asked Taehyung if he had any questions, still holding his pet in your arms as he licked your hand affectionately. 

“Is there a place where I can come see you?” he inquired dreamily, and taking into account your bewildered expression, he added, “you know, if I have any questions or if there’s an emergency.”

“Sure, you can come over to the clinic or just call me at any time,” you beamed at him as you handed him a business card with your address. 

Immediately after you left, Taehyung secured your card carefully in his wallet and made sure to write down your address in his phone as well. During the next week he tried to restrain himself from getting in touch with you, but he couldn’t help daydreaming about asking you out. He tried to content himself by looking forward to your next visit, but the more time passed, the harder it became for him to ignore the little card tucked in his wallet. 

Unable to resist any longer, Taehyung texted you pretending to have forgotten the brand of dog food you’d recommended. You wound up chatting for a while, where he sent you pictures of Yeontan and, of course, a really cute selfie with a wide, boxy smile and his pup in his arms. Then the following day he dropped by your veterinary clinic to purchase the dog food, and he later sent you a video of Yeontan eating his meal happily. Five days later he swung by again, explaining that someone had mysteriously thrown away Yeontan’s food so he needed to buy some more. 

During this whole time you had tried very hard to maintain a professional relationship. Honestly, you really tried. But how was it possible to keep a polite distance when he was so sweet and attentive? You tried to be strong and remain emotionally detached since the idea of getting romantically involved with a worldwide famous idol was scary to say the least, and besides, he surely met a lot of interesting women all the time in his industry. You thought he might get bored of talking to you, or he would eventually be too busy to keep it up. 

Well, that didn’t happen, not even when he left on a tour for two weeks. He texted you regularly, and despite beginning your daily conversations with a pretext, like Yeontan shivering while he slept or not being hungry, every single time he found a way to keep talking to you about something else, bombarding you with questions about your personal life and telling you funny stories of his daily routine being an idol. Eventually, Taehyung gathered up enough courage to ask you if you were dating someone. When you read that text, your hands were shaking with so much excitement that you nearly dropped your phone. That was the moment you finally accepted that you had utterly and completely messed up your plan to remain emotionally detached. 

Needless to say that when the time came for you to go back to the dorms and vaccinate Yeontan, both of you were giddy and excited. Taehyung was head over heels for you, and he promised himself he would ask you out today. He woke up extra early to shower, fix his hair and carefully select his outfit. He spent an entire thirty minutes deciding what perfume to wear, trying them all on the other members, and the last hour before your arrival he brushed his teeth three times. 

“So at what time is the hot vet coming?” Jeongguk inquired, a bit concerned after watching Taehyung rinse his mouth yet again. 

“Please don’t call her that. It only makes me more nervous to remember how beautiful she is,” Taehyung muttered, anxiously checking his phone again. 

“Take it easy, Taehyungie,” Jimin said as he patted his back soothingly. “You’ve been texting all the time for weeks now. I’m sure she’ll accept to go on a date with you.” 

When you finally rang the bell, Taehyung stood in front of the door for a second and took a deep breath to collect himself, energetically flattening his shirt with his hands to remove any wrinkles. And when he opened the door, you looked so pretty you knocked the air out of him and he forgot all the things he planned to say to play it cool. 

“(Y/N)! You look— I mean, I’m happy to see you again. Hi,” he said, picking up Yeontan from the ground and bringing him close to you so you could pet him. 

You were breathless, too. You noticed how handsome Taehyung looked, and for a second it seemed surreal to you that this man had been flirting with you this whole time. Were you absolutely sure he liked you? Maybe you had read too much into your relationship. You had refrained from asking your friends’ advice in the matter because you didn’t want to expose him, but now that you were insecure about his feelings you felt like you should have asked your best friend about her opinion, even if you didn’t tell her who it was you were texting with. 

As he closed the door, Taehyung debated with himself whether he should help you remove your coat or not, but before he knew it you were already placing it on the hanger. He scolded himself for being inattentive and decided to compensate by offering you something to drink, only to realize he had forgotten to boil water for tea. 

Luckily, Jimin walked in at that very moment and greeted you warmly, after which he said he had prepared some infusions and invited you to the living room. As you walked through the door with your back to both of them, Jimin gave Taehyung two thumbs up, silently mouthing ‘I got you covered’. 

The three of you sat down for a few minutes drinking tea and making small talk while Yeontan perched himself comfortably on your lap, after which Jimin excused himself and left Taehyung and you alone. For a second you were afraid you’d be too nervous to talk, but then you noticed Taehyung smiling affectionately at Tan, who had fallen asleep on top of you. Just by looking at him you felt a fuzzy warmth radiating inside you and spreading all over your body. 

“I’m glad he likes you so much,” he whispered, his eyes now on yours. 

“It definitely makes things easier for my job,” you replied, grinning as you softly rubbed behind Tan’s ears. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Taehyung interrupted, after which he got up and sat beside you, careful not to wake Yeontan. He thought for a moment, wondering why it was so relaxing for him to know Yeontan approved of you so completely. Perhaps it was because Tan was family, and Taehyung wanted him to like you because he liked you. He stretched his hand to stroke the sleeping pup, wondering how to correctly translate these feelings into words, when his fingers accidentally brushed against you. 

Taehyung’s hand froze in midair, hovering over your skin as he waited for you to react. Without a word, you lifted your arm slightly, and a small smile spread across Taehyung’s face as you pressed your arm to his palm. Encouraged by your advance, he wrapped his hand gently around your arm and let it slide softly up and down, simply enjoying the feeling until he entwined his fingers with yours. Then his other hand delicately lifted your chin as his thumb caressed your cheek. When you looked up, his face was so close to yours his breath ghosted across your lips. 

Taehyung fixed his eyes on yours, wordlessly asking for your permission. You closed your eyes and leaned in.

Yeontan abruptly jumped out of your lap and ran to meet Min Holly at the door. Right behind them Yoongi was silently but frantically gesturing for his own dog to follow him, having realized he was interrupting you in a rather... intimate moment. Yet when he noticed Yeontan had joined Holly, he looked up apologetically and awkwardly waved his hand at you. 

“Hi, doc,” he said, bending down to pick up Holly and Yeontan in his arms. “Sorry for the interruption. Let me just—”

Taehyung shut his eyes tightly, grinding his teeth together. You leaned away from him, fixing a stray lock of hair behind your ear to compose yourself. It was hopeless, though, since you were blushing furiously. 

“Hi, Min Yoongi. Is everything okay? I can examine Min Holly later,” you said, attempting to dissipate the awkwardness. 

“Maybe some other time,” he replied, giving Taehyung a meaningful look, and he shut the door behind him. 

You gazed back at Taehyung, who looked absolutely demoralized. However, you took it as a good sign that your fingers were still interlinked, and decided to place your free hand over his. 

“Are you alright, Taehyung?” you asked soothingly. 

Even though he was brutally disappointed by how your first kiss had turned out, the way his name sounded in your voice made him feel immediately better. He realized you must have been dissatisfied by this whole ordeal too. Taehyung decided to make the best out of the situation and actually continue with the plan he had originally outlined, where he asked you out first and kissed you second. 

Taking a deep breath, Taehyung fixed you with a serious, intense expression. When he saw your encouraging smile and felt the warmth of your hands wrapping his, the words effortlessly slipped out of his mouth. 

“(Y/N), I really like you. Would you go out on a date with me?”

You beamed at him and nodded, nudging his hand. 

“Great,” he grinned. He stood up and pulled you up with him, biting his lips as he drank in your excited smile, then he raised an eyebrow. “Are you free right now?”

Yeontan’s vaccination could wait another week.

***

Jeon Jeongguk

“(Y/N)! I’ll cover you!” Jeongguk yelled, his headset lopsided, as he hammered his fingers against the joysticks. Despite your efforts, you were losing miserably in this game of Overwatch. When you were finally brought down by your enemies, Jeongguk exhaled loudly and slumped against the back of the couch, dropping the Switch beside him. He could hear your sigh echoing from the headset. 

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I didn’t see Hanzo on time, I was distracted,” he apologized angrily. 

“Don’t be silly, if I had better aim we wouldn’t have lost,” you answered back in your own house as you opened a bag of chips and began munching them down in frustration. 

“What are you eating?” 

“Barbeque chips,” you said in a muffled voice. 

“I wish you were here,” he groaned unhappily. 

“You’re only saying that because you didn’t think of getting your own chips,” you countered. 

“No, I mean it,” he laughed, his good mood disappearing once he noticed it was getting late. “I have to go. I’ll be back home on Saturday. Will you drop by the dorms for supper?”

“Of course,” you chimed, thrilled to know you’d see Jeongguk soon. “I get out of work at seven, I’ll go after that.”

“I’ll get you something tasty.” 

The tour had lasted forever, and even though you’d joined Jeongguk in Europe for two weeks during your vacation, it still felt like the longest time ever. As best friends since childhood you had always been supportive of each other: you knew exactly how to make Jeongguk laugh, and he knew exactly how to make you feel better. Jeongguk was convinced that he wouldn’t be the man he was if it weren’t for you, which was why he was so intent on protecting your friendship at all costs from anything that might jeopardize it, even his own feelings. 

This task, however, was becoming increasingly difficult to accomplish. During your visit to Europe he’d been this close to ruining everything by kissing you several times. He found it particularly hard to control himself when he saw you waiting for him backstage with your arms open after a show, or when you confided in him with tears in your eyes how much you were struggling with your exams. He wanted to be with you so much it almost overwhelmed the terror he felt about losing you. 

You, on the other hand, were not doing much better. You tried seeing other people, but it never lasted longer than a date or two. At first you thought you weren’t in the mood for a relationship, but you eventually discovered that you were constantly comparing your dates to the time you spent with Jeongguk: ‘I’d rather be playing something with Jeongguk’, or ‘Jeongguk would love this place’, or ‘I can’t wait to tell this joke to Jeongguk’. Your friends, tired of hearing you talk about him all the time, already knew what was going on before you reluctantly accepted that you were in love with him. After all, it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. 

You had travelled to Europe with the purpose of confessing your feelings to him, but when the time came you chickened out. Besides, Jeongguk was always so tired and busy you didn’t have the heart to bring it up. 

On Saturday afternoon, Namjoon walked into Jeongguk’s room and sat on the bed as the maknae unpacked his bags hastily. 

“We only just got home. Why don’t you unpack tomorrow?” Namjoon inquired, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. 

“(Y/N) is coming over and I want everything to look normal.”

“Oh right, I forget (Y/N) freaks out when confronted with packed luggage,” Namjoon replied sarcastically. 

“I’m not doing it because it would upset her,” Jeongguk answered testily, “I just want her to see that my room is tidy and I have my life together.” 

“I’m sorry, Jeongguk, but I’m not following,” Namjoon insisted innocently. In reality, he knew full well about Jeongguk’s feelings for you. He had tried to broach the topic several times, but Jeongguk had shut himself in like a clam everytime. Namjoon knew Jeongguk was being stupidly stubborn about this, so he hadn’t given up on the subject. 

Jeongguk didn’t answer at first. He just kept putting the dirty laundry in the hamper and folding his clean clothes back in the closet. When he was done, he suddenly felt helpless. He sat on the bed next to his hyung and hung his head in his hands. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he mumbled. 

“I know what you’re doing,” Namjoon explained, patting his brother’s back softly, “you’re evading yourself.” 

“Hyung, she is the most important person in the world to me,” Jeongguk mumbled, twisting his fingers in his hair. “What if I fuck it up?”

“That’s a possibility,” Namjoon conceded, “But what if you don’t?”

Jeongguk pondered for a while, allowing the fantasies he’d been constantly repressing to overwhelm him. He saw you smiling as you walked holding hands. He saw you kissing him, your arms wrapped around him. He saw himself pulling your top off, his lips tracing the curve of your neck…

“Listen, you don’t have to figure it out tonight,” Namjoon hinted, interrupting Jeongguk’s reverie, “but I think you should give yourself a chance. She won’t toss you away if she doesn’t reciprocate your feelings, and if she does feel the same way…” 

“Thanks, hyung,” he cut him short, and smiled apologetically at Namjoon. He was grateful for his advice, but he wanted some time on his own to reflect. Namjoon knew when Jeongguk had enough, so he let it rest. 

“I need to think about this. I’ll go have a shower,” Jeongguk stated as he got up purposefully.

In preparation for the night, Jeongguk had placed an order for Chinese takeout and shuffled around the house, tidying up and all in all getting into the other member’s nerves. He was trying really hard not to anticipate the possibility of confessing his feelings, so he kept himself busy until the bell rang. 

The moment Jeongguk opened the door, you pounced at him and hugged him so tightly you were afraid his ribs would crack. Jeongguk lifted you from the ground and spun you around, laughing loudly and forgetting all about his anxieties. You walked together to his room, chatting excitedly and bumping into each other like drunks, just for the pleasure of being close enough to actually touch each other. No more depending on texting and video calls, at least for a while. 

“I’m warning you: I have a lot to tell you about college drama, so you better be ready to stay up all night,” you exclaimed as you sat on top of his bed with your legs crossed. He shut the door and sat opposite to you, grinning widely. 

“Are you kidding me? You better be ready for all the stuff I have to tell you about the tour. If I catch you dozing off I won’t be forgiving.” 

For a long time you both chatted excitedly, and as the exhilaration gradually wore off the conversation became deeper, more emotional. You talked about family issues, about feelings of inadequacy in social situations and about stress from working and studying, until the conversation eventually drifted to a more sensitive topic for your relationship.

“So…” Jeongguk began, unable to resist the morbid curiosity he felt. “Have you been dating anyone?”

Your cheeks flared up and you looked down, suddenly very focused on pulling a loose thread from the bed cover. Jeongguk held his breath.

“No,” you admitted. Jeongguk exhaled in relief. “And you?”

“Nope.” 

“Why not?” you demanded, looking up again. “I bet you meet a lot of interesting people all the time.”

“I do meet a lot of interesting people. I just don’t want to date them,” he answered defensively. 

Why did he have to make things more difficult for you? Maybe if he was dating someone you’d be able to move on. Then again, maybe not. 

“I don’t get you, Jeongguk,” you protested, your cooped up fears and frustration bubbling to the surface. “You have the chance to go on dates with so many cool people, but you decide not to?”

“And what about you?” he fired back. “What about your classmates in college?” 

“What about them?” you challenged. 

“I bet they’re so smart, you could have intellectual debates or whatever—” he began, too aggravated to restrain himself. 

“What on Earth are you talking about?” you hissed, feeling increasingly incensed.

“I know some of them have asked you out!” 

“So?”

“Well, don’t they count as interesting people to date?” 

“I don’t want to date them!” 

“Why the hell not?!” 

“Because I’m in love with you, you idiot!” you snapped, out of control. 

Jeongguk’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. You panted for a few seconds, your anger sizzling until a feeling of ice cold mortification took over you. 

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. What had you done? 

“You’re in love with me?” Jeongguk whispered.

“I— I just...” you babbled, panicking. You weren’t ready for this discussion. You weren’t planning on this. “I’m sorry, Jeongguk, I can’t right now, I— I think I need to leave.” 

You jumped up and pulled the door open, but Jeongguk caught your hand and turned you around before you could walk out. 

“Don’t go,” he begged. You tried to look away, but he cupped your face in his hands. He held you so softly, so caringly that you looked back into his eyes despite your chagrin. And when you read the expression on his face, you stopped resisting.

Jeongguk’s eyes bore into yours, his lips parted, and it felt like you were looking at each other for the first time in your lives. His thumb grazed against your cheekbone, and you both remained still and quiet for what felt like an eternity. You raised your hand and caressed his temple, sinking your fingers in his hair. Jeongguk closed his eyes for a second, enjoying the feeling of your touch. Then he huddled closer to you and lifted your chin, lowering his head slowly to yours so that your lips were level. 

You didn’t hear the footsteps on the carpet. Jimin turned around the corner of the corridor, carrying a bag of Chinese takeout in his arms. Jeongguk and you were wound tightly in an embrace, your faces so close to each other that Jimin knew this was no friendly hug.

As soon as he realized what was going on Jimin tried to walk away quietly before you noticed him. However, as he attempted to tiptoe backward the paper bag crackled in his arms. The sound of of it broke the spell, and Jeongguk and you jumped away from each other. You stared at Jimin dumbfoundedly, too confused and surprised to feel embarrassed yet. 

“Hi (Y/N),” Jimin’s voice was strained. “Um, Jeongguk... I brought you the takeout you ordered.” 

The three of you looked at the bag, then back at each other, like idiots. Jimin clumsily stepped forward and handed Jeongguk the takeout.

“Thanks,” Jeongguk mumbled. 

Jimin stepped back awkwardly, biting his lip. Then he squared his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Look, I’m sorry I interrupted, and I know I shouldn’t say this right now but I’m really glad you both got over yourselves and this is finally happening,” he blurted out, articulating every word so fast it almost made you dizzy. "Okay, bye!" 

Jimin turned around and strode away at an inhuman speed. 

For a few seconds, neither of you said a word. Then Jeongguk gestured you to go into his room. Once you were both inside, he locked the door, placed the bag away and turned to face you, a determined expression on his face. Now that it was out in the open, he needed to say the words, and he needed you to hear him say them. 

“(Y/N), I love you. I always have. I don’t want to date anyone else, only you.”

Jeongguk’s voice was clear and steady, and his eyes burned with intensity as he spoke. It made you feel like laughing and crying at the same time. 

“Jimin’s right, we’ve been so stupid,” you giggled bashfully, and took a step closer to him. Jeongguk pulled you to his chest and began planting soft kisses on the fringe of your hair, on your eyebrows, on the bridge of your nose. You pulled away just an inch to look him in the eyes. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, it’s just—”

“I know,” Jeongguk said, and he kissed you in a very non-platonic way.

[banjodanger]

X-Men Origins: Wolverine(2009)

I’ve got a lot to talk about, so I’m going to jump right in with a very unpopular opinion. This may SHOCK and OFFEND certain readers, but I’m not one to shy away from speaking my mind. More sensitive readers should beware, however, because I’m not going to shy away from rattling cages and saying what NEEDS to be said!

So, ready yourselves, because...

Origins is not the worst X-Men movie.

There. I said it. PBBBBBBTTTT!

I’m not arguing that this was a good movie, hell, there’s a good argument that this isn’t even a competently made movie. But this movie is also responsible for some of the absolute best movies to come from Fox’s X-Men. First Class and Days of Future Past are two of the absolute best movies of this series, and it’s doubtful the other two Wolverine solo movies would have aimed as high as they did if this movie hadn’t been so widely mocked. If you go back to watch this movie, try to keep in mind eight years later this series would get nominated for a screenwriting Oscar. Whatever your opinion of awards, that’s a hell of a turnaround, considering the story this movie tells is like three separate stories stapled together. Finally, however much this movie misunderstands Deadpool, it was right on in casting Ryan Reynolds and eventually gave us better Deadpool movies than we could have hoped for. It shouldn’t go unnoticed that both of those movies use Origins as a solid foundation for jokes. I’m not going to talk too much about Deadpool in this movie, because I plan to cover it in more detail when I get to the first movie.

But I’m not discussing those movies, I’m discussing Origins, and Origins is not very good. The CGI looks cheap and outdated, not just by the standards of the time it was released but by the standards of five years previous. And the movie makes said terrible CGI hard to ignore because, to quote the philosopher Michelle Branch, it is EVERYWHERE. Most people are quick to bring up Wolverine’s claws effects, and they should because they somehow look worse than any of the three previous movies and it’s the most easily noticeable. I’m not expecting them to have Hugh Jackman actually fighting and jumping around on top of a nuclear vent but it looks like they’re doing it in front of computer wallpaper. That hill outside the Hudson’s farmhouse literally looks like the default Windows XP desktop. I’m surprised Agent Zero isn’t hiding behind the recycle bin. This isn’t to say I don’t expect lots of CGI in my comic book movies,but I expect better when someone is dropping over one hundred million for a guy with metal claws to fight a mute with impossibly long sword fists.

I could ignore all the bargain basement effects if there was a good story, but there isn’t one. There’s about two or three stories and they’re all bad. Gavin Hood wanted to make a throwback sevnties-style revenge movie, completely self-contained and R-rated(Hey, does that sound familiar?), but the producers wanted extra characters they could spin off into their own films. And as much as I want to excoriate them for that, I can only get but so mad. This was a big franchise that was approaching ten years since its first film. They were looking towards the future and that’s what their job was. The problem is that failure to find a common ground comes through on the screen. Some of the strongest scenes are between Logan and Victor, to the detriment that most of the other characters who come off as unnecessary cameos. That boxing scene between Logan and Fred Dukes could be a thirty second phone call without really losing anything.

It’s disappointing, too, because a lot of the performances in this movie aren’t bad. Believe me, I wanted to hate Will.I.Am. I was going to drag him and talk about all the terrible music he made but...he’s not bad in this movie. I’m not going to say he missed his calling by not becoming an actor full-time, but I enjoyed his performance and wish the movie had used him a little bit more.

My humps is still one of the worst goddamned songs ever.

Gambit was great in this movie too. Taylor Kitsch had this bizarre run of putting in good performances in hated movies. After this, he did John Carter then the second season of True Detective. That’s a shocking run of bad luck, and too bad to, because he’s good in all three. We missed out not getting at least one more movie with his take on Gambit, because he gets maybe fifteen minutes of screentime but he manages to be memorable, charismatic and charming.

Helicoptering with a bo staff still isn’t part of his goddamn power set though.

And I’m not going to forget Liev Schrieber, who makes an absolutely compelling villain. The only problem with his character at all is that he puts such a great performance that it stretches belief to imagine this is the guy that becomes a silent henchman in the first movie. There’s simply nothing in his performance to suggest they’re the same person. It would be like if the twist of Phantom Menace was that Darth Vader was originally Jar Jar Binks, or if they hired Nora Ephron to write a Hellraiser prequel. 

Even the Scott Summers we get in this movie is pretty good despite looking like a guy that steals copper wiring out of abandoned gas stations. Although I really question why Gambit watches them run off and I guess just assumes they’re being abducted by a good guy.

That leads me into the whole problem with prequels. Things happen in this movie and characters seem to live simply because earlier movies dictate that we have to see them again. It simply does not make sense for Kayla to leave Stryker alive. She has every reason to kill him, but she doesn’t, because he needs to be the villain in X2. Gambit doesn’t chase after the kids because they didn’t want to have him interact with Professor X. Sabretooth survives because he has to fight Wolverine on top of the Staute of Liberty while making no reference to their apparent relationship as siblings, or any words of any kind. This movie is awkwardly shoehorning itself into the lore established by the previous movies and it results in characters saying and doing things that go against what this movie seems to lead up to. The ending of most of those seventies revenge flicks was a bloody murder. Here, Stryker hurts his feet a little. It’s just not the same thing.

Ok, are you ready for the problematic parts?

Let’s start with Native American representation, because it ends up being a pretty big part of this movie. Lynn Collins’ Wikipedia says she claims Cherokee ancestry, so I’ll give the movie credit on that, but as near as I’ve been able to suss out, the myth she tells does not exist outside of this movie. First off, Wolverines do not howl. At all. They’re not wolves, they’re related to weasels. They’re small, vicious bastards. That information was readily available in 2009, by the way. Furthermore, the information I can find says that the moon in Native American mythology is predominantly gendered as male. Now, that’s not a blanket statement. This was the research I was able to conduct, and mythology, as with a lot of oral traditions, are a pretty mutable thing. Given that I was unable to find any mention of this myth that didn’t quote it from the movie, I feel pretty comfortable calling this myth nonsense.

Hey, what’s your tolerance for fatphobia? Because that’s going to impact how you feel about Blob’s character. Look, from his very first appearance he’s been a fat joke. That’s it. He’s a rude fat guy whose mutant power is being fat, hell, part of his power set is described as a “personal gravity field.” So while I can’t blame the movie entirely for this character being problematic, you’ve got to ask why they chose this character as the one that had to stay true to the comic book. He was in poor taste when he was created, when this movie was made, and now. And I absolutely can blame the movie for making him a fat joke.

At least they didn’t go the Ultimate comics route and straight up show him eating another character. Small blessings.

On a more final note, there’s that very strange character choice in the beginning credits. I know that they want to illustrate early that Wolverine doesn’t view violence the same way Sabretooth does, but why would they choose nazis as the villain in that moment? Even if they weren’t the most enjoyably killable villains in history, the last three movies have made the atrocities of the Holocaust a huge emotional linchpin of a major character. So it comes off as a genuine shock that this movie would use, in its introduction, a moment of sympathy for these very same villains. So you needed to show Wolverine with sympathy? Have a bar fight in France after liberating the country. Have them fight in the Korean war. Maybe Wolverine mourns a kid shot on the front lines. There’s a hundred choices that don’t involve Wolverine getting sad over a bunch of nazis.

So, why don’t I think this is the worst X-Men movie? I’m clearly not calling it a forgotten classic, and I’m not recommending you watch it unless you’re a weird completionist blogging about your arrested development on Tumblr. Sure, there’s some forgotten performances in here that deserve some consideration, but the movie is mostly a mess, a result of too many cooks with diverging visions. There’s a good revenge flick here, but it gets buried and muddled by a desire and knowledge that this movie has to simultaneously explain the past that led to the first movie and set up future installments. It tries to do too much and ends up not doing much of anything. I followed up on some of the people involved in this movie. Obviously Ryan Reynolds had the last laugh, but it still took seven years and a leaked teaser. Hugh Jackman learned from the mistakes in this movie and the rest of the Wolverine movies are pretty great. Gavin Hood, who got this job after being nominated for a foreign language Oscar, directed another big-budget flop with Ender’s Game. However, earlier in 2020 he apparently bought a four million dollar house so I don’t feel bad for him. Also, the flop of Ender’s Game could possibly involve Orson Scott Card being a vocal and unapologetic homophobe. Seriously, what is it with beloved fantasy authors and hate towards LGBT groups? You can conceive of wild, uncharted space and magical realms but the idea that two guys love each other is too far out?

Next in the series, from failure comes success, as we meet Xavier and Erik as frenemies and launch a million slash fictions.

[iindiasachi]

Critique notes

Beyonce

Your questions are super interesting and introspective about your own work, I wish I could see them in person because I’m curious about your practice as a whole and what you might usually focus on. In your last photo ‘why do you use homemade materials that won’t last’ I assume because of the response you’re referencing the elitist barrier of cost of art supplies? But I also wonder (because I also work non archival) if you can use this to your advantage, and if by using non archival materials in some way this is a commentary for you? Im not sure where your focus lies on this so I wouldn’t wanna make any assumptions, but you could totally focus on working in a way that isn’t meant to last. Or only make using things which are highly accessible. Im also interested in ‘is it important to follow the rules of realism in order to abstract it’ you can clearly draw, paint, with technical skill and to have access to many skills can only help, like if you wanted to incorporate some other form of making (sewing, photo whatever) it can only help you, but I also think that realism in its most academic sense follows rules and an art language that you can choose to actively engage or not but either one you choose should be purposeful? If that makes any sense, to either accept it or reject it with purpose. Also! The character you made is amazing, do you have plans to make more/ do anything with it? I can see an animation sooo clearly. You could make a whole world.

Drew

Insane !! The( scanner ?) works so well for you and your interest in the digital its a perfect way to digitize something physical. Im assuming you used lunch meat, I’m wondering how using your face and meat together creates relationship, the ones of your face are insanely reminiscent of Francis bacon. Im not sure about what scanners or technologies are out there but I imagine you could do really cool things if you could do full body scans, or just go super large, or even in the vain that you’re in now just make a crazy amount. I also wonder how you would want these presented because your question ‘is  kitsch activated by the digital’. When these are prints they become clean and bordered, and kinda glossy, say you were to make a website, you could expand digitally into some borderless realm? if that makes sense, they don’t become confined and you can expand them into full-blown kitsch, with the added element of digital influence.  

zi xuan

I can get a really strong sense of your hand in these works, and also by how you chose your questions. There is defiantly poetry in your work and how you think to question it, would you ever incorporate word into your pieces (do you?) your responses to each question via painting is not direct at least to me as a viewer and not a fast Read, making the viewer try to link the question to the image and find what you mean in your words. This could either be something you really want or something you don’t want at all, but if you wanted that mystery and associations, your words can defiantly create that atmosphere. the looseness of your hand would be great on a huge painting, there’s many of these I can imagine just blown up, maybe using a giant brush? So as not to loose the single stroke movement?

Zuzia

I love your colors and your directional marks, all these pieces seem so fast and in movement. The small collage piece about what kind of space you are trying to create is super interesting, its really successful because of how dark it is with that one light coming through and the (2?) layers. I wonder if you could apply this to some of your paintings ? Or maybe you already do, but the layering is done so well and with the fast pace of your marks you could create super complex spaces just by cutting and layering. I also often think about the gaze of the viewer in my work, the one this question is attached to is of someone (looking away?) there almost an inaccessibility to connect while the quality of the painting is still highly emotional and felt, this combination serves you really well. You can create an atmosphere using color and line and it becomes centered by the gaze, either us looking in or you looking out.

[pinelife3]

Sleepless in Seattle

I rewatched Sleepless in Seattle recently on a plane, and now I’ve crawled out of my cave to declare: this movie is not romantic!

Directed by Nora Ephron, Sleepless in Seattle, is regarded as part of the canon of great rom-coms. Ephron and Rob Reiner (who actually appears in Sleepless in Seattle with a great bit about tiramisu) are kind of the big-dogs of rom-coms in that people still talk about the films they made 20+ years ago (some together, some separately):

The Princess Bride

When Harry Met Sally

Sleepless in Seattle

You’ve Got Mail

Rom-coms are tricky to define - for example, is Shakespeare in Love a rom-com? There is romance and comedy, but the lovers are separated at the end. What about Top Gun? There are iconic romantic scenes and the lovers do end up together, but the love is really a conciliatory prize (the real prize is being the best at flying) and the romance is more of a B or C plot in the film, so Top Gun probably doesn’t qualify. People talk about rom-coms as having to posses certain tropes - for example:

A neurotic, highly mannered protagonist (ideally played by Meg Ryan or Hugh Grant)

An argument featuring dramatic irony, where the audience knows more than the characters and sees their misunderstanding unfold

A grand final gesture to win a lover back after a stupid misunderstanding: a last-minute dash to the airport, a last minute dash to a new year’s eve party, a last minute dash to the Empire State Building

But for our purposes, let’s say a rom-com is anything that:

Places the romantic plot at the core of its film AND

Has a happy ending (i.e. the lovers are together at the end) AND

Features genuine attempts at humour along the way. 

LOTR features a romance plot, but there’s a lot of other stuff going on (something about a ring?!), therefore it’s not a rom-com. Same deal with Bridesmaids. I would classify Superbad as a kind of rom-com because most actions taken by the protagonists are to secure love (or at least sex) from the girls they like. The English Patient? Romantic and HILARIOUS but the lovers aren’t together in the end.

So does Sleepless in Seattle qualify as a rom-com?

Yes, the whole point of the movie is to get Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks together. This plot dominates the film - but is it romantic? More on this to follow.

Yes, in the world of the film, a happy ending is secured because Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan are together

Yes, there are some laughs along the way. Mostly at the expense of poor Bill Pullman who is playing a man with severe allergies. There is also some precocious-child related humour

Back to point one: I contend that the ‘romantic plot’ in Sleepless in Seattle is actually anti-romantic. In fact, there are two romance plot lines (both of which fail to be romantic) because this bitch is engaged to another man throughout the ‘romance’ with Tom Hanks.

Before we get into that though I have another major gripe: at the start of the film, Meg Ryan and her fiancé (Bill Pullman) leave home together to drive to a family Christmas lunch. They leave the same location at the same time and are heading to the same location - no stops along the way. But for some reason they take separate cars. The film provides no reasoning for the separate cars. It is patently odd and really bothers me.

Let’s take a look at the script:

________________________________________________

EXT. BALTIMORE SUN BUILDING - LATE AFTERNOON - CHRISTMAS EVE

As Annie [Meg Ryan] comes out of the newspaper building with WALTER JACKSON [Bill Pullman], a tall, handsome man who wears a hat. They're carrying an armful of Christmas presents. They're walking toward the parking lot.

WALTER

The short one with black hair  is your cousin Irene --

ANNIE

-- who's married to --

WALTER

Harold, who ran away with his secretary but came back --

ANNIE

-- because Irene threatened to put the dog to sleep if he didn't --

WALTER

And your brother Tom is a psychology professor and is married to...Betsy --

ANNIE

-- who is the most competitive woman in the world --

They put the presents in the backs of their two cars and pull out together.

EXT. A HOUSE IN BALTIMORE SUBURBS - NIGHT

Christmas lights twinkling as the two cars pull up in front of a comfortable upper middle-class house and park their cars. They get out assembling presents.

________________________________________________

This whole thing with the two cars was scripted - and even in the script it’s unexplained. My suspicion is that this just a device to get her in the car alone later so she can hear Tom Hanks on the radio - and thereby fall in love with him. This is LAZY writing. Why not just write that she had a premonition and saw a wonderful widow in Seattle and knew that they should be together. That would make about as much sense as the separate cars.

People criticise rom-coms for having unrealistic premises. For example: Last Christmas, in which a woman hangs out with the ghost of a man who gave her his heart - via transplant - the previous year. A ridiculous premise made unbearably kitsch because of the connection to the WHAM song. But honestly that makes about as much sense as an engaged couple taking separate cars for no reason.

Allow that gaping goatse of a plot hole to set the scene for the other major problem with this film: our romantic heroine is already engaged. Engaged to a man she finds boring. She remains engaged to this poor guy throughout her infatuation and pursuit of Tom Hanks. She lives with this guy, sleeps with him, plans her wedding with him: all while she is falling in love with Tom Hanks. She remains engaged until the final 10 minutes of the film when she finally dumps him. She keeps telling this poor guy she loves him. It’s evil. Can you imagine what /r/relationships would say about someone who behaved this way? This is an emotional affair.

As much as rom-coms celebrate the pursuit of love and marriage, they also caution against bad or inadequate love: it is not romantic to settle. A classic example of this is Charlotte Lucas in Pride & Prejudice: she marries the ridiculous Mr Collins to secure her future and avoid spinsterhood - but she doesn’t love him and won’t ever love him because she doesn’t respect him. Readers in Austen’s time may have been more sympathetic to Charlotte’s decision since the nature of marriage was quite different back then and spinsterhood was a seriously undesirable outcome, but contemporary audiences commonly interpret Charlotte settling for Mr Collins as a weakness of character. That decision and her life with Mr Collins only serve to reflect further radiance on Elizabeth Bennet: wistful, bitey, beautiful, beloved for centuries. That’s why no one writes fan fiction about Charlotte Lucas. 

So, in Sleepless in Seattle, the audience sees that Meg Ryan is settling for the wrong guy. This is communicated to us primarily through the visual gags around Bill Pullman’s allergies: he uses a huge number of tissues, he’s allergic to everything from strawberries to bees, he has a special respirator machine to help him sleep. This guy can’t get the girl! He can’t even breath properly. It’s clearly isn’t meant to work out between them. No, no this won’t do at all. 

What is the function of the unsuitable fiancé as a plot device? Why couldn’t this be a romance between two single people? Is it to make her cross-country pursuit seem more whimsical and fun? If it to demonstrate that she can get a guy? I actually think it’s meant to create stakes: it’s so she has something to hold her back from ‘following her heart’. This is a way of adding tension so she’s risking something (normalcy, comfort) by making the last minute dash to the Empire State Building to meet Hanks (who represents the possibility of windswept romance). Never mind that they’ve never actually spoken to each other. He’s a single parent? Um sexy! He’s a widow? Swoon. Seattle is rainy? I’m already wet.

If it’s important to the plot that she is already in a couple when she falls for Hanks, and that she casts aside an unsatisfying relationship for the mere possibility of passionate excitement, then we have had it wrong all along: the grand romantic gesture of Sleepless in Seattle is Meg Ryan dumping her fiancé. Forget the Empire State Building. It’s her telling him that she’s had an emotional affair. It’s her taking off her engagement ring. It’s her blaming him for being boring rather than working on their relationship. It’s her leaving him sat in that restaurant alone so she can go and pursue a stranger.  

This movie is not romantic. 

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

I think the idea of there being a “grand unified theory of human psychology” has always been funny to me

I used to think that there was no such thing as human psychology at all, like it was sort of the single, missing piece of unthinking, kitsch reality which existed separately from and in tension with “the real world” (i.e. human behavior).  And people would make fun of that, “did you know,” and I would think of the it as just “a funny concept that some people made up to make you feel guilty when you went to college,” and “funny concept,” one of the ways this said nothing, after all, is the topic of various academic debates, and we have a whole mammalian brain and a whole nervous system, and we’re part of a community of vertebrates and our behavior has structures and structures, and what we deem our “personality” could be as esoteric as this, another thing that is not the part of the whole

I’ve found, though, the dividing lines between “human psychology” (as usual, it is hard to say so clearly and just what is about to be communicated, as then it is like the battlefront itself, with the closing of the first wave of a cataclysmic war, but more casual than that) and “unsurprising or unremarkable behavior,” the lines are slippery, at least to me, and the everyday concept of “mysterious illness,” as the stuff of “unfamiliar stories” and “unfamiliar stories,” and “unfamiliar people,” to put the concept together.  Maybe they can be “unfamiliar behavior,” with some rigid components (all very natural, which otherwise I would see as a kind of dissing for being different, as though the fellow might hear any particular particular kind of time or something, etc.) but not an unusual, strange phenomenon, with a whole wide sky, and nothing except for our ears and eyes and sense-perceptions and a little thing like “how it takes its inspiration and effects on the organism,” and “this is an organism’s basic bundle of material life functions,” and so forth, and the will and the state of the organism’s mental life and so forth.  Of course, to these lay-people, I have no doubt and not very well-known it’d be “so much different” in relation to this, something like “this and this”, the behavior of one body with many senses and many voices and many wants, with the sense of a single consciousness, or that both a conscious mind and a sense of individual things and persons and no things or persons but as the animal sees/hears the earth to tremble, the earth creaks and shakes as on a cold day, how a trace on the floor suggests the attitude of a million jaws which one of his children has just bite, how they are like walking or running footsteps and gazes, how to see bones as “bumps and muscles” and the scents of blood, how no being or nothing would touch the earth or mingle in it and the earth remembers, as a sense of distance grows to see just the things of space, or now that they make

[kalluun-patangaroa]

Waking up to a new morning...

The Observer, Sunday 15 September 2002

Written by Amy Raphael

After the booze, coke, crack and smack, Suede's Brett Anderson is back in the land of the living with renewed optimism and a new album 

Brett Anderson grew up hanging around car parks, drinking lukewarm cans of Special Brew and taking acid. Occasionally, he caught the train from Hayward's Heath to Brighton, less than half an hour away, but still a world away. He would buy punk records and, perhaps, a Nagasaki Nightmare patch to sew on to his red ski jacket.

His mother, who died in 1989, was an aspiring artist; his father was mostly unemployed and obsessed with classical music. He wanted his son to be a classical pianist, but Brett had other ideas. Lost in suburban adolescence, he was drawn to the Smiths, to Morrissey's melancholic lyrics, his eccentric persona. He wanted to be a pop star; he would be a pop star. He had no doubt.

Anderson moved to London in the late 1980s, living in a small flat in Notting Hill. He studied architecture at the London School of Economics, but only while he got a band together. Here he met Justine Frischmann and, with old school friend Mat Osman, formed Suede in the early Nineties as an antidote to grunge and anodyne pop.

Anderson borrowed Bowie's Seventies glamour and a little of his Anthony Newley-style vocals. He looked to the Walker Brothers's extravagant, string-laden productions and appropriated Mick Jagger's sexual flamboyance for his stage show. Yet Suede were totally original, unlike anything else at the time. Dressed in secondhand suits and with casually held cigarettes as a prop, Anderson wanted to write pop songs with an edge; sleazy, druggy, urban vignettes which would sit uncomfortably in the saccharine-tinged charts.

Like his lyrics, Anderson was brash, cocky, confident. He talked of being 'a bisexual man who's never had a homosexual experience', realising it was an interesting quote, even if he knew he would probably always lose his heart to the prettiest of girls.

When I first met him, in the spring of 1993, Suede were enjoying their second year of press hysteria, of being endlessly hailed as the best new band in Britain. Fiddling with his Bryan Ferry fringe, Anderson asserted: 'I am a ridiculous fan of Suede. I do sit at home and listen to us. I do enjoy our music.'

He talked about performing 'Metal Mickey', the band's second single, on Top of the Pops. 'When I was growing up, Top of the Pops was the greatest thing, after tea on a Thursday night... brilliant! You get a ridiculous sense of history doing it. It was a milestone in my life; it somehow validated my life, which is pathetic really.'

By rights, Suede should have been not only the best band in Britain but also the biggest. Yet it did not happen that way. During the recording of the second album, the brilliant Dog Man Star, guitarist Bernard Butler walked out. It was as though Johnny Marr had left the Smiths before completing Meat Is Murder. The band could have given up, but they did not; they went on to make Coming Up, which went straight to the top of the album charts. Then, three years ago, disaster struck during the recording of Suede's fourth album, Head Music. Anderson was in trouble: the pale adolescent who had swigged Special Brew in desolate car parks was now a pop star addicted to crack.

Brett Anderson sits in a battered leather Sixties chair in the living-room of his four- storey west London home sipping a mug of black coffee. He has lived here for three or four years, moving into the street just as Peter Mandelson was moving out. The living-room is immaculate: books, CDs and records are neatly stacked on shelves, probably in alphabetical order.

Anderson's 6ft frame is as angular as ever but more toned than before, the detail of his muscles showing through a tight black T-shirt. Gone is the jumble-sale chic of the early Nineties; he now pops into Harvey Nichols.

He appears to have lost none of his self-assurance but, a decade on from his bold entrance into the world of pop, Anderson has mellowed, grown-up. By his own admission, he is still highly strung and admits he is probably as skinny as a 17-year-old at almost 35 because of nervous energy. But he no longer refuses to listen to new bands in case they are better than Suede; he praises the Streets, the Vines and the Flaming Lips.

This healthy, relaxed person who enjoys the odd mug of strong black coffee is a recent incarnation. At some point in the late Nineties, Anderson lost himself. He became part of one his songs and ended up a drug addict.

He talks about his new regime: swimming, eating well, hardly touching alcohol. No drugs. Did he give everything up at once? 'It was kind of gradual... giving up drugs is a strange thing, because you can't just do it straight away. You stop for a bit then it bleeds into your life again. It takes great willpower to stop suddenly.'

He sighs and looks into the distance. 'I got sick of it really. I felt as though I'd outgrown it. It wasn't something I kept wanting to put myself through and I was turning into an absolute tit. Incapable of having a relationship, incapable of going out and behaving like a normal human being. Constantly paranoid...'

The drug odyssey started with cocaine, but soon it was not enough. 'Cocaine is child's play. After a while, it didn't give me enough of a buzz, so I got into crack. I was a crack addict for ages, I was a smack addict for ages...'

Another deep sigh. 'It's part of my past, really. I'm not far enough away to be talking about it. It's only recently I've been able to say the word "crack".'

When Head Music was being recorded, he says he wasn't really there. He would turn up but his mind was not focused. The album went to number one but it was not up to Suede's standards; as Anderson acknowledges, it was 'flashy, bombastic; an extreme version of the band'.

He laughs, happier to talk about the good times. 'Last year, when I decided not to destroy myself any more, I kind of disappeared off to the countryside with a huge amount of books, a guitar and a typewriter... and wondered what the outcome would be.'

He spent six months alone. It was a revelation to discover that he could spend time by himself. 'I think a lot of people are shit scared of being on their own. Me too. From the age of 14 to 30, I jumped from bed to bed in fear of being alone. Being in the cottage in the middle in Surrey, I learned that if one day everything fucks up, I could actually go and live on my own. It's a total option.'

For a long time, Anderson had avoided reading books, worried that his lyric writing would be affected by other people's use of language. Last year, he decided it was time to fill his head with some new information. Although he had been told for years that his imagery was reminiscent of J.G. Ballard, he read the author for the first time in the cottage - and was flattered. He read Ian McEwan's back catalogue and challenging books such as Michel Houellebecq's Atomised.

Despite his self-imposed exile, it still took Anderson a long time to perfect Suede's fifth album, the self-consciously celebratory A New Morning. The band tried to make an 'electronic folk' album by working with producer Tony Hoffer, who had impressed with his work on Beck's Midnight Vultures. However, unable to make an understated album, they eventually called in their old friend Stephen Street, the Smiths producer.

Yet more trouble was ahead. Anderson says Suede have faced many 'big dramas' over the past decade - Frischmann left the band early on to form Elastica and soon after ended her relationship with Anderson, moving in with Britpop's golden boy, Damon Albarn; Bernard Butler walked out with little warning; the drugs took control - but still the band were not prepared for keyboard player Neil Codling's exit. He was forced to leave in the middle of recording A New Morning suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome.

Anderson says he was furious when Codling left.'He couldn't help it, I know, but I did feel aggrieved. I felt let down. But more at the universe than at Neil. I tend not to show how I feel about these things in public. It's like when Bernard first left, I was devastated. I felt as though that original line-up was really special. And we will never know what might have been.'

At times, Anderson sounds as though he has had an epiphany in the past year. He smiles. 'Well, you only need to listen to A New Morning to realise that. The title is very much a metaphor. It's a very optimistic record; the first single is called "Positivity", for God's sake. It's a talismanic song for the album. It's a good pop single, but we've haven't gone for a Disney kitsch, happy, clappy, neon thing.'

He looks serious for a moment. 'For me, the album is about the sense that you can only experience real happiness if you've experienced real sadness.'

Has he had therapy? His whole body shakes with a strange, high-pitched laughter. 'No! No! But I am happier now. I feel more comfortable with myself. I feel as though I'm due some happiness. I've just started going out with someone I really like. I've made an album which is intimate and warm. I don't any more have the need to be talked about constantly, that adolescent need for constant pampering...'

A swig of the lukewarm coffee and a wry smile. 'And, best of all, I don't feel like a troubled, paranoid tit any more.'

A New Morning is released on 30 September

[mysticsparklewings]

Daises on Strawberry Hill‪

Well, this looks a bit different from my usual content, doesn't it? Full disclosure that this art was made primarily as art inspired by one of my favorite books of all time (seriously, I have three different editions of this thing)--Looking for Alaska by John Green--as an excuse to talk about the new Hulu series of the same name that's based on the book. Because if you know me at all, you know I am notoriously hard on book-to-screen adaptions, particularly those based on books I love as if they were family members. And originally, this description was going to include a pretty blow-by-blow, lengthy review of my thoughts on the series. However, it's been quite a while since I first started trying to type out said review, and frankly, I've decided instead to, after I talk about the art, to just give some general, spoiler-free thoughts; the most important opinions I have on the series and leave it at that. I am still planning on completing and putting my full-length, in-depth thoughts out, but that'll be at some other time. Perhaps I'll put them in a journal/blog post instead of adding to the description here. Whatever happens, I'll update this description so that those who are interested in my deep-dive can find it when the time comes. That said, let's talk about the artwork now :) LfA isn't a fantasy or sci-fi book, so it doesn't have any cool dramatic scenes or neato devices/objects that have a lot of significance to the plot that would be fun to draw, which is why I never made any fan art or inspired-by-art for it before. But I really wanted an excuse to talk about the series, and so I pondered what symbols or imagery the series might have that I could make into art, even if none of it was terribly relevant to the plot or exciting on its own. This led me to the cheap wine that's mentioned a few times throughout the book: Strawberry Hill. Drawing just a bottle of wine seemed kind of boring and not very specific to the book/series, so I ended up adding in some white daisies since white flowers and daises specifically do have some significance to the plot. (In a way, they're a bit of a crux to it, at least for a key epiphany moment.) Originally, I was going to make this piece traditionally, and I did start with a traditional sketch of the wine bottle and one daisy to use as a template for more to follow. However, I pretty quickly got the idea for doing something more line-art heavy on a black background, as the cover for the book is black and the sort of chalkboard/blacklight look I was picturing in my head seemed fitting for the tone of the story, and despite my best efforts I couldn't think of a way/combination of media to accomplish what I wanted traditionally without also giving myself a major headache and making the project take infinitely longer than I wanted it to. So while I stalled in production, I ended up on my tablet for something else and figure I'd scan in my sketches and maybe make a line art to print off and manipulate into what I wanted traditionally later. But then, just as I started working on that, I figured, "You know what, if I'm going to go through all of the trouble to ink/line this digitally and I wanted it to be more line-focused anyway, I might as well take a crack at just doing the full artwork digitally. I'll get the lines done either way, and if it doesn't work out then at least I can say I tried, I know some of what not to do, and I end up with a digital mock-up for the final version." Fortunately, things ended up working out much better than I expected. I purposefully wasn't too fussy about the lines, partly because I just didn't have the patience at the time to be super precise about it, and also because for this specific project I kind of liked the idea of a more doodle-ish look (even though it's not super doodle-y in the final product). This also made things move a lot faster, which was nice and pretty satisfying. I started with the wine bottle from my sketch, including trying a new liquid drawing technique I half picked up from an art Youtuber I just recently started following that makes drawing liquid in a style similar to this look like a lot of fun. I knew I wanted the bottle to be mostly transparent/just lines, so the goal here was more about getting the wine bottle shape/structure familiar enough than it was about anything else. The label took a bit more though since in my mind, ever since I read the book, I had a pretty specific image of a pinkish bottle with a yellowish liquid and this cream-colored label with dark brown/sepia text, and I had not previously considered the label into that whole primarily line-focused image in my mind.  So in the end, I decided the label would be solid so I could get the proper imagery across and the text and stuff could still be seen properly. Additionally, you'll notice I couldn't help myself being a little on-the-nose and sticking a tiny strawberry and mountain/hill on the label for good measure and to fill some space without having to look up wine bottle references just to stare at the labels for a ridiculous amount of time.   The daises were also infinitely easier to do digitally since I could just copy, paste, and rotate first the petals to make one flower, and then copy, paste, rotate that one flower a few more times, instead of having to draw individual petals and flowers every time. This also gave me a little more freedom in that I could re-size the flowers pretty easily to make it more visually interesting than just a bunch of flowers that were all the same size. All that ended up being less line-focused than I originally intended, but I acknowledged that happening as I worked, and I'm not upset about the shift in focus. I think what I ended up with still has about the same visual impact I was hoping for, and that's all I really wanted anyway. And as sort of the icing on the cake, I ended up adding in that wisp/smoke trail in the background because of 1. It seemed kind of empty and unfinished with just the flowers and wine bottle and 2. When I tried adding a green vine to fix that issue, it just wasn't working for me. That's when I realized I could have a stronger reference to the book by putting something similar to smoke in the background since the original cover of the book has a smoke plume front-and-center. It took a few tries and some tweaking to get something I was happy with on that front, but I am so glad I stuck with the idea. It just adds something I can't quite place that the piece really needed before. The content is pretty different for me--I don't drink and I don't really endorse the idea--and the style is a little beyond my usual realms, but I do really like how it turned out. I feel like it's done well enough that you can appreciate the symbols and references if you know the book, but it also works as just a kitsch art piece if you're completely unfamiliar with the source material too. I don't think it's super accurate to when a bottle of the stuff shows up in the Hulu series, but it was on screen so briefly and my mind was focusing on other aspects while I was watching, so I didn't get a super good look at it.  But I still think it'll suffice well enough despite that. I'm happy with how it turned out, and that's all that really matters, right? Now, then, as for the thoughts I have on the Hulu series that I think need to be shared sooner rather than later. I'll start by going on record to say, as someone that is notoriously hard on book-to-screen adaptions, that I did actually like the LfA series pretty good. I'd say it's about a 7 out of 10, which an exceptionally good score coming from me. It's not my most favorite show of all time, but it's notably better than "just okay," which is historically the highest praise I've ever been able to give a book-to-screen adaption. It had its faults and things I would've done differently if it were up to me, but fortunately, it did an infinitely better job than I was expecting. My main issues, as with all book-to-screen adaptions, come in the form of some of the changes that were made between the book and the screen. Fortunately, this time around the problems I do have are not egregious offenders. Most changes that were made still make sense within the story and while the overall message isn't quite the same as the book, it didn't totally squander what the book was trying to say. All of which are problems that most book-to-screen adaptions suffer from horribly. And while I won't talk too much at length about this (that's for the long-form review later ) I think this has a lot to do with the series being roughly 7-8 hours of content, as opposed to the either extremely rushed 2-hours-or-less a movie would've been, or the more-time-than-we-know-what-to-do-with 13+ hours of...certain book-to-screen adaptions that failed miserably at their job. (*cough* 13 Reasons Why *cough*) As I said, it's not perfect, but I do think as far as allotted time and time-management that they hit something of a sweet spot so that they'd have enough time to give the plot the room it needs to breathe without having so much time that they have to start making stuff up to fill it all. The other thing I'd like to point out is that, honestly, they did what 13 Reasons Why wanted to do way better than that series could ever hope to. They told the story of teenagers experiencing darker themes and elements of life so much more tactfully, and, in my opinion, more realistically. And they didn't wait for a controversy to spike and then do something about it--they didn't bank on the publicity of a controversy. Right from episode one, every episode starts with a warning that this series is meant for an adult audience (because of its themes) and viewer discretion is advised. And at the end of every episode, as the series does featuring smoking and drinking on more than one occasion, they provide resources to visit if you or someone you know has a problem with either of those things. I don't know if the people at Hulu saw what happened to Netflix with 13 RW and learned from their mistakes or if they just knew better, but either way, I'm so glad it was handled so much better, regardless of why or how it happened. As far as recommendations, if you're a John Green and/or Looking for Alaska book fan, I'd say it's definitely worth the watch. For outside viewers...I think you have to really be into the YA drama scene to appreciate it. Just be prepared for some more adult content than you might typically find in a YA movie. It's all done pretty tastefully and the majority isn't there senselessly; most of it serves some kind of purpose to the story, which is why it doesn't bother me (a very prude-ish person) all that much. I think that's everything I feel like needs to be said right now about the series until I can get the long-form review finished. (It's maybe 1/3 of the way done currently...and already getting on the long side )   I have to admit, this does make me more hopeful for the future of book-to-screen adaptions, at least those that end up being handled the way this one was. In fact, I'm actually really hoping that if Turtles All the Way Down, John Green's newest book, ever sees a screen adaption that it's handled in a series form and is done at least as well as LfA was. Time will tell, I suppose. In fact, I believe any day now, Let it Snow, a book that John Green wrote 1/3 of is supposed to have its movie adaption dropped on Netflix. I'm not super confident in Netflix's handling of adaptions for reasons mentioned earlier, but maybe just maybe it'll be okay? ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings I do not own Looking for Alaska and/or associated content ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram