#must. resist. urge. to critique myself.

[apexart-journal]

Caitlin Hespe in NYC Day 2

Met Ariel at the apartment, then we walked and talked the way to church st to meet Steven. Had lunch and was given a good run-down on why the fellowship exists.

Still feeling overwhelmed that it is me here, receiving this.

Trying to ride it.

Wandered the way to therapy, sat by the hudson river for a few minutes.

Wandered again in the way one can when they don’t have clear aims (except for a location to be in two hours). I think this is how I like to explore, letting the sight of things surprise me, potentially missing the ‘thing’ I should be seeing, but enjoying what I do see, I guess.

Thinking a lot about the nature of reflection, and documentation. Still struggling to get my head around the directive not to draw, not to engage in my medium, not to make art.

Not that I see myself as someone who MUST make art all the time, compulsively, ( i envy that stereotype), but that I honestly see the impulse to make as something special, and not something to deny when it comes. Maybe my struggle with this concept for me here is that I have been a bit starved of time and energy (from work) to feel the inclination to create/make, and have been trying not to feel down about it, but really craving it. Being in a new place is often so triggering to the desire to make something (or record something), that I feel strange about the suggestion to resist.

I guess I was thinking about what it is that distinguishes ones practice, ones medium. I think for some, the answer is quite clear. For me I am deeply uncertain about what it even is to make art, what to call art, when one becomes an artist… I do not have a practice that can be described easily in terms of medium. I don’t even really know what I am talking about when someone asks me about my practice. Lately I have been so lethargic outside of work, I don’t even think I have been ‘practicing’.

But I know that I enjoy reflecting on things that I see and notice ( I guess this is existing), and it is those methods that I consider integral to whatever my practice is. But, I really really don’t want to resist taking photos here. I don’t want to resist the urge to sit and watch a place and write down thoughts.

I think I can come around to the concept of resisting enough to ask myself why I am wanting to record something, in the moment. To reflect before.

But, I don’t think I can resist an inclination completely, just because it is a ‘rule’. I get the feeling that this fellowship is about breaking the concept of having too many expectations on artists to move around and ‘produce’ and to submit to others expectations on their creative outcomes. Therefore I think that if I were to submit completely without reflection and critique to the directive not to engage in my practice, then I would be doing something very similar to these other models.

Just thoughts.. Still forming.

Made my way to the open mic night at the Actors Theatre Workshop, on West 28th.

We waited for a while before the host reluctantly told us we were just five, all not wanting to perform. At this point I was feeling quite tired and definitely wanting to lie down, not talk much. But the night had other plans, as they do, and we all ended up have a chance to stand in front of each other on the stage and say something, anything. The host became very honest and open, speaking what was on her heart/mind, and it was beautiful. She called me up, and I decided not to hide. I stood there and talked for a few minutes, stream of consciousness really, something about the plane ride, and the toilets not working, and the work of the workers, or something. It felt incredibly clunky and waffly and ended abruptly. I sat down and watched the others similarly, reluctantly oblige the evening. We all survived, it was quite pleasant really. One of the others and I connected and went for a drink afterwards. He suggested that there was a theme of gratitude in my story. I agreed. We talked about what brought us here, (he is new here, from california). It was nice to have gone through that experience without judgement. I think I came away from it seeing the beauty in opening up in front of people, not expecting a ‘perfect’ performance. But also, the beauty of stories, and the art of telling them. I wonder what stories I already have that could be gleaned, reflected on. I’m sure there will be more after this.

[caesb]

a spaceship engineer at san myshuno’s space port

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Secrets ~ 5

Warnings: noncon sexual acts later in series.

This is dark!Bucky and dark!Steve and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Notes:

So, I managed to come back to this one. So sorry for taking so long! My mind wanders easily but I really do enjoy this series!! I'm hoping to get a few more chapters done in the next week or two if I can. As it is, my time is a bit up in the air with a looming lockdown.

That being said, I love you all, I thank you for your patience and feedback as always! Please don't shy away in the comments and I promise to keep doing what I can for all my ongoing series.

As for tumblr, I’m just kinda in and out. I’m not here here in a way as I’m trying just to stay sane.

You sat across from Barnes. Rigid, as you kept in mind not to slouch. Tense, as you brooded over your hopeless situation. Silent, as you inhaled the scent of the savoury meal but found yourself curtailed at every attempt to eat. His eyes followed every move and you were met with either a tskk or a remonstrance; ‘not that fork’, ‘small bites, smaller sips’, ‘smile’, ‘keep your lips closed’, ‘elbows off the table’...

You sighed as your last attempt to sate your growling stomach ended in another reproach. His words, his even voice almost taunting, stoked your anger and made it difficult for you to follow his direction. You sat back and peered up and down the long table, the chairs empty and table cloth crisp and white.

“How much longer do I have to do this?” You bemoaned. “I’m hungry. Let me eat.”

“Duchess, you will be expected to act as a lady for the rest of your life.” His mouth twitched at one corner as if he would grin. “Do not be unhappy with me, it was not I who neglected your education.”

Your nostrils flared and you looked at the longest knife among the row. He chuckled and you squinted over at him. You sighed.

“Do not be a child, Duchess. When you are queen, you will be the beacon for all other women at court. And if you cannot set a good example, they will make sure you know it.” He pushed his shoulders back. 

“I don’t care about those women. I don’t know them.” You sniffed. “This isn’t my home.”

“It is.” He said plainly. “As close to as you’ll have given that yours would be entirely lost to you.”

You stared at him. You tilted your head and frowned. “You don’t realise how absurd this is? Do you really think I could ever want to be here?”

“If you don’t even give it a chance, then no.” He shrugged, “But you haven’t. You were in school, you liked it?”

You ran your tongue along your teeth and nodded.

“We have tutors; the finest money can find. If you are agreeable, your husband might be too.” He ran his thumb along the line of his palm. “You like museums, well we have one of the grandest in the world. You must know of it given your interests.”

You looked away. It wasn’t the same. What would you do with an education if you were trapped in a royal marriage? How could you enjoy a museum if you just went to look? Your former life felt so far away, yet that before you, felt even further. You weren’t a queen; you didn’t want to be a queen.

“So what? I’ll beg for scraps from my husband? 'Oh, please, I would love to visit the library today, my king. May I? May I really?'” You spat as you clutched your hand together dramatically.

“The King can be amenable but if you approach him with the same attitude as you have me, this marriage will be exactly what you expect it to be. Perhaps you might consider how you could make it at least tolerable?”

You shook your head and rolled your eyes. “You want me to change everything about myself; how I walk, how I sit, how I dress, how I eat. That is not tolerable.”

His lips parted and he tore his eyes away from you as he thought. “Well, to be frank, the king won’t care what you tolerate and he does not tolerate much. So whether you wish it or not, you will at least pretend to change.”

“Mmm, sure.” You huffed.

“I am offering you advice and it is good advice. The king… He will not be as patient as me. If you embarrass him in front of his court, in front of the world, you won’t ever forget it. He’ll make sure of it.”

“You know, the more you tell me about him, the better he sounds,” you said dryly, “A hell of a catch.”

Bucky exhaled slowly and a deep line formed in his cheek. “Go on. Take the salad fork-- no, wrong one.”

You bared your teeth as you blinked at the line of forks. “I’m not very hungry anymore.” You grumbled.

“Hungry or not, you need to learn how to hold a fork, Duchess,” he rebuked, “Sit up straight.”

👑

When you were finally allowed to retire from your first day at Regia, you were exhausted. Your chambers were welcoming as you left your personal tormentor, Barnes, without and trudged over to the bed. As you dropped onto the bouncy mattress, you looked around and your irritation piqued again.

Your suitcase was gone. Only your toiletries remained in their beige leather pouch and a stack of books. You frowned and stood reluctantly. Your neck and shoulders ached from the tension nestled there from a long day of Barnes’ tutelage and his nuisance.

You grabbed the first book, the title wrought in gold on the fading spine; ‘Queens of Astrania’. You fluttered through the pungent pages and took the next; ‘A Lady’s Place’. You set that one aside and scowled as you went down the stack; ‘Manners and Etiquette’, ‘The Provinces of Astrania; Lands and Rights’, ‘Astrania the Bold; A Kingdom Without End’, ‘Queen Loren: The Royal Mother’....

You left them in the pile and covered your face with your hands as you resisted the urge to scream. You turned away and went to the dresser. You slid open the drawer but it wasn’t your clothing inside. Instead of your plain cotton tee and jogging pants, you found satin and silk night clothes in every cut. You opened the drawer beside it and found bras and panties you’d never have wasted a penny on.

You slammed the drawer shut and went to the closet with the thick wooden doors etched with curlicues. Inside, blouses, skirts, and pants hung, pressed and pretty. The wardrobe of a lady. You could see Princess Kate in your head wearing any piece of it and yet, each garment looked sharper, more modern than the British fashion.

You shut the doors and crossed your arms. Three weeks. Well, one day down. That was all you had left. You thought of the women who had come before you; the medieval maidens, the romantic ladies in their puffed sleeves, the Victorian stiff neck marms. Had they wanted it? Or had they been trapped like you? Did they feel the same hopeless despair?

You went to the window and looked out at the green lawns painted in silver moonlight. Clouds framed the shining crescent, the sky streaked in greys and blacks that sent a shiver through you. The gates stood closed and ominous at the end of the winding drive and trees stood sentinel around the palace.

Once, you’d dreamed of visiting a royal home. Your love of history held you reverent in awe of the remarkable architecture, the years marked by renovations and the contrast of styles often found between one room and the next. Visions of spectres stirred your imagination and you thought of the dead haunting the corridors as they retraced the footsteps of their existence.

No, it all just felt horribly empty. These places were prisons. History didn’t need to be kept alive, only remembered as an omen for those living. Let it go but do not forget. 

You drew away from the window and slumped in the upholstered chair not far from it. Barnes had your phone, you didn’t expect to get it back. It wouldn’t be of much use. As much as you missed your mom, you had nothing left to say to her and hearing her voice would only make you feel worse. She would only remind you of what she’d done; of the secrets she’d kept from you.

It was only you and the whispers of the dead. They carried on the breeze outside the window as if to warn you. ‘You are one of us…’

👑

The second day went much the same. Barnes woke you early, his gaze tinged with judgement as he chose your outfit for the day and bid you to pay attention. You ate, slowly and with the same endless critique, and he took you to the palace library and sat you down with a large volume. He paced as you read and occasionally listed off all that you had yet to learn. In all your years of school, you’d never had a teacher as overbearing and relentless as him.

When you were thoroughly restless from the tight font and stiff pages, he took you for a walk around the lawns and pointed out the statues of your predecessors. When you returned to the palace, he gave you another lesson in posture, a book on your head as he had you strut across the foyer over and over again. When you were dizzy from the repetition, it was time for another meal and you growled at your cutlery in frustration.

The days went on as such. You snapped at Barnes when he breathed down your neck but he never again bent you over and spanked you like a child. Instead, he merely grinned and thought of another ridiculous activity. But when he caught you with a sandwich secreted from the house staff and your hand streaked in mustard, he looked close to another lashing. He only took the last of your crust and scrubbed your fingers himself.

On the fifth morning. You woke with difficulty. You were exhausted and angry and about to give up. Barnes tore away your duvet and tossed a dress at you. He stood before the rack of dresses you’d gone through on your first day. You groaned and snatched up the petal pink swathe and rolled out of bed.

You dressed as he waited in the hall and you stumbled out in the pair of steep heels. You held in a yawn as he bent his arm and you merely stared at it in detest.

“Duchess,” he sighed, “Let’s not do this today. We have a packed schedule.”

“What is it? Am I to balance on one foot and recite the royal family tree?” You spat.

He snorted and shook his head. He took your arm and hooked it through his own. He turned and led you down the hall. “Well, no, but I fear you might look just as silly.”

You narrowed your eyes and your stomach knotted. You wondered at his meaning but went along with him. Your days at Regia still felt like a dream; you just couldn’t accept that any of it was real.

He led you down the stairs, with some trouble, as your ankle bent and you caught the railing in panic. He righted you and continued lithely down the staircase. Your heels clicked on the marble as he turned you and guided you to the tall doors that opened into a grand ballroom. Long tables lined the perimeter with straight back chairs and portraits of women long dead and their respective husbands hung from the walls. The high ceiling was pointed and arched in the style of the seventeenth century and velvet curtains were tied back with tassles at the other end of the chamber.

A woman in black, a stiff white collar poking out from beneath her blazer, and a prim twist to her lips, stood expectantly at the centre. She held a stick that reminded you of a 1900s schoolhouse teacher and her round framed glasses magnified her cold glare.

“Priscilla,” Barnes released you and approached the woman. He greeted her in all courtesy, a small nod and a kiss on her hand. “Timely, as always.”

“Lord Barnes,” she arched a brow and her hazel eyes peered past him at you. “Duchess?” It was barely a question as she bent her knee and gave a stoic bow.

“The very one,” Barnes affirmed.

“An honour,” she stepped past Barnes. “I was present when your mother and her father visited our kingdom all those years ago.”

Your lip curled and you looked between her and Barnes. “I never knew my grandfather. Apparently, I never knew my mother either.”

Her eyes rounded and her face contorted as if she had tasted lemon juice. She looked at Barnes who shook his head.

“You know the nobility well, Pris,” he said, “They have the temperance of toddlers.”

“Wouldn’t you know it, my lord,” she quipped. “A blessing to her it is not Austin in my place.”

“I made certain it wasn’t,” Barnes approached you and took your hand, “I do appreciate your expedience.”

“I would never disobey the king,” she held the stick horizontal in both hands, “Very well, first position.”

Barnes turned you and drew you to him. His other hand went to your back. He held you to him, a small space between your bodies and you wobbled on your high heels.

“What the--” His sharp look kept your form profanity.

“You must learn to dance,” he said, “And if you can barely stand straight, I trust we have much to do.”

Priscilla came around you and touched your shoulders with her stick. “Head up,” she chided, “Straight, straight, straight.” She tapped the tip along your spine. “You are lucky.” She girded, “To learn with such a partner. Barnes… I hope that even you might sharpen this one.” She tutted, “There is much work to be done.”

“Would you stop that?” You tore your hand from Barnes’ and wipped at the stick against your back, “I’m not a dog.”

“Mmm,” she hummed and smacked your ass with the stick as Barnes took your hand again, “Move your feet.”

She rescinded the stick and tapped the butt of it on the floor as she began to count. You trod on your partner’s toe as he led you. You looked down at your feet and he hissed, “Don’t look down.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” You stomped his shoe again. “Or do you like broken toes?”

“Just back, forward, side, side, back…” He raised your hand. “Stand straight. Head high.”

“I hate you,” you snipped as you scrambled to keep the beat.

“A good thing you are not my fiancee, then,” he smirked.

“We can agree on that,” you sneered but found yourself pressed against him as you tripped. He caught you and chuckled as he stood you up straight.

“Graceful as ever,” he kidded, “My apologies, Priscilla, it is going to be a long day.”

“You’re apologizing to her?” You grimaced, “What about me?”

“You’ve tread on me nearly a dozen times, so far,” he turned you, “I would say you owe me a few ‘sorries’ yourself.”

“I’d say we’re even,” you snipped. “My freedom, your toes.”

His lips curved again as he watched you. You looked past him and focused on the numbers; one, two, three, and four… Your gaze caught on a queen with sad eyes painted in fading pigments. She had no husband beside her, only an urn on a plinth. A chill rippled through you as you were spun away from the sight. For all its radiance, there was something very grim about this palace of betrothed.

[cherryblossomtease]

In The Fairest Season ~ Part 7

18+ only

warnings summary masterlist

Chapter Warnings - Sexually explicit content

~LATE SEPTEMBER~

You’re still surprised that the servants aren’t talking about your morning escape to the coast. You were certain they would be whispering about the new Baroness and her wild foreign ways, but no, if anything it seems to have only endeared you to them all the more.

After you recovered from that remarkable thing Helmut did with his mouth, you went with him through the gap in the wall to see that he’d ridden his horse to find you.

The ride back —sat high in the leather saddle with Helmut steady behind you— was glorious. That crisp morning air tossed your hair while his coat kept you warm. When you’d come back looking like a ghost brought in from the moors, the servants just smiled and bowed to their beautiful mistress and helped you warm by the fire and as promised served a breakfast fit for a Baroness.

Now, after a day of trying to learn your way around the castle, and another night learning your way around your husband, you lie naked and spent; smiling as you stare off at nothing, the fire crackling in the distance.

You can hear the leafless branches of the trees scraping the window as you lay in his arms, curled up small and safe beside him, your bare skin pressed against his.

“Will it always be this way?” You ask quietly.

He stirs, his hand laying over the curve of your shoulder, stroking down, tickling the tiny hairs along your arm to the top of your hand which you lift letting your fingertips touch, meeting in the air like a steeple. He slides his down interlacing them, resting both your hands in the space between your hips that face one another.

“What way is that?” He asks preoccupied with admiring the sight of you still shaking a bit after a more… ambitious encounter tonight. You’re still thinking about the way it felt when he got behind you…

“I feel—light— I thought maybe I would be sad to lose that part of me, but now I see that it doesn’t matter so much. Now that I’ve shared it with you. It’s like floating.”

“No. It won’t always be this way. But when it is, there is nothing better.” He smiles.

You shut your eyes listening to the trees outside, inclined to agree.

He says your name and you look into his eyes. “What is it?”

“I want to talk to you about something.” He says pulling his hand free of yours to smooth your hair from your face.

“If it’s about what we’ve just done…I can’t help not knowing what to do, it’s only been two nights, you’ll just have to be patient,” You say bluntly. Helmut laughs, rolling onto his back until you pull up beside him smiling. “What? I don’t want you critiquing me just yet dear husband.”

Settling into a smile he lays his palm to your cheek. “I have nothing to critique draga devojko, which I thought I’d made rather clear.” He says and takes his hand away to rub your stomach, low beneath your navel.

You turn your head biting your lip, your grin is as wide as your blush is deep. What an absolute beast! You think, very aware of the sticky mess along your upper thighs, the remnants of his approval not inside of you. And how I love him… “What is it then?” You ask with a coy little smile.

“Singing.” He says and you can feel the color drain from your face.

You turn onto your back, sitting up on your elbows. “What about it.”

“You were born to sing, you know that. I don’t want you to give up trying, not because you’re here, not because you’re my wife. You may fall pregnant soon, and if you do it will be a gift. But until then… you should try.”

You stare across the expansive room until it all blurs into nothing and your eyes shut. “I don’t want to sing anymore.”

“Of course you do.”

“No, I don’t”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Helmut. I was almost killed for my voice, why would I ever put myself at risk again.”

“But you weren’t”

You sigh and sit up wrapping your arms around your knees. “You were right. It isn’t this way every time.” You grumble.

He rolls his eyes at you and sits up, stroking your bare back. “Listen to me. I’m saying this to you tonight so that you know how it will be. You are the same woman you were before you ever became a Baroness. I don’t want that to change. Not yet. And here, in this country, you have a chance to accomplish great things. But you must try, you must begin to strengthen your voice and not let it fade.”

You know he’s right, but you carry such fear with you… but perhaps if you were to go slowly. Still, that will do little to fix the fear that continues to walk beside you, like a demon shadow, it’s ragged nail gliding along your throat.

With a shiver you shake your head. “I can not make promises. I don’t know how to explain it but I feel such a terror— unlike any I have ever known.” You look back at him and he sees how your eyes sparkle with tears.

He quickly tsks, angry with himself for upsetting you and sits up, pulling you close. “Then you must take the time, and ask of me whatever you need to feel safe.” His arms squeeze a bit tighter “I would burn the world for you.”  You don’t doubt it.  When the room is quiet again and you’re feeling better, you pull away and look up at your devilishly handsome husband and smile.

“Helmut? Let us strike a bargain. If I begin to train as you wish me to do… then will you make love to me until I am better at it than you?”

He tilts his head, amused, surprised, intrigued. He laughs and agrees, kissing your shoulder. “Yes, wild mala pltica. Until you beg me to stop.” He says shaking his head, looking ever so slightly afraid of you which makes you laugh.

The sound fades against his lips as your eyes close and behind them you see lights, bright and shining and beyond them —the stage.

~EPILOGUE~

Your white silk gown that costs more than your former yearly salary —when you spent your days and nights singing for the ones you call contemporaries now— is bunched up around your waist, the preparation it took to put the thing on all but forgotten.

In the simple elegance of your bedroom, his hand clamps down over your mouth but does little to quiet you.

Your voice is too strong now, and he isn’t exactly helping.

“Don’t stop.” You demand, breathing hard after dragging his fingers away from your mouth.

Helmut leans forward, bracing on your dressing table with you in front of him.

When he takes you from behind like this, you lose all sense of decorum. You feel like a feral creature ready to devour him if he doesn’t get you first.

He tries to keep you quiet but you know, he doesn’t really care. Helmut is not a demure man, he likes a show and he couldn’t care less who hears. This is his house and you are his wife, his Baroness —his little bird— who he fucks until she screams his name, until she thinks she will fall to the floor and then he fucks her again.

You would not have it any other way.

You shut your eyes and imagine all of those people waiting…

There is a hall full of guests below who have just seen you perform on the best stage in Sokovia. They have come from far and wide to hail you as the brightest star, finally risen to heights worthy of your talent after overcoming such odds, refusing to let the devils hand rip your talent away, but they —your loving admirers —will have to wait.

He finds your eyes in the mirror and you look into his, hearing your own sweet, whimpering  moans as you take all of him in, the consuming feel of Helmut’s attention no less wonderful than it was the first time.

You reach back grabbing the Barons arm, “Please don’t stop…” You manage and he flashes a smile. You know one another’s bodies so well now.

He slides his hand across your belly and down, the silk gown going right along with it and you spread your legs for him, your mouth open with silent approval letting him circle your clitoris with your stage dress and his deft fingers as he keeps you filled with his solid member until you sink against him, fingers digging into the fine fabric of his dinner jacket.

You feel your world stop for a breath, teetering on the edge, hovering, waiting, and finally you’re sent crashing over the edge when he strokes you one final time and you gasp as you climax; your shaking breath stunted, mixed with the lightest laugh of release as you pulse.

Your head falls back and he inhales your scent which is perfumed tonight and the Baron comes quickly and quietly though you know the soft sound of his voice when he does and it still makes you feel like you are floating…

As you try to quickly make yourselves presentable, him at his corner of the room and you at yours, you look in the mirror one last time smoothing your hands down the front of your gorgeous silver gown. Keeping your smile hidden you resist the urge to turn to the side and give away the secret.

You will wait to tell him tonight, when everyone has gone and the halls are empty but for their many ghosts.

You look back over your shoulder finding his reflection, watching Helmut adjust his white cravat and your heart nearly bursts.

And how many hiding places will this little one find? You think remembering that sweet conversation not so long ago.

Helmut finds you watching him and smiles

“Ready?”

“Always.” You say eyes back on your reflection, still so pleased by the woman you find.

She may have started as the child of love who sang her way into the hearts of the people and a Baron, but now, she is the one they come to see, she is the one who stands alone onstage, unafraid.

She is you.

*

The many occupants of the castle hall turn as you appear at the top of the stairs, breaking into applause, praising you in both English and Sokovian.

You stand on the landing with your adoring husband at your side, thanking them, elated by their support and love. He takes a step down and raises a hand as if to show you off like some priceless jewel and the cheers grow.

With his signature smile and sparkling eyes, Helmut takes your hand, kissing the back of it and stokes the center of your palm gently, secretly tickling you. Your eyes dart over in warning, insisting he stop though you love it when he teases you. Helmut tilts his head just a little with an innocent shrug. You can only stifle your laugh and give him a wink— the wicked man— and step down to take his offered arm.

On ground level you begin to greet your guests, anxious to run into Brigittes arms who has traveled just to see you and hopefully to stay for a while when Oeznik appears at Helmut’s side.

“This was delivered for you sir. I would have taken it to your study but the messenger insisted you be given it straight away."

Curious but unbothered, you both look down at the letter the old man holds.

It is folded and sealed like any other, but as you look closely you see that the red wax has an emblem you don’t recognize.

“Is that an octopus?” You ask looking around Helmut’s shoulder. You count six arms curled in under the head, but it is this head that draws your attention again. That is no sea creature.”Is that a skull? What is this Helmut?” You ask glancing up at him.

He is silent. He is still.

“Oeznik, is the man still here?” You ask when the Baron does not seem to be able to speak.

The butler looks around for a moment, finally settling on the open doorway of the main entry.

“There My Lady”

A tall thin man stands alone looking in at the both of you, his black hair parted, his thin face a bit gaunt and harsh looking. He is far, but even from here you can see that there is something very off about the man. His confidence is misplaced and his arrival brings a heaviness that you feel yourself reject. The tiny hairs on your arms rise in protest.

“What did he say his name was?” You ask, your throat gone dry and tight.

The Baron finally speaks. “He does not have a name, at least not one that I was given when I was first confronted in the summer. When I was rudely taken from you.” He says glancing at you from the corner of his eye “But I’m sure he had a message?” He asks looking at Oeznik, and you think perhaps the Baron already knows. You’ve never seen him look this way before. You wonder, is this the face of Colonel Zemo…

Oeznik nods looking very grave.

“Yes my Lord he did… he simply said, Hail Hydra.”

Authors Notes - Okay I've decided to stop kidding myself, because of course I'm going to write another chapter in fact I've already started. Thanks for reading and showing this story so much love I appreciate it more than you know!

[queermediastudies]

Beyond the Labels: Tangerine

Released in 2015, Tangerine, a film centered around transgender sex workers, follows the story of two bestfriends Sin-Dee and Alexandra, who are on a mission to find Sin-Dee’s boyfriend/pimp, Chester, who is accused of cheating on her while she was in jail. The two best friends set out to find Chester, as well as his mistress, Dinah, who is a cisgender white woman, immediately after Sin-Dee’s release from jail. Through their journey, the two encounter obstacles related to drugs, sex-work, romance and violence. In order to better understand the impact of this film, concepts such as queer production, transgender visibility and intersectionality will be discussed in relation to dominant idelogies portrayed throughout the film, such as gender, race, constructions of sexuality, class and ability.

The production of the film generated just as much buzz as the film itself. Shot on an Iphone 5 with a low- budget estimated around $100,000, director Sean Baker had a tight budget to work with. Issues surrounding queer production in Hollywood become apparent with films like Tangerine. Not only do questions arise about the lack of funding and resources for queer media, but concerns related to who is producing queer narratives also come into question. Sean Baker, a heterosexual cisgender white male, produced a film about transgender woman of color without being able to identify with their struggles or identity. In the article, “Pose(r): Ryan Murphy, Trans and Queer of Color Labor, and the politics of Representation,” author Alfred L. Martin Jr. further examines why representational politics is problematic in Hollywood in relation to the labor issues and white savior image within Hollywood. As a heterosexual cisgender white male, director Sean Baker profits from the production and storytelling of transgender people of color. As stated by Martin, “the fact remains that it is his white capital within a fundamentally racist industry that allows Pose to be made” (Martin Jr., n.p.). This narrative is problematic due to the overwhelming fact that transgender people of color still face adversity, whether from violence, homelessness, health failiures etc. while a white heterosexual or homosexual male is allowed the opportunity produce and ultimately benefit from their stories. Not only are labor issues in Hollywood problematic due to who is able to produce narratives of transgender people of color, but the image that a white male serves as a ‘white savior’ also becomes problematic. Queer audiences and the overall population is ultimately  convinced that in order for transgender people of color to have a voice, white producers must be the only ones who have the resources and ability to produce such films.

Factors surrounding trangender visibility become evident with the films dominant ideologies surrounding class, gender, race, ability and constructions of sexuality. In the film Sin-Dee and her best friend are introduced as transgender black woman who are at the lower level of the class spectrum. In the article “Breaking Into Transgender Life: Transgender Audiences’ Experiences With “First of Its Kind” Visibility in Popular Media,” the author, Andre Cavalcante, discusses the importance of “breakout texts” as a form of audience-text interaction. In Tangerine, for example, the narrative that surrounds transgender people of color is negative and stereotypical. Negative portrayals of Sin-Dee as poor, violent, loud, assertive and codependent all shape and influence audience perceptions. As stated by Cavalcante, “the fates of transgender individuals and communities are understood as intimately linked to the films’ representation of transgender” (Cavalcante, p.3). Consequently, the image of transgender people of color becomes threatened by media portrayals when characters are solely introduced as possessing one narrative; usually negative. However, the film does introduce an unfortunately real narrative about survival and isolation for transgender people of color. Similarly, the film offers audience members the opportunity to create their own cultural interpretation, whether realistic or not, of transgender people of color. Although negative interpretations may arise, Tangerine reveals the various hardships transgender people of color experience in their day to day lives. For example, both Sin-Dee and Alexandra see sex-work as a necessity for survival. Although their gender and sexual identities are at times questioned, both women risk their lives to make money due to a failure in protection, discrimination and harrassment experienced in the work place and their everyday lives. Thus, questions surrounding transgender visibility arise. In the article, “Queer and Feminist Approaches to Transgender Media Studies,” by Mia Fischer, the author suggests that although an increase in transgender visibility has occured in media and national discourse, the representation of transgender people in media does not provide improved living conditions for the overwhelming majority of transgender people (Fischer, 102). This is particularly important when discussing and approaching intersectionality in “scholarship and social justice activism that moves beyond visibility politics and ruthlessly deconstructs oppressive systems and our own complicity within them” (Fischer, 103). In a system where racism, classism and (cis)sexism is at the core of opressive actions against marginalized communities, neither feminist, academic or queer activist can continue to exclude the voices of transgender voices. Without the inclusion of transgender voices, activist and scholarly groups cannot actively formulate strategies for resistance that cater to all marginalized groups. This is important due to the countless erasure of transgender voices in history. In order to continue fighting towards social justice, women like Sin-Dee and Alexandra must be heard and given the proper tools to simply continue living.

Sin-Dee’s and Alexandra’s intersectional identities further introduce the multidimensions that contribute to their struggles. In the article, “Queer and Feminist Approaches to Transgender Media Studies,” by Mia Fischer, the author states “I take intersectionality as a key framework for understanding how mediated representations of transgender people are linked to their daily interactions and experiences with systems of state power and violence” (Fischer, p. 99). In Tangerine, the last scene where men are seen yelling homophobic slurs at Sin-Dee and throwing urine at her accurately depicts the leveles of violence and powerlessness experienced by transgender people. This interaction between Sin-Dee and the men in the car is based on how the men identified Sin-Dee through her appearance and voice. Unfortunately, this scene serves as an example of how transgender people experience daily interactions associated with powerlessness and violence. In another clip, Alexandra is seen arguing in front of a cop car with a white middle aged man. In this scene, Alexandra is persistent about the money this man owes her while he urges the cop that she attacked him unprovoked. The cop proceeds to refer to Alexandra as “him” and Alexander to her partner on the job before getting out of the car and only checking Alexandra’s pulse for any signs of drugs while the man is given a warning to leave voluntarily before he has to alert his family of why he needs bail. This interaction perfectly represents how people in power view and handle transgender people of color. The man is given a pass, while Alexandra is humiliated and unpaid for her work. As a transgender woman of color, Alexandra is at a disadvantage socio-economically, in comparison to a white cisgnder heterosexual women. Alexandra’s intersectional identities, black, poor, sex worker and transgender woman all attribute to her day to day hardships and experiences. 

As a young heterosexual college-educated woman of color, my own subject position allowed me to further examine how my various identities factored into the way in which I engaged with this film. While watching the film, I was able to empathize with both Sin-Dee and Alexandra as a woman of color. However, as a heterosexual cisgender woman, I am not able to relate to the struggles transgender woman of color face. Despite my inability to relate to Sin-Dee’s and Alexandra’s gender identity, topics surrounding transgender media studies influenced my ideologies around transgender woman of color. As a minority in America, this film is important to me because it dives into the unjust treatment and life of transgender woman of color in America. Although I myself will never experience what it means to be a transgender woman of color, it is important for me to continue the path of educating others and myself on how to be an ally for the LGBTQ community. Despite its flaws, Tangerine is raw and unforgiving. The film is exemplary in depicting the harsh realities transgender woman of color face whilst leaving its audience with an unsettling feeling. Ultimately, I was able to understand how intersectional identities as well as queer portrayals coexist to shape how audience members and queer people view and identify with queer media.

Cavalcante, Andre (2017). “Breaking Into Transgender Life: Transgender Audiences’Experiences With “First of Its Kind Visibility” In Popular Media.” Communication, Culture & Critique, 10(3), 538-555. https://academic.oup.com/ccc/article-abstract/10/3/538/4662971?redirectedFrom=fulltext

Fischer M. (2018) Queer and Feminist Approaches to Transgender Media Studies. In: Harp D.,Loke J., Bachmann I. (eds) Feminist Approaches to Media Theory and Research. Comparative Feminist Studies. Palgrave Macmillan, Cham. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-90838-0_7

Martin, Alfred L. Jr (2018). “Pose(r): Ryan Murphy, Trans and Queer of Color Labor, and the Politics of Representation.” LA Review of Books.

[pfenniged]

Hi! I’ve been following you for a lil lil bit, but already you seem super smart and knowledgeable so.. what are some books or other pieces of writing you think everyone should read? Have a lovely day!

B’aww, thank you! <3 You too nonnie! <3

Just off the top of my head at three o’clock in the morning, and the qualification that you provided that its something that ‘everyone should read,’ I’m going to go for more books that I found changed me fundamentally, as a person, after reading them. That may be a self-help book; that might be a societal critique, that might be a work of classic literature. I tried to give a bit of everything. <3

 I’ll put a little copy-and-paste synopsis here for you for each book, and will elaborate if necessary in brackets. 

BEHOLD: LAUREN’S LIST OF LITERARY RECOMMENDATIONS:

From My (Non-Law) Bookcase (But still are about political issues):

Rage Becomes Her: The Power of Women’s Anger by Soraya Chemaly: 

‘As women, we’ve been urged for so long to bottle up our anger, letting it corrode our bodies and minds in ways we don’t even realize. Yet there are so, so many legitimate reasons for us to feel angry, ranging from blatant, horrifying acts of misogyny to the subtle drip, drip drip of daily sexism that reinforces the absurdly damaging gender norms of our society. In Rage Becomes Her, Soraya Chemaly argues that our anger is not only justified, it is also an active part of the solution. We are so often encouraged to resist our rage or punished for justifiably expressing it, yet how many remarkable achievements would never have gotten off the ground without the kernel of anger that fueled them? Approached with conscious intention, anger is a vital instrument, a radar for injustice and a catalyst for change. On the flip side, the societal and cultural belittlement of our anger is a cunning way of limiting and controlling our power—one we can no longer abide.’

Academic Ableism: Disability and Higher Education by Jay T. Dolmage:

‘Academic Ableism brings together disability studies and institutional critique to recognize the ways that disability is composed in and by higher education, and rewrites the spaces, times, and economies of disability in higher education to place disability front and center. For too long, argues Jay Timothy Dolmage, disability has been constructed as the antithesis of higher education, often positioned as a distraction, a drain, a problem to be solved. The ethic of higher education encourages students and teachers alike to accentuate ability, valorize perfection, and stigmatize anything that hints at intellectual, mental, or physical weakness, even as we gesture toward the value of diversity and innovation. Examining everything from campus accommodation processes, to architecture, to popular films about college life, Dolmage argues that disability is central to higher education, and that building more inclusive schools allows better education for all.’

(This book strays into more academic categories, but it’s still really great that this sort of book is being written. I personally recognise its value as someone with mental health struggles and who has had to fight ironically in the legal sphere for myself in terms of finding support within my own career moving forward as a lawyer/legal academic. I think the fact that the narrative that disabilities are seen as the antithesis of secondary education despite claims of diversity is something that all university students need to guard themselves against, or at least educate themselves on, in order to work against some systems that even though they espouse equality, might not have their best interests at heart. 

I’ve ironically found this especially terrible in law, where my first term of law school I was told ‘girls like you don’t go to law school,’ followed by constant questioning by the community at large after graduate that any hint of mental weakness equates to being unfit to practice law. This is despite the majority of lawyers having mental health problems, if not full blown addictions. It’s honestly why I’m pivoting back to academia (law prof), or moving to practice for the government (which enforces union restrictions on how long a lawyer can actually work, where firms just actually work them to death without union protections ironically; ugh. My whole point is, I’m not ashamed of having mental health problems in a field largely categorised by achievements in secondary education. I feel no reason to hide it, even though people tell me to. If someone is ashamed of me over something I had no control over developing, then I probably don’t want to be involved with them, do I? (A good method I recommend; it may cut off some superficial ‘friends’/’opportunities,’ but it leads to those who truly understand what a mental health disability may entail, and how strong you are for overcoming it).

White Fragility: Why It’s so Hard to for White People to Talk about Racism by Robin DiAngelo:

The New York Times best-selling book exploring the counterproductive reactions white people have when their assumptions about race are challenged, and how these reactions maintain racial inequality.

In this “vital, necessary, and beautiful book” (Michael Eric Dyson), antiracist educator Robin DiAngelo deftly illuminates the phenomenon of white fragility and “allows us to understand racism as a practice not restricted to ‘bad people’ (Claudia Rankine). Referring to the defensive moves that white people make when challenged racially, white fragility is characterized by emotions such as anger, fear, and guilt, and by behaviors including argumentation and silence. These behaviors, in turn, function to reinstate white racial equilibrium and prevent any meaningful cross-racial dialogue. In this in-depth exploration, DiAngelo examines how white fragility develops, how it protects racial inequality, and what we can do to engage more constructively.

Two Mental Health-Related Books:

Do Nothing: How to Break Away from Overworking, Overdoing, and Underliving by Celeste Headlee:

‘We work feverishly to make ourselves happy. So why are we so miserable?

Despite our constant search for new ways to optimize our bodies and minds for peak performance, human beings are working more instead of less, living harder not smarter, and becoming more lonely and anxious. We strive for the absolute best in every aspect of our lives, ignoring what we do well naturally and reaching for a bar that keeps rising higher and higher. Why do we measure our time in terms of efficiency instead of meaning? Why can’t we just take a break?

In Do Nothing, award-winning journalist Celeste Headlee illuminates a new path ahead, seeking to institute a global shift in our thinking so we can stop sabotaging our well-being, put work aside, and start living instead of doing. As it turns out, we’re searching for external solutions to an internal problem. We won’t find what we’re searching for in punishing diets, productivity apps, or the latest self-improvement schemes. Yet all is not lost - we just need to learn how to take time for ourselves, without agenda or profit, and redefine what is truly worthwhile.

Pulling together threads from history, neuroscience, social science, and even paleontology, Headlee examines long-held assumptions about time use, idleness, hard work, and even our ultimate goals. Her research reveals that the habits we cling to are doing us harm; they developed recently in human history, which means they are habits that can, and must, be broken. It’s time to reverse the trend that’s making us all sadder, sicker, and less productive, and return to a way of life that allows us to thrive.’

(I just read this book lately and I love it; it’s really follows the history of how we’ve come to this point where we can’t shut off our brains, and we see ourselves in this really puritanical, commercialist manner: How we define ourselves by how much we produce, and if we fall short of this goal by being (ironically) human, we berate ourselves for it. This really has let me shift my mentality towards a much healthier, less ‘workaholic’ mode in my COVID downtime, and really helped me move towards a healthier lifestyle in the jobs I’m searching for now that I’ve left school. Recommended for anyone taking the big leap into the full time work world).

Chained to the Desk by Bryan Robinson:

‘Americans love a hard worker. The worker who toils eighteen-hour days and eats meals on the run between appointments is usually viewed with a combination of respect and awe. But for many, this lifestyle leads to family problems, a decline in work productivity, and ultimately to physical and mental collapse. Intended for anyone touched by what Robinson calls “the best-dressed problem of the twenty-first century,” Chained to the Desk provides an inside look at workaholism’s impact on those who live and work with work addicts—partners, spouses, children, and colleagues—as well as the appropriate techniques for clinicians who treat them. Originally published in 1998, this groundbreaking book from best-selling author and widely respected family therapist Bryan E. Robinson was the first comprehensive portrait of the workaholic. In this new and fully updated third edition, Robinson draws on hundreds of case reports from his own original research and years of clinical practice. The agonies of workaholism have grown all the more challenging in a world where the computer, cell phone, and iPhone allow twenty-four-hour access to the office, even on weekends and from vacation spots. Adult children of workaholics describe their childhood pain and the lifelong legacies they still carry, and the spouses or partners of workaholics reveal the isolation and loneliness of their vacant relationships. Employers and business colleagues discuss the cost to the company when workaholism dominates the workplace. Chained to the Desk both counsels and consoles. It provides a step-by-step guide to help readers spot workaholism, understand it, and recover.’

(I also just read this one, and it’s an older book edited to a third edition, and it shows. However, it also does the important work of demonstrating how workaholics should be treated in the same category as anyone else who gets any sort of ‘high’ from something, like drugs or alcoholism. It opens with the quote (and I’m paraphrasing here), “Workaholicism is the best dressed addiction.” It’s the one we’re rewarded for constantly, not matter what mental toll it takes on us. While I’m not exactly ready to sign up for a twelve-step plan (and some of the chapters are specifically for spouses and children), it still dishes out some really good advice about feeding other areas of our lives and how to not simply focus on work.)

From My Undergraduate Degree (Classics and Double Minor in English and German Literature, with a little World Literature thrown in for good measure):

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe: 

THINGS FALL APART tells two overlapping, intertwining stories, both of which center around Okonkwo, a “strong man” of an Ibo village in Nigeria. The first of these stories traces Okonkwo's fall from grace with the tribal world in which he lives, and in its classical purity of line and economical beauty it provides us with a powerful fable about the immemorial conflict between the individual and society. The second story, which is as modern as the first is ancient, and which elevates the book to a tragic plane, concerns the clash of cultures and the destruction of Okonkwo's world through the arrival of aggressive, proselytizing European missionaries. These twin dramas are perfectly harmonized, and they are modulated by an awareness capable of encompassing at once the life of nature, human history, and the mysterious compulsions of the soul. THINGS FALL APART is the most illuminating and permanent monument we have to the modern African experience as seen from within.

(This is a classic of African Literature, and what I wrote my world literature paper on in first year. It really is a story about the affect of a fall of one culture, where Okonkwo is the prime example of what a ‘man’ may be in this society, to how this society (and African societies as a whole) are affected by European colonialism. How one man can be seen as a paradigm of perfection at one point in time, and the scourge of the earth at another, when he stubbornly holds to his ideals, no matter how flawed they may be. It’s a book I remember reading the ending of, and it’s a theme for all three of these books, and just looking down and literally letting out an, “Ooooooooh~~~~” xD That’s really my ‘tell’ of a good book. I haven’t reread it since then, but it’s always stuck with me). 

Animal Farm by George Orwell:

‘Perhaps one of the most influential allegories of the 20th century, George Orwell's Animal Farm has made its way into countless schoolrooms and libraries, and has been the inspiration of several films. Written in 1945, before Orwell's conceptually similar 1984, Animal Farm's world consists of anthropomorphized farm animals as they attempt to create an ideal society--it becomes dystopian as the flaws of the ideology seep out. Like 1984, Orwell meant for Animal Farm to represent a Communist state, and to depict its downfalls. With a message that is not soon to be forgotten, Animal Farm reminds us that "all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others."’

(It’s stereotypical and you’ve probably read it, but I still love this book to pieces and literally have an Animal Farm pin on my bag xD If you haven’t read it, read it: It also has the OhhhOOohhh~ effect xD)

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury:

‘Ray Bradbury's internationally acclaimed novel Fahrenheit 451 is a masterwork of 20th-century literature set in a bleak, dystopian future.

Guy Montag is a fireman. In his world, where television rules and literature is on the brink of extinction, firemen start fires rather than put them out. His job is to destroy the most illegal of commodities, the printed book, along with the houses in which they are hidden. Montag never questions the destruction and ruin his actions produce, returning each day to his bland life and wife, Mildred, who spends all day with her television "family". But then he meets an eccentric young neighbor, Clarisse, who introduces him to a past where people didn’t live in fear and to a present where one sees the world through the ideas in books instead of the mindless chatter of television. When Mildred attempts suicide and Clarisse suddenly disappears, Montag begins to question everything he has ever known. He starts hiding books in his home, and when his pilfering is discovered, the fireman has to run for his life.’

(What do I have to say by this point? Another Ooooh~ effect book xD)

[the-lupine-sojourner]

Takara’s Hero Academia Season 2 Episode 3 (but actually still 2) [Eijiro/OC] [Aizawa/Hizashi]

Okay, so I apologize for just now getting to the end of episode 2 and the start of the Sports Festival! And I didn’t do the sneak peek. So so so sorry!! 

I’ll do the sneak peek on Patreon and all that next time. Ugh I feel so bad about this! But I don’t wanna make this chapter any later, so here we go. 

Anyway! The Masterlist for This Series! 

And the taglist: @elite-guard-hardygal , @dailyojiromashirao , @souskena , and @fandoms-fandoms-everywhere99 . I’m sorry, guys!! I feel weird about posting this for some reason, but hope you all like it! 

Before I get to the story, I jsut awnna say I included a paraphrased quote from my favorite book; Red wall. The actual quote is ‘Even the strongest and bravest must sometimes weep.’ Also, I could resist slipping Asami in again. Hope y’all don’t mind!

God Bless and Good Day! 

~The Lupine Sojourner

“Takara, you ready to go?” Dad calls.

“Yeah, I’ve just finished packing the last box!” I call back. It was a week until the Sports Festival, and we were moving today. We all didn’t have a lot of stuff, so it was a simple one-day thing in theory. So far so good, though.

I hoist the box up and walk out to the living room. This box had the miscellaneous things I wanted to keep, like the old ratty fox stuffed animal that I could never get rid of for sentimental reasons, or pictures of Mom, Dad, and I, or posters and other decorations.

I plop it down. “Man, I didn’t realize how many different decorations I had in my room.” I laugh. Mom smiles. Dad had convinced her to go to Recovery Girl as often as I had and her arms looked better every day. The casts had been taken off and she was doing exercises to get them reacquainted with the things she normally did and how strong she had been. We even worked out together, going for a morning jog followed by yoga and a core workout routine.

In short, we were slowly getting to the point we’d been at before the attack. Mom and I were getting better mentally, too, but that was a long road for a number of reasons, one being the level of shit we went through, two being the severity of our injuries and the fact that the villains had caught us entirely by surprise. We loaded the last few boxes, refused to ‘say bye house’ like Dad prompted, and drove toward UA and our small condo on campus.

Once we got there, all of us grabbed boxes and I followed Mom and Dad’s lead, falling a little behind as I’d been a tad ambitious, trying to carry both my first backpack of clothes and box of decorations.

In fact, when I went to grab the door I was just a second too late to grab before it closed, I end up overbalancing, slamming my face and nose into the glass, before collapsing awkwardly to the ground, the box going flying and the contents spilling out. “Shoot!” I curse, groaning as I pick myself up. I then feel a twinge in my ankle. Apparently, I’d rolled it a little and it didn’t appreciate that.

I sigh heavily and begin picking up the box and putting the stuff back in, feeling oddly emotional about the shattered glass in a few of the framed pictures. Tears even well in my eyes and I resist the urge to start crying. All I wanted was a normal day with my family, unpacking and starting over in our new home.

Turns out, that wasn’t exactly easy. I wipe my eyes and sigh heavily before I make myself start gathering the spilled objects, minding the broken glass. I really don’t know why I’m crying, but the tears come back and this time I couldn’t stop them.

“Hey, are you okay?” I flinch and look up from plopping another glass-less frame in the box. I look up and blink in shock.

“O-oh! Asami-senpai! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” I squeak. She was trying to hand me a poster she rolled up. I gulp back a lump in my throat and take it, trying to subtly wipe my eyes.

“You know, after an incident like that, it’s okay to cry.” She says softly, hand over mine reassuringly. I shrink into myself in embarrassment.

“You saw that?” I whimper. She nods.

“And I meant what I said. Really, it’s scary fighting villains and having it be life or death. I remember my first fight.” Her eyes are serious, not looking at anything in particular as she spoke, obviously reminiscing about that day.

“Oh...from your work-study?” I ask softly. Being the daughter of two UA teachers who are also pro heroes, I knew all about work studies. She nods.

“It was a group of muggers trying to start a gang. They’d cornered civilians in a back alley and I was working with the Ryuku agency for my work study. We intervened and put them behind bars. I almost got impaled by one of the villains’ air weapon Quirk.” I raise a brow.

“Air weapon?” I ask. Asami nods.

“Hardened air limited to the breath in his lungs and weapons like spears or swords. Annoying, but the situation whacked me. I spent the rest of the day looking over my shoulder and paranoid at anything and everything. I had to have a long talk with dad to finally start to get over it. It’s hard to cope with an experience like this.” I bite my lip and nod.

“I want to be strong, but…”

“Even the strongest and bravest sometimes cry. It’s not a sign of weakness. It shows you feel and you’re human. It’s a perfectly reasonable reaction.” I smile at her, sniffling and wiping my eyes.

“Thank you.” I murmur. She picks up the box as we stand and she hands it to me.

“No problem. Oh, and you can call me ‘Ami’, Okay?” I nod, smiling.

“Okay!”

=#=#=#=#=

“What on earth are you doing?” A hear a voice ask. I turn my head from my Downward Dog position while trying to turn a glass of water into ice (sorta like Shoto, but...not exactly) after a run to see Oba Nemuri standing there, watching me curiously, a touch of amusement in her voice.

Fortunately, she was wearing her teaching clothes. As a teacher, there were certain standards to be upheld so she couldn’t be too outlandish. She had a light purple button-up (with as many buttons as she could get away with undone), a dark grey blazer on top, with a miniskirt I’m fairly certain was not up to the standard dress code. She also had thigh-high leather boots on.

I sigh and move to stand properly. While she is my aunt, it’s always slightly awkward being around her. I do love her, but she’s so...uh, unreserved, and I’d rather not be corrupted just yet.

“Hey, Oba.” I greet. “I’m practicing for the Festival.” She grins.

“Oh, how adorable!” She squeals, wriggling in delight. I blush. Why was she like this? “I must say, that Quirk of yours is really something else!” I manage a grin. She looks at the glass. It felt cool to the touch, but it wasn’t ice by a long shot. And it was draining my blood sugar faster than I’d like to keep trying. “Are you trying to make that water into ice or something? Too cute, darling!” I nod. This was just who Oba Nemuri was. It wouldn’t be fair to judge someone simply because of who they are, right? I only had about an hour with Oba Nemuri. She suggested I make my fighting style all about a whip after I showed her the different things I could do. I turned her down and she demonstrated a few kicks, at least, before she checked the time. “Well, darling, it looks like duty calls.” She sighs, with a touch more drama than needed, really. “My class starts in a quarter hour and I have to freshen up a bit. Mind if I pop into the bathroom real fast?” She asks, almost flirtatiously, winking at me as she grabs a small purse. I hold in a groan and point out where it was.

“Go ahead, Oba,” I reply. She giggles and thanks me before heading into it and closing the door. I move to the kitchen and grab a container of leftover tonkatsu to heat up for a kind-of brunch. She was too much sometimes.

By the time I’ve sat down with the food, Oba Nemuri is back. She draws me in for a hug from behind, kissing my cheek.

“Sorry to run off like this, Nīsu.” She apologizes. “Your parents wanted me to check in on you real quick. Do tell your parents this is a housewarming gift for your mother, would you?” I nod. The present she put in front of me was suspiciously small and in a Victoria’s Secrets bag. I flush, imagining what kind of present Oba had given my mom.

“I’ll make sure she gets it.” I murmur, hoping I didn’t sound as embarrassed as I felt, and Oba Nemuri gives me one last cheek-kiss and leaves. I wave at her, mouth too full to speak, and that’s that.

=#=#=#=#=

Turns out, training almost constantly made time fly by. Mashirao and I had started sparring and it turns out he’s a great teacher. He praised when earned, and sometimes mixed a bit of critique into his praises so I’d learn even from victories (of which there were few), and he was always going all-out on me. He knew that I could take it, and it also helped strengthen my leg and ribs, so we all won.

“Thanks, Mashirao.” I murmur as we walk back to the locker rooms to shower and head home.

“No problem. It’s a great way for me to exercise, too, so we all win. Plus, it’s always more fun to teach when the student is a natural at the subject.” I laugh.

“Thanks, but we know that’s not true,” I reply, scratching the back of my neck. He is quick to shake his head.

“No, I meant it. You’re getting really good, Takara!”

“Thanks,” I reply, then check my phone and see the date. “Oh, crap! The Festival is tomorrow!” I squeak. He blinks.

“I lost track of time. That’s crazy!”

“I know!” He holds up a hand.

“Well, let’s both do our best, okay?” I high-five him.

“Okay!”

=#=#=#=#=

“Nervous?” Dad asks. I gulp.

“What gave it away?” I reply, voice wavering a little. Dad laughs.

“Sweetheart, it’s fine to be nervous.” I nod.

“I know.” The car pulls into the teacher parking lot and we check in, Mom holding Dad’s hand. I notice she’s been doing that a lot since she got her hands out of the casts. I probably would, too, in her situation. It’d only been about a week, but even being unable to use your hands that long...I can’t even imagine. Now, her arms were wrapped in stiff bandages as her arms were slowly regaining strength and the last of the healing in the bones was finishing with a little help from Recovery Girl. Due to the extent to which the bones were broken, it was difficult for Recovery Girl to heal a whole lot per session. There was a lot that needed to happen in Mom’s arms, and it was taking a long time to restore what Nomu broke.

I see my classmates gathering, so I adjust my backpack and walk over. As usual, Eijiro is first to notice me, walking over as I turn to wave Mom and Dad goodbye so they could get ready to commentate on the Festival. How dad managed to convince Mom to do it, I have no idea, but I’m glad. It will get her mind off...other things.

“Hey, Takara.” Eijiro greets. I smile and accept his side-hug. We’d gotten a bit more comfortable around each other and usually gave each other hugs as a greeting. He still smelled amazing, and I always had to restrain myself from continuously sniffing him. “You nervous?” I take a breath and nod a little.

“Yeah...you?”

“Just a little. I’ve always loved watching the Festival growing up and now I’m actually in one, you know?”

“Mmhmm.” I hum in reply, feeling my stomach squirm in anxiety as we walk to the 1-A general waiting room. There, we found PE outfits waiting, and Mina groans when we’re all changed.

“Aww, man!” She whines. “I was totally hoping I could wear my costume.” I shrug, but Mashirao beats me to speaking.

“At least everyone’s in uniforms, so it’s fair, right?” Rikido is shaking in his seat, anxiety clearly written on his face.

“I wonder what they have in store for us in the first round.” He mumbles. I shrug.

“Well, as long as we do our best, it doesn’t really matter, right?” He nods.

“Right,” Fumikagi interjects. “No matter what they’ve prepared, we must persevere.” I nod.

“Yeah!” Tenya then comes suddenly into the room, startling me.

“Everyone, get your game faces on!” He calls. “We’re entering the arena soon!” I feel my stomach flip in nervous anticipation. Everyone murmurs and reacts. I grab my heart, willing it to calm down (not that it listens to me).

“Midoriya,” Shoto calls, walking over to my friend. Izuku turns to him.

“Hey, Todoroki.” He replies. “What’s up?”

“From an objective standpoint, I think it’s fairly clear I’m stronger than you.” I blink. Izuku nods meekly.

“Yeah…” He replies. I step forward to defend Izuku but then halt as Shoto continues.

“However, you’ve got All Might in your corner helping you out. I’m not here to pry about what’s going on between you two, but know that I will beat you.” I pale.

“Shoto, where is this coming from?” I ask, frowning.

“I’ve never pretended to be something I’m not. This shouldn’t be a surprise, really. I’m just stating facts to make things clear before this competition begins.” Shoto replies, not even looking at me.

“What’s with all these declarations of war lately?” Denki asks lightly, attempting to defuse the situation as Eijiro walks over, putting a hand on Shoto’s shoulder.

“Yeah, what’s the big deal? Why’re you picking a fight all of a sudden, right before we get started?” He asks. Shoto just walks away.

“We’re not here to be each other’s friends.” He calls over his shoulder. “Don’t forget; this isn’t a team effort.” I bite my lip.

“Shoto, c’mon. Pros can’t go around declaring war on each other. They have to team up at some point- -”

“Yeah, hang on,” Izuku interjects. “I don’t know what’s going through your head, or why you think you need to tell me that you’ll beat me, and yeah...of course you’re better than me. In fact, you probably have way more potential than anyone in the Hero Course. It’s why you got in so easily.” I step toward Izuku.

“Stop that!” I bark. “Recommendations aren’t an invitation to UA! You have to fight the pool of people with recommendations. In some ways, it’s harder than the entrance exam! That’s why I didn’t choose that path. I could have been recommended by my mom and dad and gotten into the recommendations entrance exam. But I knew there would be so many people that were a lot better than me. I knew I didn’t stand a chance.” I realize I kinda admitted to the facts Izuku is stating and bite my lip.

“Midoriya, Takara, maybe you’re being a little hard on yourself. And us.” He murmurs.

“No, he’s right, you guys.” Izuku counters. “The other courses, Takara’s friend, they’re all coming after us with everything they got. We’re all gonna have to fight to stand out.” Izuku looks at Shoto. “I’ll be aiming for the top, too.” I nod, stepping forward.

“I agree.” I turn to look at Shoto. “I know you’re focusing on beating Izuku, Shoto,” I continue, “but don’t think we’re all gonna stand back and let this Festival slide. We’re all going to do our best and we’ll show the world what we can go.” He tsks, not stopping or looking back.

“I don’t care what you do.” The announcement to get ready came after a few moments of awkward silence and we move toward the exit into the open area at the middle of the stadium.

“Hey!” Dad cheers and I can hear him all the way back here. “Make some noise, avid sports fans!!” I gulp. It was almost time. “Get those cameras prepped! We’re gonna need hordes! Today, we’ll be bringing you some of the greatest performances in Sports Festival history, guaranteed!” I feel like that’s hyping this festival up just a little too much, but obviously, I don’t know what will happen, so… “I only have one question before we start this show; are you ready?!” The crowd’s cheering is infectious, and we can hear it loud and clear as we begin walking. “Lemme hear yah scream as our students make their way onto the main stage!” I can also hear fireworks and lively music playing. “This is the time where the students leave everything on the field as they fight for the chance to achieve worldwide fame and celebrity!” I can’t help rolling my eyes. Most of us want to make a difference in the world in one way or another. Honestly, I doubt anyone (Mineta aside) is truly just wanting to be a hero for the recognition and fame, even Bakugo. Bakugo’s motivations aren’t precisely clear, but I do know he wants to be the top. I also wonder if there’s not more to it than that, though. “This first group are no strangers to the spotlight! You know them for withstanding a villain attack! These dazzling students, including my little kiddo, line up the stage with solid gold skills; the Hero Course students of Class 1-A!” That was our cue and we walk out into the sunlight and view of the cameras as the crowd applauds heartily. I feel thousands of eyes of me and my friends as we walk toward the middle of the area. Eijiro, standing close by, grabs my hand subtly. I squeeze it gratefully.

“Yer dad sure did talk us up a lot.” Eijiro muses.

“Yeah...it’s making me nervous and worried I won’t do well.” I reply. “Especially since he all but said my name.” I add in a moan. Eijiro smiles at me.

“Yeah, he’s your dad. It’s kinda natural for him to brag about you when he gets a chance.” He then turns to Katsuki. “Anyway, how you feelin’, man?” He asks. Katsuki smirks.

“I’m not worried. Makes me wanna win this thing even more.” I chuckle.

“In a way, yeah, but still.”

“Oh, get over it, brat! Too late to back out now!” Katuski snaps. “Besides, knowing you, you’ll scrape by and be fine, you lucky little shithead.” I roll my eyes. Close enough to a compliment, I suppose.

“...Thanks, Katsuki.” I mumble.

“I wasn’t doing it to help you.” Katuski spits. “Just wanted to shut you up.” I sigh.

“Okay.”

“They haven’t been giving nearly as much screen-time, but this next group is still chock full of talent!” Dad proclaims and we watch another group march determinately out of another hall. “Welcome, Hero Course Class 1-B!” The crowd doesn’t let out the cheering and I spot the silver-haired guy who yelled at 1-A a while back. He looks super determined and ready for anything. I smirk, feeling a little of that energy rub off on me. It doesn’t do any good to fret and worry myself to nothing over something I can’t predict, so I just had to grit my teeth and get through it. More students pour out of the halls and Dad continues the introductions. “Next up, General Studies Classes C, D, and E!” I grin and look over, happening to see Hitoshi in the midst of his class. “Support Classes F, G, and H! And finally, Business Courses I, J, and K! Give it up for all of UA’s first-year contestants!” Once we get to the center, where a podium is set up, everyone’s shocked to see Midnight standing there, waving a short whip. I blink. Oba Nemuri is the Chief Umpire!?

“Now, the introductory speech!” She calls.

“Uh...someone should talk to Ms. Midnight about what she’s wearing.” Eijiro mumbles. I nod, looking anywhere but at Oba Nemuri.

“I mean, I know that’s her normal hero outfit, but...could she have worn something else just this once?” I grumble. She’d always been like this and I always found it an incredibly odd experience hanging out with her.

“Seriously, that costume should come with a warning,” Denki adds.

“Is that really appropriate apparel for a high school game?” Fumikage concludes. I, for some reason, didn’t like the blush on Eijiro’s cheeks. Which was stupid. I didn’t know why it bugged me, so I look away, happening to see Mineta’s gleeful expression. I smack him and glare him down. He pouts but doesn’t leer at my aunt-figure anymore.

“Silence, everyone!” Oba exclaims, whipping to grab everyone’s attention. “And for the Student Pledge, we have…” I gulp, praying she wouldn’t pick me. “Katsuki Bakugo!” Shocked murmurs ring the crowd, but no one’s more shocked than 1-A. We knew him and we knew this would not end well. At all. Izuku leans to Hanta.

“He’s the First Year Rep?”

“I guess the hothead did finish first in the entrance tests.” Hanta replies.

“Only for the Hero Course Exams.” A girl from Shinso’s class (I think) grumbles. Izuku winces.

“Oh. Right.” He amends.

“That girl obviously hates us.” Hanta mumbles under his breath.

“And we’ve got Bakugo to thank for them not liking our class,” Denki adds. I bite my lip as Bakugo walks up the podium. Even the crowd waits in bated breath for what Katsuki would say.

“I just wanna say…” Katsuki begins. I frown. Please be normal, please be normal…. “I’m gonna win.” I pale. Shit! Katsuki, no!

The crow boos and threatens and is in general not happy with Katsuki as he walks back down.

“Why would you be so disrespectful!?” Tenya exclaims, arms waving wildly around. “You’re representing us all!” Katsuki just turns and gives us a thumbs down.

“Not my fault the rest of you are just stepping stones to my victory.” He grumbles. From Class 1-B, I see that silver-hair guy grit his teeth and stalk forward a little, glaring at Katsuki.

“I’m gonna crush this overconfident jerk!” He screams, raising a clenched fist. “I can’t wait to knock him down a size!” I sigh heavily. I wonder what’s going through Katsuki’s head right now. He claims he wasn’t nervous and even publicly vowed to win, but there seems to be something about him that says he’s just making a show, pushing himself...but still. What a way to start the Festival…

“Without further ado, it’s time for us to get started!” Oba Nemuri calls as the screens shift from ‘introductory speech’ to ‘first game’.

“This is pretty nerve-wracking,” I whisper to Eijiro. He nods.

“Yeah...and now we have everyone gunning for us, thanks to Blasty over there.” I sigh, then nod and refocus on what Oba’s saying.

“This is where you begin feeling the pain!” She calls. “The first fateful game of the Festival!” As she swipes her whip, a hologram appears and displays a lottery style spinning title. It continues spinning...as does my stomach. What on earth would we have to do? It finally halts and I pale.

An obstacle race!? What?!

“Ta-da!” Oba cheers. I gulp. Oh boy… “All eleven classes will participate in this treacherous contest!” She explains, the hologram visualizing it with graphics. “The track is 4 kilometers around the outside of the stadium. I don’t want to restrain anyone...at least, not in this game, so as long as you don’t leave the course, you’re free to do whatever your heart desires!” I squirm a little, flushing. She looks a little too happy to be talking like that. She then sobers just a little. “Now then, take your places, contestants!” As the crowd cheers, we walk over to the start line. I gulp. This was it.

It was time to make my mark and hopefully start my path to being a pro-hero. I didn’t know what awaited me out there, but all I could do was put my best foot forward and try my best, right? No matter what happens, I’ll be okay if I just do what I can.

Above the crowding students, three green lights are lit, the first one turning off as the countdown begins. Beside me, Eijiro smiles at me and gives me a thumbs up as the next light turns off. I grin back at him and take a deep breath.

The final light turns off as Oba cries ‘begin!’ I tear forward, instinctively grabbing Eijiro’s hand, but we were quickly separated and jostled and shoved by the pressing students.

“How about some killer commentary, honey?” Dad’s voice somehow reaches over the multiple voices and I almost laugh.

“How did I let you talk me into this?” Mom replies under her breath, but there was almost a hint of amusement in her voice.

“What should we be focusing on in the early stages of the race?” Dad asks.

“The doorway.” Mom replies shortly. I chuckle despite being smushed between two students.

Just up ahead, as I’m coming up on the end of the entryway, I see ice and feel the air cooling rapidly as Shoto freezes the ground and up the walls. Gritting my teeth, I jut out a tiny platform, just big enough for my foot, and launch myself up and as far out as I can, creating another small platform when I need it. This was not in my plans, but there was nothing to do about it. I can’t turn this into water, so I had to find another way across. Shit! This will really limit what I can do for the other obstacles!

Luckily, Eijiro was right behind me, using the small platforms I’d made to get further along the ice.

“Nice trick, Todoroki!” Momo calls sarcastically, and he looks back to see the number of people that had dodged. Katsuki was using his blasts to keep airborne.

“I won’t let you get away so easily, you icy-hot bastard!” Katsuki roars, blasting his way closer as I make another platform. Even releasing the platforms once Eijiro jumped off them resulted in more blood sugar gone than I wanted. Who knew what was in store, but I had no real other choices. I just had to be smart about using my Quirk from here on out.

I couldn’t afford to be careless or I’d- -Shot!! Those vibrations feel like...no way!

They have the robots from the practical exam in this race?! I skid to a stop on the edge of the edge, feeling for water. Shit! Nothing! “What is it?” Eijiro asks, just as Mineta goes flying ahead of us, slammed by a huge metal arm. The robot comes into view, with other robots, seconds later.

“That!” I point. Eijiro hardens his forearms.

“Beat ‘em once, right? This’ll be a piece of cake!” I grin, feeling more confident now I thought about it that way.

“You’re ri- -Shoto, what the hell?!” Shoto is at the head, closest to the robots, ice swirling from Shoto’s right hand in a circle, getting larger and larger until he swept it at the robots. They were frozen solid, at least the frontrunners. I run forward as everyone else was still frozen in shock, Eijiro right behind me as well as that silver-headed guy.

“Careful now,” I could hear Shoto calling over his shoulder as the robots creak and groan, shuddering under their own weight. Taking another look, I pale. “I froze them when they were off their balance. On purpose!” Before I could move another step, before I could do anything, the robot nearest us collapsed and all of a sudden, my butt hit the ground and I am enveloped by dust and ice shards that prickle my skin. I didn’t even know what had happened till I looked where Eijiro and the other guy were standing, only to see a pile of frozen robot parts.

“Eijiro!” I scream. Was he under there?! Had he been crushed!? “Eijiro, hang on!” I am running forward before I can think, not knowing what to do, but desperately hoping Eijiro was okay.

[preserving-ferretbrain]

Ten Things I Learned from the Watchmen Movie

by Dan H

Thursday, 12 March 2009

Dan resists the urge to use a variant of “Who Watches the Watchmen” for his title.~

This was going to be a longer article, but I actually don't want to devote any more time to this ass-boring piece of shit.

Here's ten things I learned from watching the Watchmen (damn, I actually can't avoid using that sentence) movie.

1. I never want to see another Zack Snyder movie again. Seriously.

2. The seats in the Odeon are actually not fit for purpose.

3. When you decide not to see a movie because

one of the screenwriters is a smug twat

you should just not see it.

4. When adapting a comic book to the screen you should change the fucking dialogue. Things that look good written down just sound fucking stupid when somebody is trying to say them.

5. TV shows advertise in cinemas, how weird is that?

6. When you are adapting a comic book to the screen you should let the actors fucking move. Movies dudes – the clue is in the name.

7. When you are adapting a comic book to the screen you do not have to leave space in the shot for the speech bubbles.

8. If you get the urge to leave a cinema thirty minutes into the film, you should just leave. Particularly if you know exactly what every fucking scene will be because it does not deviate from the source material in any way.

9. Alan Moore dates really, really badly.

10. The plot of Watchmen doesn't actually make sense.

That's it. That's all the time and energy I can bring myself to expend on this.Themes:

TV & Movies

,

Watchmen

~

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Arthur B

at 09:54 on 2009-03-12On 2: Yes, definitely, they're terrible. There's no leg room, which I suppose is a vice which cinemas will always indulge in, but the lack of fucking

cup holders

is baffling. Do they

enjoy

cleaning up spillages?

On 9: Somewhat agreed. I think the film would have been more timely a few years ago, when people doing terrible things out of the fear of WMDs and Republican Presidents being cacklingly evil would have hit a bit more of a raw nerve. Even then, it would be a victim of the comic's success; pretty much everyone who writes superhero stories since

Watchmen

came out is responding to it, if only in the sense that just about everyone who writes superhero stories has read it and has an opinion (pro- or anti-, mainly pro-) on it. It changed the genre it studied, and therefore immediately became outdated.

I still think

From Hell

is the only Moore book which has a claim to timelessness. Maybe it's the fact that it's ruminating on crimes that were a century old when the book was written in the first place.

10: I think people make more of a big deal out of the plot than it really merits. (Seriously, who cares whether it's a fake alien squid or a fake blue dick that blows the cities up?) It's just a framing device which, IMO, is deliberately over-the-top and stupid because

Watchmen

is a love letter to the superhero genre as well as a critique of it; the meat is in the character studies.

This does not change the fact that people are crying hot buttery tears about the squid not being in the film.

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Wardog

at 10:11 on 2009-03-12Watchmen is a love letter to the superhero genre as well as a critique of it; the meat is in the character studies.

Really? I thought it was about comics?

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Arthur B

at 10:31 on 2009-03-12

Really? I thought it was about comics?

I am mildly confused as to what you mean here but I'll try to answer it.

When

Watchmen

was written the superhero genre consisted of a) comics and b) adaptations from the comics. You didn't have (to my knowledge) anything like

The Incredibles

or

Soon I Will Be Invincible

or

Wild Cards

, where you have original sources for superhero stories which aren't comics.

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Rami

at 10:36 on 2009-03-12What's faintly depressing is that lots of the vaguely interesting and meta things coming out of Watchmen have already been done on film (

even in CG

), and people are still going on about how Revolutionary it is.

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Arthur B

at 10:45 on 2009-03-12

The Incredibles

can't be revolutionary because nobody has their arms cut off with a circular saw.

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Rami

at 10:46 on 2009-03-12Oh yes that's right, it's too family-friendly to be Gritty and Edgy and Totally Making You Look Differently At Life...

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Dan H

at 11:28 on 2009-03-12

It's just a framing device which, IMO, is deliberately over-the-top and stupid because Watchmen is a love letter to the superhero genre as well as a critique of it; the meat is in the character studies.

I dunno, I always thought that the whole "blow up the world to save the world" thing was supposed to be srs bzns. Fake Squid or Fake Blue Guy doesn't really make any difference, but I absolutely don't think it's supposed to be deliberately stupid.

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Arthur B

at 11:39 on 2009-03-12There's a man saying "What do you think I am? Some sort of supervillain?" as he wears a costume straight out of

Flash Gordon

in the middle of his Egyptian-themed fortress in the Antarctic as his genetically engineered lynx pads about, as the climax of an exchange in which he explains precisely how his scientifically ludicrous doomsday weapon fits into his epic scheme to change the world, and you think it's not intentionally silly?

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Dan H

at 11:50 on 2009-03-12I think it's intentionally *bathetic*.

You're missing two really important points, the first one being that the "what do you think I am, some sort of Supervillain" line is *followed* by the revelation that Ozymandias' scheme has actually worked. It's a bait-and-switch, he does the classic Villain speech in full on Villain attire in his Secret Arctic Base, but at the last second it is revealed that he has beaten the genre convention by putting his plan into action before the heroes were ready.

The second point is that Ozymandias' plan actually *works*. He genuinely does bring about world peace, and prevent the annihilation of humanity.

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Arthur B

at 12:02 on 2009-03-12But I think the point of the sequence is not to have a trite "guy who does supervillainous stuff but actually brings about a good thing" ending so much as it is meant to make a statement about the interaction of superheroes and supervillains (and to do that it needs to make sure the heroes are acting like heroes and the "villain" is acting like a wildly over-the-top villain).

The whole deal with the end of Watchmen is that it turns out Adrian was the only person acting proactively all along and everyone else was just reacting to him, just as in superhero comics in general the heroes are eternally reactive and only villains are proactive; it's the villains who are actually hoping to achieve something, and all the heroes ever try to do is get in the way of that.

But at the same time, I think in terms of the actual importance of

Watchmen

as a work the armageddon plot is one of the less significant parts. It's punchy when you read it the first time and it makes an interesting point, but it loses a lot of its impact when you know it's coming and the point it makes is kind of obvious. I liked it the first time I read the comic, but it's not the thing I

re

read the comic for - I reread it because of the character studies.

Put it this way: to my mind, you could swap out the entire armageddon story for some other MacGuffin, and

Watchmen

would still be a great book. But you couldn't lose the character studies without losing the spirit of the work. (It was originally conceived, after all, as a way for Moore to reimagine the various Charlton Comics characters that DC had acquired and introduce them to a modern audience).

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Arthur B

at 14:41 on 2009-03-12Having given the film more thought, I've decided that I'm actually really angry about the soundtrack: whoever picked the songs was the laziest motherfucker in the world, unfailingly picking the most obvious possible choice at any point. "The Times They Are A Changin-'" during an alternate history montage is an example, but I was particularly annoyed by the use of Cohen's "Hallelujah" during a love scene - it's a great song, but hasn't the poor thing been overexposed enough as it is? Let it rest.

The most bizarre aspect of it is that in the scene in question in the comic there's a Billie Holiday track playing in the background they could have happily used, and they'd get to stroke themselves and mutter about how loyal and true they were being to the source material. In fact, there's all sorts of song suggestions in the text which are pretty much ignored, so as well as being obvious, unoriginal, and inappropriate for the period the story is set in, the soundtrack is also incongruous for being the one aspect of the film which isn't striving towards loyalty. It's a small thing but it's really aggravating when you notice it - like if you realise the violinists in a symphony orchestra aren't bothering to play along with everyone else.

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http://fintinobrien.livejournal.com/

at 04:53 on 2009-03-13Point 3: Oh my god, Solid Snake is angry at me!

I like that Hayter talks about the "Snake fans" in the same sentence where he praises "smart" stories. Heehee, Metal Gear Solid is smart now. I must have missed the memo.

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Dan H

at 13:18 on 2009-03-13He's actually talking about Solid Snake from the metal gear series?

To be honest, I couldn't say who *else* he'd be talking about (unless it's the dude from the Simpsons).

To be honest, it was the reference to Rorshach fans that lost me - isn't the whole point of Rorshach that he actually *isn't* cool?

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Arthur B

at 13:23 on 2009-03-13David Hayter is the

English voice for Solid Snake.

Oh look, he's really excited by the idea of making a

Metal Gear Solid

movie! And he wants it made in CGI so he can voice Snake! Suddenly the motives behind his letter become clear...

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Wardog

at 14:52 on 2009-03-13Just when you thought things couldn't get any *worse.*

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Gina Dhawa

at 17:24 on 2009-03-13@10 - I love the thing to bitty pieces and the first time I got to the ending I said "....

wha?

". I think it's a faintly ludicrous plot, but I agree with Arthur that the plot is in fact is deliberately so. Veidt is closer to the superhero mould than anyone else (except Dr Manhattan), he's already "over the top". Not only is he smart enough to be a great traditional supervillain, even his physical feats are set as outstanding in the

Watchmen

universe - that whole thing about actually catching the bullet. This is why I like that they cast Matthew Goode, who looks far too young (not to mention fairly fragile) to be the comic's Adrian, because it brings to life how much larger than life Veidt really is.

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Arthur B

at 18:15 on 2009-03-13Yeah, while Dr Manhattan is the Watchman with the most actual superpowers I think there's a case to be made that Adrian is the closest out of all of them to the superheroes of the Silver Age; he's irritatingly perfect, never really worries about where he's going to get his resources from, pulls cool powers and gadgets out of his arse at a moment's notice and he never, ever, ever doubts himself for a second.

You could almost imagine him having Stan Lee's voice in his head breathlessly narrating all of his actions. DON'T MISS THE NEXT RIP-ROARING INSTALLMENT OF OZYMANDIAS, KING OF KINGS, AS OUR HERCULEAN HIEROPHANT BATTLES THE MUCK-RAKING MILKSOPS AT THE NEW FRONTIERSMAN!

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http://fintinobrien.livejournal.com/

at 04:00 on 2009-03-14

To be honest, it was the reference to Rorshach fans that lost me - isn't the whole point of Rorshach that he actually *isn't* cool?

Considering Hayter's draft for the script had Dreiberg killing Adrian because "it's what Rorschach would have done" I think Hayter missed that point. Actually, the idea that Rorschach is meant to be held up as an inspiration disturbs more than I'd like to go into.

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Wardog

at 10:51 on 2009-03-14God yes - you're absolutely right.

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Arthur B

at 13:10 on 2009-03-14Alan Moore has actually read Hayter's draft of the script - he said it was pretty close to the comic, but he still objected on the grounds that he thinks direct adaptations of comic books are a bad idea on principle. He's also mentioned being worried that Snyder would treat Rorschach as a heroic figure, considering his treatment of

300

; I don't know whether that worry came from reading Hayter's script, but I certainly don't think it would have been alleviated by it.

Still, the actor who plays Rorschach in the film does a good job of coming across as a psychopath, so at least

he

understands.

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Arthur B

at 11:14 on 2009-03-18So, David Hayter wanted everyone to go see

Watchmen

on the second weekend to make sure the film's earnings didn't collapse.

Well, an

approximately 70% drop

is

not really what he was hoping for

. Snake won't be pleased.

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Dan H

at 15:17 on 2009-03-18♪♪ It's ... Schaaaa-denfreude. Making the world a better place to beee.... ♪♪

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Arthur B

at 11:11 on 2009-03-25More schadenfreude:

Watchmen

performed

absolutely miserably

in its third weekend, and there's a growing consensus that, whatever its merits, it's a financial dud.

Of course, this means that Zack Snyder won't be able to find work in Hollywood ever ag

WAIT WHAT THE-

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Arthur B

at 16:13 on 2009-04-27Another dose of schadenfreude:

Watchmen

's

performance in the box office

seems to have been mildly worse than

Batman and Robin

's.

The consensus seems to be it's going to end up making some money on DVD sales, which is a consolation for the studio, but it's not delivered the dizzying return on investment that would have made sinking $100 million into it worthwhile.

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http://orionsnebula.blogspot.com/

at 08:34 on 2009-12-19Charitably? I'm inclined to think whoever picked the soundtrack was trying to call attention to the very soundtrackness of it, to pull the readers out of the scene a little bit. The comic book had the Tales form the Black Freighter overlaying the action providing a similar distance/ironic commentary, and also reminded you you were in a comic by doing tricks with the layout in Manhattan's chapters and elsewhere.

I'm not defending it, I think the soundtrack mostly backfires horribly and comes across and cutesy fourth-wall breaking, but that's my guess as to the intending effect.

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Show / Hide Comments -- More in March 2009

[leonbloder]

The Wilderness and the Accuser

For centuries, Christians have kept the season of Lent as both a spiritual practice leading up to Holy Week and Easter and also as a symbolic journey with Jesus into the wilderness for 40 Days.  

The Gospels tell the story of Jesus being led into the wilderness by the Spirit where he was "tested" or prepared for his ministry.  The most likely location for this is in the desolate Judean hills not far out of Jericho.  

I've walked in that wilderness, and it's formidable enough even now, but it must have been something in Jesus' day.  

The Scripture tells us that Jesus fasted and prayed during his time alone, but that he was also joined by a sinister character: the Satan or the "Accuser."  

The Accuser whispers temptations into Jesus' ear, inviting him to escape his suffering, pridefully show his power, and reveal himself to the world as the Christ in triumph and conquest. but Jesus resists, and the voice of the Accuser fades away.

I don't know about you, but the accusing voice in my head that whispers into my ear, not only shows up when I'm weary and vulnerable, but it also sounds a lot like my own voice.  

The Accuser is always on the job, and most of us tend to make the Accuser's job all too easy, especially when we are struggling or suffering.

Author John Pavlovitz recently wrote about Jesus' time in the wilderness, and had this to say:

The account of Jesus' being tested speaks to our vulnerability, to our tendency to listen to the voices of critique and condemnation, and to the power of what we choose to believe even in the moments when belief seems impossible.

In other words, when we hear the voice of the Accuser, either calling us out on our failures or urging us to take the short and self-destructive path to what the world calls success, the temptation to believe the voice is both powerful and alluring.  

Lately, my own accusing voice has been working overtime.  

And every single day I have a choice when it comes to that accusing voice:  Believe it or not.  

[For many of us Gen-X'ers out there, that last line conjures up memories of the old Ripley's Believe It Or Not TV show, and can't be read without hearing Jack Palance's voice rasping those very words in a semi-sinister manner.]  

But it does come down to that very notion.  I can choose to believe what the accusing voice tells me about myself, or tempts me to do when I am feeling desperate... Or, I can choose to believe something altogether different.

I can choose to believe that I am not defined by the Accuser---I'm defined by the One who went into the wilderness to face the Accuser and walked away transformed and ready to save the world.  

Which he did, by demonstrating what it looks like when God gets what God wants, the world is made right, and love wins over indifference, violence, hatred, and death.

So in this wilderness journey of Lent, may you discover a new voice that speaks love, mercy, forgiveness, and hope into your life.  May you realize that voice is the voice of the universal and eternal Christ who is all around you and in you.  

And may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you now and always. Amen.  

[cantabrigian-blog]

Tamales 2020

Like most people, I resisted the urge to travel this holiday season. It’s been a year since I’ve seen my family. After teaching online, those missed points of contact have been hardest to bear. The vaccine is on the horizon and I cannot wait to get on a plane and ship myself to California. 

For now, this Catabrigian is doing her part by staying put. No Christmas with my family - first time in my life. (Sad face emoji here.) A small sacrifice compared to what others have lost and endured. I realize that this was not only trying for me, but for my parents, as well, who haven’t left the house much since March. They were hoping we could all make tamales at the same time on Zoom. I could not, for work *reasons* I won’t go in to. But I pulled it together on Christmas Eve. 

My parents had sent me a box of essential tamale ingredients. The box had not arrived, due to USPS overwhelm because of...(fill-in-the-blank) holiday commerce/ an unpleasant, Trump-appointed, Postmaster General/alternative shipping already slotted to deliver vaccines. The box would arrive later on Christmas Eve. Luckily I had squirreled away enough chiles to get started. I am my father’s daughter. And, as he assured me on FaceTime the previous night, the single package of old ojas I found could definitely be revived with a little soak.

It turns out that making tamales is “in the blood.” I had never done the entire circuit, though I had been consulted often in recent years and involved in hundreds of discussions about all aspects of preparation, including tamale math - ratios and tamale count estimates. Very important when making a big batch.

Spoiler...I made eighteen. Here’s how I did it.

The Soak

I remember a large metal wash tub, with uncles sitting around it, carefully removing the red silk from the corn husks as they gradually softened. In LA, you hope for a warm sunny day for this. It is either an entry level position (ask my husband) or where senior tamale-makers chillax with a cold beer. 

With the snow in the background, it may not look warm enough to set this up outside. But it was well above freezing and the pandemic has made me more tolerant of spending time outside in the cold. The ojas you buy now are way cleaner; there were minimal silk threads to remove.

Make the Chile

Years ago I was promoted to making the sauce to accompany the tamales. My brother calls it “top sauce.” It took a while for my dad and uncle to accept my method, which is a topic for a different post. Let’s just say that they went from cringe to craving. My late aunt always made a big fuss about my sauce, which encouraged me, and I eventually won them over. Now it’s part of the routine.

Making the chile sauce was fun. I used a bag of chiles negros and a bag of chiles pasillas. I also knew that if the tamales never got finished, I could use the sauce for many other things. 

The Meat

I had simmered a pork butt the night before and let it cool in the broth. Doesn’t it look good? I went heavy on the aromatics - garlic, bay, peppercorns.

I was super happy with how the sauce tasted. It isn’t normally the part of the tamale that is the tastiest before assembly. This was delectable. No “top sauce” needed.

Mix the Masa

This was familiar territory for me. My first real tamale-making job was to mix the masa. What you see in the photo is a fraction of what a usual batch is like. Pounds and pounds of fresh masa must be mixed with a little warm salt water and a lot of hot melted lard. How much? I cannot say. I have a literal feel for when it is ready, earned from hours of upper arm labor and evolving texture, ending with my dad’s inspection and pronouncement of, “It’s good.”

Spread

This is typically the social part of the process. It requires that you invite everyone you know who is available and interested to come and help that day. You sit around a table covered by a plastic tablecloth with people you have never met. You get a short lesson on how to spread the prepared masa on corn husks. You are given a butter knife, as if this were a peanut butter sandwich, but it isn’t. You look around to see what everyone else is doing. Is this okay, you ask? Someone will give you feedback early, if you are lucky. Sometimes your specific work is sent back and you are called out by the grumbling packers (see below). In return, you get ice cold beers and tamales for lunch. The tamales are so good that you swap contact info with the other spreaders and promise to come back and help next year. 

I found this step the hardest this year. Not only have I grown impatient with it over the years, but I was all alone. No helpers. So I FaceTimed my best friend in Austria who was preparing Christmas Eve dinner and chatted with her for a bit. I also called my mom and dad, to report on my progress. The small talk helped.

Pack

I’d actually never done this part myself. The packers stand around an enormous pot of meat and sauce, perched on a high stool. Packing tamales is the perfect use for a kitchen island. I stood solo at my stove. I need not have worried. This part was pretty easy, since there were only 18. Count ‘em.

Taste and Critique

When the tamales had steamed for roughly an hour, it was time to taste. They looked good, they smelled good, but how would they compare? I lifted one out of the pot, placed it on a plate, and carefully opened the husk. The husk rolled away from the masa. Check! I took a steamy bite. The meat was even better nestled in the corn husk. Double check! The masa, which was finer than the fresh grind masa for “tamal,” was perfectly salted. Triple check!

Like others in our family, I needed broader feedback. I texted Meredith, my college roommate and the one person I’ve seen regularly since the pandemic started. “Are you hungry?” Luckily she was nearby on a walk and came right over. Meredith is a Texan, so she could be relied upon to give a proper review. Her late mother, she told me, was obsessed with finding the perfect tamale. I wasn’t sure what that meant - there are so many variations of tamales from different regions of Mexico. When Meredith tasted the tamale, she pronounced it “quintessential.” Turns out her mom had favored Tamales Norteños, meat tamales made with salsa colorado, just like these - thin layer of masa, lots of meat, a little spicy. She ate two.

No one ever sets out to make sweet tamales. It’s what you make with the leftovers. As usual, this time there were extra ojas. Since I used masa seca, I had plenty left so I whipped up some more for a batch of sweet tamales. Here are the other ingredients and enough of the directions to remind me how to make them next year:

1 stick of butter, melted

1 cup of shortening, melted, plus more, as needed

2 tbsp. rum

1 cup of raisins

1 cup of chopped fresh pineapple

2 cups masa seca

1/2 cup brown sugar

2 tbsp. cinnamon

1/4 tsp. salt

1 1/4 cup water

ojas

Combine the fruit, butter, shortening  and rum in a small saucepan. Combine the dry ingredients in a large bowl. Add water to the bowl to make the masa seca into a stiff dough. Pour the contents of the saucepan into the bowl and knead to make a fluffy dough. Fill the ojas, fold and steam.

I’ll remember Christmas 2020 as the one I missed, that I “got through.” But I’ll also remember it as the time I participated in a family tradition from afar. I most enjoyed giving the tamales away, and if I ever make them here in Cambridge again I will make more and give away more. 

[we-are-conjoined]

Hannigram + date night!

another prompt from @krey-9-jorce! they drew the sweetest fanart of my hannigram + vacationing fic oml i’ve had to look at it several times just to make sure it’s real!! many thanks for the prompt and the art!

Note: this fic is a bit darker than my last two - will is definitely dark!will so he and hannibal are murder husbands, well, murdering their way through europe. i doubt anyone in this fandom minds that but if you do, this is your warning to read carefully! also they’re using their regular names (even though i doubt they canonically would, being on the run and all) because i’m lazy lolol. there’s one reasonably defined OC as well but she’s basically irrelevant.

“This is the young man I was telling you about, Dr. Lecter,” Ina Hoffmann called. Her heavily accented English carried much louder on the waves of champagne she’d been downing all night. As she made her way through the crowds, her bouncing brown curls and spangled dress caught the attention of every gentleman (and quite a few ladies) on the dance floor.

Those same eyes turned almost immediately afterwards to the man she was dragging - by the wrist, no less - across the room. They looked him up and down, eyed his fine Italian tuxedo and dark curls not quite masking azure eyes, and turned to one another with curiosity and dismay.

Is he the new one? Has she already moved on so quickly from that wealthy lawyer? Ah, her parents must be absolutely fed up, were just a few of the whispers shared in Luxembourgian behind manicured fingers.

The man Ina had called turned at the sound of his name, a thin smile alighting upon even thinner lips at the sight of the young debutante. He nodded away the guests he’d been entertaining and gave her a slight bow as she approached.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember any singular young man, Ina - you have so many, you know. Please, introduce us?” he asked. The remnants of his native language hugged every word that spilled from his lips, and gave a wholly pleasant chill down the spine of every woman near enough to hear.

Ina giggled prettily and pulled the dark-haired man forward, slipping her hand from his wrist into the curve of his elbow with a very particular subtlety. Dr. Lecter’s eyes flicked to the motion for only an instant before returning his gaze to her’s - he’d seen that motion a dozen times from her, and used it plenty himself.

“Dr. Lecter, surely you must remember this one; it’s Will Graham, of course!” Ina crooned, and closed her eyes for a moment as if overcome with emotion. “Is he not one of the finest gentlemen you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

Will Graham grimaced just shy of imperceptibly, but held out his free hand to meet the one Dr. Lecter offered amicably enough.

“Yes, I’m Will Graham. It’s all right if you don’t remember my name, Doctor,” Will said, “I’ve certainly heard enough about you to remember yours.”

“I do apologize. I don’t usually forget a name so easily, but you know our Ina. She speaks of so many things at once - it can be hard to keep track. ”

“I understand. That’s one of her many good qualities, in my opinion. She has so many, it’s hard to know which is my favorite,” Will disclosed, and transferred his gaze to Ina as though she were a small poodle preening for attention - with just enough emotion to satiate her spotlight cravings.

Dr. Lecter chuckled, thoroughly amused, as Ina blushed and gave Will a flirtatious tap on the shoulder. She seemed entirely too high on the night and he wondered if he should call a cab; however, he decided against it immediately. The light in her eyes was engrossing, and the thinly veiled disdain in Will’s was even more so.

“You’re far too forward, Mr. Graham,” she laughed, “and I don’t think I’ve had quite enough champagne to allow so many compliments.”

“Please, Miss Hoffmann, I was just on my way for another glass myself,” a dashing but unknown young man said, stepping up behind her with impressive alacrity. “Would you like to accompany me on my search?”

Ina shrugged with glee and, after casting one more glance at the two men she was leaving, took the arm he offered her.

“Don’t go anywhere, you two!” she cheered as her new conquest led her away. “We’ve still got heaps to discuss!”

Dr. Lecter and Will waved until she turned back around and was absolutely occupied with another flight of fancy before lapsing into a thick, still silence. 

Will lapsed into more than that - he let out a barely-there sigh and lifted a hand to his bow-tie, running a finger underneath his collar in a desperate attempt to ease the itch that had pursued him since the moment he’d closed the last button.

Hannibal was there before he’d even gotten halfway around the base of his neck. 

“Don’t,” he chided, taking Will’s hand in his own. “You’ll ruin the knot. I spent far  too long on your tuxedo for you to ruin it as soon as we meet again.”

Will gave him a calculated glare - however, it was met with a warning eyes that bored into his like a needle, until he relented and released his collar.

“This is your idea of a date?” he murmured after Hannibal finished fixing his ‘hard work’. “We’ve been on the run together for how long now? And the first time you agree to take me out, we have to spend the whole evening apart?” 

Will tried not to sound too petty, normally - he didn’t want Hannibal getting any strange ideas - but tonight he couldn’t help an inkling of a genuine whine circling the edges of his conversational tone. 

He really was warranted a good critique of Hannibal at this point. After they’d fallen from the cliff, their intentions towards each other had been utterly clear for the first time - Will loved Hannibal. Hannibal loved Will. The two years they’d spent as more than enemies or friends had been captivating, electric, and perfect - utterly transcending even the most whirlwind romances. 

But even the most captivating, perfect, and transcendent relationship required a real date night every now and then.

Hannibal didn’t mind that their only outings together always ended in someone ending up thoroughly dead; in his opinion, there was nothing more alluring than Special Agent Will Graham doused in the blood of another human being, and their killing sprees always ended with the two of them tumbling passionately into bed together, so what was the problem?

“The problem,” Will had said a few nights prior to the present, as they’d strung up the limbs of a notably rude stock broker, “is that I want to spend time with you doing something everybody else might consider normal.”

“We are a million light years from normal, darling,” Hannibal had offered his usual reply, panting at the exertion of speaking and stringing, and it was met with an irritated grunt from the patch of darkness next to him. 

But eventually Will had worn Hannibal down with much, much compromise. They had to go to a place of Hannibal’s choosing, and Will was required to wear and do precisely as he was told.

“Will this be how all our time together is spent?” Will asked suddenly, and Hannibal glanced to him, surprised at the darkness in his voice. “Forced to pretend we don’t know each other? Will I have to break the hearts of every feebleminded debutante and kill every police officer in Luxembourg before we can spend any real time together?”

Hannibal heard it in Will’s voice - a sigh, a desire, for something that wasn’t what he was saying outright.

“Is that what you want, Will?” he asked quietly, enticingly, “could you be, perhaps, bored?” He stepped closer, right up against Will’s shoulder, enjoying the heat that rolled from his skin in crackling swells.

Will remained stubborn for only a moment before closing his eyes and leaning just slightly in Hannibal’s chest. Their suits brushed so lightly that neither of them felt it, but the proximity was enough to send both their heads spinning with intimate desire for the exact same thing.

“Take responsibility, Hannibal,” he murmured, just barely a breathe.

Hannibal heard, and he understood.

“Have you encountered anyone rude tonight, darling? Do you suppose anyone has acted particularly disgracefully?” 

The words slipped from Hannibal’s lips like silk sheets falling from a bed, or a snake slithering through the bars of its poorly-made cage, and were met with a lip-biting smile from Will.

They seemed to nod without movement and fell into step with polished dexterity, one that came with an extreme understanding no one else in the room could even begin to understand. The two of them drew the eyes of many who once again sizing them up, trying to comprehend their intrusion into Luxembourgian high society.

Will set a surreptitious glare around the room, picking up on every exit their venue offered. Many of the doors were tall and exquisitely engraved and filigreed - and flanked by at least two servants more than happy to hinder his and Hannibal’s subtle escape. 

“There,” Hannibal breathed into his ear. It sent a thrill down Will’s spine and he narrowed his eyes in the direction Hannibal had subtly gestured - a much plainer exit, with only a single extremely disinterested employee standing nearby. 

“We’ll drug them, then?” Will whispered, turning his head as though trying to find someone, but speaking directly into Hannibal’s ear. “Tell the servant they’re drunk, call a cab, and be on our way?”

Hannibal gazed upon him with a look so intensely and unabashedly proud that Will had to resist the urge to chuckle.

“So, dear,” he said, pressing a kiss to Hannibal’s shoulder and turning back forwards before anyone was the wiser, “what’ll it be for dinner tonight?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking ‘who’?” was the reply Will received, and he bit down on his inner lip - hard - to resist the excitement that rolling in his stomach when Hannibal pressed a small, nearly invisible knife into the palm of Will’s hand.

They both paused at the edge of the dance floor and surveyed the scene before them. It was of Ina Hoffmann, their sweet, silly debutante who had ordained to think she could introduce them, twirling in the arms of a young man who clearly hoped to receive something from her that she would never give. 

For them, it was the perfect excuse to steal her away - to rescue her.

“Perhaps she thought we would duel for her hand?” Will asked, and hummed pensively at the thought.

“She was a sweet child,” Hannibal said, and then turned to Will with a smile that was utterly familiar but remained entirely seductive. “You can break her heart and kill her in one night; two birds with one stone, as it were.”

“More like one bird with two stones,” Will replied, and with that, they glided across the room to meet their debutante with the ease of a vulture descending upon prey.

Fin.

disclaimer: the last line about “one bird with two stones” is NOT MINE. i can’t for the life of me remember who made the edit i saw that was titled that, but i was 100% inspired by ANOTHER POST for hannigram’s last banter. i don’t want take any kind of false credit, so please keep that in mind!  

let me know if there are any typos or errors and i’ll be happy to change them immediately!

[emeraldorchids]

Prompt: A long lost relative/ a relative Miranda Doesn't speak to turns up at the door in need of help.

“Andrea? Can you get that?” Miranda called from the kitchen, swirling the pan as she added a tiny bit of butter to the scrambled eggs. “Andrea? Oh, never mind!”

She turned off the flame and set the sauté pan on a cool burner, quickly running to answer the door. The girls had just left for the weekend, so maybe they forgot something, she thought.

When she opened the door, she froze.

“Hello, Miriam.”

“Mother—” she gasped. The room began to spin, and she gripped tightly onto the door.

“May I come in?”

Miranda nodded, and the older woman stepped inside. She shut the door, and leaned back against it, looking at the woman before her in disbelief.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting a parade, but a ‘nice to see you’ wouldn’t have hurt,” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest and giving Miranda a glare the editor knew all too well.

Miranda swallowed the lump in her throat. “I apologize—it’s just such a surprise,” she said, pushing away from the door and taking a deep breath. She gently hugged her mother and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s lovely to see you, Mum.”

“Yes, well, you know I’m not here for a social visit, so let’s get to business,” she said, pushing Miranda away. “I would think someone such as yourself would have the manners to offer a guest a place to sit and something to drink, but I suppose—”

“This way, Mother,” Miranda said, quickly leading her to the kitchen and to the seat at the table she had prepared for herself. “Coffee, black?”

“Only if it is freshly hot. And Arabica beans, dear.”

Miranda quickly grabbed a cup and saucer of her best china from the cabinet and poured her mother a cup, setting it on the table in front of her.

The woman took a sip and pursed her lips. “It will suffice,” she said.

Miranda released the breath she was holding. “I was making scrambled eggs when you came—would you like some?”

“Cold eggs? How…disgusting.”

“No, of course I would make them fresh for you—”

“Never mind that. Come, sit.”

Miranda quickly sat at the table in Cassidy’s chair and turned to face her mother. “It is good to see you, you know.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “I wish you’d do something about that hair.”

The editor held her tongue. She wasn’t sure why her mother appeared on her doorstep, but it was certainly not to criticize her hair. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay with your health?” she asked, reaching out for her hand.

The older woman pulled her hand away and glared at her. “Yes, I’m fine. When did you become so…touchy?”

“I apologize. I picked it up from the girls.”

“'The girls'—what, do they not have names? Or, oh, you are speaking of your daughters, Caroline and Cassidy.”

Miranda fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, Mother. They are in high school now, can you believe it? My babies are driving a car. ”

“If they are of driving age, they are young women—not babies—and you should treat them so.”

Miranda took a deep breath. “Why are you here, Mother?”

The older woman set her cup down and folded her hands in her lap. “I need your help.”

“My help?” Miranda asked in surprise.

“You know how I hate to repeat myself.”

“Right,” she said. “In what way can I help you?”

The older woman opened her mouth to speak, then froze, locking eyes with the young woman who just entered the room. “Who is this?”

“Whoa,” Andrea said. “What’s going on?”

Miranda closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose—a gesture her mother mirrored.

“Um, hello?”

“Andrea, this is my mother. She came to visit. Mother, my partner Andrea,” she said, waving Andrea over.

The young woman stood behind Miranda’s chair, resting a hand on the woman’s shoulder. She leaned forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. “Are you okay with this?” she whispered into her ear.

“Andrea,” the older woman said, her intonation perfectly matching Miranda’s, “tell me, why on earth wouldn’t she be ‘okay with this?’”

The young woman smiled. “I’m sorry,” she said, quickly thinking up an excuse. “I thought Miranda told me she had a meeting this morning. It’s lovely to meet you—” she paused, not sure what to call the woman.

“Freida—”

“Mrs. Princhek,” the woman corrected. “Miriam, I believe that was directed at me to answer.”

“Mother, Andrea is on her way to work, so unfortunately she cannot join us—can you, Andrea?” she said, turning to look at the woman.

“No, I can’t. Miranda’s right. I was just going to grab some coffee, but I’m actually running a little behind, so I’ll stop somewhere on the way,” she said, quickly heading towards the door. “It was nice to meet you,” she called.

Mrs. Princhek waited for the front door to close before she turned her gaze upon Miranda.

“Mum, don’t even start with me.”

“But Bubsey, she can’t even be thirty years old!”

“You said you needed help. I will happily listen and help you out if I am able. I will not sit here and listen to your critique of my life. You gave up the right to critique my life eighteen years ago,” Miranda said.

The woman clearly didn’t appreciate Miranda’s tone, but she didn’t dare argue. “Fine. I am here because,” she looked down and nervously ran her fingers over the rim of the saucer. “Because I need money. I made a poor decision—one I deeply regret—and it’s all gone.”

Miranda waited for the woman to finish, wondering how it could have come to this.

“He was charming. Said he was a financial adviser. Helped me make some investments. At first, I was seeing returns—but then suddenly he disappeared, and my accounts were emptied. I have nothing.”

“Of course I will help you, Mother. How much do you need?” she asked, standing and walking over to the desk where she kept her checkbook.

“Miriam, everything is gone. The house, my jewelry, your father’s antiques—everything.”

The editor set the checkbook down and returned to the table, again reaching for her mother’s hand. This time, she did not resist. “How did that happen?”

“He told me we would make a better investment if he could use the house as collateral. And now I have nothing. I already went to the police. He used a false identity—there’s nothing they can do.”

“Where are you staying?” Miranda asked.

Her mother squeezed her hand. “The bank took possession of the house this morning. I don’t know,” she said as tears threatened to fall from her eyes.

“I’m going to get you some fresh coffee, then I have to make a few calls,” Miranda said. “I’ll get you a suite at the Plaza for the rest of the week, I’ll have some clothes and toiletries messengered over, and I’ll have my accountant set you up with your own account,” she said.

The woman nodded, so Miranda quickly poured her a fresh cup of coffee, then ran upstairs to make some calls.

When she returned, the older woman was standing in the den, looking at the photos of the girls on the wall. “They’re beautiful, Miriam dear.”

“I know,” she said. “And Andrea is a remarkable woman if you give her a chance.”

“I know you—you wouldn’t settle for anything less,” she said.

Miranda smiled. “So everything will be setup for you at the Plaza in a few hours. It’s all on my account, so if you need a car or dinner or anything, just call the desk and they’ll take care of it,” she said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course, Mum. Are you planning to stay in South Carolina—should we look for condos there?” Miranda asked, secretly praying she wouldn’t be returning to New York.

“No, I think I need a change of scenery,” she said.

Miranda held her breath.

“I think Boston.”

“Boston,” Miranda said with a sigh. “Boston is great. I will give you my real estate agent’s number. You can call her and setup some showings, and I’ll finance it.”

“You know, your father would be so proud of you, Bubsey. I miss him.”

Miranda wrapped her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “I do, too.” She walked over to the desk and jotted down the real estate agent’s name and number, then handed it to her mother. “I’ll let her know you’ll be calling. I hope you don’t mind, but I really do have to get to work. My driver out front will take you to the Plaza—just give them your name at the front desk.”

“And where are you going?”

“I have to go to work. I’ve already missed two meetings this morning,” Miranda said.

“I see,” she said, gathering her things and heading for the door.

“Mother, you’ll join us for dinner tonight? Andrea is cooking.”

The older woman’s eyes lit up. “It won’t be a bother?”

Miranda smiled. “Of course not, you’re family. But dinner is served promptly at seven.”

“I will be prompt. Thank you again, Miriam. I do appreciate it,” she said.

“Oh, Mum,” Miranda said, wrapping her arms around her and hugging her tightly. “You’re always welcome here—and if you come back Sunday evening, you’ll get to see Caroline and Cassidy.”

“I think I’d like that,” she said. “See you tonight.”

Miranda waved and watched her get into the car. She closed the door and called for another car, then gathered her bags and called Andrea.

“What was that, Miriam?” the young woman answered.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you. I never thought she’d come back into my life—or that anyone would call me that name again,” Miranda said, sinking into the backseat of the car with a sigh. “Please forgive me, but she’s coming to dinner tonight, and Sunday.”

“What? Um, okay. Why?”

“She was scammed out of everything she owns. I put her up in the Plaza for the week and gave her the realtor’s number so she can find her own place—in Boston,” Miranda said. “Darling?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay with this?”

“Hmph. I don’t think I really have a choice.”

“Darling, I’m so sorry. I love you, and I promise I will not let my mother come between us, okay?”

“Yeah. I love you, too. It’s just so creepy. She looks just like you, or the other way around.”

“Except for the bottle blonde hair.”

“Right, except for that. Has she had plastic surgery?”

“Yes, she must have. She looks younger than when I last saw her.”

Andrea took a deep breath. “Will you tell me what happened between you two?”

“Of course. Tonight, darling,” Miranda said. “It was eighteen years ago when I married James—it’s a long story, but I’ll tell you tonight after dinner.”

“Okay.”

“Sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. This doesn’t change anything, okay?”

“Okay. I love you, too, Mira. See you after work?”

“See you after work,” she said.

xo

[whit-and-wisdom]

The Year Ahead Tarot Challenge, Day 17 The warmer weather and the sun promise new life. What seed(s) do I need to plant in the garden of mySelf to bring me happiness and abundance this year? (Knight of Cups reversed, The Magician reversed, 6 of Cups) At first glance I had no idea how these reversed cards could contribute to a positive year, but then I remembered that to have true happiness, I must have a balance of the good and bad. The Knight especially reminds me that life is complete when you have moments of sadness and joy; it's more than okay to have a variety of moods, as long as I resist the urge to let them define or control me. The Magician has so many tools and skills available, but he can't or isn't using them as he is. I know perfectly well that I am a perfectionist who hates coming across as a beginner, even though I realize that's an unhealthy mindset and everyone was a beginner at some point. If I want to improve, I need to do these things and be open to critique. The 6 is still telling me to enjoy the little things, especially about myself. I've always had a wide variety of interests; and while there isn't enough time in this life to be an expert at all of them, there's absolutely no need to give them up. Much better to embrace them and take pleasure in the quirks that have distinguished me for years, especially as I grow. Tied into that last is something which I don't feel applies just to me, and maybe someone else is supposed to hear it: You don't have to dismantle who you were to become who you are meant to be.

[swipestream]

Gnome Stew Notables – Alex Roberts

Welcome to the second installment of our Gnome Spotlight: Notables series. The notables series is a look at game developers in the gaming industry doing good work. The series will focus on female game creators and game creators of color primarily, and each entry will be a short bio and interview. We’ve currently got a group of authors and guest authors interviewing game creators and hope to bring you many more entries in the series as it continues on. If you’ve got a suggestion for someone we should be doing a notables article on, or want to do an interview with someone send us a note at headgnome@gnomestew.com. – Head Gnome John

Meet Alex

Alex

Alex Roberts is a writer, designer, journalist, and roleplayer of boundless enthusiasm. She wants roleplaying to be a site of interior exploration, transformation, and healing. When not hosting her acclaimed interview show 

Talking With Alex

1) Tell us a little bit about yourself and your work. 

Big question! All right, here’s my deal. I’m bright and enthusiastic, and I have a podcast called Backstory where I interview fascinating folks in roleplaying. It’s thoughtful and gentle and even people who don’t like podcasts like it. I write fun stuff for other people’s games, like Sig, Dialect, Threadbare, and Misspent Youth: Sell Out With Me. I do production support and project management and marketing stuff for game publishers; right now with Bully Pulpit Games. And, of course, I make my own dang games! My first was HUGPUNX LIVE, for Pelgrane’s #Feminism supplement. I’m semi-secretly working on a little card-based thing right now. And of course there’s Star Crossed, the two-player RPG of forbidden love, which will be on Kickstarter April 10th – May 10th! That game has been in progress for years and I am losing my mind over how great it’s going to be.

  You’ve probably heard me on podcasts or at cons talking about two player games, or romance and sexuality in game design. These are some of my favourite topics!

Backstory Podcast

2) What project are you most proud of?

It’s hard to pick just one! I do feel a certain special love for my first RPG writing credit, in Sig: the City Between. I had no idea what I was doing; Crystalia just kind of emerged from me. Sig is planar fantasy, and I was moved to write about a beautiful, perfect world of vibrations and lights in glorious pastels. Beings grow in caves and emerge fully formed, and where things are easily broken and impossible to repair. Without my intention, it came to represent this overwhelming fear of making mistakes, of imperfections, of asking for help or accepting nurturing. I still get into that headspace sometimes but I’m at least better at recognizing it, since writing it out as something external to me. I’ll think to myself: whoops, I’m in Crystalia again. Better turn around.

3) What themes do you like to emphasize in your game work?

Queerness, obviously, but also the excruciating joy of being alive.

4) What mechanics do you like best in games?

I like when a game system perfectly matches the real, felt, lived experience of something in the world. Sometimes a game mechanic makes apparent something you only sensed before, but couldn’t express. You point to it and go, “yes! That’s how it is!” Not an external realism, but an internal resonance.

5) How would you describe your game design style?

Intuitive. I am making games to feel my way through what the heck is going on. With me, with the world. Star Crossed is not just about Attraction and Relationships, it’s me making meaning of my experiences of attraction and relationships, and trying to make them into a system that I can comprehend (if not master.) Even “comprehend” is a bit too intellectual, actually. Maybe a word like “integrate” is a bit closer. Really, by making a game I’m going, okay, this is how attraction works, it’s sorta like this, a thing I can see the whole of, and live with. Star Crossed is my little diorama of attraction, with moving parts.

6) How does gender/queerness fit into your games?

I like when my work is very obviously feminine even though I find femininity hard to define. I guess, again, I must prefer to make stuff to understand rather than express. More likely I’m doing both. If pressed I would say that all my games, even when I was working digitally, put harmony, creativity, and grace at the forefront. And of course my games are going to be queer because that’s where I’m coming from. I could never make a game where relationships have a pre-determined path forward which is generally agreed upon by not only the people in it but also their broader community and culture. I’ll keep letting you get into messy, baffling, ecstatically exciting but fraught relationships instead.

7) How do you make sexy games fun?

Star Crossed

Sex is already absolutely ludicrous. And I think sex is one of most adults’ few opportunities to be playful. So, let’s just acknowledge that and make a game where you can tell ridiculous, sexy stories. It’s so much easier than people seem to think. I get the fear around making anything about sex (even in this answer I’m resisting the urge to say something like “Star Crossed doesn’t just tell sexy stories!” which is true but irrelevant) because we’re taught that whole area of life is inherently dangerous. Reflecting the reality of sexuality – that it is honestly just the most ridiculous and interesting thing – is better than trying to deliberately frame it any particular way.

8) How did you get into games?

Like everyone else, I played all the time as a kid. I was just lucky enough to keep doing it. After absorbing the cultural concept of “Dungeons and Dragons” I ran what were essentially ongoing fantasy storytelling sessions, with no rules except total DM fiat, in various treehouses and backyards and slumber parties, until I was a teen and I made friends with some boys who had the actual books and knew the actual rules. It took me a couple of years of trying to get into that to get bored and decide I didn’t like RPGs after all! Then I met a friend who showed me The Burning Wheel. And then organized a game of Fiasco. And then gave me his copy of Kagematsu and asked me to GM it. The rest is history. Thanks, Patrick!

9) What one thing would you change in gaming?

I would like to have a sophisticated culture of critique. “There’s no wrong way to have fun!” is an attempt at kindness, of course. I get that it’s a fallback to avoid a recurring set of self-fuelling arguments. Unfortunately, there are lots of ways to have fun that hurt other people. I’ve seen play used to bully, and game systems that reinforce and re-create much broader systems of harm. Being able to precisely and compassionately critique different games might help us build more fun, innovative, groundbreaking work while also helping us avoid some of those problems.

10) What are you working on now?

I have a little game about a queen’s retinue that I’m specifically cultivating for first-time roleplayers, and it turns out long-time roleplayers have been enjoying it too. It’s been fun so far! It’s been a lifeline of creativity while pushing Star Crossed past the finish line. Those are two different kinds of satisfying that fuel each other.

Thanks for joining us for this entry in the notables series.  You can find more in the series here: and please feel free to drop us any suggestions for people we should interview at headgnome@gnomestew.com.

Gnome Stew Notables – Alex Roberts published first on https://medium.com/@ReloadedPCGames

[kayawagner]

Gnome Stew Notables – Alex Roberts

Welcome to the second installment of our Gnome Spotlight: Notables series. The notables series is a look at game developers in the gaming industry doing good work. The series will focus on female game creators and game creators of color primarily, and each entry will be a short bio and interview. We’ve currently got a group of authors and guest authors interviewing game creators and hope to bring you many more entries in the series as it continues on. If you’ve got a suggestion for someone we should be doing a notables article on, or want to do an interview with someone send us a note at headgnome@gnomestew.com. – Head Gnome John

Meet Alex

Alex

Alex Roberts is a writer, designer, journalist, and roleplayer of boundless enthusiasm. She wants roleplaying to be a site of interior exploration, transformation, and healing. When not hosting her acclaimed interview show 

Talking With Alex

1) Tell us a little bit about yourself and your work. 

Big question! All right, here’s my deal. I’m bright and enthusiastic, and I have a podcast called Backstory where I interview fascinating folks in roleplaying. It’s thoughtful and gentle and even people who don’t like podcasts like it. I write fun stuff for other people’s games, like Sig, Dialect, Threadbare, and Misspent Youth: Sell Out With Me. I do production support and project management and marketing stuff for game publishers; right now with Bully Pulpit Games. And, of course, I make my own dang games! My first was HUGPUNX LIVE, for Pelgrane’s #Feminism supplement. I’m semi-secretly working on a little card-based thing right now. And of course there’s Star Crossed, the two-player RPG of forbidden love, which will be on Kickstarter April 10th – May 10th! That game has been in progress for years and I am losing my mind over how great it’s going to be.

  You’ve probably heard me on podcasts or at cons talking about two player games, or romance and sexuality in game design. These are some of my favourite topics!

Backstory Podcast

2) What project are you most proud of?

It’s hard to pick just one! I do feel a certain special love for my first RPG writing credit, in Sig: the City Between. I had no idea what I was doing; Crystalia just kind of emerged from me. Sig is planar fantasy, and I was moved to write about a beautiful, perfect world of vibrations and lights in glorious pastels. Beings grow in caves and emerge fully formed, and where things are easily broken and impossible to repair. Without my intention, it came to represent this overwhelming fear of making mistakes, of imperfections, of asking for help or accepting nurturing. I still get into that headspace sometimes but I’m at least better at recognizing it, since writing it out as something external to me. I’ll think to myself: whoops, I’m in Crystalia again. Better turn around.

3) What themes do you like to emphasize in your game work?

Queerness, obviously, but also the excruciating joy of being alive.

4) What mechanics do you like best in games?

I like when a game system perfectly matches the real, felt, lived experience of something in the world. Sometimes a game mechanic makes apparent something you only sensed before, but couldn’t express. You point to it and go, “yes! That’s how it is!” Not an external realism, but an internal resonance.

5) How would you describe your game design style?

Intuitive. I am making games to feel my way through what the heck is going on. With me, with the world. Star Crossed is not just about Attraction and Relationships, it’s me making meaning of my experiences of attraction and relationships, and trying to make them into a system that I can comprehend (if not master.) Even “comprehend” is a bit too intellectual, actually. Maybe a word like “integrate” is a bit closer. Really, by making a game I’m going, okay, this is how attraction works, it’s sorta like this, a thing I can see the whole of, and live with. Star Crossed is my little diorama of attraction, with moving parts.

6) How does gender/queerness fit into your games?

I like when my work is very obviously feminine even though I find femininity hard to define. I guess, again, I must prefer to make stuff to understand rather than express. More likely I’m doing both. If pressed I would say that all my games, even when I was working digitally, put harmony, creativity, and grace at the forefront. And of course my games are going to be queer because that’s where I’m coming from. I could never make a game where relationships have a pre-determined path forward which is generally agreed upon by not only the people in it but also their broader community and culture. I’ll keep letting you get into messy, baffling, ecstatically exciting but fraught relationships instead.

7) How do you make sexy games fun?

Star Crossed

Sex is already absolutely ludicrous. And I think sex is one of most adults’ few opportunities to be playful. So, let’s just acknowledge that and make a game where you can tell ridiculous, sexy stories. It’s so much easier than people seem to think. I get the fear around making anything about sex (even in this answer I’m resisting the urge to say something like “Star Crossed doesn’t just tell sexy stories!” which is true but irrelevant) because we’re taught that whole area of life is inherently dangerous. Reflecting the reality of sexuality – that it is honestly just the most ridiculous and interesting thing – is better than trying to deliberately frame it any particular way.

8) How did you get into games?

Like everyone else, I played all the time as a kid. I was just lucky enough to keep doing it. After absorbing the cultural concept of “Dungeons and Dragons” I ran what were essentially ongoing fantasy storytelling sessions, with no rules except total DM fiat, in various treehouses and backyards and slumber parties, until I was a teen and I made friends with some boys who had the actual books and knew the actual rules. It took me a couple of years of trying to get into that to get bored and decide I didn’t like RPGs after all! Then I met a friend who showed me The Burning Wheel. And then organized a game of Fiasco. And then gave me his copy of Kagematsu and asked me to GM it. The rest is history. Thanks, Patrick!

9) What one thing would you change in gaming?

I would like to have a sophisticated culture of critique. “There’s no wrong way to have fun!” is an attempt at kindness, of course. I get that it’s a fallback to avoid a recurring set of self-fuelling arguments. Unfortunately, there are lots of ways to have fun that hurt other people. I’ve seen play used to bully, and game systems that reinforce and re-create much broader systems of harm. Being able to precisely and compassionately critique different games might help us build more fun, innovative, groundbreaking work while also helping us avoid some of those problems.

10) What are you working on now?

I have a little game about a queen’s retinue that I’m specifically cultivating for first-time roleplayers, and it turns out long-time roleplayers have been enjoying it too. It’s been fun so far! It’s been a lifeline of creativity while pushing Star Crossed past the finish line. Those are two different kinds of satisfying that fuel each other.

Thanks for joining us for this entry in the notables series.  You can find more in the series here: and please feel free to drop us any suggestions for people we should interview at headgnome@gnomestew.com.

Gnome Stew Notables – Alex Roberts published first on https://supergalaxyrom.tumblr.com

[photomaniacs]

How to Get Into an Elite Photography MFA Program http://ift.tt/2h0DecZ

Over the past two years, I’ve looked for guides and made lots of phone calls to faculty, alumni, and current students to find ways to increase the likelihood of being accepted into a top tier MFA program.

Be it Yale, Hartford, RISD, Columbia, Bard — all of these programs have slightly different expectations, but there are consistencies between them as far as your application process goes. After two years of prepping, I’ve been accepted into a program, and I’ve kept careful notes so I could make a guide to help other people looking to apply for an MFA.

This article won’t focus on your art because that’s not something I can give any real advice on. But rather, this will focus on the application process starting up to two years before you even apply. I will show you the strategy I employed over the past two years to be accepted into the one and only school that I applied for.

I’ve broken everything down into twenty simple (but not obvious) steps to follow to greatly increase your chances. I’ve also included links to my actual application essay, the portfolio I submitted, my notes from my interview and various phone calls, and links to all of the resources I used.

As mentioned, this is broken down into twenty points in seven chapters. We’ll look at: (1) what you can do two years before applying, (2) one year before applying, (3) maximizing your recommendations, (4) how to navigate your essay, (5) making phone calls, (6) organizing your portfolio, and finally (7) handling your interview.

Chapter 1: Two Years Before Applying

I started strategizing two years before actually applying for a school. While you may do so sooner or later, it’s probably a good idea to give yourself time. Getting into a good school is more about just your work, but also showing your face in the art community. Giving yourself a reasonable amount of time (2 years) is a good start.

If you’re coming out of undergraduate, even better, as it’s good to have time away from school in “real life,” navigating your work alone before going back to school.

I’ve been told by various instructors that your late twenties or early thirties is the best time to pursue your MFA. Young twenties can still get into these programs, but usually, it’s not preferred.

Point 1: Brush Up on Your History

You’re going to need to know your photo history if you intend to be in a good program, period. While it’s probably not expected that you’re at the art-historian level, you should probably know all the major artists and movements in the art world.

For me: two years ago I bought a few text books on photography and general art history and read 15-20 minutes a night, making careful notes. Do the same, and take this seriously.

You’re going to be embarrassed if that the interview you’re asked to talk about your favorite movements in photography and you can only name one.

Resource: Here are my complete notes to American Photography: A Critical History. I found this to be an excellent crash course. This Google Doc are my 26 pages of notes from the book. Enjoy!

Point 2: Prime your Mentors

Eventually, you’re going to have to ask your mentors for a recommendation. It doesn’t make sense to ask them out of the blue, though. Two years before applying to my MFA, I asked my mentor Brian Ulrich to give me pointers on my work so that it’d have a chance on getting into an MFA program. I also asked him for recommendations on what grad schools were worth their salt. (He ended up recommending the school I applied and was accepted to.)

Asking ahead of time allows your mentors to give critical feedback on your work that you need to implement to increase your chances to be accepted. It also “primes” them that you’ll eventually ask for a recommendation. It’s less jarring, and a lot more considerate to approach it this way.

Resource: Here are my complete notes from that critique and school recommendation conversation I had with Brian Ulrich two years ago. (Note: It’s sloppy, but you’ll see what kind of questions I was asking. In point sixteen you’ll see the portfolio I submitted, the images in which corresponds to the critique notes here.)

Point 3: Long Term Project

Most programs want to see you investigate a long term project, rather than a disparate collection of images. If you don’t have a long-term body of work underway, start now. You’ll need it in two years when you apply for school. Resist the urge to work on many different projects at once. One, maybe two, is what you should be aiming for.

Nearly every school wanted a long term project as part — if not the only focus — of your submitted portfolio. Plan ahead.

Point 4: Exhibit Your Work

You’ve got two years to have something more on your CV than just your undergraduate program. It doesn’t matter how small the exhibition/zine/interview is, but get some lines in there. The reason? It shows that you’re integrating yourself into the arts community. This is an area that I fell short on and immediately began to start fixing two years ago knowing I’d apply to a program.

Chapter 2: One Year Before Applying

Moving on to one year before you intend to apply for school.

Point 5: Update Your Website

You need a good website when applying to schools. People will check your email signature, see your website, and view it. This includes faculty, current students, and alumni. You are representing not just yourself, but the school. Make sure your website is up to snuff. Don’t skimp on this. Squarespace is a good place to start. Look at the website of artists you look up to and construct your website based on what you see.

In fact, I blatantly copied Bryan Schutmaat‘s website to create mine.

Point 6: Attend Shows, Workshops

If you don’t already know: the art world for contemporary fine art photography is very, very small. Everyone knows each other. I attended a workshop with Jason Fulford at Apeture. Was it a pain to get to New York for it? Yes. Was it expensive? Yes. But I learned a lot, and guess what? His name actually came up during my faculty interview and I had a lot to talk about.

Make your life easy. Go to workshops and shows. Ideally, workshops, because you actually interact with the artists and get to know them. Shows are a close second, assuming you actually start conversations with people.

Point 7: Go to the MFA Thesis for the School!

Every program you’re applying to has a large end of the year thesis show. If you’re considering the school, you must attend this show.

This does two important things:

1. It shows you the work coming out of that program and gives you a good idea if you would get anything out of the school by attending yourself. Seriously. Your work is going to be largely influenced by the other students there. This will tell you a lot.

2. It connects your name with your face. Your ultimate goal with this long-term approach to applying for school is to reinforce who you are so when the faculty sees your application they instantly connect it with you, not a faceless name.

Obviously attending these shows are great for a lot more reasons… but for the purposes of applying to school, this is enough.

Chapter 3: Getting Recommendations

Now we’ll cover getting your recommendations for the program.

Point 8: Formal Requests

Two years ago you talked to your mentors about going to school. Time has flown by. Now it’s time to ask your mentors for a formal recommendation. The key word here: formal. I made a huge mistake asking for a request from a professor I hadn’t talked to in years, over Facebook Messenger… Luckily I realized what I did before he had a chance to respond, and quickly apologized. This may be one of the most embarrassing moments of my professional career.

Don’t make this mistake. There’s a lot on the line for a recommendation. You’re carrying their reputation with you, so treat it with the utmost respect. Here’s the process I followed with the other professors I contacted to write a recommendation:

Contacted mentor by phone to ask for recommendation.

Follow up immediately after thanking mentor formally, and including link to current work, artists statement, CV, and any information that will make their life easier. Include instructions of where to send recommendation.

Write mentor a week before the deadline to remind them, re-thank them, and provide instructions again on where to send

recommendation.

Write mentor after they submit the recommendation to thank them, again.

If possible, find them in person and thank them.

I thanked both of my mentors in real life and didn’t stop at just sending an email.

Chapter 4: How to Write Your Essay

There is a lot of weight on your essay. A lot. Your work is history but your essay is very much alive. This is where you get to speak with the faculty directly. I know at Hartford, the essay is weighted in the application process very heavily. I’m sure this is true for Yale, RISD, and other top tier programs.

“What do you look for in applicants? — The most important thing is the letter of intent.” —Robert Lyons, Hartford MFA Director

Point 9: Reinforce What You Bring to the Table

One of the big mistakes I did with my application essay was being too hard on myself with my first draft. Your goal with the essay, after all, is to get the faculty excited about you. Sure, you have things to learn. Sure, you want to improve. And you want that authenticity to come across, but you also want to reinforce to them what positives you bring.

From their perspective, they are looking for a student who will carry the torch of their school and reputation. Someone who will bring fresh ideas to the cohort of new students. Someone who is open to learning, but has something to teach. Make sure that comes across in your essay.

Point 10: Why get an MFA?

Everyone I spoke to — Brian Ulrich, Robert Lyons, Richie Lipscher (previous digital animation head of MICA) — all advised me the same thing: your essay should clearly express why you want an MFA. It’s an insidiously tough question to answer — at least until you really sit down and dig deep. Sure, there are surface reasons, but what’s at the core?

What was interesting is that the recommendations I got from Ulrich and Lyons were nearly at odds with each other. Make sure you talk to the director of your program (point thirteen, coming up) to get a sense of what they expect. Yes, you want this to come from you, but there are a lot of sides to you, and only a meager 1 page to write about it. Tailor your essay based on expectations.

Point 11: Check a Million Times

After you read your essay, read it again, then again, then again. Most importantly: sit on it. A week or two of not looking at it is a good amount of time. After you go away from it that long, you’ll come to the table with fresh new perspectives that have been percolating. You’ll remove things that looked great at the time but add nothing on a fresh gaze.

Most importantly, have your mentors give it a quick glance when you’re satisfied with it. A lot rides on this essay. Make sure it truly represents you.

Point 12: What I Wrote

Here, I’ll be sharing my essay with you. This will give you a sense of what things were important to me, and maybe provide you with some ideas on how to structure your own essay. Keep in mind (obviously) that appropriating my content probably won’t be a good idea. These faculty, especially at good programs, sniff through bulls**t all day. You want to be absolutely authentic with your writing.

Don’t write what they want to hear — write what you need to say.

Resource: Here is my full application essay to the Hartford MFA program.

Chapter 5: Prepping your Application

Sending the application isn’t enough, you need to reach out to the school’s community ahead of time. Here’s how I approached this.

Point 13: Contact the Director

A few months before you apply, you need to reach out to the director of the program personally. Email them requesting a phone conversation. The goals here are: (1) Get answers to questions you have about the program. (2) Get a sense of how to best maximize your application to the school. (3) Get the director to recognize your name. (4) Get the name of students to contact about the program — more on this in the next point.

This step is very important. Make sure before you call you have a list of questions. Calling the director ahead of time is an important step: it shows you’re serious about pursuing this path.

Resource: Here are my written notes from the phone conversation with Robert Lyons, director at the Hartford MFA. It’s not pretty but gives you an idea of what I was thinking about.

Point 14: Contacting the Students

If things went well on the phone call, you should have a list of alumni to contact. Now you need to contact them.

You want to learn about their experience of the school. You want to find out any tips to prepare for classes to start. You want to avoid common pitfalls. Most importantly, you want to learn what they got out of the program after they graduated.

Here’s why this is so critical: you will be asked why you think the program is right for you at your interview with the faculty. If you speak with students, you can literally tell them that. You can explain how you spent considerable time researching the program, and you know exactly why and how it will benefit you, referencing the students you talked to and what they got from the program and how it relates to what you expect.

It’s a deadly 1-2 combo.

What was even more exciting that I found out after a conversation with one of the student is often the director will reach out to the students that he gave you the names of to see if you followed up, and what their opinion of you was.

Could you imagine calling the director, getting a list of names (and taking the time of the program director), only to not call the students and then have the director find out about it?

Don’t put yourself in that situation — and 100% frank here — if you’re not interested enough to contact those students to learn about the program you really shouldn’t be applying for an MFA anyway.

Still, sometimes you get busy. Don’t let yourself get busy here.

Point 15: Contact the Faculty

Follow up questions, pack them in an email and send them to one or two of the faculty. Be respectful. There’s no reason to call them or write them all. Keep it brief, contacting one faculty member with an email a month or two before you submit the application is enough.

You don’t want to “shout” by writing the program too often or too long. Keep things professional, and brief. Respect their time. Still, (and I’ll mention again) writing one email to a faculty member with one or two follow up questions is fine.

Chapter 6: Your portfolio

Now it’s time to send your work to the school. Here’s what I learned through my own process.

Point 16: 1-2 Bodies of Work

I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s important. Don’t send multiple bodies of work. Send primarily one, and maybe a second. You want to show the faculty that you can explore an idea over a long period of time. Investigate.

Personally, I chose to show 5 images from an older body of work (to show them some highlights) and 20 images from a newer body of work that I have been working on for the last 3-4 years (to show an investigation.)

Resource: Here is my actual portfolio PDF that I sent in with my MFA application.

Point 17: Concise Statement

If your application requires an artist statement, here’s some advice I’ve come across from educators:

Keep it concise.

Avoid “art speak” – you know what I’m talking about.

Avoid the word “juxtaposition” – AKA, aforementioned art speak.

Avoid layering abstraction upon abstraction. Write simply and genuinely about your work.

Focus less on why you started your project, and more about what your work actually says.

Resource: Buy this book and read it before you ever touch another artist statement. It’s actually required reading at Hartford.

Chapter 7: The Interview

At this point, your application and portfolio have won you an interview with the faculty. It won’t be easy. You’ll be nervous. You’ll doubt yourself until you hear back weeks later about a final decision — but we all go through it. Here are three tips:

Point 18: Be Candid

You’re going to be asked questions you don’t know the answer to. Be candid in your responses. They know you’re there to learn, so there’s no reason to hide that fact.

I know I was personally asked about what I saw in my work, and frankly, I gave a terrible “art speak” answer that really was answering why I started making the work, not what I saw in it. I couldn’t recover and just was honest by explaining that I hope to attend the program to better understand my own work – rather than come up with some BS on the spot answer that I obviously didn’t have.

Yeah, I was worried, but I think I’d be more worried if I tried to bulls**t the faculty with even more art speak.

Point 19: Have Specific Questions

The worst thing you can do at a job interview is waiting until the end and have no questions for the employer. It shows them that you’re not thinking critically about the job. It’s the same here.

Make sure you go into that interview with a notebook, pen, and a list of questions written down that you have. Don’t settle with one or two. More likely than not, they’ll tell you more about the program and answer some of the questions you have written down.

Point 20: Take Risks

Show some courage. In my interview, I asked — effectively — for a critique. I wanted to know what I could work on, assuming they denied me entrance into the school. I wanted their knowledge, their perspective, and their thoughts on my work. And… they denied my question.

But, I asked. I showed them that I truly care about my work. That I want to improve. I showed some risk and dedication. Interestingly enough, they did give me a few things to do and consider: namely to write about more art and to visit the print viewing room at the Princeton Art Museum (which is exceptional, by the way) which I’ve been doing every week.

You’ve Done It

Hopefully, you’ve gotten accepted into your program of choice, and if not you’ve gained some insights into your own working practice. With my application, I made sure why to state not just why I wanted to attend, but why this was the right time in my life to attend.

Consider that when you apply. You may be destined to get your MFA, but the time might not be right. One school or two is enough. And tell them that. I was very bold in telling Hartford they are my own school I have in mind and why.

With all that said, best of luck on your journey!

About the author: Marc Falzon is a photographer who’s currently in the photography MFA program at the University of Hartford. The opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author. Falzon is the man behind the YouTube channel Analog Process. You can visit his website here. This article was also published here.

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July 25, 2017 at 08:00PM