#razor my son my beloved my gentle little man

[m1d-45]

(i wanted to do one last one im sorry (/_;))

Dear Razor,

I hope this finds you well in the lands of Wolvendom. How have you been, dear? And how is Bennett? Not in any more cuts and bruises, I hope.

I know you always take care of Bennett whenever you adventure together but don't forget to take care of yourself, too! Both of you are like little brothers to me and I would hate to see you two injured. We are lupical, as you would always say.

I will return to Mondstadt soon, rest assured bringing gifts of course. Until then, I wish you bountiful hunts for you and the rest of your lupical. Can't wait to see you soon, dear. And pass this along to Bennett will you?

signed,

avo

(A tiny keychain crocheted version of him and Bennett lay inside the letter. Along with a small illustration of you and him)

(I love Razor sm btw. He's best boy and I will protect him at all costs)

razor sat among his pack, absentmindedly picking leaves or shedding pieces of fur from their coats whenever he got bored. night watch was quiet, peaceful, an easy time to think when opposed to the busy bustle of daytime. though it wasn’t good for him to take every watch, he did volunteer for them more often than the other wolves.

the night was calm, the trees thin enough to allow enough light through that he could see, but thick enough that no enemies should see him sitting up in the cave. occasionally a wind would sweep through, a chill creeping up his arms, but he would simply sink them into whoever’s fur was closest and wait for the wind to pass. it always did, even in mondstat.

razor stood up, carefully picking his way out of the cave. at the mouth, he stretched, feeling his gloves brush the stone at the top. one downside of night watch was the tension that came with constantly being on alert. it was a necessary evil, as a sleeping pack was a vulnerable one, and he was always sure to rid of any excess. the last thing he needed was a cramp or a strained muscle when an enemy-

leaves rustled, and he barely had to think before reaching for his claymore, already on the handle and ready to pull.

the bushes were still. it could be a squirrel, or a bird. something harmless. small. it was rare, but it had happened before, and that detail alone kept him from waking the others.

when the intruder appeared, it was not a clear threat. but, it was no squirrel either. it came from above, a second sun falling from the branches in slow motion. it spun in midair as he watched, ridding itself of the leaf that had landed on top of it.

razor hesitated. did he call it? it… seemed harmless, drifting towards him at a lazy pace. the wind picked up, from the star towards him, carrying a familiar smell. so it was from someone he knew…

carefully, he let the ball fall into his cupped hands, looking up at where it came from. the leaves would occasionally part, but he didn’t see anybody or anything up there. just the night sky, with a few falling stars streaking across the thin patches he could see.

stars…

he looked back down at his hands, but the ‘star’ was gone. two small doll-like plushes rested in his hands, attached to hooks and laying on a bed of paper, with lettering for sheets. the figures looked familiar, but he quickly turned his attention to the words themselves.

your letter wasn’t long, but with the amount of times he reread it it might have been. he knew you—just because he lived with the wolves didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of the one who made them, boreas would have his hide otherwise—but not why you would send him a letter. he did not need your writing to know he was one of your favored. he did not need a star to tell him he was cared for. you had done that on your own, with your kind words when bringing him and bennett on your journey, when you blessed him with claws of iron and teeth of thunder.

still, he held your gifts close, smiling slightly at your drawing. maybe, you would come visit him in wolvendom, and his lupical would be complete.

[moonlightchess]

a brief interlude in which a young mortician finally meets his patron saint.

(Diaphanous).

Around five years old, when he first started hearing them. Soft, muted weeping echoing lightly through the cavernous halls just beyond his bedroom door, and by ten he was accustomed to sliding out of bed, yawning, padding to his doorway to step out into the endlessly shadowed maw veining through the upstairs of his family’s home. The moaning creak of the floorboards was easily avoidable if you knew where to slide your feet, which by then he did, and he’d whisper into the dark: “You’re okay. It’s all over now, but stay as long as you need to. You’ll be getting along when you’re ready.” And even then, there was something profoundly tender and melancholy wrapping itself around little Theodore like an aura, to which the ghosts usually responded favorably. On occasion, they’d even slip into his bedroom after he climbed back into bed, gently tugging his duvet over him in thanks.

Sixteen, and Pere introduced him to the family business in the most definitive sense yet, bringing him down into the embalming room. There, he was shown how to drain the bodies, to sew their gums securely closed, to carefully apply powders and lotions to suggest sleep despite death. Pere helped him to remove the heart and lungs of a corpse in the preparation process of the old fashion, despite it having fallen out of favor in more recent years. Bellefontaine, Louisiana, lingered a decade or two behind much of the nation, in every way from embalming practices to racial sensitivity, both topics having already been addressed with young Theodore. “A person is a person, deserving of respect and love and dignity regardless of their skin, wealth, or any other such thing that the ignorant might think defines them,” Theodore senior had informed his small son firmly, long ago, meeting his midnight-blue eyes that were so solemn and sympathetic even then. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Pere.” Theodore had not understood, not entirely, back then. But at sixteen, hunched over the dead body of a local bait shop owner whose wife made the softest, sweetest beignets he’d ever tasted, clarity rose sharp and bitter. “Monsieur Dumonde,” had escaped him before he could swallow the words in the interest of professionalism. “I knew him. Used to buy worms from him when the boys wanted to go fishing, but it’s been so long. I didn’t know he was sick.”

“Everyone dies, ti-Theodore,” and he’d been in love with the way his name rolled from his father’s tongue in a thicker cajun accent than his own - tee-tay-oh-doure, Theodore junior. It was enormously soothing, even now as he considered shaving Monsieur Dumonde’s thick mustache away for his funeral - but in the end, he placed the straight razor back onto his father’s table of sharp tools, aware that his decision had been a test. “No. We leave the mustache, he always had one when he was alive. He used to tug on it and laugh at our homemade fishing poles whenever we went into his shop. His mustache was a part of him, and it’s important that we send him to the next with as much of the man he was intact as we can.” He’d been a little nervous, meeting the dusk-colored eyes that he’d inherited from his beloved father, holding his breath.

“Good boy,” and he’d exhaled. “There are many who would have shaved him, cut his hair, put on some strange new clothes he never would have chosen himself. But you, my sweet and quiet boy, you understand.”

Mere had been a dancer, once. Ballet had been her life, her identity, until a careless would-be principal prince had stumbled into her leap - during a rehearsal no less, she’d been denied even the dignity of a grand disaster to end her career in the middle of a soaringly tragic performance - and her ankle had snapped, had never healed properly. She limped a touch even then, bringing sweet tea out to their wraparound porch thick with creeping ivy and heavy flowers bursting open at random, studding the lush green like jewels in a necklace, where her teenage son sat cross-legged on a battered loveseat long since dragged out to face the elements of the swampland. Together, they would count the darting fireflies, tiny pinpricks of golden light waging a valiant war against the encroaching southern dark. “I was beautiful once,” she’d said to him. “They all used to come watch me dance, in the city.”

“You’re still beautiful, Mere.”

She’d only sighed, slipping a hand into the pocket of her pea-green silk skirt to retrieve a shot bottle of bourbon, hoarded from the liquor store in town, and poured it into her tea.

They were both gone now, six, seven years proper. He’d prepared their bodies, and in death all of his mother’s pain and longing had been exposed to him with the first incision into her cold and rigid flesh for the draining, sixty-two years of ballet and resentment filling up the glass reservoir of the tubing’s end, dark red. She’d always done up her soft, honey-colored hair into elaborate braids, draped over one shoulder or both or trailing down her back or even wound up into a twisted crown if she was in a happier mood than usual. Theodore had sat beside her, holding her stiff milky hand with his own and with the other, scrolling through youtube tutorials on how to create the perfect fishtail braid until he was confident.

Pere had gone five years after, the light in him having drained out as clear and real as every fluid in his wife’s body had eventually found its way into the belly of their aspirator in the basement. Pneumonia had taken his mother - she’d always had a poor and fragile immune system - but his father had been just shy of seventy and to this day, at thirty-two years old, Theodore had never been offered a satisfying cause of death for him. “Just his time, sug,” a nurse in powder blue scrubs had tried, patting his hand soothingly and because this was the south, “I’ll be praying for y’all - well, just you I suppose. Oh lord, you’re the only Bissonette left now, ain’tcha?”

He was. They’d left the entire mortuary to him, and with it all the responsibilities of being the local mortician and funeral director at such a tender age, and his head had at first swum dizzily with all the pressure and expectations. Theodore senior and his wife Lisette had been fixtures of their country community, familiar and comforting, always there whenever someone had passed on to arrange flowers and platters of cold cuts, to deliver gentle words to cushion the grief. They’d been known, trusted, but Theodore junior, well. Ti-Theodore Bissonette, so young to be running the whole house himself, and the folk of Bellefontaine just weren’t sure. Until the death of little Suzette Marchande.

Hit by a car, she’d been, some hideous beast driving drunk through the winding access road circling their little cajun town and pointed out toward Nola proper. He was in prison now, but Suzette remained dead, and in his huge, capable hands Theodore had poured every bit of his father’s knowledge and sensitivity into that girl. He’d dressed her in yellow, one of her own dresses supplied by her mother, but he’d also remembered that she’d loved frogs. She’d catch them in the swamp and hold them in both hands, laughing at their croaky sounds, but then she’d carefully deposit them onto some leaf somewhere. “They got big ones, in the jungle. The Amazon,” he remembered her saying when the Bissonettes had run into she and her parents in town once, years ago. “Big as cars, they are. I’m gonna go there someday and study ‘em.”

So he’d bought sparkly little green frog clips for her hair online, pinning it back from her freckled face. Her favorite stuffed froggie, named Monsieur Ourauron, Mister Ribbitt, had been lost in the crash, but he’d found one in the Amazon - or at least on amazon - that looked largely the same. When her parents had seen her during the open-casket service, they’d wept and clutched his hands, thanking him in a babbling blend of French, English and grief. That day had declared the end of one life and the beginning of another, as little Suzette had been delivered unto whatever waited after, but thirty-year-old ti-tay-oh-doure had been manifest and confirmed.

There was something to be said for how tall he was. He would have thought some would find it intimidating, difficult to relate to considering that he was six-seven or perhaps a touch over, impossibly long limbs and a hawkish nose, soft mouth borne of his Mere and his father’s nearly indigo eyes the color of a sky five minutes before the moonrise. His was soft, floppy, peanut-brown hair and a quiet timbre resonating in his voice that was immediately associated with the unthreatening sense of calm authority that his father had once carried around easy as an old sweater. Theodore would take care of everything, Bellefontaine knew. They’d be left free to grieve their lost, because he was here with his huge hands and endless legs and fleeting smile.

He lived alone, now. There had been flings, lovers, Audrey from Nola with her autumn-brown skin and fox-gold eyes, elegant and sure, but she hadn’t stayed long. “This place is charming, but you can’t actually expect to stay here all your life, can you?” she’d told him once, after the sex, the two of them naked and wrapped around each other in his sprawling bed with a gentle breeze from outside floating through his open window. She didn’t understand, and neither did the men, not even sweet Peter with his auburn curls and dimples.

“You’re all alone out here, doesn’t it get boring? Lonely? My god, you live in a mortuary.” His shiver had been all that Theodore had needed to kiss him tenderly and send him on his way. His father had been extraordinarily lucky to find Mere, he knew - so few understood, the nature of a curator of death. The ancient contract they’d signed, the tradition they’d inherited. It was sacred but horrifying to most, because everyone wanted the convenience of their holy order at the end of all things, but no one actually wanted to have to think about dying. About the fact that literally all of them, rich or poor, pious or skeptical, afraid or unafraid, was going to die. The repulsion, he understood, was instinctive, and he’d only made his lovers breakfast in the morning and never called any of them back.

Some of the ghosts never left, as it was, and there were mornings in which he’d make his way into the kitchen to find his black tea already steaming, his chair already pulled away from the table. Some of them had found their peace here with him, and so he’d leave his cello out on occasion so that they could pluck the strings or plink a few keys on his mother’s old baby grand in the living room. He was happy too, his natural introversion leaving him largely content in his solitary life. There were those who sought comfort in his touch after the funerals of their loved ones, holding onto his hands a beat too long as he bade them goodbye, meeting his eyes meaningfully, but he always released them to the hazy swamp air outside. They were hurting, vulnerable, and he was a gentleman.

It rained the night the stranger arrived, or stormed rather - Theodore’s lights had been flickering throughout the manor all night. He’d collected candles and charged his phone, but his power had soldiered on even as the thunder crashed and jagged needles of lightning slashed open the churning charcoal sky outside. He’d yanked open the heavy oak door in response to some insistent knocking, only to find a man roughly his age standing there on the porch. He was oddly untouched by the rain despite no car present behind him, moon-pale, spilled-ink hair thick and soft over limpid, silver-mirror eyes, colorless as a deep-sea creature’s, slicing through the dark.

“Saints alive, are you lost? Are you all right?” The man, he didn’t know personally, but a truth and clarity rolled from him like steam off the swamp, and he felt enormously familiar somehow.

“I wouldn’t say lost, no. May I come in?” His voice, soft and polite, still clear and steady over the storm.

“Yes, forgive me. Please.” He stepped aside, watching him enter, translucent eyes sweeping over the yawning, shadowed maw of the grand old manor’s entryway. “Who are you? I’m sorry, but I’m not taking in any bodies until morning.”

“I understand. Terribly sorry to intrude upon your evening like this, but you and I, we have a matter to discuss.” His accent was not local, nor was it unfamiliar. It felt like a forgotten dream, abruptly remembered, an old song once loved playing on the radio years later.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, Sir. Have you been to one of my funerals?”

“Sweet Theodore, I have been to all of them.”

“I don’t understand.”

The stranger clasped his hands behind his back, idle as a museum patron, gazing thoughtfully up to the enormous and heavily framed oil paintings of Bissonettes past lining the walls of the entryway. “It’s my fault for allowing myself to become so fond of you, but you’ve never really understood just how rare a person you are, have you Theodore? I shouldn’t have come here, but I had no choice. I couldn’t let you leave here tonight, that tree would have rendered your car to a smoking wreck and your body to worse. And you, sweet Theodore, you deserve so much better. After all the respect and care and compassion you have shown so unfailingly to myself and my vocation over the years - I’ve come to love you, and you deserve a soft and quiet end. So much sweeter than the one planned for you, I had to make sure you didn’t die in that crash. I had to come here, on this night. For all your kindness, tonight I will be kind to you.”

Drunk, perhaps. Some sauced-up tourist stumbling through the bayou after a bar crawl, but - this far from the city proper? “I’m afraid that you’re still losing me, will you please tell me who you are?”

He turned then, colorless gaze meeting Theodore’s, an echo of sorrow in his faint smile.

“You know who I am.”

In the end, it was true. He supposed at least a part of him had known from the moment he’d opened the door.

“I do. I didn’t think I’d meet you this young in life, but I’m pleased to find you a gentleman, Sir. I can only hope that in the time you’ve allowed me, I’ve done you proud.”

“You and your whole dear family. You don’t know how much I owe you, all of you. You would have lingered, in pain, on life support, for months. It was unbearable, unacceptable. Not you, not my Theodore who has served me so gently and so diligently for so much of your life.”

“I suppose it’s time, then.” He was not afraid. Death, he knew. He’d existed out here in a kind of stasis for years, honoring his patron saint, the man standing before him in a soft black sweater and reaching out to slip an arm through his.

“It is. But I think the storm is winding to a close, and the mists are always so lovely. Why don’t we go see.”

Nodding, Theodore allowed himself to be led to the door, turning briefly to look back just one last time into his beautiful old house, his shrine to a softer death than most knew existed. He’d always done his best, to make the transition as easy as possible for those on their way to some other place, and now it was time to go.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not for you, no.” The stranger opened the door then, and Theodore couldn’t be sure that the new world laid before him looked the same to both of them, but he smiled at what he saw.

“You were right. It’s beautiful.”

The house and the ghosts left wandering its halls signed in unison with the departure of their beloved Theodore, but the rain had slowed and the moon had risen and they were patient enough to wait a while. Someone would come, someone as warm and bright as him, someone who would take care of them as tenderly as he had, some new Theodore born. In the end, after all, nothing ever really died, and daylight was coming on soon, sure as a promise.

[fanfoolishness]

Mando Liveblog 2x06

Live-blogging continues with 2x06, The Tragedy!

Amazing how this episode was just 5 minutes long of Din and Grogu on the Razor Crest together. A bold narrative choice, but an excellent one. And absolutely nothing bad happened to any of them!

Oh fuck Moff Gideon with a rusty spork, honestly, dude needs to BACK THE HELL OFF

Pedro. Please. STOP HURTING MY HEART WITH ALL THIS GENTLE HAPPINESS.

That little *sigh”

Seriously. I’m DYING.

Just... Din’s excited-happy-proud “dank farrik!”, his quick reassurance to Grogu, his careful explanations of the Jedi... his own self-justification for why this is right and he has to do it no matter how much he doesn’t want to....

*rewinds* *watches scene again* seriously, I get stuck doing this like 6 times each time I try to watch this episode.

I just... I adore so much how Din’s body language opens up, widens, becomes so much more expressive around Grogu than anyone else.

But when Din starts talking about how he can’t train Grogu, he turns away.

Grogu loves pulling Gs with Dad <3 Watch the way he mirrors Din as the ship turns.

Din’s Phoenix landing was pretty good there! He’s figuring it out.

Poor Din. What the fuck is a Jedi, amirite?

“Okay, here we go...”. Now that is a man full of trepidation right there

Grogu and the butterfly <3

Ahhhh Boba why couldn’t you have shown up like 2 minutes earlier or something and made Din not put Grogu on the stone yet? So not fair

Dammmmmit

I love whatever the fuck Boba’s instrument/theme is. Whole track for the fight scene is called “Capture the Flag” and it’s an insane bop

Asking if Boba Fett is a Jedi is still so hilariously wrong and I love it

Oh my god you two just knock it off already

“Fennec????” Din under the helmet is just sooooo confused

Still kinda silly that they put the jetpack down. I mean I get it for story reasons. But I’ll just have to headcanon that Din’s still not feeling like the Rising Phoenix is part of him the way the rest of his armor is — and that’s why he didn’t automatically grab it when the Empire showed up.

Ouch, Din — that fall looked like it hurt :(

FUCK OFF EMPIRE

I need to find this location. I know it’s not far from where I live....

Boba and his gaffi stick about to FUCK SHIT UP

That SNARL on his face is so fucking good!!!

It’s a shame he used to only fight in his helmet because just think how scared you would have been to see THAT coming at you

Run Fennec run!!! God I love her coat. I want it just to have, not even as part of a costume.

You notice Din didn’t actually say if they had a deal or not... Boba just went for it. Possibly one reason why he felt like he REALLY needed to make it up to Din

Also fuck has Din been concussed this whole time????

Hell. He really has. Why did I not notice this whump????

If only Din had stayed up on the plateau ;_; so unfair

Then again, it still would have been the safest option for Grogu to stay up there, rather than Din trying to run down the hill with the kid in his arms and attempting to avoid Grogu getting blasted.

Fuck. Them. UP BOBA!!!!!

That’s RIGHT y’all better fucking run!

Lol at the one that barely makes it back inside the ship before it takes off

Cool simple men making their way through the galaxy don’t look at explosions

RAZOR CREST NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I’m still not fucking okay

By this point they’re probably on the other side of the hill from the Rising Phoenix. But god it’s just so unfair

I guess if they’d gotten up there, though, they just straight up would have died. Like, 4 dark troopers? 1 Mando and 1 Fennec? They’d be dead

That last little image of Grogu’s face through Din’s helmet ;_;

But I still wish we’d have gotten to see Din pushing the Phoenix to its limit after the Darktroopers and them just plain being faster than him :(

Din, why didn’t you LEAD with “THEY STOLE MY KID”???

Oh Grogu :( :( :( there is so much fear in you! So much anger! Sweet child :(

Gideon, go fuck yourself with the shiny end of the Darksaber. I’m just gonna hate this motherfucker forever. Sometimes I love a conflicted villain, but in this case, I’m glad they’re not even bothering to give him 3 dimensions. Gideon’s just a fuck.

GROGU MY SON ;_;

RAZOR CREST MY BELOVED

Like... what if Din had just been stuck on Tython? What would he have even done? Hunted wildlife? Hoped a ship would come some day? Weird sad thought.

Again, this episode is UNFAIR!

[stresseddepressedsleepopres-blog]

“For the Love of the Sun”, an Essay Devoted to the Life and Passions of Vincent van Gogh

92 million miles. That’s how far the sun is from the Earth. If the sun were any closer or farther away, we would be dead in about eight minutes. But nonetheless the sun has a way of capturing an audience (mostly on a particularly hot summer’s day). In art, the sun is often present. It represents light, joy, and even celebration. And for one famous artist, Vincent van Gogh, the sun aroused the ecstasy of his life.

    Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890) is known today as a famous artist. He is known most for his works Starry Night (1889) and The Potato Eaters (1885). But throughout his entire life he only sold one piece out of the close to nine hundred works that he created. Vincent spent his life in his sorrow and channeled that into his art. He didn’t just paint things, he felt everything while he painted. His constant growing depression and insanity furthered his drive to create his artwork and express all the things that were creating the ever unstable storm inside of him. Until, in 1890, he borrowed a revolver and shot himself in the stomach, lying against a tree in a meadow. “Misery will never end.” he had previously declared to his brother.

    Vincent hadn’t originally set out to be an artist when he began his adult life. Art had just been a hobby, introduced to him by his mother when he was only a child, sick in bed. He was a gentle, passionate, unsociable red-haired boy. He respected his father, who was a clergyman, and he held an inward affinity towards his mother. But no one was as close to Vincent as his brother, Theo. Theo sacrificed everything for his beloved brother. He used his money, his patience, his time, and his effort to help Vincent up again whenever he had fallen. As the eldest over five other siblings, Vincent’s parents constantly worried about him making his way in the world. They had arranged for him to go to the Hague where they had obtained him a post as a salesman at a branch in the Paris firm of Groupil through the influence of his father’s brother, who was also named Vincent. In the three years  that he worked there, Vincent became very clever at packing and unpacking boxes of books and pictures. When he was twenty, he was transferred to the London branch. While living there, he would constantly sketch in his free time and send his drawings to his mother and Theo. There were many opportunities to study art in London and Vincent soon began to develop his own preferences and tastes.

    Vincent’s first fall came from his landlady’s daughter, a beautiful young girl that constantly led him on while he fell for her and then crushing him when he learned that she was already engaged to another man. He became upset and temperamental with customers and bosses and was soon dismissed from their branch. He disliked all the artwork he created and instead constantly visited the English church and decided to devote his life to the poor.

    He had always wanted to be a preacher and to take care of the less fortunate. He began by going back to school to fill the gaps in his education. But fourteen months into studying, he gave up. Vincent just wasn’t up for the scholar’s life. So instead he became a preacher on his own account. The biggest problem was that Vincent was very bad at giving sermons. But, nonetheless, he kept on his evangelical mission. He gave everything he had to the poor and travelled from town to town in worn out clothing and he slept on the ground in a wooden hut. He constantly took care of sick and injured miners in Borinage.

    His father didn’t understand Vincent’s almost crazed religious zeal. But Vincent continued his journey and gradually his health grew dangerous. He ate bad food, slept outside, and was constantly around disease. He eventually began drawing again to help keep his peace of mind and, eventually, took refuge with his father. He struggled with his desire to be a preacher and his artistic tendencies. Finally, the art won him over and he abandoned his life as a missionary to begin sketching and painting again. His brother Theo supported his decision.

    When he was twenty-eight, another woman came into his life and he fell in love with her. The only downsides were that she was his cousin and that she did not love him back. Her name was Cornelia (Kee) Adriana Vos-Stricker and she was a recent widow left with an eight year old son. When Vincent professed his love for her and proposed marriage she replied with “Never, no, never”. In a letter to his brother Theo, Vincent wrote, “But now you will realize that I hope to leave no stone unturned that might bring me closer to her, and that is my intention: To go on loving her until in the end she loves me too.” His parents, aunt, and uncle did not take well to his immense affections and scolded him and rebuked him for it. But Vincent held steadfast, convinced that she was the one for him. “She, and no other.” He would constantly say. After many refusals and denial to even speak with her or see her, Vincent wrote to Theo, “Then, not at once, but very soon, I felt that love die within me; a void, an infinite void came in its stead. You know I believe in God, I did not doubt the power of love, but then I felt something like, ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me,’ and everything became a blank. I thought, Have I been deceiving myself? … ‘O God, there is no God!’ That cold, terrible reception in Amsterdam was too much for me, my eyes are opened at last.” And he gave up on loving Cornelia and his first real bouts of mental illness had ensued.

    And so, alone, broken hearted, and mentally unstable, Vincent travelled to the Hague in Paris and remained there for two years. While there he met Clarisa (Sien) Maria Hoornik. As it’s practically in her last name, Sien was a prostitute. A pregnant prostitute. She was also a drunk, she smoked cigars, she spent her life in physical and moral sorrow, and she had a young daughter and soon a son. Nevertheless Vincent fell for her and took her and her children into his small studio home with him. She became his muse and he sketched her in one of his more famous pieces called Sorrow in which, at the bottom, he writes, “How can there be lonely, deserted women in the world?” Vincent got to live as if he finally had a family of his own for eighteen months before Theo came to the rescue for Vincent’s sake. Vincent had been spending all his time and money for Sien and her children and didn’t even buy food for himself. Theo encouraged Vincent to go to Drenthe to paint and Vincent did, ending the only domestic relationship he would ever have. Sien went back to prostitution, later married another man, and in 1904, threw herself into the Schelde river and drowned.

    Soon Vincent went back to his parents in Nuenen and set up his atelier in a church. He devoted all of his time to his artwork and was rapidly growing into his artistic maturity. His palette became lighter and his mood lifted when he went to practice in the Academy in Antwerp.  Once he had exhausted Antwerp, he and Theo moved in together. Vincent got to know many artists, most of them in their artistic prime, in 1886. But Vincent was always different. He had very strong opinions on art and he saw life in a way on one else could understand. Being partially mad did help with that a bit. Vincent absorbed, learned, and always held to his love of yellow and the sun. Paris had liberated and awakened his sensuality. “How wonderful the colour yellow is. It stands for the sun.” Vincent once said.

    “Oh the beautiful sun of midsummer! It beats upon my head, and I do not doubt that it makes one a little queer.” Wrote Vincent in Arles. He loved the colour yellow and there was no better example than the sun. He glorified the sun in his artwork, it was his greatest love of all. But, like his many female loves, the sun did not love him back. He was a fanatical worshipper of the sun and devoted himself to it nonetheless. In his piece The Night Cafe (1888) the lights hanging from the roof were like smaller versions of the sun, giving light to the night. Yellow flowers could also represent the sunshine to Vincent. Vase With Fourteen Flowers (1889) was like a vase of fourteen little suns for Vincent. It was like Vincent could feel the “soul” of flowers, his sister would say. The sun was a symbol of warmth, light, and happiness. In Enclosed Wheat Field With Reaper (1889) it can almost feel as if the warm morning sun is beating down on the neck of the admirer. The colour yellow helped Vincent express himself more in his work. At one point, he had even rented a house, painted it yellow, hung up pictures of sunflowers and named it “The House Of Friends”. His original idea was to have communal living between artists where they could all paint together and live happily. But only Ganguin would accept his invitation.

    Despite this happy period in his life, Vincent’s mental health was still diminishing. He was always searching for the answer to happiness. He thought it would be the sun, but the sun could not love him like he loved it. He thought it could be a woman. He wrote to Theo in 1881, “Then I thought to myself, I’d like to be with a woman. I can’t live without love, without a woman. I wouldn’t care a fig for life if there wasn’t something infinite, something deep, something real.” But later, in 1887, he wrote to his sister Willemien, “For my part, I still continually have the most impossible and highly unsuitable love affairs from which, as a rule, I emerge only with shame and disgrace.” He spent a lot of time in brothels and even cut off his ear and left it at one at three in the morning, assumingly for Sein. His friend Ganguin also had a taste of Vincent’s insanity. Vincent had been known to have thrown a glass at Ganguin’s head and, at one point, had threatened him with a razor. Vincent was soon after taken to a hospital where his mental health diminished him to hallucinations. Theo came to take care of him and a fortnight later Vincent had calmed down. But by then the inhabitants of Arles had a petition stating that Vincent was a madman and could not be left to himself again. He went back to the hospital and soon he checked himself into St. Remy, a mental asylum. He painted many amazing pieces in this time and he put his heart and soul into it. He felt peace for a while and had clarity of mind. But fresh crises of life pressed on him and he ended up swallowing a quantity of his paints. At his brother’s suggestion,  Vincent placed himself under the care of Dr. Gachet in Auvers-sur-Oise. Vincent began to show great attitude and health with his cheerful appearance. His time with Dr. Gachet was pleasant and Gachet was kind to him and complimented his art. Vincent painted many wonderful pieces in his time with Gachet and showed his amazing skill and technique.

    On July 27, 1890, Vincent borrowed a revolver. He claimed he wanted to shoot at crows. He went out into a field, leaned up against a tree trunk, and shot himself in the stomach. To know what was going on in his mind as he bled out would be to know and love another even though they have died too early. Maybe in his time at the hospital and with Gachet, Vincent had finally found what he had been searching for his whole life. Maybe he found it and it was enough and he could finally be released from his sorrow. He painted some of his best work in the six years before his death. Maybe, just maybe, Vincent had finally found happiness. Through a lifetime of sorrow and pain and disappointment and of constantly searching for the key to life, there’s a possibility he had. And I hope to God that he did.

    “For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.” -Vincent van Gogh

    Theo followed Vincent to the grave six months later and they are buried side by side in the little churchyard of Auver-sur-Oise. 

Sources:

Hughes, Robert. “The Portable Van Gogh”. New York: Universe Publishing, 2002.

Uhde, W. “Van Gogh”. Michigan: Borders Press, 1951.

“His Unrequited Loves”, https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/stories/his-unrequited-loves

Sonya. “Vincent van Gogh and Cornelia (Kee) Adriana Vos-Stricker”, The Van Gogh Gallery. July 17, 2013. http://blog.vangoghgallery.com/index.php/en/2013/07/17/vincent-van-gogh-and-cornelia-kee-adriana-vos-stricker/

Wikipedia. “Sien (Van Gogh series)”. Last edited: April 14, 2018.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sien_(Van_Gogh_series)

[nottooldforthisship]

(friendly reminder I read almost only Explicit or Mature fics) (* are my fav)

☾   always in the air ,by stilinskisparkles   :  Derek’s out of his element as they stumble back to Stiles’ shared house, he’s never really had one night stands, taken his studies seriously, put books first, earned his place at college through hard work and a dusty social life. He’s remarkably okay with pretending to be someone who does this regularly if it means he gets one night of it with Stiles. (6k, E)

☾   * Someday Came Today      by Fatebegins   : "March 2, 1810. . . Today, I met the man I’m going to marry."At the age of eight, Genim “Stiles” Stilinski showed no signs of Great Beauty. And even at eight, Stiles learned to accept the expectations society held for him--until the evening when Derek Hale, the handsome and dashing Alpha of the Hale pack, solemnly kissed his hand and promised him that one day he would grow into himself, that one day he would be as beautiful as he already was smart. And even at eight, Stiles knew he would love him forever.But the years that followed were as cruel to Derek as they were kind to Stiles. Stiles is as intriguing as the Duke boldly predicted on that memorable day--while Derek is a lonely, bitter man, crushed by a devastating loss. But Stiles has never forgotten the truth he set down on paper all those years earlier--and he will not allow the love that is his destiny to slip through his fingers . . (81k, E)

☾   I Lost My Way and Found You      by NekoIzumi : Derek hurried down the street, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t followed, but otherwise was completely focused on where he was going and not running into anyone while getting there. He was so close, oh so very close now, and he knew that just a few more minutes and he'd see him again. Him, the one he hadn’t seen in years and now… so close!He pushed the heavy front door open hurrying inside the foyer, absentmindedly registering magic buzzing around him as he did so. Knowing what to look for he saw his wards everywhere, tiny tiny marks, runes, symbols carved and written where he knew no one would look for them and Derek made sure to touch them all, to let the wards know he wasn’t there to harm. The magic accepted his presence, greeted him even but was still wary and ready to zap him to the Himalayas in the blink of an eye should it be needed. The wolf wasn’t worried, he was much too focused on the elevator making its way higher and why the hell did it move so slowly!? When he was finally on the right floor, high up above the noisy city outside, he rushed up to the right door and-… hesitated. (19k, E)

☾   It Makes Scents      by   stileskolpath   : a.k.a. that one where Derek is oblivious to Stiles' scent until suddenly he's not.  (3.8k, E)

☾   * To Build a Home (Of Sorts)      by nogitsune_lichen   : Or the healing/getting together AU that involves building a house together and a healthy dose of angst. (75k, E)

☾   A Little Lost      by   exclamation  :    A magical accident sends Stiles back in time. Now he's stuck in New York, living with Derek and Laura, and the only way to get back to his own time is to learn to use magic. Meanwhile, he must figure out how much he can tell them about their future. Can he warn them about the dangers they face? Can he change his own past? And can he trust the creature known as Bookworm, who seems to know him better than he knows himself? (73k, M)

☾   Do Not Go Gentle      by   MojoFlower  :  Derek Hale, Beacon Hills Alpha and Dom, wakes up in a dark cell already housing another captive – a mute, traumatized sub with a cruel collar around his neck.  His only goal is to get them both free of their brutal circumstances;  but even as he tries to get his young companion home, a bond between them grows.  Nothing comes easily:  danger and harrowing echoes of their ordeal shadow every step they take. (195k, E, TW read the tags)

☾   Give Me All the Peace and Joy in Your Mind      by   secondstar: Derek didn't care for the company of people. He'd rather be surrounded by his dogs, alone. Well, until he keeps seeing a guy around town. Everything comes to a head when Derek walks into a bakery to find the same guy, covered in flour, grinning at him. (6.3k, E)

☾   * Not Your Disney Romance      by  Rawren (Zimothy)  : After a long-forgotten agreement of an arranged marriage between Derek and the daughter of another pack's alpha resurfaces, Stiles takes it upon himself to become the most amazing fake fiancé that a clueless, desperate alpha werewolf could wish for. (42k, M)

☾   Unbroken      by   Piscaria :    When Stiles starts getting sick, he assumes his appetite loss and lethargy stem from the darkness the Nemeton left in his heart. But soon enough, even he can’t deny that he’s showing the same symptoms his mom had. When he's forced to face the truth about his illness, Stiles finds himself making a choice he never thought he’d make. (43k, E)

☾   Pour Some Sugar On Me      by  Delta_Immortal  : Derek is a highly successful sugar baby and escort in the local area. He’s got clients lined up and he's got money in the bank. He's good at what he does. He plays sweet and hard and fast, giving his time and smiles in exchange for cash and favors. He lives by three rules: No salt, no bad vibes, and no falling in love. Enter billionaire Stiles Stilinski. Derek's world is about to turn upside down. (73k, E)

☾   *Occam's Razor      by    MissAnnThropic  :   When Stiles goes to sleep, he’s a junior in high school.  He wakes up in a world where he’s twenty-four and married to Derek Hale.   Stiles just can’t seem to catch a break. (49k, E)

☾   I Call You Names Because I Love You      by   Rawren (Zimothy)  :      Years of touring with Stiles would never have prepared Derek for the day his beloved techie fell in love with someone else. (13k, M)

☾   Operation Girl Scout Cookies      by  nogitsune_lichen  : Or the one where both Talia and John are running for mayor of Beacon Hills and their sons end up being mates. Enter a secret relationship, a dash of smut, and a way too involved Laura Hale.  (18k, E)

☾   *  Honey, Can't you See (The Bloodstains on my Teeth)      by Loup_Aigre, TroubleIWant  : “Mr Stilinski.” Deaton’s usually impassive face betrays a hint of surprise today, maybe even disappointment. “You haven’t changed your mind.”Stiles tips his chin up, smiling against his irritation. “Nope,” he confirms, so cheerily it bites. They had arranged this weeks ago, yet Deaton was apparently betting Stiles wouldn’t go through with it in the end. Fuck that. He doesn’t know what it’s like out there, not really. He can afford to hold himself aloof and uninvolved, knowing his druid power is enough to keep him safe in this little office. Stiles can’t. Scott’s pack has got to protect this whole town, and Stiles’ spark isn’t enough to protect all of them while they do it. The thing is, magic isn’t like the fairy tales. It’s blood and risk and sacrifice. Nothing comes without a price, and anyone who tries to say different is baiting a hook to gut you on. Stiles knows that, has known it since he was a kid and his mother started training him for the inevitable day when he’d need to fight for his life.That day had come four years ago when she died, and it hasn’t stopped yet. (44k, E)

☾   The Kenny Situation      by Whispering_Sumire : [Or: The one where Stiles gets cursed by witches, keeps dying and coming back to life, and the only one even vaguely cognizant of this is Derek.] (10k, E)

☾    you break the mountain down      by  runphoebe        : Stiles and Derek have been together for six years when Stiles graduates from college and moves back to Beacon Hills. (10k, E)        

[noditchablepromdate]

A consideration of the muse via TV Tropes

//Mun comments: these are based on my interpretation of and headcanons for the muse, not just canon events.

Appearance/Physical

American Accents - though Bobby himself is from South Dakota, his accent definitely hints towards a more typically southern redneck. Badass Beard - one of his most distinctive features.  Blue Eyes - sometimes Icy Blue Eyes. Generally when he’s getting particularly enraged. Nice Hat - Bobby is almost never seen without one of his beloved trucker caps.  Older Than They Look - Bobby is in his late fifties when the Winchester boys show up asking for help, and by the Apocalypse he’s sixty. He’s grizzled and clearly not in his prime any more, but is still younger-looking, tougher and much more physically capable than a guy his age would usually be. Seriously Scruffy - Bobby’s usual outfit is heavily worn and frayed clothes - usually jeans, t-shirts and flannel - that he’s owned for a very long time.

Personality Traits

A Friend In Need / The Reliable One - One of Bobby’s defining traits is that no matter what, if someone calls on him for help, he will do whatever it takes to give that help. Even if he’s freaking DEAD. Badass Grandpa - Bobby’s out there fighting evil well into his sixties. Brutal Honesty - He doesn’t really do sugar-coating very well, so if he’s presented with something and asked his opinion he will often be very blunt about what he thinks of it. Catch Phrase - His go-to swearword is “Balls!” and he often expresses his annoyance (or affection) by calling someone an “idjit”.  Character Alignment - Chaotic Good. Bobby gives absolutely zero fucks about legal or illegal, but he’s absolutely committed to helping the fight against evil and is basically a decent and kind person. Combat Pragmatist - He doesn’t fight in a bid to impress anybody, he just aims to take his opponent down and make them stop fighting back as fast as possible, and has no qualms about fighting dirty to get the result. Crazy-Prepared / Properly Paranoid - Bobby regularly doses visitors with holy water, keeps guns to fire several different types of monster-slaying ammunition, and has built a panic room in his basement, made of solid iron coated with salt, that is demon- and spirit-proof. He has also made several copies of all his priceless books and stashed them in safehouses around the country, just in case something happens to the collection in his house. And he does it all because he knows it could happen. He’s even described himself as a “paranoid bastard”. Deadpan Snarker - A fundamental aspect of his personality. No matter what situation, he usually manages to come up with a sarcastic or snarky quip. This can lead to Snark-To-Snark Combat breaking out, especially if it’s Crowley he’s talking to. Determinator - He just will not lie down and die. Even when a bullet to the head puts him in a coma, he spends the entire time evading and holding off the Reaper coming after him so he can warn Sam and Dean about the Leviathans’ plans. Encyclopaedic Knowledge - He’s done so much studying that he’s able to reel off facts about rare monsters, cast spells and recite exorcisms, and draw a number of sigils from memory.  Forgets To Eat / Must Have Caffeine - Bobby regularly stays up pulling all-nighters in order to do research for a fellow hunter, and in such cases will often subsist on strong coffee and/or caffeine pills. This has left him with a reliance on coffee that’s almost as bad as his drinking problem. Genius Bruiser - He looks and often acts like a typical dumb redneck, but spends most of his time at home with his books, doing research for others; when called on to join the fight directly, Bobby proves himself as capable of kicking ass as hunters half his age. Good Is Not Dumb - He might be on the side of the good guys, but Bobby sure as hell is not stupid. Good Is Not Soft / Good Is Not Nice - While he has dedicated his life to helping others and saving lives, and is gentle and caring to those in need, Bobby is also a cranky, short-tempered alcoholic who lives on his own and gives everyone, including the law, angels, and Satan himself an attitude. He’s also not likely to spare enemies out of the goodness of his heart, either - the few antagonists who manage to escape his retribution are usually the ones who talk the quickest and convince him they’re worth sparing. Otherwise he’ll finish them off without blinking. Grumpy Old Man - Has definite shades of this, though often as not he’s just playing it up, for the sake of a cover or to amuse people. Gut Feeling - Bobby’s instincts are usually spot on and he’s learned to rely on them reasonably heavily, to the point where he can usually guess within seconds if someone he knows is possessed by a demon or otherwise not actually themself. Of course, being paranoid, he’ll generally follow his guess up with a test to see how right he is. Handicapped Badass - During the year he spends wheelchair-bound; although he’s no longer able to actively hunt, his mind is as quick as ever and he’s still a crack shot. Jerk with a Heart of Gold - Famously bad-tempered, antisocial, yells at people who ask him for help and calls them stupid, regularly gets arrested and has no respect for... pretty much anyone. Also one of the key players in the attempt to head off the Apocalypse, who loves the weird little family he’s got with all his heart and will do anything for them. Knight In Sour Armor - Yeah, the world sucks and pretty much everything is horrible apart from a few little warm spots... but he’ll step up to fight for its right to exist time and time again, because that’s the right thing to do. Mr. Fixit - As well as earning his living as a mechanic and salvage yard owner, Bobby is able to turn his hand to a number of other practical skills; he’s successfully modified several guns to fire specialised ammunition, and built the panic room in his basement himself, during “a weekend off”. He’s also proven to be very capable when it comes to installing booby traps and surprises around his house, including a trapdoor outside the hall closet that drops straight into the basement and a specially strengthened basement door to keep whoever got dropped in from getting back out.  Nerves Of Steel - He’s faced down dozens, maybe hundreds, of monsters over the years, armed with a few weapons and his wits and, if he was really lucky, someone competent running backup. He’s even intervened in a showdown between the archangels Michael and Lucifer, though that didn’t go terribly well for him. Not much fazes him now. Old Master - Bobby has likely fought, researched and warded off more monsters than Sam and Dean put together, and is known to be THE person to go to if you need help tackling something you don’t recognise. Omniglot - He speaks several languages, including Japanese and Latin, and is able to decipher and translate a huge number of written languages. Only Sane Man - He often feels like this, especially after dealing with hunters who have managed to completely fail at displaying common sense. Physical Scars, Psychological Scars - Bobby has picked up scars from all sorts of monster encounters over the years, many of them reminders of what went wrong on the hunt. He also still has some old scars from his childhood, as his father used to beat him with a belt. Self-Surgery - Given he prefers to avoid the authorities unless it’s really serious, Bobby will generally patch himself up with needle, thread and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Street Smart - Studious as he can be, Bobby is also a capable survivalist and very savvy at bluffing his way into situations - or out of them. Taught By Experience / Seen It All - Bobby’s one of the best in the hunting community simply because he’s made it his business to be. He’s encountered monsters very few others have, he’s studied countless texts to find weaknesses nobody else knew about... and he’s closely linked to the Winchesters, who seem to get targeted by all the weirdest things out there. Which he takes as a learning opportunity. It’s not often he actually gets startled by something. Talented But Trained - He’s a very smart man, that’s absolutely certain, but many of his skills are what he’s picked up over a long, rough life, and he’s honed them till they’re sharp as a razor. The Alcoholic / Drowning My Sorrows - He’s turned to alcohol to cope with the horrific things he’s dealt with, from an abusive childhood to killing his possessed wife to the deaths caused because he wasn’t quite quick enough to take down the monster he was hunting. The Kirk - Usually plays this role between cool, logical Sam and hot-headed emotional Dean. Undying Loyalty - Literally, in his case; he takes lethal injuries several times, at least one of which was deliberately self-inflicted, and still keeps trying to help his boys in any way he can. Workaholic - He doesn’t often take a break from working, at least not for very long. Wouldn’t Hurt A Child / Friend To All Children - One of his more likeable traits - after the horrendous upbringing he had, Bobby will go above and beyond to make sure any kids he spends time around feel as safe as possible. He’s gentle, affectionate, and respectful of their thoughts and feelings, especially if their own parents are harsh.

Personal History

Abusive Parents / Alcoholic Parent - Bobby’s father Ed was a drunk who thought nothing of being verbally and physically abusive, punching his wife and regularly taking his belt to his son. By the time Bobby hit his teens, his mother was also blaming him for his dad’s violence. Back From The Dead - Bobby was killed by Lucifer while trying to help buy time for Sam to regain control of his own body. Castiel, newly resurrected himself, brought him back minutes later after the crisis was over. Bobby will occasionally refer to it as “that time I died” or something along those lines. Calling The Old Man Out - He finally snaps and intervenes with a rifle when his father begins beating his mother, demanding Ed leave her alone. When Ed taunts him and threatens to deal with him, Bobby pulls the trigger. Later in life, trapped in a coma, Bobby sees his father again in the memory and confronts him, fiercely claiming to be far better than Ed told him he was. Dead Partner - This applies to a number of Bobby’s old hunting friends who have died over the years, most notably John Winchester, Ellen Harvelle and Rufus Turner, all of whom he had a particular bond with. Deal With The Devil - Technicaly a deal with a demon, but the same principle. When Lucifer is on the verge of triumphing in the bid to start the Apocalypse, Bobby sells - or, technically, pawns - his soul to Crowley for the final key piece of information that gives them a fighting chance. He also regains the ability to walk, though that was more of a generous freebie on Crowley’s part. (Naturally, Crowley does not keep his side of the agreement, and later has to be threatened about it.) Fighting From The Inside - When possessed by a demon trying to kill Dean, Bobby manages to put up enough of a fight to turn the blade on himself. Hero Secret Service - Technically the hunting community could count as this. Although they are not organised and have no authority figures, Bobby is a major persona within the ranks. Only Child Syndrome - With no siblings around, Bobby took the full brunt of his parents’ abuse; he never really understood why, but his mother once hinted that he was too much hard work on his own for them to handle having another kid on top. Survivor Guilt - Regarding pretty much everyone he knows who gets killed. His attitude is always I should have done better.

Romance & Family

Badass Family - Adoptive version; anyone who spends a while around Bobby will absorb some of his personal badassness, even if they are already damn awesome themselves. First Love - Karen, the first woman he ever really loved, and whom he holds a torch for long after her death. Happily Married - With Karen. Until she finds out he doesn’t want to be a father... at which point they have a fight that never gets resolved, because she’s dead three days later. Honorary Uncle - To Sam and Dean as kids, and to most other hunters’ kids he spends any real time around, he was always “Uncle Bobby”. Ho Yay / Foe Yay - He and Crowley clash repeatedly, but all that snark-laden verbal fencing, long looks, moments of real vulnerability around each other... yeah, there’s definitely something going on there. Incompatible Orientation - One of Bobby’s main attempted defences against the attentions of a certain king of Hell. Like A Son To Me / Happily Adopted - Sam and Dean, who he played a large part in raising until their teens. Also counts for any of the other younger people he takes in and becomes a father figure to. Papa Wolf - Don’t mess with his kids. Just don’t. He will hurt you. Parental Substitute - To many of the young people he takes in or keeps an eye out for, particularly those who have had poor experiences with their childhood. He absolutely relishes being able to be a positive figure for a kid who needs it. Stalker With A Crush - This is how he tends to treat Crowley a lot of the time, especially when the demon’s being particularly flirtatious or overly attentive. Team Dad - To... well, pretty much everyone with the age or life experience to be considered a kid in his eyes. This includes the Winchesters, Jo Harvelle, several other hunters around their age, a freaking Vampire Slayer, and Castiel, an actual angel with the social savvy of a very sheltered gerbil.

[usnewsaggregator-blog]

The D.C. sportswriter who went from covering the Redskins to selling organic food

New Post has been published on https://usnewsaggregator.com/sport/the-d-c-sportswriter-who-went-from-covering-the-redskins-to-selling-organic-food/

The D.C. sportswriter who went from covering the Redskins to selling organic food

(Jen Dominic for The Washington Post)

STAUNTON, Va. — The tin of cookies emerged from behind his desk, three dozen or so. They were dark chocolate-cranberry-pumpkin-maple. The pumpkin came from real pumpkins, which Joseph White had acquired by asking businesses in this marvelous downtown whether they still needed their decorative Halloween gourds. The cookies were delightful.

If White had brought a baked treat like this to the Redskins Park media trailer — which he did, week after week, year after year, during some of the craziest moments in franchise history — “I’d have to hire two guards to keep [reporters] away,” he noted.

But his new colleagues are a bit different than the ones he left behind in Ashburn. Three dozen homemade cookies here last days, not seconds. He’s given up on the idea of throwing parties centered around food. And when White takes his employees out for dinner, he can pay with a $20 bill and get change. “These people just don’t eat,” he said of the staff at at Cranberry’s Grocery & Eatery.

There are other differences, too. The folks inside Cranberry’s aren’t glued to Twitter, aren’t surgically attached to their phones and don’t particularly care whether the Redskins opt for continuity or chaos this offseason. Which isn’t to say nothing changes here. On the day I visited the natural-food outpost now owned by White, he offered up a brand-new creation dreamed up by his staffers: Earl Grey rolls. Imagine a cinnamon roll dipped in bergamot oil, and served warm. They were delightful, too.

You might not know White’s name, but you’ve probably read his work or heard his voice. For about two decades, he was the Associated Press’s D.C. sports correspondent, the guy who asked the first question at most Redskins news conferences, the man tasked with describing Christmas Eve at FedEx Field for readers across the country. He wrote about Norv Turner and Marty Schottenheimer, about Steve Spurrier and Joe Gibbs, about Clinton Portis’s costumes and Sean Taylor’s death. He chronicled the return of baseball, the rise of Ovechkin and the fall of Arenas. He traveled to five Olympics, covered the National Spelling Bee as well as anyone has ever covered anything and was named the 2005 AP Sportswriter of the Year. Then he left, taking a sabbatical from the AP and buying a health-food store and restaurant 140 miles from Ashburn.

The sabbatical is over. White isn’t coming back.

How do you go from covering one of the NFL’s most chaotic franchises to selling local honey (“the greatest honey you’ll ever have”) and local kombucha (“you can feel the probiotics flow through you”) and an exclusive label of organic fair-trade coffee, while bragging that “there is not a drop of high-fructose corn syrup anywhere in the building”?

“After a while, you’re just ready for a new adventure,” White said as we munched on cookies and listened to classical music near a stack of local newspapers. (“7-Eleven Removes Gas Pumps to Allow for More Parking,” read one front-page headline.) “I was originally a theater person, then I became a radio person, then I became a writer, and now I do this. You move on to the next thing, because there’s another cool thing to do.”

If nothing else, I am consistent. First snow creature my store’s street. Meet Charley, the @GoCranberrys snow gnome. pic.twitter.com/8rulLjVjuE

— Joseph White Jr. (@JGatlinWhite) February 17, 2015

I’m not sure if this is a sports story. Maybe it’s a media story, or a retail story. There’s probably more than a little wish fulfillment involved. But I do know this: The sportswriting business once had an allure of authentic characters, one-of-a-kind types you wouldn’t meet elsewhere, people you couldn’t possibly forget. I’m sure they still exist, but they seem harder to find every year. And I promise you this: You would never forget Joseph White.

What other sportswriter would pull over on his way out of Redskins Park, set up his telescope on top of his car and observe the four moons of Jupiter? What other sportswriter would bike to Redskins Park — and then keep his helmet on while interviewing Mike Shanahan? What other sportswriter would produce logic puzzles for other writers to work on during rain delays? What other sportswriter would leave the baseball stadium and immediately go camping; or build an igloo; or travel to Edgar Allan Poe’s grave for an annual birthday vigil; or present his media-room pals with homemade pumpkin-mint-chocolate chip cookies, or butterscotch pie, or treats made with hand-picked mulberries, or a full barbecue feast brought back from North Carolina?

That one came after his father’s death. His dad had taught him that if he ever had spare change, he should do something nice for someone else. When he was tidying up his dad’s house, he found some spare change. So he brought back lunch for his friends.

On his last day covering the Redskins, the other reporters gave him a standing ovation.

“Joe really is one of a kind,” wrote former Skins beat writer Mike Jones, when I asked about White. “You could say that about a lot of people, but it really did apply to him, and his quirky ways were part of the reason why everybody liked him.”

“When I think of Joe, I think of a true original — a man who marches to a singular tune in his head,” The Post’s Liz Clarke wrote. “I think what has made him so beloved among fellow sportswriters is that unlike so many journalists, Joe rarely, if ever, complains and lacks the cynicism and pettiness that too often mars the profession.”

“We all find him endearing and gentle and down-to-earth,” former Washington Times writer Zac Boyer wrote, “but there’s also a quirkiness to him that warms your heart.”

“Joe will be missed because he’s simply a good guy,” wrote ESPN’s John Keim, “and because he liked to bake for us.”

If White didn’t act like everyone else, he didn’t write like us, either, glorying in the weirdest stories, the goofiest anecdotes, the most outlandish quotes. I always figured that’s why he reveled in covering every inch of the Spelling Bee, an event he has attended even after leaving the business. Turns out it was more than that.

“I felt like it was important to tell the stories of the Spelling Bee kids, because they get such a stereotype about them,” he told me. “Hey, this is an awesome kid who plays baseball and the violin and goes to public school — and these are the kids who are going to make a difference in the world. They’re going to be the doctors and lawyers and scientists and so forth, which is a whole heckuva lot more important than making a bunch of three-pointers.”

Arrived inBaltimore for the Poe Vigil w/ cookies for all and scorecards to judge the Faux Toasters. Join us! pic.twitter.com/IDreyw4jwP

— Joseph White Jr. (@JGatlinWhite) January 19, 2014

He didn’t dress like us, either. Former Redskins lineman Stephen Bowen — who called White “F-Dot” because of his Freddy Krueger attire — once stopped an interview, looked at White’s sweater and asked, “What the hell are you wearing? Is that sweater from 1989?” White thought about it, and told Bowen the sweater was probably five years older than that. He recently told a friend that there are three things left he wants to buy — a new telescope, a straight razor and a pair of cross-country skis — “and once I get those three things, I’ll own everything I want.”

It’s a lifestyle that helped open the possibilities of a new business adventure. White, now 54, previously had worked as a country-music DJ in North Carolina, and for AP radio in London. Nearly two decades covering Washington sports was a long time tilting at the same windmill. By the end, it felt like he didn’t need to use his tape recorder anymore; he had heard the same quotes in 1997, and 2001, and 2005; heard rookies saying how happy they were to be in Washington and optimistic coaches promising a fresh new era.

His brother had lived in Staunton for years, and White and his son loved visiting the arts-and-theater town. So out of nowhere, he e-mailed the owners of Cranberry’s, asking what retail niches in the active downtown district still needed filling. They told him they were ready to retire and suggested he just buy their store. Many months later, he did. He took a two-year sabbatical from the AP but knew pretty quickly that he wouldn’t be going back.

And so, on the day I visited, instead of chronicling the melancholic end of yet another playoff-free Redskins season, White was rejoicing about a delivery from Blue Ridge Bakery, and getting change from the bank (“you’re awesome!” he told the teller as he left), and singing showtunes from “South Pacific” with a customer-turned-friend, and getting ready to make posters for that week’s trivia night. (Introducing a weekly trivia night was one of his first innovations as store owner. He writes the questions himself.)

When protesters gather in front of the nearby courthouse, he brings them free coffee. When staffers need a break, he fills in behind the register. His favorite thing about the gig is meeting new people: the backpacker from Finland, the random late-night shopper who became one of his new best friends, the Amtrak travelers who hop off the thrice-weekly Cardinal Route, telling him about their adventures and listening to his.

He’s trying to launch an “Amazing Race”-style event in Staunton, and a program to offer low-income kids a meal at Cranberry’s, and a show at the adjacent Blackfriars theater. Many of his staffers are into the city’s thriving theater scene; one directed “Doctor Faustus,” and another directed “A Winter’s Tale.” He’s embraced Staunton’s Harry Potter festival; “we definitely have to order more chocolate frogs this year,” he noted. On Thursday night, he hosted a Solstice Bonfire.

The store and cafe were already successful before he arrived, and he mostly tries to stay out of his employees’ way — “all I did was just hop on a galloping horse,” he said. So he waters the plants and changes the light bulbs and designs the monthly placemats and tries to make the place feel like a home.

His mom ran a country store for more than two decades in rural North Carolina — that was his living room as a kid — and he wants Cranberry’s to have that same community-gathering-place appeal. He even made a replica of a sign that used to hang in her store. “You are a stranger here but once,” it reads. It feels like it.

“Why do I like this?” he said, repeating my question, as it snowed gently outside. (“It’s snowing!” he had shouted, when the first flakes appeared.)

“It’s a really cool place,” he finally answered. “I have really cool people working for me. I’ve got really cool customers. There’s not a day I turn that corner to come down here and look at the building and go, ‘Man, I don’t want to come to work today.’ I mean, there are times you could easily feel that way as a sportswriter — ‘Man, I don’t feel like going to practice today: It’s day 17 of training camp, I’d rather be home with my family.’ There’s not a day that I’ve come here where I was like, what did I get myself into?”

Mom used to have a sign like this in the country store she ran for 22 years. Figured I’d get one for @GoCranberrys. pic.twitter.com/ijJEWyiXf8

— Joseph White Jr. (@JGatlinWhite) February 11, 2015

He was talking about this general idea with Rob, his grocer, just the other day. They always banter about song lyrics and conspiracy theories and philosophy, and this time they were talking about how time is more valuable than money, because one is finite and the other isn’t. Why is that so easy to forget?

“You know, you don’t get moments back,” White said. “And I don’t know what the next adventure will be beyond this. Who knows?”

He’s having one now, though. Maybe stop in and see him if you’re ever in Staunton. Ask for the Earl Grey rolls.

More from the D.C. Sports Bog:

One fan’s thoughts on how the Redskins can improve the fan experience at FedEx Field

Carol Maloney leaves NBC Washington

After losing more than 80 pounds, former Redskin Will Montgomery’s ‘not scary anymore’

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