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blackswaneuroparedux · 5 years

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La Grande Illusion: the collapse of the old order of European civilisation

Jean Renoir’s monumental 1937 cinematic masterpiece La Grand Illusion has always been a favourite of mine ever since my grandfather - a highly decorated military veteran himself - first brought the classic war film to my attention over a family Christmas.

It’s easy to gush about Renoir’s World War One classic. It won at the Venice Film Festival upon release and was the first foreign language film to be nominated for an Oscar - despite the novelty of seeing and hearing the British, French and German officers speaking their own native tongues. The critical reception and accolades aside, La Grand Illusion is simply an extraordinarily well-made film that makes a serious commentary on the condition of Europe and examines common values and decency under the stress of war - the ability in all of us to act with respect and warmth towards those with whom we share bonds stronger and deeper than national boundaries and political divisions.

The “grand illusion” of Jean Renoir’s great French film referred originally to the British author Norman Angell’s belief that the supposed financial advantage of war is a falsehood. For Renoir - himself a veteran of the World War One trenches - this illusion evolves into something more complex and various, and so does its tragic and ironic grandeur.

There are only two references to the title but both are pertinent. Once when a French soldier exclaims ‘what an illusion,’ when a comrade says that the war will be over before they have time to escape from military prison, and again when he describes the end of all wars as an illusion.

The legendary Eric Von Stroheim is Captain Von Rauffenstein, an aristocrat and German PoW camp commander in the first world war, ramrod-straight in a uniform with white gloves that conceal horrendous burns from when he was shot down in combat. He pursues an elaborately civilised policy of martial respect for his distinguished prisoner Captain de Boeldieu (Pierre Fresnay) - a suave French aristocrat in his own right. But Rauffenstein is archly disdainful of Boeldieu’s more plebeian comrades Rosenthal (Marcel Dalio) and the boisterous working class Maréchal, played with luminous masculinity by Jean Gabin.

What the Frenchman knows and the German won’t admit is that the new world belongs to commoners. It changed hands when the gentlemen of Europe declared war. And the “grand illusion” of Renoir’s title is the notion that the upper classes somehow stand above war. The German cannot believe that his prisoners, whom he treats almost as guests, would try to escape. After all, they have given their word not to.

"Neither you nor I can stop the march of time,” the captured French aristocrat Capt. de Boieldieu tells the German prison camp commandant, Von Rauffenstein. A little later, distracting the guards during an escape of others from the high-security German fortress, the Frenchman forces the German to shoot him, reluctantly, and they have a final deathbed exchange. `” didn’t know a bullet in the stomach hurt so much,” he tells the German. “I aimed at your legs,” says the German, near tears. And a little later he says: "For a commoner, dying in a war is a tragedy. But for you and I - it’s a good way out.”

For me one the things that hit me is how much the film underlies the separation of classes, which is the second major concern of the film. Indeed, the characters provide a microcosm of the European class system in the early twentieth century. It is interesting to note that not everyone in the film is limited by the barriers of his mother tongue. The two aristocratic officers, von Rauffenstein and de Boeldieu, as well as the scholar, Demolder, can speak or understand several languages other than their own. The Jewish officer, Rosenthal, who has relatives on both sides of the front, can speak German. With the possible exception of Rosenthal, however, the linguistic skills of these characters are ineffectual instruments of human understanding. The reasons are various and have mostly to do with class.

Demolder, the Greek professor, is the object of much ridicule. To the aristocrats he is never more than a subject of minor amusement. They ignore him, for instance, when he gawks like an undergraduate art history student at the Medieval fortress of Wintersborn, where they are being held prisoner. Even the middle class Marechal parodies him at one point, exclaiming that the castle is ``Fourteenth century,” to which Boeldieu replies wittily, “Pure Gothic.” Ironically, the scene was actually shot in a chateau built by Wilhelm II.

Demolder’s books, in which no one else is the least bit interested, disturb Boeldieu’s cards. Boeldieu remarks “coldly” that Demolder’s dictionaries are going to be in his way. Demolder is in the process of translating Pindar, whom he considers “the greatest of the Greek poets.” We are left in no doubt, however, that the undertaking will not be as momentous as Demolder would like to think. Rauffenstein’s contemptuous comment upon learning of Demolder’s activity is: “Poor old Pindar!”

Boeldieu says that Demolder has “the soul of a bird.” Although Demolder has a sentimental worship of books (he is incensed when the Russians set their books on fire) and studies a foreign language, his interests are ineffectual. The student of a “dead language,” he offers no help in bridging the language barrier between the French and Germans.

The aristocrats, Boeldieu and Rauffenstein, might effect such a bridge between the nationalities, but they are prevented from doing so by the duties and isolation of their class. They are separated from their fellow officers as much as anything by language.

Boeldieu, for instance, is isolated by a certain class dialect as well as what one might call his ideolect. Throughout the film, he speaks in a witty, formal, epigrammatic style typical of the aristocracy. At Hallbach, noticing the young German soldiers drilling while the prisoners of war prepare their play, he comments: “On one side, children playing at soldiers. On the other, soldiers playing at children.” The conversation at Wintersborn is distinguished by his witty banter with Rauffenstein. When the latter has finished showing his new prisoners around the fortress, Boeldieu remarks: “It was very pleasant of you, sir, to have shown us around your estate.” The other French officers cannot or are not allowed thus to “pull off” their attempts at wit. Marechal’s amusing joke about Maxim’s does not go over with Rauffenstein.

Boeldieu’s formal style leaves his fellows cool to him and indeed suspicious of his motives. Marechal himself, who must “explain” Boeldieu to the others, notes at one point that “he’s a good bloke, but you can’t let yourself go with him, you can’t feel free…. A different sort of education…. If ever you [Rosenthal] and I found ourselves in a bad spot, we’d just be a couple of poor down-and-outs, but him, he’d always be Monsieur de Boeldieu.”

Later in the film, when the bourgeois Marechal, aware of Boeldieu’s impending sacrifice, attempts a deeper level of friendliness, Boeldieu puts him off: “I’m not doing anything for you personally. That excuses us from the danger of getting emotional.” When Marechal questions Boeldieu’s continued use of the formal “vous” after eighteen months together, Boeldieu responds: “I say vous to my mother and my wife.”

Rauffenstein is similarly isolated from his fellow officers by class and language. His preferred languages seem to be French and English, and when he does speak German his voice takes on an unaccustomed and alien rasp. His junior officers are also of the middle class, and they consider him something of a lunatic for what is to them eccentric behavior. Rauffenstein’s careful cultivation of the geranium, “the only flower in the castle,” is ridiculed by his martinet of a junior officer, a former headmaster who claims to “know how to keep that gang of devils [the prisoners] in their place.” Interestingly, in the moving scene of Boeldieu’s death, Rauffenstein sacrifices this last “flower of the aristocracy.”

Boeldieu and Rauffenstein, isolated from their fellow officers, have the most in common with each other, but ultimately they are separated by something else they have in common: their patriotic duties as aristocratic career officers. Rauffenstein seems to regret this more than Boeldieu and is keener to maintain their priviledged intimacy. To effect this intimacy he makes continual use of the English language.

A language common to the aristocracy of Europe, English allows Rauffenstein to distinguish himself and Boeldieu from the others, in effect to talk over their heads. It becomes their special language. In the early banquet scene, Rauffenstein, recognizing Boeldieu’s name, presumes his knowledge of English. Sesonske has pointed out that “Rauffenstein switches from French to English without question or explanation, knowing that a `de Boeldieu’ will of course understand,” whereas “Marechal is surprised to find his German neighbor speaking French and seeks an explanation.”

In a later scene at Wintersborn, Rauffenstein shows off his twenty-five Maxim machine-guns to Boeldieu and the others. Marechal attempts to imitate Boeldieu’s witty style: “Why, of course, sir. Personally, I prefer the restaurant…” The response of the two aristocrats to this infringement on their stylistic territory is interesting. Boeldieu, at whose expense the joke is made, accepts it with a benign resignation, as a master does a pupil’s imitations: “Touché.”

Rauffenstein, on the other hand, will not condescend to the humor of an inferior. He shifts immediately to English, talking as he knows over the heads of the others: “I used to know a pretty girl at Maxim’s… back in 1913. Her name was Fifi.” Boeldieu responds also in English: “So did I.”

Rauffenstein’s aristocratic snub recalls, as he likes to do, a nostalgic time before the war when aristocratic career officers did not have to accept middle class “officers” such as Marechal and Rosenthal as in any sense their equals.

Both Rauffenstein and Boeldieu know, however, that the old European aristocrats, along with the peculiar form of international understanding they possessed, are a dying breed, cut off from their own lower classes and no longer in control of events. In a private conversation in Rauffenstein’s quarters, again punctuated with English phrases, they discuss this situation candidly.

Rauffenstein admits his distaste for his present position as commandant. “I was a fighting man and, now, I am a bureaucrat, a policeman. It is the only way left for me to try and serve my country.” When Boeldieu asks him why he made an exception in inviting him to his quarters, Rauffenstein responds disdainfully: “You call Marechal and Rosenthal… officers?” Whatever else the war brings, “it will be the end of the Rauffensteins and the Boeldieus.”

To Rauffenstein, such middle class soldiers are “the charming legacy of the French Revolution.” Boeldieu comments that “perhaps there is no more need for us.” Rauffenstein immediately asks: “And don’t you find that is a pity?” Boeldieu responds, less certainly: “Perhaps.” Boeldieu’s scepticism suggests that if there is to be a solution to the problem of lack of international understanding, it will not come from an international aristocracy with an exclusive language.

Indeed, this point is dramatised in the final exchange of English between the two men. When Boeldieu devises a plan of escape for Marechal and Rosenthal, he reserves for himself the role of creating a diversion. While all the prisoners except Marechal and Rosenthal assemble for a general roll call, Boeldieu climbs the watch-tower and plays the tune, “Petit Navire,” on a flute (an instrument he claimed earlier to have hated). He distracts the Germans long enough for his middle class comrades to effect their escape. When Rauffenstein learns of Boeldieu’s dangerous escapade, he makes a final personal appeal to Boeldieu to surrender. Interestingly, the appeal is in English, unintelligible to his own men and the various prisoners.

Rauffenstein in English: Boeldieu, have you really gone insane? Boeldieu in English: I’m perfectly sane. Rauffenstein in English: Boeldieu, you understand that if you do not obey at once and come down, I shall have to shoot…. I dread to do that. I beg you… man to man, come back. Boeldieu in English: It’s damn nice of you, Rauffenstein, but it’s impossible.

At this point, Rauffenstein is forced to shoot Boeldieu, and only afterward learns that Marechal and Rosenthal have escaped. To himself in English (in a language he can now use only with himself) he mutters, “so that is why,” and suddenly shifting to a harsh German, orders the dogs called out to search for the escapees. In the end, the mutual intelligibility of the aristocrats is overcome by their intense sense of divergent duties. As Boeldieu comments on his deathbed when Rauffenstein begs his forgiveness, “I would have done the same thing. French or German… duty is duty.” However moving the scenes with the two aristocrats may be, thay cannot offer a solution to the problem of human understanding that the film poses. They represent rather a dead end.

If there is to be such a solution, Renoir seems to tell us, it must come from the middle class, from the Marechals and Rosenthals and Elsas of Europe. Accordingly, these characters dominate the film’s final scenes.

La Grand Illusion’s most basic contributions to cinema include a series of well-followed tropes used in later prison escape films. Hiding their escape hole under floorboards beneath a bunk, the men tie a rope to a single mole digging the passage deeper. Air flows to him through a tube of cans, and a string attaches to a warning tin that he pulls to sound his readiness for relief. The excess earth is stored in small bags and emptied from under their pants during their faux gardening activities. Later escape-centric films such as Frank Darabont’s The Shawshank Redemption (1994), John Sturges’ The Great Escape (1963), and Le Trou (1960) by Jacques Becker (himself the assistant director on Grand Illusion) replicate aspects of the escape procedure established in Renoir’s film.

In originating tropes of a war or escape movie it was careful to avoid cliches of its own. La Grand Illusion features no “war is Hell” scenes of grisly trench warfare that convey the chaotic bloody truth of battle. Neither melodrama nor jingoism have roles in Renoir’s narrative. He even carefully resists all clichés about patriotism, as well as clichés regarding his own pacifist aims. Avoiding strong subjective illustrations, Renoir’s film remains politically impartial, even while he makes humanist indictments and remains a jealous disciple of his homeland.

It’s not then a movie about a prison escape. It dwells on the conflicts among men. The prison camps show the entire national community in a bubble. Ideas such as nationalism, class, and race create the conflict between the prisoners; however, at the same time, they bring people together.

It’s also a meditation on the collapse of the old order of European civilisation. Perhaps that was always a sentimental upper class illusion, the notion that gentlemen on both sides of the lines subscribed to the same honourable code of behaviour. Whatever it was, it died in the trenches of World War One. The idea that wars can be fought according to gentlemanly rules is an illusion – like the belief that the 1914-1918 conflict was the war to end all wars. As Plato said at the beginning of the birth pangs of European civlisation, ‘only the dead have seen the end of war’.

#la grande illusion #film #cinema #french #jean renoir #renoir #art #aesthetics #war #world war one #europe

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ao3feed-captiveprince · 4 years

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Hangout for all fandoms!!

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2VJy9YY

by Marvelous_Stark

Just a place for everyone of every random to hang out and talk about their ships and anything they'd like! :)

This is probably a complete waste of my time, to be honest. Facebook is a thing too lol.

You can comment links to works you've made, or ones you enjoy! Honestly post anything but hate.

Have fun, make friends, and please no arguing 😓

Words: 12, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

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Dixon & Carolyn Keene, 君の名は。| Kimi no Na wa. | Your Name., 四月は君の嘘 | Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso | Your lie in April, 田中くんはいつもけだるげ | Tanaka-kun wa Itsumo Kedaruge | Tanaka is Always Listless, 会長はメイド様! | Kaichou wa Maid-sama! | Maid Sama!, 囀る鳥は羽ばたかない | Saezuru Tori wa Habatakanai, كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights, 裏切りは僕の名前を知っている | Uragiri wa Boku no Namae wo Shitteiru | The Betrayal Knows My Name, 結城友奈は勇者である | Yuuki Yuuna wa Yuusha de aru | Yuki Yuna is a Hero, ふたりはプリキュア | Futari wa Pretty Cure, 今日から俺は!! | Kyou Kara Ore Wa!!, Koko wa Greenwood | Here is Greenwood, Bounen no Xam'd | Xam'd: Lost Memories, The X-Files, X-Men - All Media Types, Monsta X (Band), X-Men (Movieverse), Hunter X Hunter, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X1 (Korea Band), X-Men Evolution, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions, Rockman X | Mega Man X, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole, X -エックス- | X/1999, Hoshi no Kaabii | Kirby: Right Back at Ya!, やがて君になる | Yagate Kimi ni Naru | Bloom Into You (Manga), Y: The Last Man, かくりよの宿飯 | Kakuriyo no Yadomeshi | Kakuriyo: Bed & Breakfast for Spirits (Anime), Sarai-ya Goyou | House of Five Leaves, Pokemon + Nobunaga no Yabou | Pokemon Conquest, Y tu mamá también (2001), Ya-ya-yah (Band), Y Gwyll | Hinterland, 传说之主的夫人 - 尹琊 | The Legendary Master's Wife - Yin Ya, Libro de los ejemplos del conde Lucanor y de Patronio | Tales of Count Lucanor - Don Juan Manuel, Yes or No อยากรัก ก็รักเลย | Yes or No: Yaak Rak Gaw Rak Loey (Movies), Olmos y Robles (TV), Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (2002), Ya lyublyu tebya | You I Love (2004), Z for Zachariah (2015), Z Nation (TV), Z.Tao (Musician), The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod - Zac Brewer, A.B.C.-Z, World War Z - Max Brooks, Suite Life of Zack & Cody, Lost Souls - Poppy Z. Brite, Demashitaa! Powerpuff Girls Z, House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski, World War Z (2013), Exquisite Corpse - Poppy Z. Brite, The Slayer Chronicles - Zac Brewer, Mazinger Z, Drawing Blood - Poppy Z. Brite, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF, Miss Sherlock (TV), Шерлок Холмс | Sherlock Holmes (TV 2013), Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films), Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson (TV Russia), シャーロック | Sherlock: Untold Stories (TV), Murder Rooms: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970), Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century (Cartoon), Sherlock Holmes (US TV 1954), Shall We Date?: Guard Me Sherlock!+, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Captain Marvel (2019), The Defenders (Marvel TV), Marvel Ultimates, Marvel Adventures: Avengers, Marvel Noir, Marvel 3490, Captain Marvel (Marvel Comics), Star Wars (Marvel Comics), Shazam! | Captain Marvel (Comics), Currently adding more fandoms

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other

Characters: I'll add more soon - Character

Relationships: I'll add more soon

Additional Tags: I'll add more soon - Freeform

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2VJy9YY

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #captive prince

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ao3feed-saintseiya · 4 years

Text

Hangout for all fandoms!!

AO3: https://ift.tt/2VJy9YY

by Marvelous_Stark

Just a place for everyone of every random to hang out and talk about their ships and anything they'd like! :)

This is probably a complete waste of my time, to be honest. Facebook is a thing too lol.

You can comment links to works you've made, or ones you enjoy! Honestly post anything but hate.

Have fun, make friends, and please no arguing 😓

Words: 12, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other

Characters: I'll add more soon - Character

Relationships: I'll add more soon

Additional Tags: I'll add more soon - Freeform

AO3: https://ift.tt/2VJy9YY

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #saint seiya #los caballeros del zodiaco #Hangout for all fandoms!!

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ao3feed-themanfromunclemovie · 4 years

Text

Hangout for all fandoms!!

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3f1Io2o

by Marvelous_Stark

Just a place for everyone of every random to hang out and talk about their ships and anything they'd like! :)

This is probably a complete waste of my time, to be honest. Facebook is a thing too lol.

You can comment links to works you've made, or ones you enjoy! Honestly post anything but hate.

Have fun, make friends, and please no arguing 😓

Words: 12, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other

Characters: I'll add more soon - Character

Relationships: I'll add more soon

Additional Tags: I'll add more soon - Freeform

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3f1Io2o

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #tmfu #the man from uncle

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 5 years

Text

Mistaken Identity

A/N: Here. Have a meet-cute with Bucky and Steve.

Bucky met Steve’s eyes over your head as he curled a strand of your hair around one of his flesh fingers. You were well loved and sleeping peacefully between them. Their Sunshine. Steve smiled and brushed hair out of Bucky’s eyes slowly. He had the two people he loved most with him. All because of a case of mistaken identity.

6 Months Before

“I’m telling you Steve, that’s her. That’s our spy!” Bucky had shouted over the comms. “Buck, she has a backpack with unicorns on it and she’s wearing a skirt with sloths on it. SHE HAS PINK HAIR!” Steve had shouted back. The mission was a mess from the start, looking for a H.Y.D.R.A agent that had slipped through the cracks. She just kept evading capture, this Operative 9. Both men were eager to have her caught and tried. So when they cornered her in an alley, neither of them bothered to check her ID. They just sedated her and snatched her up, leaving behind her fresh cup of coffee and a muffin for the rats to enjoy.

You woke up handcuffed to a chair and groggy, the slap of metal against the side of your face jolting you back to consciousness. “Ow, what the fuck,” you groan, shaking your head. “Pleased to meet you operative 9,” Bucky said, grabbing the front of your blouse, “Remember me?” You sigh, “Look, dude, I didn’t remember it when the Russians asked me the same thing last month. I don’t know who the fuck operative 9 is but it isn’t me.” Bucky goes to slap you again and Steve catches his hand. You have to be telling the truth, “The Russians?” Steve asked. “Yeah,” You say, “Something about some missile plans I stole. Or something. I dunno. I don’t speak Russian and that guy couldn’t speak English very well.” In your bag, your phone rings and your head snaps towards it, “Please,” you say, “Someone pick that up and let me talk to them. Put it on speaker. I have a client in crisis and they might literally kill themselves.” Frustrated anxious tears well up and Bucky feels his heart thud against his ribs. He picks up the phone and punches the buttons. You clear your voice and throw him a grateful smile, “Hello, Y/N speaking?” you say, polite and professional. The man on the other end sounds unhinged, yelling about Jesus and the Devil coming into his house through the TV.

“Jonathan,” you say softly, “Use your 3 C’s remember. Catch it, Check it, Change it. Those are delusions. Unhelpful thoughts. Let's make them better thoughts.” Your voice is calm and steady and Bucky and Steve both feel lulled into a sense of calm. You talk your client down and have Bucky put him on hold, “If you would please, I need you to call the non-emergency police line. He needs to be hospitalized.” You give Bucky the number and calmly talk to the dispatcher explaining the problem and getting them to send a car before going back to your client and explaining that an officer was going to come to help them. You remind your client that you’ll talk to him on Monday “Barring any major Catastrophe or Act of God,” say goodbye and tell Bucky he could hang up. Once the line goes dead you let out a shaky breath and smile a little, “Thank you,” you say, “I was in the middle of getting his services sorted out when you grabbed me.” Steve looks at Bucky and shakes his head, “I told you this wasn’t our spy.” Bucky looks at the bruise on the side of your face where he slapped you and all he wants to do is kiss it better. Steve uncuffs you, rubbing your wrists gently, “I’m sorry about the confusion ma’am,” he says, “We’ll put the word out that you aren’t operative 9. See if we can’t keep you from getting kidnapped again.” You nod, “I guess I just have one of those faces.” Bucky smiles and Steve snorts. They like you.

They have a soft spot for women who’re more competent than they are. Bucky helps you to your feet and inspects your face, tilting it gently to get a better look at the bruise forming, “I’m sorry about your face, doll,” he says keeping his voice soft. He desperately wants to avoid scaring you. “It doesn’t hurt, much,” you say picking up your backpack. The two men are standing so close to you that you can feel the heat they radiate and it makes you flush. They’re all hard angles and rugged jawlines and you’d really like to spend some time getting to know their bodies a little better. “if you gentlemen don’t mind, I have an appointment I need to keep,” you say. That wasn’t true but if you didn’t get out of this room soon, you were going to have to call the Discovery channel so they could discover what happened to your panties.

They walked you out of the hole they were going to interrogate you in and back into an Alleyway. You smile at them and simply walk off, both of them watching you walk away, hardly noticing your limp for the sway of the sloths on your skirt.

it isn’t until you disappear around the corner that they look at each other and smirk. They have to see you again. Soon.

---------------------- Later ---------------------

Bucky and Steve spend hours looking you up online. An accomplished LCSW, accredited for multiple therapies, part of multiple activist organizations, and damn cute in a bikini. You definitely are not operative 9. You’d have had no time to be a spy with all the other things you do. “Buck,” Steve said, “I don’t think she took it personally,” Steve said when he catches Bucky looking at his metal hand with distaste. “But I hit her and I was going to do it again,” he said. Steve kissed his metal hand softly and then kissed his lips, “I cuffed her to a chair,” he reminded, “We’ll make it up to her if she’ll have us.”

So the two men set out to court you. They send you flowers, they pay for your coffee when they catch you at your favorite coffee shop. One day, they even buy your books from a book shop. “Are you stalking me?” you ask smiling a little as Bucky pulls out a chair for you and Steve sets down a drink carrier of coffees. “Maybe a little,” Steve said laughing, basking in the warmth of your smile. “The truth is, Doll, we feel terrible about our little mix up last week,” Bucky said, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, “We want to make it up to you.” You look at him, eyes glittering with mischief, “And how, pray tell would you do that?” Bucky feels his neck warm and he smiles, “Dinner, and possibly a movie.” You sip your coffee and sit back to look at them both, “Why me?” you ask, skeptical. Steve smiles, cheeks coloring, “We have a soft spot for girls that can handle themselves under pressure,” he said. Bucky chuckles, “We’re a package deal, Doll,” he explained. “We never quite wanted to let go of each other but we never stopped liking having a pretty little dame to warm our bed either.” The last part he murmurs in your ear making you shiver and Steve grins. He knows exactly what that feels like and it’s intoxicating. He can tell you like it to.

You look at them both, thinking before you say, “Okay. One. One date. You may pick me up tomorrow at 8. At my place... Since you’re stalking me I won’t give you the address.”

They both laugh and kiss your cheeks which makes you giggle. Their hearts flutter and they decide they have to make you do that as often as possible.

One date became two. Two dates turned into three. And three dates turned into more. They adored you. They spoiled you. When they were away you missed them until they showed up at your door, bruised and grinning, eager to share you and fall asleep tangled up around you.

On your bad days when work was too much and you felt like you were getting nowhere, four strong arms wrapped around you while you sobbed into a muscled chest. The first time it happened, your boys were already on your couch, relaxing and sipping beer, playing a video game until you got home. It was late. They were starting to worry, about to go look for you when they head the door slam and heard the thud of your heels hitting the floor. They looked at each other and frowned. You never slammed the door and you usually let them help you with your shoes and stockings. You walk into the kitchen, bracing yourself on the counter, head down. Your hair is falling down and you look like you just went 10 rounds with a prizefighter. You look wrecked. You insist that it’s fine, starting to make dinner with trembling hands. You like cooking for your boys. “Sunshine,” Bucky says, his gravely voice making your busy hands still, “You’re going to cut your fingers off.” Steve kisses the side of your head and hugs you tight, “C’mon, Doll,” he coaxes, “Come tell your boys about it.” Just having concerned voices and warm bodies close to you is enough to break the dam. You dissolve into helpless tears and Steve catches you as your knees buckle underneath you and carries you to the couch. They hate this, seeing you so upset and they’re so desperate to soothe you that you’re giggling before too long. They order Chinese food, they give you a long hot bath, and before you go to bed, they take you, tenderly. Reminding you gently that they love you, body and soul.

When others came looking for operative 9, they moved you to the compound. You needed to be protected and at least there, everyone would protect you. You were useful anyway. You had your own office of sorts where people could go for an impromptu therapy session when you were actually in the house. Bruce learned to really like coloring. And Tony learned some nice grounding exercises.

When you’re with your boys you’re your happiest. You dote on them. Favorite meals, cuddles, special surprises, pretty lingerie you know will render them both speechless. It fits. It all fits. like you’re a part of a puzzle that you didn’t know was missing pieces.

Long after you’ve gone to sleep, worn out from a long day or worn out from being fucked senseless, the boys lay awake for a while. Quietly laughing at how one stupid mistake had changed so much. How one stupid case of mistaken identity had brought them their own Sunshine. They quietly promised each other that they’d never let anything happen to you as they listened to your deep sleep breathing and marveled at the moonlight on your bare skin.

#steve x reader x bucky #implied smut #fluff #meet cute #angst if you squint #soft bucky #soft steve

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ao3feed-sherlockfemslash · 4 years

Text

Hangout for all fandoms!!

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2VJy9YY

by Marvelous_Stark

Just a place for everyone of every random to hang out and talk about their ships and anything they'd like! :)

This is probably a complete waste of my time, to be honest. Facebook is a thing too lol.

You can comment links to works you've made, or ones you enjoy! Honestly post anything but hate.

Have fun, make friends, and please no arguing 😓

Words: 12, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other

Characters: I'll add more soon - Character

Relationships: I'll add more soon

Additional Tags: I'll add more soon - Freeform

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2VJy9YY

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #sherlock

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flammentanz · 2 years

Photo

Vasily Livanov as Sherlock Holmes and Vitaly Solomin as Dr. John H. Watson in “The Hound of the Baskervilles”

#vasily livanov #vitaly solomin #sherlock holmes #dr. watson #the hound of the baskervilles #russian sherlock holmes #russian soul for english gentlemen #my gifs

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bluepenguinstories · 6 years

Text

Happiness Overload Chapter Twenty-Four

The device attached itself to the nape of the neck and burrowed its way into the skin, integrating until the device and the body were one. Once the lights flickered to the tune of the heart's words, the first word was spoken:

“OMIGOSH!”

Wow. I MUST try that again. I opened my mouth and:

“OMIGOSH!DIDYOUSEETHOSEGIRLS?THEYWERESOCUTE!IWANNADATEONEOFTHEM!AND!AND!GUYS!MYVOICE!IT!IS!SOCUTE!”

Gumby puffed his cheeks and croaked. You don't have to make it look SO obvious that you aren't impressed. GOSH!

“Calm thyself,” Gumby tapped on my froggy shoulders. His smiling salamander mask did NOT match his tone, if you were to ask me.

I puffed my cheeks as well in protest.

“Come on, don't be like that, Polo. We're just as happy you're alive and that you get to speak. All I ask is that you talk a little slower.”

“I'm SORRY! It's just that I saw GIRLS while I was hopping about!”

“Yes, but remember: humans are our enemies. Those who are not frogs nor wish to become frogs ought to be eliminated.”

“I know, but...GIRLS!”

Gumby turned to “Marco”, my “brother”. HA!

“I must say, it is rather impressive that you knew of device that allowed Polo to speak in English. What I would like to know, however, is how Polo managed to survive the building's destruction.”

“Marco” tugged at a beard that seemed to have grown out of a puff of smoke. “His” eyes looked sunken, as well, and wrinkles around “his” face. Perhaps such a jester was trying to mimic how Conrad looked, but then again...maybe “he” was going for an “old man” look.

“Many doors,” wheezed “Marco” in what was a DEFINITE “old man”impression, though ALL I could think of was a chain-smoking chipmunk.

“BRO kept ME in 'HIS' pocket!” I piped up.

“Hmm...yes...sadly, I could not fit Mr. Periwinkle in my pocket,” my “brother” surmised, hunching “his” back now. Really playing SOME kind of role, but anyone's guess.

“OMIGOSH! You said we'd ALL be okay!”

“Yes, my dear sister. Mr. Periwinkle will be fine as soon as the facility is rebuilt. I imagine he may feel a little different once reawakened, maybe a little hungry...”

“Well, either way, I'm sure glad we've made some progress. Not much further now and we'll be able to create a new world for frogkind!”

“Ho ho ho!”

I tilted my lumpy head. “You Santa now?”

“New world for frogkind, or preserve frogs worldwide...either way, a new world is upon us. I project that the happiness meter is already off the charts. Think of how much higher it can go.”

“Why does it matter if humans are happier when they are our enemies?” Gumby groaned.

“Your enemies. I love all my brothers and sisters. Humans, frogs, beings from other planets, you name it. They're all so precious, ho ho ho!” Chuckled “Santa”.

“Who ARE you trying to fool? You're less like “SANTA” and more like “SAT--”

“Never mind that, think about where we are right now.”

Right. RIGHT. Oh WOW. I was SO absorbed in my new voice and how CUTE it was that I forgot about where we WERE.

So, I looked around and noticed a room full of machinery with buttons all over that did WHO KNEW WHAT. All I knew is how sleek and silver it all was, SO shiny. The air around tasted manufactured and rubbery, but not the GOOD kind of rubbery you get from eating flies. Even the floors where I lay my CUTE little frog legs were shiny AND smooth. I think “Saint Nick” wanted me to look further, but the only other thing of note were strange devices secured in cases. Gumby must've opened up the case that held what's allowing me to speak and...

“OMIGOSH!” I blurted.

“Ho ho! Amazing, yes, sister?”

“Shut IT! I was just remembering how CUTE those girls were! I hope I can see them again! UGH!”

“Ol' Scratch” gave me a pat on the back.

“Fret not, sister. You failed to kill them and they have survived their ordeal. Right now they are in a separate part of the whole.”

“YAY!” I hopped and flapped my tongue about. Alas, no flies in sight.

“Yes, I too am relieved. If the two were to have died before I got a chance to meet one of them, I just don't know what I would have done.”

My “brother” looked mournful, but was quick to change demeanor once again.

“For the moment, you two should look around the area. I, on the other hand, have a bit of soul-searching to go on. Fret not! We shall meet again!”

“Excuse ME?” I croaked. “That's it? Not much instruction, huh?”

The eternal imposter closed “his” eyes and cracked a smile. “Henceforth, you and Gumby may squabble to be the de facto leader!”

I crossed my upper frog legs with displeasure. My humanly physique was not having it, but what else could have been done but let the wanderer wander?

As “he” walked away into another room, or faded from view as if the presence was but a mere memory, Gumby turned to me and the two of us nodded in understanding.

From a control room, two esteemed scholars were having a little chit-chat with each other as they observed an unsatisfactory situation. I would soon be in that same control room.

“I am glad everything's coming together, but I hate how easy everything has been,” I lamented to Gumby just a little while prior.

“And why would that displease you?” Gumby had asked me.

I gave my colleague in amphibious studies no answer then, and if I were to have an answer now, it wouldn't be a satisfactory one. All that ran through my head were jelly beans and the knowledge buried somewhere that if things weren't complicated further in any way, shape, or form, then I would be one angry beaver.

“And then I said 'he had a booy that just wouldn't quit!'” One of the scientists threw a laughing fit.

“Dr. Chekhov, entertainer!” The other congratulated. “Maybe once reset, the next Sgt. Michaels feel a certain attraction toward our type!” The other one suggested, bearing a thick Russian accent.

“I concur, Dr. Tolstoy! To be kissed by such a hunk of muscles is what all scientists dream of!”

“Gentlemen,” I greeted as I hobbled up to the two.

“Who-Who are you?!” Dr. Chekhov struggled to speak. Poor sap must've been paralyzed with fear.

“Dr. Erikson, at your service,” I inched closer, introducing myself in the process.

I noticed Dr. Tolstoy reach his hand toward a button. Before he could press, what I presume would have been a button for weapons to appear, or to call security, I sandwiched myself between the two men and drew out my knives from my cloak, stabbing each one in the side.

“I agree, Dr. Chekhov. Guns are so excessive.”

Both seethed and winced in pain. I licked my lips in response. They writhed and squirmed and I noticed them reel back and try to reach for those buttons once again. Oh, I wouldn't let them hit that spot. Just as they were about to press their hand against the surface, I pulled my knives out of their sides and rammed them into their hands, forcing their palms to be stuck to the monitors just inches away from their security buttons. As I watched them attempt to struggle free, I shoved the knives deeper, and listened close to their screams. Just as I was sure the two would let something out, I covered their mouths and made shushing sounds.

“There, there, all will be well.”

I let go of them and Dr. Tolstoy spoke right away.

“What you want?”

“Let me tell you a story: God walks into a bar and announces loud enough for everyone to hear, 'I'm an atheist!'”

Shock and confusion filled Dr. Tolstoy in equal measure.

“I don't understand,” he whimpered.

“I want you to have a little faith,” I soothed once more. “Nobody bats an eyelash. See, the joke is that God showed up as a straight, white man! Isn't that funny?” I burst into a fit of laughter until I noticed that neither scientist looked amused. Such a brash reaction caused me to grimace.

“...Did I leave that part out?” I knew I had to remedy this somehow.

“Okay, so the bartender asks God what it'll be and God denies any drinks, saying, 'I don't believe in any spirits'. Now, this is how the bartender knew he was dealing with a smartass, and any rational person would have kicked this guy out, but the bartender had already met the quota on tips and it would soon be closing time, so as long as there wasn't too much of a disturbance, he figured all was good.”

“Just tell us what you're doing here!” Dr. Chekhov demanded. I covered his mouth again and shushed.

“It's rude to interrupt. Now, where was I?” I had to pause once more as the good doctor broke my concentration. “Ah, so one of the patrons decides to humor God. They walk up and go, 'now, what of heaven? What of hell?' To which God replies, 'what about it?' The patron shook their head. 'Even still, are you going to mock those with faith?' God shrugged in reply and told the patron, 'I just don't believe in a higher power.' By coincidence, God took a sip of a cider.”

Dr. Chekhov's eyes widened, a great revelation thrust upon him.

“You...! Dr. Magellan!”

The two looked at each other, a loving gaze of despair. Each helped each other to break free from the knives that held down their hands, but I wasn't done yet. I grabbed two more knives from my cloak and slammed them into the scientists' other hands. Now they were nailed down to their machinery.

“You wanted to know what I was doing here, yes?”

Tears filled their cheeks. Blood trickled from their hands. Yet, they nodded.

“I am but a Steve looking for his Adam.”

I could sense confusion but I knew past their agitation, they knew.

“Were Adam and Eve both siblings and lovers? I love everyone, but sometimes this love is a blurry one.”

Though bound, the two were able to point me in the right direction. Kind gestures went a long way. As thanks, I pressed my hands against their faces, feeling the palms of my fingers against their flesh. Yes, those two were going to make great masks.

I bid them farewell and took my knives with me.

I took note of every item we passed through, mapping out the layout of our surrounding in my head. Polo, meanwhile, hopped about.

“Now that we can communicate, I have many questions I wish to ask you,” I mentioned as I took my strides, never averting my gaze from the foreign objects.

“Oh, I BET! This is all SO exciting!”

I think I preferred it more when all you could say was 'Polo'.

...But then I wouldn't have the chance to gain insight. I should take this opportunity, however it presents itself.

“But y'know, dude, we could ALWAYS communicate. Remember when you signaled which direction for us to go?”

I shook my head. I already knew we weren't going to find what we came for in the current room. I pointed her in the direction of the next door.

“SEE? That's what I'm saying!” She pointed out before hopping through.

I shook my head again. That wasn't what I meant.

We made our way to the next set of halls. Alarms began to sound. Marco had been a fool. If he had taken the time, there was little doubt he could have disabled the alarms. My third arm tried to reach up to my ear to block out the noise, but couldn't reach far enough. Soldiers ran out in droves to investigate what set off the alarm. Their armor, thick and metallic. Their weapons, strange and box-like. I would have to examine their technology and take note of it all as soon as possible.

“Who goes there?” The soldiers yelled.

Polo tilted her froggy head.

“Umm...RIBBIT?” She must have still been getting used to this new voice. My third arm reached up to my face and rubbed my forehead.

“You don't have to say 'ribbit'...” I groaned.

She made a leap into the air just as the bullets fired in every direction. My third arm was enough to protect me, and Polo's speed matched with her acrobatics meant that the soldiers' efforts were futile. She would grab some of the bullets with her tongue and spit them back at the soldiers. None of them doing any damage, due to their armor, but the acidic nature of Polo's mouth was strong enough to corrode bits and pieces of their armor. Glimpses of skin could be seen, and knowing what said flesh was made out of...

I only hoped salvation could come soon enough.

Polo managed to land a dropkick on one of the soldiers, and as I watched the hunk of alloy that carried such a clumsy species fall to a sleek floor made of unknown metals, I lifted my mask and licked my lips.

“Why are you just standing there?!” One of the soldiers barked. The surrounding oafs had their weapons raised.

“Are you going to alert others?” I looked around. “Or maybe others are already on their way. I would like to see what happens next, yes...” I licked my lips again, anticipating the next move. My gill rakers twitched like the little whiskers they resembled and I sucked up the air around me. Free from the soldiers' grasp came their weapons and I felt them make their way into my mouth. I took a big gulp and swallowed. Later on, I would have to regurgitate them and study the anatomy of their weaponry and see about crafting any upgrades.

The gasps from the soldiers were unsurprising; a natural reaction that anyone not used to my behavior would have.

Turrets and lasers appeared from panels in the walls and floors. Again, not a surprise. If these 'elite' soldiers were having difficulty, other measures would have to be taken. I shielded myself with my third arm and watched as it fell apart, other arms forming and unforming, filling in whatever gaps my old third arm left.

“This too...is fascinating...” I looked down as the lasers continued to do their work and holes were made into the arm. As much as the pain was on a higher threshold than most could handle, I made the effort not to flinch, and instead turned my head toward Polo and nodded.

“You GOT it, BOSSERONI!”

With her tongue, she tore a strip off the wall and crawled her way in where I presume she next found some panel to control the turrets because what came next were the robotic weaponry shifting their target from my beaten hydra of miniature arms and toward the soldiers.

“Et tu?” I asked the devices. They responded by ignoring my quip and taking fire at the soldiers who helped raise them.

Astonished, I took note of how the armor prevented the artillery and energy blasts from piercing through the armor and instead knocked each soldier back.

“...It's not easy being green,” emitted from each of the soldiers' helmets a song and Lilypad's calling card.

“Just what have you done to our communications?” Erupted the cries of a soldier.

“Not my doing,” the smile upon my face stretched. “Our esteemed engineer, Polo, has that honor.”

“YO! I found a mini PC and I can do all SORTS of junk on it!” Her voice box boomed. That voice was still one I would have to get used to.

I relaxed my face and exhaled a soft sigh.

“This has been a valuable experience. However, it would be far more valuable for us to move forward.”

Polo made a mighty leap while I walked forward, stepping on one of the fallen soldiers.

“Just what are you?” The one I had stepped on asked.

I leaned down, removing their helmet with one of my more presentable arms, and took a look at the face I would soon forget.

“An observer. Someone who seeks happiness. One who moves forward.”

I made good on my word and put the helmet back on as an asinine sign of respect before I stepped on their face and pressed my foot down hard enough to crush the soldiers' skull. Before I may have had a slight smile, my default expression. Now it was a full on grin, stretching far enough to reach my eyes. As soon as I heard the crunch and could confirm their forgettable face was flattened, I made my strides. Soon the two of us would be closing in on our goal.

There was a twinge of pain, to which I responded by turning my attention to the esteemed Dr. Tolstoy.

“I just had the strangest feeling,” I groaned, a pulsing headache crawling its way to the surface of my forehead.

“Just now?” Tolstoy with his thick and charming accent asked in response.

“Just now, yes. It felt like...” I was doing my damnedest to recall the feeling. “Like there was a presence that wasn't supposed to be here. Just now.”

“Non-authorized? Besides the girls set to be executed?”

I nodded, loose hairs making their way to the floor.

“Never worry about those two. Velvet shall cease and once the section of the facility is been restored, a new Mavis shall resume her role.”

“Wonderful!”

“...Then there's the matter of the amphibious presence.”

“Fear not, brother. We'll boil the frogs, then dissect them!”

“One of them seems to be part salamander. The fact that they've caused us this much trouble is worrisome.”

“As I said: boil, then dissect.”

Yes, boil, then dissect...once we get the air base up and running, that fat toad that ran around causing a massacre was sure to be apprehended and experimented on. Discovery can be a dirty business, everyone in the field knew that. Should it bother me that some hundred or so lives were lost to a unknown terror? Not particularly. We rebuild and adapt. Property damage as well, it means nothing when we can recreate what has been lost as if it never left us.

Even still, my fears were not alleviated.

“I don't know. I can't shake the feeling...someone was here in this room...”

“Would it help if you checked the cameras?”

I pondered. Yes, if I just looked at the footage of the past five, no, thirty minutes, there would lie my answer.

So I clicked through the footage. Nothing. Just me. Sitting there.

As I intensified my stare, a jolt of pain shot through my pain as if I had been stabbed. I felt as if my life was being stolen as my breath shortened, only for it to be gone again in just a split second. Maybe there was something my mind was surpressing, maybe it was my old age (doubtful considering how well I've preserved myself), or maybe it was something trying to worm itself in – a creature wriggling through, forcing itself in.

...But even still, nothing changed on the camera. It was just me.

I turned to Dr. Tolstoy and laughed.

“That's right! I always fancied myself a companion!”

I spun the extra chair a good bit. It seldom brought me joy, but being down here could be a lonesome experience. We all had our job to do and little else.

“The ETNA corporation has been kind to us. I made a note to request a companion at the next available time. After all, I had to derive happiness somewhere.

Ah, but in the meantime, I had Dr. Tolstoy.

Doors opened that were not meant to open. As it was believed, the only one with the permissions necessary was deceased. Of course, in such a line of work, the truth was more that said person was somewhere outside of space, no longer concerned with the contents within.

Ah, but I was, and I stepped through, irregardless of technological advances.

Within the confines (and they were confines, that much was a certainty), was a large laboratory, not unlike the multitude of laboratories that make the facility their home. Large cylinders filled with unknown fluids lined in rows, computer systems lined up to match each cylinder, and blueprints sprawled to indicate what each one contained. Each blueprint, with different diagrams, different formulas scattered throughout, and in various languages. Props to whoever could read such blueprints and understand the contents, but what I sought was much greater:

Within one cylinder in particular was a body of a being, once conscious, floating within the fluids. Such a creature with their head hunched over, and even still was well over ten feet tall with a thick, bulbous head and sunken eyes. Their complexion, desaturated, and limbs that resembled the limbs of trees, sprouting from their torso. There was a human-like quality to them, even if the majority of the genetic structure was far from anything of Earth.

“My Adam...” I murmured, pressing my palm against the casing. “Although we have never met, my brother, I have thought of kissing you ever since I had the memory of your existence.”

I traced my fingers across the casing, the smoothness of it soothing me.

“How unfortunate that we meet now. You, a prisoner to those you were against, and I, free to dismantle friend and foe alike.

Silk eyes told me all. I nodded, agreeing with the assessment.

“I know,” I reached out, although knowing there was little I could do. “It isn't right. There must be another way. I should respect my elders, right?”

An earful of memories rushed forward.

“I was never very good at that, I'm afraid. You see, what I seek most is not something so grandiose. I only wish to experience joy, a simple zest for life, something to justify this existence.”

“You know,” I was so casually interrupted by a voice I failed to account for. “That thing can't actually hear you.”

I turned to face the figure: a listless scholar, scientist, or student, appearing adrift in a cushioned chair and hunched onto a desk full of papers.

“Oh, of course. I was just taking the time to consider the frailty of existence, even accounting for a being of such power.”

“How did you even get in here?” Asked the bookish oaf.

“I am Dr. Oh...you know what? Forget about it.” I was too exhausted to give myself a name in this instance.

“I see. Well, if you're not supposed to be here, you'll probably be killed on sight. Maybe not. Never had a guest before, let alone an intruder, so who am I to say what will happen?”

“I came in through the door,” I explained. The very door that I should not have had access to.

At this point, the one at the desk went back to the papers. I was here for a reason, but having an audience was a treat I could resist sinking my teeth into.

“And what of you?” I pondered. Although looking toward the being in the cylinder, the question was addressed to the human.

“How did I get here or who am I?” Yawned the listless words from a tired soul.

“More, what is your purpose?” I was surprised by my ability to carry through this conversation so far.

“Ah, excellent. An all-purpose question,” The good lab rat sat up, attention now on me. “Well then, I am Dr. Lem. If you've made it here, I'm sure you already know what it is I do.”

“How much have you learned?”

“Again, if you're here --”

“So you observe this unconscious being, keep it in a stasis. Neither awake nor dead. Humor me: let's assume I don't know what those liquids are in the tube.”

“Simply put, it's bongwater.”

I stroked my chin, the same one that at one instance, whether in the past or future, wore a beard. “What strain?”

“Excuse me?”

“Indica or sativa?”

“You must already know we've been keeping this thing in an unconscious state, preserved. How else do you think we managed that?”

“That's not what I asked.”

Dr. Lem sighed. “Hybrid. It's a concentrated form of several plants, distilled into a liquid. We tried many methods to keep our subject alive and found that to be the only sufficient method.”

“Ah, that explains so much. Thank you.”

“Does it? I don't feel like I gained much from this conversation.”

My doctorate companion resigned back to the papers on the desk.

“Is this what you do when you have nothing to report on my brother?”

“My every action is monitored as well. Not much I can do, so I just find things to occupy myself. I've taken to writing a novel, for instance, as I am allowed pen and paper. I've come up with several drafts. Now if you excuse me...wait. Did you say 'my brother'?”

“It's a term of endearment. I find in some ways that the thing in the case and I are joined at the hips.”

“Every scientist, every soldier, everything with a pulse, including the facilities themselves, have a role to play. We are to stick to that role with little to no interaction unless permitted. We are monitored, though at this point I doubt it's even a human that monitors us. Artificial intelligence has become so if we do something out of line, the system will know and eliminate us well before any person does. The only reason I know this is because I am allowed to.”

“The system was offline for a few hours,” I pointed out.

“Yes. I wasn't allowed out, but even though if I tried, I may have made my escape if not for the fact that the doors were stuck shut. The one time I may have been safe to leave, and I couldn't.”

I shook my head. “Shame, really.”

“I only say all this to highlight what kind of situation I, and the others who work here, are in. Though I'm sure you're already well aware of this. Hell, all our food is made from 3D printers!”

I tapped on the casing.

“Please don't do that,” Dr. Lem scolded.

“The being you hold, they're referred to as 'the beige', correct?”

No response. Doctor was lost in the throws of creativity.

“That's a good of a name as any, I suppose. I like to call them family. Of course, I may also call you family, if it pleases you.”

“Do you mind? I'm busy writing.”

“Your magnum opus, the one no one will ever read. The thing you use to keep yourself sane. Some kind of marvelous sci-fi romp about the strangeness of memories.”

Dr. Lem leaned forward, a spark in the scientist's eyes.

“How did you know?”

“My entire life has been built on the strangeness of memories. It is said that a 'Beige' is born with the memories of all things, as I'm sure this one was, once. Imagine it, the contents of a 'hall of memories', ingrained knowledge upon birth. I can understand the interest in them.”

“Do you have an interest as well?”

“I am afraid very little interests me.”

This time, it was Lem who said, “shame, really.”

“There are qualities that a 'Beige' holds that extends past innate knowledge, of course. Molding and shifting their features in slight ways, their skin a sturdy material in which projectiles mean little to them, a hallucinogenic effect upon those in contact in them which can be used to influence others in various ways when honed.”

“I have observed similar things, yes. They're all in my notes.”

“With knowledge comes the knowledge of being able to exist near memories they have a connection with. Some may call this 'teleportation', although I would say that their methods are a little different than the ETNA Corporation's.”

“Fascinating...Is there more?”

At this point, my interest in Dr. Lem was waning, although to say there was any interest to begin with would have been a farce.

“Quite unfair, I would say. I would even go as far as to say it's cheating. But that's what things are like in the universe. We have so many powers that cheat to win that we may as well excuse this, too.”

I tapped once more.

“Could you stop that?”

I tapped harder.

“Why?” I asked as I stared at the Beige and wished they could stare back. “Will it break?”

“No...I don't think so. But the only think keeping them alive is the cannabis! If the tube were to break, they would die!”

I could see little cracks forming.

“On the contrary,” I smiled. “I think I'll be just fine.”

A little bit of this...and that...and AH! There we go!

“Are you about done?”

I tapped on the little voice box attached to me and shushed Gumby with one of my webbed fingers.

“Excuse YOU!”

“No, excuse you. I do not take well to being shushed.”

I stuck my tongue out at Gumby, who, underneath the mask of a smiling salamander lie the face of a smiling salamander.

There was a pause where both of us watched the monitor in front of us shift into a video of Frogger. Then, an announcement flashed on the screen, spoken by a representative of the World Wildlife Foundation:

“We are Lilypad: A Nonprofit Organization who seeks to enrich the lives of amphibians across the globe. Gay rights. Trans rights. Peace on Earth.”

I grinned. I believe Gumby did too. I mean, Gumby HAD to. I wrote the script!”

I hopped along the corridor, to which Gumby followed. I could sense a stench of disappointment, which meant Gumby needed a shower, like, BAD.

“Did you really have to expose the World Wildlife Foundation like that? Now The Flashbulb will go after them.”

“Not to worry, YO! We got this!”

Before us appeared an image of a tall, silver haired lady with the face of the most beautiful toad I had ever seen.

“This is Toadette. How may I assist you today?” She spoke, her voice ever so alluring.

“Toadette, really?”

“I think her name WAS Edna or something,” I shrugged, then added, “but Toadette just sounds prettier, don'tcha think? It's only temporary, anyway!”

“You changed the image and personality of an AI as well as hacking into a security system. I'm impressed.”

“YO! It's only temporary! Then she'll be REAL mad and stuff!”

Gumby growled. “Toadette, can you lead us to happiness?”

“Is that what you desire?” Toadette inquired.

“Enough with THE cryptic shit, SHEESH!” I scolded Gumby. “NAH! What we WANT is the lab! Y'KNOW? Where the FROG sterilization goo is at!”

“Ah. Just down the hall, to the right. Three rooms across.”

“So, she's going to return to her old self momentarily, then she'll want to kill us,” Gumby pointed out.

“YEAH! But what are consequences?”

We made it to our destination.

“Toadette, MY fair toady, IF you PLEASE!”

She puffed her cheeks, and the doors to the lab opened.

“Thank you! You're the BEST A.I. EVER!” I hopped as my voice box squeaked, both of us in joy.

As soon as Gumby and I made our way inside, the doors closed behind us. We could see the image of Toadette shifting back to the face of a pale, stone-faced human.

“Now, this will be where you die.”

“LAME!” I bellowed. “You were SO much cuter as a toad!”

“This fast, huh?” Gumby observed.

“I commend whatever abilities you have learned, but I am nothing if not adaptable.”

The hologram image of the lady disappeared, without me being able to admire her beauty as a toad. I pined like the lovesick fool I was.

“YO! I REALLY need a FROG girlfriend!”

“First thing's first,” Gumby reminded me, rummaging around the contents, examining every vial.

As if I was going to sit around and let Gumby take all the credit, NUH-UH. I hopped about the lab and kept my froggy eyes peeled.

“Careful not to knock anything over,” Gumby scolded. Said coward never even bothered to look my way.

We continued our search. I asked Gumby if he even knew what any of those vials contained.

“No, but there should be some documents somewhere that would point us in the right direction.”

“USELESS! USELESS! Utterly USELESS!” I hissed, or as close as a frog could get to hissing.

So continued our hopscotch across every nook and cranny. I'm talking about cupboards and counter tops alike, sinks and places hard to reach. If this was some buried treasure, or if it was in plain sight, we'd find it.

“Hey! Who's there?” Called out the gruff voice of a soldier, situated at the other end of the lab in his fancy armor with that big ol' hunk of weapon in their lap.

Gumby, with his grinning salamander face, turned to face the soldier. “I have expressed my desire to study your weaponry and armor.”

The soldier picked themselves up and aimed at us. Gumby signaled for me to do the ol' tongue-twister, which means exactly what you think it does: I flung my tongue forward and wrapped it around the soldier and the chair, twisting and constricting until I was sure the soldier couldn't move.

“Sit still,” Gumby commanded.

“It burns!” The soldier screeched.

“Yes, Polo is a poison dart frog-person.”

“My tongue is good for ALL SORTS of things!” I added.

“How did that thing say that?”

Really? 'That thing'?

I pointed to my voice box and scowled.

“Right. How convenient.”

“Now,” Gumby commanded. “You will tell us everything we need to know.”

The soldier nodded.

“First of all, were you aware of our existence?”

Gumby tossed me a knife and I caught it. I raised it against the soldier's neck.

“Are you aware about this? You better not be,” I threatened.

“We were told a group would be trying to steal from us, we just didn't imagine what that group would be!” The soldier gasped.

“Even still, if you were aware, you should have been better prepared. Why would your military allow us to so easily make a mockery of you?”

I inched the knife closer.

“Because simply put, we don't care!” Even as the soldier said this, I could tell the 'we' didn't apply to the one in the chair. I could smell the panic from where I was situated.

“The base you so thoroughly destroyed has been reconstructed! We didn't prepare an ambush there because we knew what you were after! Even with your skills, did you really think we would give it up? It's gone!”

Gumby looked at me, to which I looked back. Both of us, in shock.

“Gone?”

The soldier shook their head, helmet not allowing much of a range of motion.

“You were never going to get it. Now you are trapped in this room and reinforcements will show up to massacre you.”

Gumby walked forward and pressed his third arm, which was really a multitude of tiny arms at this point, against the soldier's helmet. Even behind the grinning facade, I could tell Gumby was pissed AS FUCK.

“Where is it now? We need it to achieve our amphibious paradise.”

“Who knows? Another base, another facility. Somewhere in another state, or even just a few miles away. Maybe another country. Maybe some thousand miles underwater.”

Gumby groaned.

“You think we're going to kill you, yes?”

“Doesn't matter. Not like my life means any more than anyone else's here.”

Gumby chuckled, lifting up his mask and revealing the grinning salamander underneath. He reached into his labcoat pocket and pulled out a tiny vial.

“I never managed to reproduce it. I was hoping that if we obtained your organization's concoction to sterilize all amphibians that I could reverse engineer it. Alas, all I have is this sample from when I made myself who I am today: the next evolutionary step in mankind.

He lifted the soldier's helmet. I never even caught a glimpse of the soldier's face. All I could see was Gumby forcing the contents of the vial down the soldier's throat.

“This may kill you, yet. But if it doesn't, you shall become like one of us.”

I let go of the soldier and hopped away, the soldier now having lost consciousness. Gumby retreated back to the other side of the lab where we entered and slammed his fists against the counters.

“Marco led us right into a trap!” He bellowed.

“Well, DUH!” I retorted. “He DID say that we would be doing just what The Flashbulb expected us to!”

“No, but he must have known what we were looking for wouldn't be here!”

“Again, DUH! Bro tends to know these things!”

Gumby paused.

“That reminds me, I've always wondered how it was you two were able to communicate.”

“AH! The question that never needed answering!” I beamed. “Like Han and Chewie! Like Rocket and Groot!”

��We're going to be surrounded soon. Our odds aren't looking too great. Could you please just indulge me?”

“Yeah, DUDE! So, like, I think he explained it to me once, LIKE, he knew my memories!”

“That...doesn't register.”

“It's like mind reading, sorta, I guess? Memories of the past, present, and future. He says he's got 'em, they're just a bit jumbled, like jelly beans!”

“How is that possible? Some item he uses?”

“I don't know, YO!”

“Even though I met him before you, you know him better than I do.”

“Yeah, but not MUCH! All's I can say is trickery is par for the course!”

“Right. He did tell me he may lose interest in our goal. He also refused to become one of us.”

“YUP! Who IS he? FROG? HUMAN? NAH! More like a TREE! Or a SLIME!”

“You know, those are different things.”

“He's a MUSHROOM!”

Gumby drew a deep breath. “Is that really what Marco is?”

I shrugged. “Beats me! He's OUT of this WORLD, YO!”

“There may be something to that if he was in the city where Kelly Roger was and he managed to get here. Oh, what I would give to dissect him piece by piece and figure out just what he really is.”

“Good LUCK, YO! Dude's a tricky one!”

“Did he say what he was going to do here, by the way?”

I put my webbed hand on my mouth, tongue sticking out, and pondered.

“Said something about devouring his brother, but that could be anybody. You know how he is with calling everyone his sibling.”

“Right. Then he plans to devour Euphoria as well.”

Gumby let out a deep barrel of a laugh.

“Never did I imagine that Marco and I would end up opposing each other, but it looks like we still share the same goal after all.

I licked my nostril.

“POLO-YOLO! What's the plan now?”

Gumby placed his mask back on his face. “If we can find Euphoria before Marco, we can achieve happiness and create a paradise where everyone is a frog person.”

“Sounds good, YO!”

“I just wonder what it is Marco would want with Euphoria...”

“To experience happiness, YO! DUH!”

Before we could continue our talk of my 'brother' and his zany schemes, we both heard the thunderous clatter of footsteps. Gumby looked around and my eyes followed his until we both saw a vent in the ceiling. Gumby pointed toward said vent.

“Polo, OUT!” I darted and leaped into the vent, leaving Gumby behind. With so many weapons and explosives sure to appear, I should have been more worried for the guy, but I knew him well enough.

“Contact the World Wildlife Foundation as soon as you get the chance,” Gumby instructed. “Let them know of Marco's betrayal.”

“We are Lilypad: A Nonprofit Organization who seeks to enrich the lives of amphibians across the globe. Gay rights. Trans rights. Peace on Earth.”

The words flashed on my screen as I watched, wishing I had a cup of coffee.

“Dr. Tolstoy, what do you make of this?”

“I think it should go away soon. Our systems are good at clearing these kinds of things. This little 'Lilypad' group is just a distraction.”

“I agree, Dr. Tolstoy. By now, our base should have been recovered and our faculty remade. Such a glorious thing to behold, I simply cannot wait!”

“Ah, Dr. Chekhov, I wonder if Sgt. Michaels has a thicker mustache now.”

I knew there was no Dr. Tolstoy, but I needed someone to bounce ideas off of.

“Not just our previous faculty, but a couple more as well. Even a member of 'Lilypad' will soon be one of us. Won't it be lovely to have a toad in our employ?”

“Quite! By the way, Dr. Chekhov, I think we ought to check in on the outside world. Particularly the city where the first ETNAvator was installed.”

I did just what Dr. Tolstoy asked of me and switched one of my monitors to display said city. Sights of destruction glared at the screen as buildings burned, crumbled, and citizens crashing every which way.

“Oh my. Wonder what could have happened here.”

I zoomed in on some of the citizens, who were ranting and raving about how they were so happy meanwhile doing such self-destructive acts like swinging from telephone poles. Police officers were running around, shooting others without discretion, announcing how happy they were to murder without impunity.

“Looks like there has been a flaw in the system,” I mentioned.

“Yes, Dr. Chekhov. We knew of the possibility of error when the elevators were introduced.”

“Yes, Dr. Tolstoy. Although only a .01% chance of this occurring, here it is. Everyone feeling the effects of Euphoria to such a degree.”

In spite of the pandemonium, there was little cause for concern.

“Soon this will spread,” I mentioned. “If something doesn't get done, Etna might soon find herself out of a job.”

“That's the problem when you let a string of code run a department; who takes the blame?

Laughter erupted from the room.

“Ah, but we should be fine! The underground facility is protected from the effects of ETNA's machinations so long as none of the copies comes into contact with those working below.”

I looked back at the devastation that was the city. If such a thing could happen there and spreads, it was only a matter of time before the faculty of the base also started feeling such things. Knowing what we were dealing with, the effects could take hold any moment.

“As soon as we execute Velvet and Mavis, all will be better,” I reclined in my chair, telling myself those words. I turned to the empty chair beside me. “So what if everyone ends up killing themselves? If we can recreate our faculty, who's to say we can't recreate entire populations? All we have to do is take the time to make sure these new folks don't overload themselves.”

Yes, all would be well. Maybe a little chaos for now, but perfection wasn't built overnight. All would be accounted for. That I could still remind myself of that simple fact left a smile on my face.

#happiness overload #jeez this took me like two months #im so sorry #also I havent done much proofreading so this post may be edited several times #scifi #comedy #dark #writing #fiction #still posting these chapters to tumblr until I make a wordpress even tho I know tumblr is shit now #oh well

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oselatra · 6 years

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2018 fall Arkansas fine arts preview

Crystal Bridges completes the American story with "Art for a New Understanding."

Is Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art the most woke museum in the country? That's what The Washington Post suggested in an article earlier this year as the museum began to reinstall its early American galleries to, Director Rod Bigelow said, better reflect "the complexity of the American story."

The early American galleries were initially dominated by images of patriarchy and aristocracy and unspoiled scenery — the 18th century Franks family; George Washington; the Marquis de Lafayette; Mrs. Theodore Atkinson and her flying squirrel; the poet and artist gentlemen of Asher Durand's "Kindred Spirits"; romantic landscapes by Cole, Innes, Cropsey et al., Bierstadt's nostalgic scenes of Native Americans fishing and George de Forest Brush's "The Indian and the Lily." A thematic reassembly of works in the first galleries now pairs such works with a 19th century Salish cradleboard, Lakota Siouxan beaded skin pouches, an 18th century portrait of a Spanish lady; a 20th century painting, "Florida Mexicana," by Alfredo Ramos Martinez; Nari Ward's 27-foot-long installation "We the People," the words spelled out in shoestrings. The themes of the galleries are painted on the wall in both English and Spanish: The full complement of America has been invited to the party. As that redo was going on, over in the temporary exhibition galleries was the superb "Soul of a Nation: Art in the Age of Black Power," a show of work by outstanding African-American artists working from the 1960s to 1980s.

Now comes "Art for a New Understanding: Native Voices, 1950s to Now," an exhibition of more than 80 artworks, including painting, video, sculpture, performance art, photography and more, opening Oct. 6. The works address contemporary issues of social justice, ridicule stereotype and show Native artists to be not a part of a solemn, monolithic culture, but as diverse as America itself, with a keen wit sharpened to a fine edge by historical affronts (like genocide) by white America.

One of the artists whose work will be at Crystal Bridges is Kent Monkman, a Canadian First Nation artist whose work would be rightly shown next to Bierstadt's "Indian Encampment." While Bierstadt renders an idyllic scene of Natives swimming in a creek near their tipis, Monkman's arch landscape "History Is Painted by the Victors" shows a Native man in high-heeled and thigh-high red patent leather boots painting beside a mountain lake and surrounded by nude white men who've cast off blue uniforms. A couple of the men are boxing, others are wrestling, one's playing a panpipe, most are languid. Monkman's used his alter-ego, warrior-in-drag Chief Eagle Testickle, to add a bit of daring snark to history painting. Monkman is a terrific artist; this work is reason enough to go to Crystal Bridges for "Art for a New Understanding." He's also painted a takeoff on "Kindred Spirits"; instead of friends Thomas Cole and William Cullen Bryant, Monkman's put a Native and a white man fighting on the rock; let's hope that is also in the show.

Also enlightening: a 1990 photograph of laughing artists Lisa Mayo, Gloria Miguel and Muriel Miguel, who in 1976 founded the feminist Spiderwoman Theater, the country's longest-running Native female theatrical company; Shan Goshan's two baskets, "Removal," in which the artist has cut a copy of the Indian Removal Act of 1830 into thin strips and used them to weave traditional Cherokee baskets; and from Crystal Bridges' own collection, James Lavadour's landscape-reminiscent abstracts "Shake."

"Art for a New Understanding" runs through Jan. 7. Crystal Bridges has scheduled all sorts of programs in conjunction with the show, including painting and sculpture workshops, films, artist talks and more. On view now is "In Conversation: Will Wilson and Edward Curtis," an exhibition that pairs photographs of contemporary Native Americans by Wilson with the early 20th century photographs of Curtis.

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Pablo Picasso, Robert Mapplethorpe, Henri Matisse, Kazimir Malevich — these are among the artists whose works Swiss-born Martin Muller of San Francisco has collected. Muller has a Little Rock connection — he lived here in the 1970s — and it was in this town, the Arkansas Arts Center says, that he began to explore post-war American painting. Muller will return to Little Rock for the opening of "Independent Vision: Modern and Contemporary Art from the Martin Muller Collection," opening Friday, Sept. 28, at the Arts Center. The exhibition of 89 works is a survey of diverse modern and contemporary works from the old and new world, with works by such 20th century masters Corbusier (Swiss-French), Picasso (Spanish), Warhol (American) and Malevich (Russian), and contemporaries Gottfried Helnwein (Austrian), Joel Besmar (Cuban) and Frederick Hammersley (American).

Muller moved to Little Rock from Switzerland for a job with a Swiss-American company and while here spent time in the Arts Center's Elizabeth P. Taylor library familiarizing himself with American masters. In the late 1970s he decided to move west and get into the gallery business. He founded his gallery, Modernism Inc., in 1979.

As he traveled across the country to San Francisco, he's quoted in an Arts Center news release as saying, "I marveled at discovering masterpieces of modern American art, from Edward Hopper to Barnett Newman, Mark Rothko, Jackson Pollock, and later, the Pop and Minimalist artists, especially Donald Judd. Now, some 40 years later, it gives me great joy to have come full circle back to Little Rock and be able to share at the Arkansas Arts Center some of the wonderful artworks gathered along the way."

The show runs through Dec. 30.

2018 fall Arkansas fine arts preview

#2018 fall Arkansas fine arts preview

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blackswaneuroparedux · 5 years

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Anonymous asked: Don’t you miss London in any way since you are British? Wouldn’t you love to come back especially after Brexit? Do you think London has changed for the worse that its not worth living there anymore?

Yes, I do miss London. I do want to go back....but not yet. I’m enjoying living and working in Paris. Brexit doesn’t affect me as I also have a Norwegian passport and I qualify for carte de séjour (a sort of residential work permit).

It was the wit Stephen Fry who said “The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane.” He captures the essence of London it’s so diverse that anyone can fit in. That is its strength and its weakness compared to other maga cosmopolitan cities like New York in the West or Shanghai in the East as its only rival.

But to my mind London has more - arguably the same as New York but definitely more than Shanghai - in terms of energy and vibrancy with a very unique English topping of eccentricity. Something you would never find in Paris for instance where things are quite socially stodgy and snobbish. The dinner parties I attend in London are far more down to earth and vibrant as well as eccentric and very fun compared to the ritualised boerdom of super pretentious dinner parties of the Parisian crowds I get roped in - a caveat, most but not all.

London to me is like city state much in the spirit of a medieval Florence. It has no moorings to the rest of the country or the nation. It’s a bubble. or I should say bubbles within a giant bubble. There a diversity of communities each rubbing up against each other. Mostly for the good but some times not so good. Despite urban problems that affict growing mega capitals London for me still remains a wonderful place to live.

When people ask me about if I enjoyed living in London I have to ask which London? We all live in our concentric social circles in London and people as much as place help define our sense of belonging and happiness. I don’t look at London in an abstract way in terms of favourite places but in terms of the bonds of friendships made and sustained from childhood onwards.

Samuel Johnson said “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” In my case, it’s because I wanted to expand my life experiences that I left London. I get bored easily and I have restless feet. I left London because it became too small for me. Or rather the world I inhabited became too socially claustrophobic for my tastes. I needed to get out and seek adventure and challenges elsewhere at least for the next chapter of my life.

I do love London and I often go back there for work reasons as well as personal ones when I can. I am a member of a few gentlemen clubs (many allow women in now) and its old genteel atmosphere centres me and paradoxically helps me to see London in slow motion even as London around me is fast moving and changing. I also don’t miss key events that I can only experience in London like the ballet and the theatre which is unrivalled in the world. And of course there are some events on the social season calendar which I can’t miss because of family obligations.

Every city has its unique charms but only a few touch the heart and soul. London - or at least the London of my childhood - is one of them. But for how much longer I don’t know.

London seems to be galloping towards a new and uncertain identity, one that puts ‘stuff’ before substance, and more importantly, money before class (as in good taste). Brexit’s impact on London doesn’t bother me in the slightest as London will adapt as it always does. It will muddle through which has always been the English way to solving any problem: just muddle through.

Still, it’s the little things I notice rather than the obvious macro ones. It niggles me and prey on my mind long after I witness the offence.

So let me give you an example of what I mean.

I did a hard day’s shopping in Knightsbridge and was waiting to meet a dear old friend from boarding school to play catch up. She’s always bringing me up to speed on the gossip in our circles and most of it goes in one ear and out of the other as I’m bored by it but interested and polite enough to listen if only to feel happiness and relief that I actually do live away in Paris.

So there I was waiting for her. She was late as usual. I was sitting in a quintessentially English hotel restaurant in Knightsbridge over Christmas. I watched a young man about the same age as me approach the door. He was dressed in a wool long coat with a velvet collar that looked a little snug, although it was beautiful and had the look of Turnbull and Asser about it.

My heart soared, as he held the door open for an elegantly dressed woman who was on her way out, then approached the restaurant and confirmed he was there and waiting for a guest, a living illustration that manners maketh man. When he took his coat off it was to reveal what was the uniform of my father’s generation, right down to the waistcoat, bottom button left open, and polished shoes. The suit he was wearing could well have been inherited from his father - probably Savile Row - but the whole was a thing of modest beauty and seemed to fit with the Christmas decorations and season of traditions. This was a well groomed young gentleman who had dressed for the occasion, and the occasion was a treat, an extravagance, something not of the every day.

I ended up at a table diagonally across from him and his companion, probably his wife or partner, excited to be there and also impeccably dressed and I watched as a party of flashy men of indecipherable East European origin arrived five minutes later. They didn’t speak much English and were wearing a selection of very tight floral shirts with white cuffs and collars. Block printed, purple and lime and many other colours unsuitable for December, but there you have it and while my suited object of admiration sat unserved, the party in the middle of the restaurant made up for their lack of fluent English with magnificent finger clicking skills.

You might say this is and always has been the way of the world, the wallets were on the table, money clips clearly visible through the skintight shirts, but one thing was different about this picture, something unpleasant. The restaurant staff fawned on them, and the couple opposite me sat, waiting politely for the two gin and tonics they had ordered.

Meanwhile, gaudy bottles of Ace of Spades Champagne arrived stage centre, possibly the world’s flashiest wine container, gold and shiny and terribly gauche. They were closely followed by four sets of twins, female ones, who sat down at the table amongst the flowery shirts and were each poured a glass of fizz which they silently sipped in minimal clothing.

Meanwhile in the other corner, the unassuming couple who had come in first were still waiting for their drinks, and I watched while the gloss went off their day, and the pall of poor relations settled on them in the corner.

This scene will be familiar to anyone who lives in Central London and it’s sad. The bottom line has always been a vital consideration in the London restaurant scene, there has always been a special table for regular customers, that’s the way of things. Until recently however there has also been that very British recognition that the chap who has saved up all year to take his wife to a special lunch should be treated as if he is also a regular guest and one of equal value at that.

It’s these little acts of tradition and custom that are the life blood of the civic life of a city. Lose this and you slowly erode the pillars of civility.

This obnoxious veneration of money to the exclusion of everything else has reached fever pitch. Restaurants that used to be just that, dining rooms that you could sit and eat lovely food in, providing a bubble away from the day to day stresses that we are all party to, are now restaurants with private clubs upstairs. Meanwhile private clubs that used to be simply private clubs now have VIP areas – VVIP areas – which is at least a bonus in that you can avoid the more ghastly members as they are all in those bits.

What does this all mean? Does it mean that everything from eating out to where we shop is now Instagrammed or Facebooked, leaving us defined by our purchases and spending habits alone? It is certainly starting to feel like it in London (and worryingly small signs of it Paris too with rich Russians and Arabs buying up most expensive aprtments in the city), where a hundred pounds is the new tenner, and consumption has reached improbable proportions.

Strangely though, no one seems any happier, quite the contrary. Are the new Rich Kids of Instagram really something to aspire to? Is bad taste the new good taste? Strange times are upon us, when 16 year olds sit in a cordoned off areas of clubs and restaurants flashing their cash and getting on and off jets. I see this first hand as I sometimes get to fly on private jets purely for work reasons at the largesse of my corporate clients. I always thought the Euro trash aristocrats girls at my Swiss boarding school were entitled airheads but the present nouveau riche incarnation don’t even have a sense of ironic self awareness or taste.

Human beings love a boundary, well they have for the whole history of mankind to date, anyway. If in one generation we get rid of all the traditional social conventions, from buying our own homes, saving, working hard, not buying whatever we want whenever we want it, where will we be? Perhaps instant gratification will lead us all to a new kind of life, a new place where we all live for experiences instead of taking out a mortgage, where nothing we do is our fault and no consequences to our actions.

I have always loved the quote ‘Don’t give up on what you want for what you want now’ and believe that delaying gratification is the defining characteristic of mature adulthood.

Perhaps values, traditions, less is more and simple kindness will make a comeback. In the meantime, restaurants will empty of customers like the well mannered gentleman on the corner table, and I will continue to feel uncomfortable that we are losing something vital not just in London but increasingly elsewhere in great European cities I travel to.

Thanks for your question.

#question #london #personal #city #civic #civility

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