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the--sad--hatter · 4 years

Text

Sparks Fly - Chapter 13 (Bucky x Reader)

Fandom: Marvel Soulmate!AU/Detective!AU

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Gratuitous Violence, Criminal Activity, Life or Death Situations, Graphic Gore, Crime Scene Descriptions, Dark Humour, Slapstick Humour, Kara Humour, Catastrophic Amounts of Fluff, More Angst Than You Can Shake A Stick At

Summary: (Imagine Brooklyn 99 and Criminal Minds had a baby)

If you want to know if you’ve found your soulmate, it’s simple… All you have to do is kiss them. If they’re your soulmate then there will be sparks, literal sparks. You’ve seen it happen to other people and it is a sight to behold; at least you think it is. Detective Bucky Barnes is a little less enchanted with the idea.

Despite your glaring differences, you and Bucky work well together. You’re good at charming witnesses, he’s good at intimidating suspects. You can run a perp down, he can knock them down. But there’s one criminal who’s eluded you both for a long time, and when Brock Rumlow rolls back into town, you and Bucky find yourselves far outside your comfort zones.

Masterlist

Spotify Playlist

Chapter Thirteen - The Braidy Bunch

You were afflicted with a severe case of cop-brain. It happened occasionally, you’d get so caught up in a case that you didn’t have room in your head for anything else. It usually happened on cases that were difficult to solve, enigma’s wrapped in mysteries, wrapped in a lack of evidence and a hard to decipher motive.

This case had plenty of evidence. Two faceless corpses, a warning from a dead assassin, a murdered colleague, and a sinister bouquet of flowers.

Motive was also clear. Rumlow was a psychopath and he was fixated on you.

But where Rumlow was, what he would do next, and why he wanted you so afraid? Those were question you desperately needed answers to, and you had no way of knowing where to look.

Your apartment held no clues. If it weren’t for the corpse and the roses left behind, you’d never even have known someone had been there. That thought had sent chills through you, and your grip on Bucky’s hand had tightened for a moment, but then you pulled yourself back from the edge and thrown yourself in crime-solving mode. It was the only way to get through this, to survive this. You had pulled your hand from Bucky’s and put on a profession air that kept the darkness at bay.

You weren’t the lead detective on the case, but assigning tasks authoritatively, you sure as hell acted like you were. Nobody fought you on it, they just nodded and took their marching orders seriously.

Natasha was working her own case, with the new knowledge from you and Bucky. She was pressing on every contact she had in various other law enforcement agencies and scrolling through endless Interpol lists to identify the two faceless victims who had kickstarted the nightmare.

Wanda and Pietro were combing through weeks of backdated security footage from the Chinese restaurant next door, to see if there had been any suspicious activity around your apartment before last night.

Clint and Sam downtown at a well known bar for gang members, grilling his informants for information about Hydra resurfacing.

Steve was fending off Major Crimes, and The FBI. Hydra were a known terrorist organization, which made this case a free for all, and he was working his ass of to keep it getting taken from you.

And Bucky was glued to your side, just like he said he would be. He was taking his vow seriously, and you hadn’t left his sight for more than a few minutes, and that had been when you went to the bathroom. Even when you got back to the Precinct, he had taken up residence in an empty briefing room with you, helping you set up the whiteboards with all the evidence and passing you coloured pins as you asked for them.

Everyone was doing everything the could, but to no avail. By the time darkness had fallen over the streets of New York, you were no closer to solving the case than you had been when the day began. You just couldn’t accept that though, you were convinced there had to be something you missed, and when Bucky had dragged you out of the station to take you home, you had managed to snag a file and smuggle it back to his apartment by hiding it under your shirt.

“I fucking knew you were still working.” He sighed.

You looked up from your cross-legged position on the bed, not even mildly guilty at having been caught. He was glaring at the file in your lap like he could set it ablaze if concentrated hard enough.

“M’not tired. Listen, I was thinking about the flowers. They’re in the lab so we should know more tomorrow, we should go to the florist and see if they remember anything about who ordered them.” You said.

There had been no card with them, because Rumlow hadn’t needed one. The flowers themselves were the message. He was telling you it was him, letting you know he was still alive, making sure you knew he was coming for you. He was lurking somewhere in the shadows, trying to get inside your head, under your skin.

But everyone had thought he was dead. He’d been free and clear, and he’s blown it because he needed to hurt you. He might have thought he was winning, but he’d given you the upper hand, because he’d proven that you were the one who was under his skin. He’d fucked up, and that was how you were going to catch him, you were going to use his obsession against him.

You just weren’t sure how, but you knew you could figure it out.

You were startled out of your reverie by a pillow landing in your lap, and it surprised you enough for Bucky to pluck the evidence file out of your hand.

“What?”

He tossed it onto the corner of the room, and switched the light off so the only sliver of light came from the hallway. Oh, so he was sending you to bed.

“I’m not sleepy yet, what the hell?” You snarled, attempting to get up and retrieve the file.

“You’re not sleepy because you’re not calm.” He said, shoving you back down onto the bed. “You need to stop thinking.”

That was rich, because by the expression on his face, he was thinking very deeply about something. While you were flattened against the headboard and glaring up at him, he re-adjusted the pillow on your lap and with a long, deep breath, climbed onto the bed and lay his head down on it.

“What the fuuuuck is happening?” You whispered quietly, too afraid to speak loudly or move.

It was like some sort of wild animal had climbed onto your lap in a sudden and unforeseen show of domesticity.

“Mindless tasks keep your mind from wandering, and the happier you are, the easier you’ll sleep.” He grunted.

That explained absolutely nothing, until… He swept his hair out from under his neck until it was all fanned out across the pillow.

“Oh my God. Oh. My. God! Ohhhh myyyyy God.” You exclaimed in a hushed and awed whisper. “Are you? Is this? Can I?”

“You know what it is.” He snapped.

“I need to hear you say it, Bucket.”

He scowled angrily at you, which didn’t quite have the effect he was hoping for since he was doing it upside-down from your lap. It was adorable.

“You can braid my hair.” He eventually grumbled, not at all happy about it.

You were thrilled though. The words were music to your ears and you clapped your hands together excitedly before you wiggled your fingers in anticipation. You hadn’t actually thought he would ever, in a million years, actually let you loose on his luscious locks. The first brush of your fingers against the brunette strands felt like victory, and you knew it was a memory you would treasure forever.

You gently pulled your fingers through his hair, working out all the little kinks and knots, careful not to tug too hard. You didn’t want to spook him. He just lay there though, and after a few moments his eyes fluttered closed and all the little line on his face smoothed out as his expression melted into one of relaxation. He was enjoying this!

You painstakingly parted his hair into even sections, and pretended you couldn’t hear the way his breathing evened out, but when you gently raked your nails across his scalp to section a parting, you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t heard that. It was quiet, but unmistakable, the soft grunt of pleasure that rumbled from his slightly parted lips. As soon as it happened, he froze, unnaturally still.

So you did it again.

As your nails softly dragged across his scalp, his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek and his hands balled into fists at his sides. The back of your neck suddenly felt too warm and your heart did a strange sort of pitter-pat in your chest. All those confusing feelings that were swirling around inside your chest were not any easier to deal with when the object of your affections was in your lap, and all those less confusing feelings south of your chest were not helped by the noises he was making.

You still did it again though.

The involuntary reactions it brought forth, the fact he hadn’t asked or hinted at you to stop, and the endearing blush that tinged his cheeks were all too hard to resist.

It worked though, his plan. Your mind was purged of all Rumlow and case related thoughts, and even the confusing emotional bullshit slipped further away with every lock of hair you twisted. You just lost yourself in the intricate braiding, letting the repetitive actions take up your headspace. By the time you were finished, you were finally calm, blissfully thought free, and relaxed. So was he, if the peaceful expression on his face was anything to go by.

“Bucket?” You hummed softly, tapping him on the shoulder.

Nothing.

“Bucky?”

Oh damn. He was fast asleep.

“Well, fuck.” You whispered to yourself.

A/N - This chapter is shit, i know it's shit, but it was a shitty chapter or no chapter at all 😫

Bucky Taglist (Closed)

@drdorkus @mad4oak @anamcg317 @whoisbxcky @pinkisokay @saiyanprincessswanie @dlcita @bonkybaaarnes @marvelsangels @lordofthenerds97 @crushedbyhyperbole @prettyboydevito @cleoisme @supraveng @lbuck121 @daughterofthenight117 @pinknerdpanda @courtneychicken @jocundasykes @iluvsumbucky @pychedelic-rainbow @ahappylilybug2019 @silentcoyotesong @slytherinyodmslike @geeksareunique @aikeia @nighttwingg @ladysergeantbarnes @couldabeenamermaid @exotic-moondvst @buckyreaderrecs

Everything Taglist (Closed)

@helloimanavenger @justahumblesinner @littleredstarfish @dark-angel-be-thirsty-af @dilaila95 @buckysknifecollection @justellu @spnrvt @deathofmissjackson @sexyvixen7 @fairislesheets @rvgrsbrns @dahkness @sleepycayley @isabelcrichards @riverdaleserpent04 @jazztherebel @tell-me-a-poem @hiddles-rose @severepienerdturkey @life-wanderer @unlikelygalaxygiver @fangirlwithatrowel @abo4280ooof @destiel-artemis @dilaila95 @tarastudiesalot @toxic-pineapple @ohnosiren @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @breezy1415 @misswatson99 @chaoticfiretaconerd @marvelfansworld @stareyedplanet @themusingsofmany @zeannastardust @littleredstarfish @sammyissassy @alexakeyloveloki @kaz22992 @randomidiot4444 @musingpredilection @inquisitor-selvala @lianadelphius @happybookmuffin @tony-stank3 @amoonagedaydreamer @dropthepizza346 @my-drowning-in-time @lianadelphius @musingpredilection @belles-garden @lieswithoutfairytales @unfriendlyrightfighter @rororo06 @lookalivefrosty @official-and-unstable-satan

Sparks Fly Taglist (Closed)

@stareyedplanet @freeyourwings @marvelgirl7 @sarcastic-britt @intense-sneezing @eesha266 @buckyyyybear @jordan1509 @draqcnheartstrinq @jennmurawski13 @whatcouldgowrong-ohthat @literalmcuhoe @siggy85 @lordofthenerds97 @noplacelikehome77 @lokisironthrone @bwady-owo @humbledarkness @crookedslimecreatorpasta @1am9root6 @thatweirdwalangpake @tanelle83 @thefifthmaraud3r @quixotic-romantic @vvienersoldier @scarletnerd05 @emzd34 @fandomsfallnomore @iamthe-shadow-on-the-wall @cateyes315

#Bucky x Reader #Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes x Reader #The Winter Soldier #Bucky #Bucky fic #Bucky series #The Winter Soldier x Reader #The Avengers #Avengers x Reader #Avengers x Y/N #Avengers Reader

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drlissahawthorne · 4 years

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marked me like a bloodstain

Who: Clarissa Hawthorne & Charlie Hawthorne-Mills ft. Andrea Hawthorne-Mills

When: Saturday, December 5, 2020

Where: Hawthorne-Mills home

What: Clarissa calls on the aid of her sibling-in-law to help her make sense of her jumbled thoughts from the night before.

Warnings: talk of past abuse

Word Count: 1650

Notes: Part 3 of 3. Part 1. Part 2.

The first thing Clarissa did when she got to Andrea and Charlie’s place was take a nap. She’d spoken briefly with them about what had happened, figuring it was best not to worry them more than she was already liable to. Then, after she’d slept for nearly five hours, she’d set herself up in the basement recording studio, deciding she wanted to work through as much of what she’d tried to create the night before as she possibly could.

After about an hour of trying and failing to make sense of even a little of it, she called on Charlie. Charlie was a music producer and the kind of person who could understand the gibberish she’d come up with in her haste to dump out every part of her brain into words. Which is how the pair of them ended up sitting at the piano, staring at a cluttered mess of mismatched phrases across the multiple notes on Clarissa’s laptop.

“So, what exactly were you doing last night that this happened?” They asked with a soft laugh.

“Uh, I think they call it coping with trauma?” Clarissa groaned. “He was my last boyfriend, the guy that made me choose between him and my work.”

“Oh, and you ran into him last night?”

“Yeah,” She sighed. “It was a nice night and then I got home and it was like everything I’d tried to ignore and bury and move on from, came out. Like, I just couldn’t focus on anything else, and even then, I wasn’t entirely focused.”

“You’ve certainly come up with a lot in a short amount of time, it seems. Can’t say all of it will be worth something right now, but we can definitely feel it out, see what we come up with, y’know? I’m honored that you’re even letting me near this. I know you’re not looking to make music, but…” Charlie drug out the word and Clarissa bumped them with her shoulder.

“Don’t even go there. This is just me working through shit. If it turns into something worthwhile, then it does, but we’re not going there.”

Charlie held up their hands. “I know, I know.”

For a while they just worked on picking apart different notes and rearranging them, creating new documents with better structure so that things really did resemble poems or songs, versus the madness that had spilled from Clarissa’s thoughts. Eventually, however, they managed to get it down to one document that they really wanted to dive into. It was still messy, but it had the first line that had really come to Clarissa in it.

“‘You drew stars around my scars, but now I’m bleeding.’ Good line, raw as hell too. So, tell me about this guy. Tell me how this came to be, what caused this?” Charlie urged with a soft smile. Clarissa’s face scrunched up, looking at the other words in the document, glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“So, we met in Pittsburgh, he’s a few years older than me, I wasn’t looking for anyone, y’know? I’d been kind of cast aside by every other lover I'd had. People not wanting to deal with the fact I was losing my eyesight. And he came along and he was sweet and caring and he made me feel wanted. Like I was someone’s favourite. Like I was his favourite. And We did all this stuff together and it was amazing. But, I was already hurt and I didn’t want to see that with every positive thing that came of our relationship, there was a knife marking me in such a worse way.” Clarissa shrugged a little. “He was horrible to me, but every time I doubted, every time I felt those insecurities pop up and I felt unwanted or unworthy, he made me feel amazing and wanted again. So I kept falling for it, for him. After every fight. Every unresolved argument. No one else really saw it, except for Jill and I refused to believe her. He was a typical abuser, if there is such a thing.”

Charlie just nodded as Clarissa spoke, copying and pasting and adding pieces to the document they were working on. They obviously had ideas and Clarissa found it absolutely enthralling to see them work. To see them in their element like this. Sure, they’d helped her work on the arrangement she used for the Riptide cover, but this was different. This was what they were really good at. Taking the bare bones of a song and fleshing it out. Making it grow and expand and become something real and tangible.

When they were done typing, they showed the screen to Clarissa. “This is what we’ve got, it’s a starting point. Let’s give it a melody and see where it takes us, yeah?”

Clarissa looked it over, whispering the lyrics to herself, trying to get a flow for them. It was definitely something that needed to be slow, easy going. Melancholy in a melody. The idea of reminiscing, even longing, for something now gone and past. The pain of loss still lingering despite the years that had passed.

Before she could even really think about what she was doing, she was finding her bearings on the piano and then started playing one of the melodies she’d thought of the night before. It wasn’t the one that had been strongest, but it was the one that felt right. Like it was meant to along with whatever this song was. Something rather simple but complex in its emotions.

“To kiss in cars and downtown bars was all we needed, you drew stars, around my scars, but now I’m bleeding cos I knew you, stepping on the last train marked like bloodstain,” Clarissa started to sing. It wasn’t a beginning. It didn’t feel like one, but it was definitely something. Something that she could work with.

“Let me see that,” she motioned for the laptop and Charlie handed it over, watching her type away. “So, when we met, it was this big event and I’d gotten sort of dressed up, nice shirt, heels, lipstick, and I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Pittsburgh, but there is an unnatural amount of cobblestone. And y’know, there’s this weird visual I have of that day, the sound of high heels on cobblestone, vintage tee, I’d literally sent someone the message ‘new phone, who’s this?’ I’m pretty sure. Like it was just this really vivid day in my memory, and not just because I’d met him, but that definitely plays a part.” Clarissa explained before hanging the laptop back, her additions at the top of the page.

“That’s really cool as a visual, actually, can you start playing again?” They asked as they looked over what she’d written. She obliged and as they moved along to the melody they started rearranging what she’d written, once again turning her stream of consciousness into something resembling song lyrics. They then started to add more. “I like this visual of clothing and memories. Is there anything about him you can tell me that could work with that?”

Clarissa thought for a while, scrunching up her face a bit, fingers still idly playing the notes of what was definitely turning into a song. “Drunk, late at night, dancing. Probably fall, so he was wearing jeans, and being silly, he’d joke about kisses being the fastest way to heal a broken heart, some days I think he was right about that.” She laughed a bit, watching as Charlie continued typing.

By the time Andrea called the pair of them up from the basement for dinner, they were bubbling with excitement. They had something that actually resembled a song on their hands. It wasn’t anywhere near finished, but it was far more than they’d had when they started and it made Clarissa feel a lot better, both about herself and everything that had happened since the day before.

“Well, you two have certainly been hard at work, haven’t you?” Andrea teased as they set the boxes of takeaway down on the kitchen table. “I figured I’d be nice and order takeaway, so we could do something together while we ate and before I lost you both to the basement again.”

“Sorry, I know I came over to hang out and have barely seen you.” Clarissa apologised and Andrea just shook their head.

“Please, I haven’t seen you this excited about something since… Lissa, it’s been years. You weren’t even this excited when you got the job in Brooklyn. I’m just happy this is turning into something good for you. There will be plenty of time to hang out and do things when this is done. I mean, you’ll be back in here in two weeks anyway, and then you’ll be here for a week and we can catch up and do stuff then.”

“But, we really should be nice and play a game with them while we eat, what do you say?” Charlie smiled and Clarissa nodded.

“I think we can do that, might be a good thing to give our brains a break, right?”

“I certainly think so, but you’re the one with the doctorate.” They all laughed as they dished food onto plates and got settled to play a game.

Two hours later, all three would find themselves in the recording studio as Clarissa performed, for the first time in full, a song Andrea had helped dub ‘cardigan’ and for good reason. It was a start to something, what that something was, Clarissa didn’t know, but what she did know, was that Jill, and anyone else privileged enough to hear it, would definitely like it. Maybe not as much as she did, but they would. It sounded a lot like healing to Clarissa, and that was something anyone who knew her would be able to get behind, or so she hoped.

#abuse tw #p: s004 #p: self #p: all #about: every tears a diamond on my cheek #about: musically charlie #about: you drew stars around my scars and now im bleeding #[and oop there be cardigan]

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lissahawthorne · 3 years

Text

marked me like a bloodstain

Who: Clarissa Hawthorne & Charlie Hawthorne-Mills ft. Andrea Hawthorne-Mills

When: Saturday, December 5, 2020

Where: Hawthorne-Mills home

What: Clarissa calls on the aid of her sibling-in-law to help her make sense of her jumbled thoughts from the night before.

Warnings: talk of past abuse

Word Count: 1650

Notes: Part 3 of 3. Part 1. Part 2.

“So, what exactly were you doing last night that this happened?” They asked with a soft laugh.

“Uh, I think they call it coping with trauma?” Clarissa groaned. “He was my last boyfriend, the guy that made me choose between him and my work.”

“Oh, and you ran into him last night?”

“Don’t even go there. This is just me working through shit. If it turns into something worthwhile, then it does, but we’re not going there.”

Charlie held up their hands. “I know, I know.”

“So, we met in Pittsburgh, he’s a few years older than me, I wasn’t looking for anyone, y’know? I’d been kind of cast aside by every other lover I’d had. People not wanting to deal with the fact I was losing my eyesight. And he came along and he was sweet and caring and he made me feel wanted. Like I was someone’s favourite. Like I was his favourite. And We did all this stuff together and it was amazing. But, I was already hurt and I didn’t want to see that with every positive thing that came of our relationship, there was a knife marking me in such a worse way.” Clarissa shrugged a little. “He was horrible to me, but every time I doubted, every time I felt those insecurities pop up and I felt unwanted or unworthy, he made me feel amazing and wanted again. So I kept falling for it, for him. After every fight. Every unresolved argument. No one else really saw it, except for Jill and I refused to believe her. He was a typical abuser, if there is such a thing.”

When they were done typing, they showed the screen to Clarissa. “This is what we’ve got, it’s a starting point. Let’s give it a melody and see where it takes us, yeah?”

“Sorry, I know I came over to hang out and have barely seen you.” Clarissa apologised and Andrea just shook their head.

“But, we really should be nice and play a game with them while we eat, what do you say?” Charlie smiled and Clarissa nodded.

“I think we can do that, might be a good thing to give our brains a break, right?”

“I certainly think so, but you’re the one with the doctorate.” They all laughed as they dished food onto plates and got settled to play a game.

#abuse tw #p: self #p: s004 #p: all #about: every tears a diamond on my cheek #about: you drew stars around my scars and now im bleeding

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senzucollective · 6 years

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David Hammons is one of the most influential artists in our modern time, and i know he would hate the compliment, or perhaps resent the competive ensinuation with the phrase. Hammons work vibrates with a raw realism and surrealistic iconogrpahy, his pieces themematically centers on the black american experience, the absurdity of racial epitaphs, stereotypes, Counter-Consumerism and deep critiques on capitalism.

Ill try my best to put down some of his work below along with a brief description with citations as well as accompanying commentary that will be mine. i am doing this article strictly out of love of this artist, i see his influence in so many different facets of art, i hope you, like me, will find his art inspiring and thought provoking.

LEFT – Spade with Chains (1973) – Hammons moved to new york in 1972 and shortly after began his “Spade” Series, which was named and inspired by the racial slur “Spade” which was common in New York. where the artist employs a provocative, derogatory term, coupled with the literal gardening instrument, in order to make a visual pun between the blade of a shovel and an African mask, and a contemporary statement about the issues of bondage and resistance.

Right – Bird (1973) – This assemblage from 1973 is a tribute to Charlie Parker, the iconic American jazz musician. Parker was known as “Yardbird” or “Bird” throughout his career and alluded to this nickname in many of his most famous compositions, including “Bird of Paradise,” “Ornithology,” and “Yardbird Suite.” The African American musician, who died in 1955 at the age of thirty-four, remains one of the most influential saxophonists and composers in jazz history. Bird is composed of a saxophone, mannequin hands, and a spade. This work—in which Hammons makes a slight “dig” at the word spade, a derogatory term for a black man—expressly connects the crafts of two talented black artists.

“I WAS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHY BLACK PEOPLE WERE CALLED SPADES, AS OPPOSED TO CLUBS. BECAUSE I REMEMBER BEING CALLED A SPADE ONCE, AND I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANT; N****** I KNEW BUT SPADE I STILL DON’T. SO I TOOK THE SHAPE, AND STARTED PAINTING IT.” – David Hammons 1986

LEFT – Champ (1989) – The bright red boxing gloves could be a nod to Muhammad Ali, like Keith Haring’s tribute to friend and fellow artist Jean-Michel Basquiat with A Pile of Crowns for Jean-Michel Basquiat. Regardless, Hammons makes a statement about the black experience and the aspiration of becoming a professional athlete. Duct-taped and tied together, the boxing gloves are the only icons of victory preventing the dark, rubber inner tube from becoming a victim’s flayed skin. Their unity alludes to the belief that black people cannot exist as significant and successful individuals unless they obtain athletic greatness. The attachment of the boxing gloves to the inner tube rather than a human body emphasizes that this determination for greatness attributed to the champion’s own undoing—he is simultaneously the victor and the victim. Hanging from a nail on the wall, Champ commemorates and mourns the black athletes, especially boxers, who “achieve themselves to death” and become symbols of black excellence. RIGHT – America The Beautiful… (1969) – This striking work is from a series of “body prints” that David Hammons made early in his career, soon after his arrival in Los Angeles in 1963. To create these prints, he made impressions of his own face, arms, and torso by covering his body with oil or margarine, pressing it against a sheet of paper, and then sprinkling pigment on the surface. For America the Beautiful, the artist used lithography to add the American flag that envelops the central figure. Hammons created this work in 1968, toward the end of the civil rights movement and the beginning of the Black Power movement. The assertive combination of a patriotic symbol with the body of a black man (the artist) underscores the heightened racial tensions in the United States during this period.

“THAT’S WHY I LIKE DOING STUFF BETTER ON THE STREET, BECAUSE THE ART BECOMES JUST ONE OF THE OBJECTS THAT’S IN THE PATH OF YOUR EVERYDAY EXISTENCE. IT’S WHAT YOU MOVE THROUGH, AND IT DOESN’T HAVE ANY SENIORITY OVER ANYTHING ELSE. THOSE PIECES WERE ALL ABOUT MAKING SURE THAT THE BLACK VIEWER HAD A REFLECTION OF HIMSELF IN THE WORK. WHITE VIEWERS HAVE TO LOOK AT SOMEONE ELSE’S CULTURE IN THOSE PIECES AND SEE VERY LITTLE OF THEMSELVES IN IT.” – David Hammons 1986

Higher Goals (1986) – The work was built on site in Brooklyn’s Cadman Plaza Park over a period of eight weeks. The Temporary Structure Titled ‘Higher Goals’ consists of five bottle cap-studded telephone poles ranging in height from 20’ to 30’. Mounted at the top of each pole will be a basketball backboard (also covered with bottle caps) complete with hoop and net. In a labor-intensive process, Hammons nailed more than 10,000 bottle caps onto the surface of each pole to create distinctive diamond, spiral and mesh patterns. Hammons explained the concept behind Higher Goals with an analogy to professional basketball teams. “It takes five to play on a team, but there are thousands who want to play—not everyone will make it, but even if they don’t at least they tried.” This statement is indicative of Hammons’ personal belief that aspirations should not be confined to set limits and that individuals should set goals at higher levels (i.e. above the standard 10-foot-high measure of a basketball net)’. Hammons provided a ordinary basketball hoop, net, and backboard are set on a three-story high pole – commenting on the almost impossible aspirations of sports stardom as a way out of the ghetto.

DOING THINGS IN THE STREET IS MORE POWERFUL THAN ART I THINK. BECAUSE ART HAS GOTTEN SO….I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK ART IS ABOUT NOW. IT DOESN’T DO ANYTHING. LIKE MALCOLM X SAID, IT’S LIKE NOVOCAINE. IT USED TO WAKE YOU UP BUT NOW IT PUTS YOU TO SLEEP. I THINK THAT ART NOW IS PUTTING PEOPLE TO SLEEP. THERE’S SO MUCH OF IT AROUND IN THIS TOWN THAT IT DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING. THAT’S WHY THE ARTIST HAS TO BE VERY CAREFUL WHAT HE SHOWS AND WHEN HE SHOWS NOW. BECAUSE THE PEOPLE AREN’T REALLY LOOKING AT ART, THEY’RE LOOKING AT EACH OTHER AND EACH OTHER’S CLOTHES AND EACH OTHER’S HAIRCUTS. – David Hammons 1986

Blizz-aard Ball Sale (1983) – Perhaps the most well known of his work was a critique on commodity, price, value, and consumerism in general. In this performance Hammons situates himself alongside street vendors in downtown Manhattan in order to sell snowballs which are priced according to size. This act serves both as a parody on commodity exchange and a commentary on the capitalistic nature of art fostered by art galleries. Furthermore, it puts a satirical premium on whiteness, ridiculing the superficial luxury of racial classification as well as critiquing the hard social realities of street vending experienced by those who have been discriminated against in terms of race or class.

“WHEN I WAS IN CALIFORNIA, ARTISTS WOULD WORK FOR YEARS AND NEVER HAVE A SHOW. SO SHOWING HAS NEVER BEEN THAT IMPORTANT TO ME. WE USED TO CUSS PEOPLE OUT: PEOPLE WHO BOUGHT OUR WORK, DEALERS, ETC., BECAUSE THAT PART OF BEING AN ARTIST WAS ALWAYS A JOKE TO US. WHEN I CAME TO NEW YORK, I DIDN’T SEE ANY OF THAT. EVERYBODY WAS JUST GROVELING AND TOMMING, ANYTHING TO BE IN THE ROOM WITH SOMEBODY WITH SOME MONEY. THERE WERE NO BAD GUYS HERE; SO I SAID, “LET ME BE A BAD GUY,” OR ATTEMPT TO BE A BAD GUY, OR PLAY WITH THE BAD AREAS AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS.”

David Hammons [1/2] David Hammons is one of the most influential artists in our modern time, and i know he would hate the compliment, or perhaps resent the competive ensinuation with the phrase.

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thisoldnewsletter-blog · 7 years

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Bricklayer

About 6 months ago I decided to start sending these out again. I’ve been putting it off for tomorrow quite a bit. There were a number of motivating factors that led me to the decision, one of which was that I’d started writing again not long before that.

These early writings are ancient to me. This first one, which is by far the longest of those I have yet, dates back to November. Seeing myself write again, or rather seeing the things I wrote was inspiring. Additionally, writings aren’t complete until they are read, or sent out, published—attained by the public. It’s like making something—it is literally that—and it expresses you, it’s your voice.

This relates to something I was reading yesterday about the life of attention. Monkeys who are raised under exact circumstances rely on one simple factor which proves for them life or death. Baby monkeys with exactly the same food, setting, environment, everything—they’re lives are still not complete. They can have all those physical needs and comforts met, but the attention given to the baby by the care-taker decides whether it will live or die. If the care-taker simply enters, gives food, water, etc., and ignores the baby, it will die. Under the same circumstances—same food, same care-taker, environment—when the care-taker gives the baby some attention—pets it, shows it love, shows the monkey somebody loves it, somebody cares whether it dies—the monkey lives.

I don’t mean to sound morbid or craved—the point is attention. When the monkey is given attention, it feels real, it’s here for something because someone will notice—someone will care—if it weren’t here. If the monkey is ignored, why is it here? It has no purpose, it’s existence is denied, ignored.

So, to make something—words, in this case—or what the words come together to make that’s less-than-physical—its existence, its purpose, relies on attention. These are creations that don’t fully exist and are mostly purposeless until or unless they are sent out, shown, given an audience—given a reality.

Mostly purposeless I say because there is a benefit in my being from the act of creation. However, that benefit is multiplied many-fold when the act is completed, when I give out what I write or make, when others see it or read it or hear it—it has a purpose, my expression gains a greater existence and reality.

With that, I’ll close. None of you are expecting this email. Some of you are also new to the group. What I’ve said thus far explains things pretty well.

There will be more. If you don’t want more, simply respond. I don’t mind removing anyone from the list who doesn’t wish to be on it. What I would mind more—theoretically—is not being told by someone that they wish to receive no more. I’d rather not be a bother. That relies on your honesty.

Past writings are posted on thisoldnewsletter-blog.tumblr.com, and it will continue to be updated with postings of those which are sent out here.

As I said, the first one is long. It’s good, but it is long. I don’t care if you read it or not, but generally I’ve been keeping writings short—so you know what to expect.

The first—included below—is an introduction. Introductions can be appropriately long. It supplements the light introduction just-given. It’s entirely different, but all I’ve said is also an introduction. So here’s a twofer.

Without readers, without audience—as I’ve outlined above—this work, my work, is incomplete. I am immensely fulfilled by its completion. What you do, just by reading what I write, means more to me than I think most people understand. It’s my voice. This is my platform. Without it, my voice…goes unheard. Yes, I have other voices—I do speak—but this, writing alone, from my heart, is a voice that otherwise goes unheard, unpracticed outside of this arena. It’s easier to write it than it is to speak it. And not often does the opportunity for such expression arrive—it’s really very limited to this platform. So I am grateful to you for reading and allowing said voice to exist.

Thank you very much.

Peter Sebastian Havens _____________________________

To quote the Great Mulla Nasruddin, “Always and in Everything, strive to attain—at the same time—what is useful for others, and what is pleasant for oneself.”

It is with that direction I aim now to write. There is much I could say that might entertain—narratives and personal histories of pleasure and pain, hardships and victories—there is much of which I could speak—I spend the much of my time learning and acquiring knowledge in areas that interest me vastly. I could tell you what I know or what I’ve done. It might be pleasant for myself to do either—I find nearly every moment to be quite pleasant, some of which—with regard to that quality in me which is predisposed to having a pleasant time—I attribute to seeing much importance in everything I do—a secret of mine, not because I dare not disclose it to others, but because many are unwilling to entertain the fact that every of our moments in our lives are of equal significance—and therefor rightfully deserve, each of those moments, the same amount of energy and attention—if the two refer to different things, however slight that difference is—input from our observation, or, if you will, participation—however you like. And so, it may indeed be pleasant for me. What is useful for others—according to what I’ve said, everything is useful. The matter—regards…direction. There is no negative direction, but there is, as we say, a wrong way. Many people drive. If you should be driving, most commonly there is a designated destination. Imagine you are mindlessly traveling in the opposite direction of your designated destination—there is music, you are talking, you are “manning the wheel,” you think not of where you go. Or you are listening to the news, and—so caught up—you miss an appropriate turn—or you, outraged, follow a car in order that they catch glimpse of your inappropriate gestural response to their driving. You find yourself traveling in the opposite direction of where lies your destination—or you become aware that you’ve been misled—or that you’ve, for some reason, led yourself astray and you have a destination.

Let us be timely. Movement is useful—it exercises freedom; will. It is always of use. But the matter, regards…making use of your time. There are endless scenarios in which happenstance brought upon by mistake serves its use. I need not get into them.

I am modeling my writing, now, off of a choreographer. I mean it literally. A wonderful choreographer. Who knows better how to organize movement correctly, with the utmost precision, and in a timing that must be impeccable lest it lose the rhythm and the tempo—he composed human movement in specific ways—with the most minute detail in every movement, by every performer—and aligned it with music so appropriately that he was able to bring together such components in a way that demonstrated life in ways that, well, demonstrated mastery. What better a model could one use.

Imagine now, that I am choreographing a dance. A dance that serves ritualistic value, or simply in which the accurate, appropriate alignment of the dancer’s, their movements, and the music to which they move, speaks. It resonates—it fits some ideal pattern inherent in truest nature. It speaks.

Now, I could be a playwright. I could have played out and demonstrated a narrative of my life, something that tells a story, something that speaks because it succumbs to words to keep the audience mind at attention. There could be a moral, or some teaching I’ve learned in my life—something profound—but it would not be sacred.

Nature makes the most amazing patterns—ideal shapes, harmony in its ideal form, greatness beyond that which can be told through a narrative.

I could re-enact the life of Jesus on stage—but it wouldn’t speak, its form wouldn’t speak. Thus, it’s not the words—the greatest harmony, and the greatest sentiment, the deepest rhythm of which you can be a part, is through an experience that is beyond words. Words and rhythm can be brought into harmonic patterns—they can be orchestrated to achieve something greater than which can be said. Words choreographed can display something larger than narratives, or information, or poetry. Bricks used to serve a purpose. They were invented for it—they were stacked—and there were master bricklayers, there are still phenomenal bricklayers. Pyramids, the Brooklyn bridge—how many people died constructing the Brooklyn bridge? Homes, cathedrals—I lived in an area of Spain that was famous for its bricks—Spain, historically, has been very rich. They don’t have much money now, but there are remnants all over of their richness. The center of the city enforced a law—because it was so known for being a city filled with this beautiful gold brick—large bricks, not the small red American bricks—that all building done in the center of the town—what we’d call downtown—all had to be done with this specific type of stone. For hundreds of years—many hundreds, for the university in that town is among the three oldest in Europe—over 800 years old—the town has been recognized for their great structures and their beautiful stone bricks. Among the most beautiful cathedrals in all of Europe—is one of the two that are in this town. It is home to countless architectural marvels—all done with the same stone bricks. The city population is around 160 or 180 thousand, 80 thousand of which are students. There are two major universities there, both extraordinary. The number of bricks in the 900 year old first cathedral is portrayed in an architectural sketch of the structure which is seen in my bedroom. Between domes, arches, columns, figures—facades, beautiful, beautiful facades—and hundreds of feet of tower height, this required master bricklayers. Still the undertaking seems impossible to me—but there it stands.

So much went into making these buildings—Spain is filled with very old, wonderful, fantastic cathedrals and palaces, convents, monasteries. They’re from a time—well, Philippe of Portugal—Portugal at a time had actually conquered a huge part of the world—they rivaled only one other country in the quantity or vastness of their conquered lands, and that was Spain, their neighbor—also, two tiny countries that fit on a peninsula about the size of southern California. But look how many countries speak Spanish! 21, outside of Spain. Portuguese—some. Derivations of one of the two or both—quite a few. The Philippines were named after this Philippe of Portugal. Well, when Portugal was at its height of world-conquery-ship, Spain was too—and happened to find itself in the hands of a nice young lady of royal birth. So—doesn’t take a genius—Isabela of Spain married Philippe of Portugal, and they got so much free labor and gold. Growing up in California, part of fourth grade involves visiting some of the 27 missions built here by the Spaniards, by which I mean they directed the construction of said missions. Amazingly, they still stand today. They used mud and twigs dried in the sun to build these missions nearly 500 years ago, using only something like straw—straw, I believe—for roofs which not only covered the rooms built by brick, but covered the bricks from being reintroduced to moisture via the rain which would have rendered them back to their pre-dried elemental nature. They would have melted—so it’s amazing that these still stand. A testament of the skill of the natives. Back home in Spain, that native gold went into bricklaying of an entirely different type—though both types were said to be religious—and you can still be amazed at the construction of the bricklayers’ and architects’ doing. It’s a great example of architecture at its best.

Bricks, though, have changed over time. Not those particular bricks set in place hundreds of years ago—those remain largely unchanged. But modern day, bricks carry connotation. Bricks are reminiscent of old construction on the east coast, ivy league schools and their imitators—this is red, small bricks I’m speaking of—and a peculiar sense of posh ghetto. Philadelphia, once called the world’s factory—or something to that nature—is now full of long-since empty, uninhabited brick structures that served as the workplace for the largest population of factory workers in the world. Now, they’re largely inhabited by heroin addicts. Philadelphia is home to, now, what may be the largest Heroin epidemic in the world. Old factories and buildings on the west coast, made of brick, make a famous backdrop for graffiti. I had a good friend growing up who boasted of his cousin’s skill with spray-paints. She had done in more bedrooms than just her own, using only spray-paint, a decorative art that involved painting one of the walls—inside the bedroom—in such a way, with much precision and care, that the wall, regardless of color, was made to look as though it had been made of small red bricks—and not freshly laid, but the façade was made to look like an old brick wall, as if from a building that no longer belongs, to then serve as the backdrop for the great graffiti art that she would then place on top of this brick façade. Bricks carry connotation—very, very specific connotation, specific to different regions all over the earth. In the Spanish town I referred to, the bricks are so important that it is against the law to use any other building material in the heart of that city—it is so known for its use of those stone bricks, the city would suffer a loss if that image were distorted. There, bricks are regal, elegant, golden, expensive, handcrafted and carefully laid. Spain is full of wonderful architecture—entire cities being the color of the stone used for their bricks, which were used to build bridges, palaces, convents, churches, cathedrals. In Italy, the old city of Siena has given us a color—the color of the town, of the bricks used to build it—and a name for it. I remember using crayons in the fourth and fifth grades, one crayon in particular, that was a somewhat awful shade of brown and burnt orange. That’s what the city looks like, that’s why the color’s called Siena. Throughout time—the great wall of China, famous bridges in London, Italy, Greece, and all over Europe, homes for people of many times and in almost all places, structures, religious architecture, aqueducts, walled cities, streets, sidewalks, towers, palaces, ruins, fortresses, temples, on and on and on—bricks have built great things, things of all shapes, types, sizes, and epochs. In each region, bricks now carry specific meaning. Like the tower of Babel. Bricks in ancient Egypt are about as far from our idea—in the modern U.S.—of bricks as one could get. Ask an ancient Egyptian what a brick is. To describe how it’s used, how it’s laid the foundation for their culture, religion, traditions, and fame. The empire of Egypt lasted at the least 3000 years. The Sphinx is known to be much older than—what, Egypt lasted until about 500 CE—4500 years old—there’s water corrosion on it. Between all of their brick structures, bricks played a literal and figurative huge role in their culture and everyday life. If the Jews were used as slaves to build the pyramids, what would a Jew at that time feel about bricks—especially considering that they weigh(ed) 80-100 tons. To inner city youth, Brooklyn natives, Philadelphians, and rich kids in southern California who have a talent for recreating the “urban,” and a desire to do so, bricks have different meaning.

A brick is not universally interpreted in the same way. I could show a small red brick to an ancient Egyptian and they’d scratch their head. I could bring a 100 ton yellow rectangular prism into the heart of Los Angeles and nobody would have the idea that if we got some more of these we could build something really great.

But cathedrals, and bridges, and pyramids—all of these are magnificent. And no matter the rectangular prism you imagine when you hear the word “brick,” and no matter if you understand the English word itself or can identify the system of alphabet at all—what people have built with bricks, regardless of time, has the ability to astonish, captivate, and mesmerize—inspire—people no matter where they’re from, how they speak, how they read, or how they don’t speak and don’t read—those structures speak universally, and are lost not to time.

That is a composition of bricks.

The composition, not just the brick, has a voice—adds voice—to the collection of, in this case, bricks. Brick may have one meaning, but composed, more bricks can bring an unspoken meaning to each individual brick, and the collection of bricks as a whole. Bringing and arranging other bricks can shape the meaning of what is otherwise just a brick. If I add a word next to brick, its meaning changes. Egyptian brick versus Spanish brick. And who I say it to brings further meaning. A Jew in ancient Egypt and a central American in the 1500s would find personal meaning in one but likely not both. But that meaning, that personal meaning, is beyond words—outside of words. It might take a book to describe that meaning, but still it would only touch it. It might set the background of a feeling—of what that personal feeling is—the events leading up to it, the people’s history with the item, the bricks, what they associate with it—but to feel how they feel when they are sparked by such a term, by something that has so much meaning to them—that may have defined their lives, shaped their days, been the magnetic center of their being and society, around which all things gravitate and orbit. To each of them, it relates to a structure, and it’s not expressed in a word. The word is but brick. It is the compositional essence, the essence given by the composite as a whole, as shaped by its composition. Of this we speak. Choreographers of words, mastering the art of the dancing bricks like synchronized swimmers—individually without meaning, synergistically combined: an igloo in the snow, a pyramid in the desert.

I referred to Salamanca—the town in Spain. 900 years ago the first cathedral was built. To this day, it is seen for miles and miles before reaching the city. And still, today, there is nothing around Salamanca. There is a river, yes, and a cathedral—two cathedrals—on the river. The second was added adjoining the first, 500 years ago—like Isabelle and the left side of the Iberian Peninsula—combining the left and right, the male and female. For miles, today, and even more so almost 1000 years ago, the structure designates something, a spot—someplace special. It’s between Portugal and Madrid—Madrid being the exact geographic center of the peninsula. There’s not a lot else out there—near Salamanca. But an hour outside, on the freeway—so for maybe a week on foot, or for days at the least, one would see it as they approached—marked by the bell tower of the cathedral. 100 years after that the university of Salamanca was made—but more pronounced than the long-alive student atmosphere of the town is eternal thrive of religious life. Convents and monasteries dot the town. Churches lie on every block. 2 cathedrals. But it’s not that—I mean, to say convents and monasteries and churches doesn’t do them justice. They’re remarkable—some of them rival the façade of the new Cathedral. One doesn’t often see nuns or monks—even visiting their monasteries and convents, which is weird. But one sees their convents and monasteries everywhere.

The cathedral marked this town for miles and miles. It still marks an empty religious presence—beautiful facades and I’m not being facetious. A town where exist battle churches—the town that marks the point on the peninsula that the Muslims didn’t conquer when they invaded the peninsula. Along a line that made the border lies Salamanca—below that was Muslim for almost 700 years—but Salamanca not.

One battle church I used to see a lot—it occupied the center of a square, a plaza, where lived a good friend of mine. They still held services there, last I was there. It was cylindrical, with thin slit windows thru which arrows could safely be shot out but not enter. It was such a strange building. I saw it a lot, but still it never quite became familiar. A round cylinder building in the center of a square, amidst square buildings, holding mass on Sundays where mean looking, dried out and wrinkled old faces would attend, stuffed inside this can of a building with no real windows. All at once it would end, and they’d all come flooding out, as if to breathe the air.

I always imagined it must be very dark in there. Even more-so before electricity—huddled inside a compact, dark can—a fortified church. No air or light, staying inside to protect from what could be without. Shooting safely from within, safe within this little tin can building battle-church of God. No light anywhere.

#bricklayer #brick #cathedral #church #peter sebastian #havens #thisoldnewsletter #attention

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thotyssey · 8 years

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On Point With: Elizabeth James

Sporting a diversity of glam looks and a stage presence that’s both weirdly funny and seriously smart, this queen has been turning the party in both Brooklyn and Manhattan for a few years now. And with her “always look ahead” attitude, she’ll be evolving and conquering our venues for years to come. Let’s get into Elizabeth James!

Thotyssey: Hello, Miz Liz! How’s the week been so far?

Elizabeth James: Good morning love, my week has been great. Oh, the promise of spring! This has been a pretty mild winter so far, only that one blizzard that turned out to be kinda meh. Did that one ruin any of your gigs that night, or plans? No, I was actually off that night so had a great dinner and watched old movies. Perfect! As a way-booked queen, do you get to have a reasonable amount of downtime, or is your life like 93% drag-related? I work a lot, whether it's on stage or not. Liz is somewhat all-consuming. But my days off are usually Monday and Tuesday, and I really make it a point to disconnect and put my focus on things outside of my career. That keeps me fresh, but it took a while to earn those days off.

I bet! You certainly put a lot into Liz. How long have you been doing drag now?

It's been four years now, New Year's Eve is my drag anniversary. That's interesting! What made you want to try drag on NYE? I lived in Nashville, TN at the time, and a guy we knew asked my friend Kaleb and I if we would host his party in drag. When my first song ended, I remember running back stage and telling my friends “Something special just happened.” I was hooked. I heard that you named yourself “Elizabeth James” after a certain photograph.

Yes. One of Elizabeth Taylor taking a nap in James Dean’s lap. But that was long before drag; I thought I would name a puppy that, or maybe an adopted daughter. Never thought I would do drag. Truly.

I love that her face is on the gossip mag he is reading:

That is adorable! Human, but still glamorous.

'Human but still glamorous' I think that maybe the perfect description of Me. Absolutely! Mostly glamorous, though.

You've spoken about how you had to cut ties with your mom and stepdad at a young age because they didn't accept your sexuality. Do you think they'll ever be able to get over that hump? No, I don't. But I also don't think I'm missing out on anything by not having a relationship with them. Things happen in your life that may seem wrong at the time, but end up being such a blessing. If they hadn't done that, I would still be living in Kentucky trying to make them love me. And now you're in NY and everybody here loves you... it's their loss! Having a Trump in the White House validates people who have intolerance towards “alternate” lifestyles, of course. Everything is validation to the ignorant, because they don't understand the true meaning of their choices. And very little chance getting through to them. Gilda Wabbit is also from Kentucky, is it possible that there are more Kentucky-born drag queens in New York than there are in KY? So funny to think about how I thought of it then. Drag, like being an artist or dancer or something, isn't a thing you realize is a possibility. I imagine there are just as many drag queens in every location of the world; they just don't see the possibility.

I'm sure that's true. So what brought you to NY specifically: did you want the lifestyle, or were you maybe looking for a career in performing in some capacity?

I was offered a job as Liz, and things literally just fell into place, so I did it. Best decision I have ever made! Where was that? Sugarland, of course! I worked with a blogger at the time in Nashville name “Holly Hollywood,” and her publisher sent us around to interview different people in nightlife across the northeast. New York, and more specially Sugarland, was our last stop. I was offered a job on the spot and a free couch. I arrived in Chinatown October 15th at 11am with a suitcase and $35. It was [originally] $75, but I paid my phone bill and got a bag of Cheetos at a gas station on the way up.

The first time I ever saw you perform was at the old Boots & Saddle on Christopher Street. You did lots of guest spots at first, and eventually hosted your own weekly show there.

Boots was a hell hole, but It did teach me how to carry a show. Sink or swim, you are there for two hours. After sinking a few times, you make it a point to swim.

I will also say that [”head” Boots queen at the time] Victoria Chase was always so good to me, and taught me so much about the business. And I miss her directness.

I always liked your sense of humor as a performer, kind of warm and kooky, but smart. Untitled Queen compared you to Goldie Hawn. Is that your natural state, or does that have to be turned on when you're on stage?

I'm fully myself. I love performing, and I love making jokes. And the only way for me to be good at either one is to be me. The thing that Liz does for me is give me the freedom to put my mind in the shoes of different people. And of course, my life is what I talk about on stage and in my comedy. My look informs my performances, and my performances are informed by my life. You certainly do not have a specific look; I've seen you go very high glam and very downtown chic, and everything in between and beyond. People tell me all the time I should be one look. But the people who enjoy what I do enjoy change and diversity. I love to push things and try new ideas. It doesn't always work at first, but I always find it.

Do you have style icons?

It's tough to give a name. But I think my style is more so influenced by inspiring personalities. One well-written line of dialogue or lyric can give me weeks of visuals to play off. Interesting! You hosted a Rocky Horror screening back in October.

Yes, for Pace University.

That movie must've been an influence style-wise, right? Even that... I was sort of a hybrid of different personalities from that. I'm not an impersonator, I don't have that level of self control. I will never directly copy. There is no point to it. I bet you could do a mean Cher, though. Oh, I love her! Do you know, in 5th grade when “Believe” came out, my teachers would pull me out of class into the empty halls of my small town Kentucky elementary school to do my Cher impersonation!? They loved it! I laugh about that all the time. Drag was my destiny!

I can see that! So, I imagine you must miss Sugarland and another now-closed Brooklyn venue where you performed, TNT, quite a lot. No, I really don't miss them. I had a blast there, and those times in my life were important, but I don't hold on to things in that way. No point, just slows you down. I love my shows much more now. I had worked at those places from the time I arrived in New York, so I was a different person, and it was time to move forward. Things don't close because they are doing well. And nostalgia is boring.

I know what you mean about nostalgia. It's especially boring, I think, when people just try to recreate something that was successful in its time. I'm thinking right now of all these live action remakes of classic Disney animated films, which I don't see the appeal of at all.

But you wouldn't, because you have your set of memories about those works. So the “new” isn't necessarily for you, it’s to inspire the young ones who don't care about the versions we grew up loving. (This is clearly the proverbial “you” and not pointing directly at you.) But I think it's weird that a live action version would be more appealing to today's youth than animation. I figured animation would be timeless.

I think the energy of live action feels fresh to people. That’s why Reality TV is so big: it feels in the moment, when done correctly. But animation: come on, I love colors! whats your favorite classic animated film.... classic meaning anything before the glory and awe of Pixar?

As far as Disney goes, probably Pinocchio? Creepy and beautiful and sweet and devastating, all at once. Pinocchio is amazing.... the color stories through it are really special. What's your favorite? Peter Pan... But [as far as characters go] I liked Cinderella the most, because i felt she had a quiet sass. But the pixie dust is beautiful!

Okay, let's gab about gigs! I actually wanna start with Manhattan. You and your partner-in-crime Ruby Roo are the toast of the borough! In the West Village, your Sunday night show at the Duplex with her, "Two For The Show," just turned three years-old, and you have quite a following there. What's the best part of doing this show for you?

Duplex is such a special baby. We were so new when that show happened for us, and we have grown up with that show. So it’s now finding a solid ground of success three years later, and Ruby and I both seeing our past dreams come true is incredible. And the staff there, including Tony our manager and the venue’s owner, have let us figure it out and learn our craft through it. That doesn't happen in entertainment very often, where you either HIT or you’re out.

You two have the longest-running drag show there, and all the other queens on the roster also happen to be Lips girls. Do they ever try to recruit you into that fold?

No, I think everyone understands that’s not a good fit. But those girls work hard and are 100% professional, Ruby included. You and Ruby are now also lighting up Hardware in Hell’s Kitchen with SLAY Saturdays! I imagine that's a pretty different scene from the West Village and Brooklyn. How well do you mesh there--or do you not think about it in those terms? You have to think about it in those terms--because this is a business, and one size does not fit all. Hardware is a different thing, but from Night One we had people coming out to say how much they loved coming to Brooklyn to see us. We unknowingly already had a great following in that area.

Plus, everyone in HK has dreams in their eyes, they sparkle when they walk in. Its fun to see. All the Broadway babes! Yea they’re glittery! But Brooklyn is my home, and nothing beats home, and all the charming people in it.

Which brinks us to BK! Your long-running Wednesday party and show at Metropolitan Bar, CAKES--starring you, DJ Horrorchata and Untitled, is fun--and there's bare butts, so it's even more fun in my book. Is it usually a chore to get guys to enter the Best Butt contest?

Not at all.... I hate audience participation in most cases, but that’s so much harmless, sexy fun. And you tell a room of cute guys and girls they can win $50 for showing what they just shared on Instagram, they are always down. It amazes me how every Wednesday is such a blast, great way to start my work week! We have also added Hannah Lou as our DJ, alongside Chatta. Oh, nice! She seemed to be DJing every party in Brooklyn now. She’s a hard worker and talented-- I like her a lot!

You also host a show called ”Air Play” at Metro’s sister bar, Macri Park, right?

It's the first and third Friday at midnight. I do two sets and I keep it low-key. It's like my living room, and I love it.

And now: RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 9! Is hosting a Drag Race viewing party, and the whole culture of the show, a necessary evil for you--or do you get into it? Its a cute time. I’ve hosted at a new place each year, just because, why not? This year i am at a place in Bushwick called The Well, and I believe it’s the best venue for a viewing in Brooklyn. The setup, the sound: it’s right. And it’s a great stage for a good follow-up show, hosted by me of course. Do straight or mixed audiences get just as in to the show as a room full of queens? That show is for everyone. I’m happy to see it on VH1; I think it’s only going to grow the audience.

So this is a dangerous question maybe, but who's team are you on, queen-wise? Aja. Nothing against anyone else, but the girl deserves every bit of good fortune given to her. She is so incredible, and has worked her ass off for everything she’s ever had. Special person, true discipline. Shes amazing! Anything else to mention? I work 4-5 nights a week. Follow me on Instagram or add me on Facebook--I post everything! And I really am proud of all my shows. So come to the one that works best for you!

youtube

By the way, I like the video you put together awhile back to Echo Friendly’s “Same Mistakes.” It’s very stylish and bittersweet. Any more projects like that in the future for you?

I am currently working on a few projects... TBA.

And I caught an old clip of Misty Meaner joking on the mic that you hate everybody. Were you in the room when she said that? I wasn’t there, and I don’t hate everyone. I’m just not available to everyone. I would never think you hated anyone, you're always lovely! So, lastly: what’s your favorite part of drag?

Knowing people believe in you.

Yasss. And what's least favorite thing about drag in NYC, or in general? Drag in general: being hot. And in NYC, it’s taking the subway in heels. But I have to live that fantasy through, so don’t tell me to put on a flat. Like the prostitute once said, "it’s not the work, it’s the stairs."

Keep climbing, gurl, and thank you!

Elizabeth James co-hosts “CAKES” with Untitled Queen and Horrorchata at Metropolitan Bar on Wednesdays (10pm), and hosts “Air Play” at Macri Park monthly on first and third Fridays (midnight). With Ruby Roo, she co-hosts “SLAY Saturdays” at Hardware (10pm) and “Two For The Show” at the Duplex (Sundays, midnight). This season, she hosts the “RuPaul’s Drag Race” viewing party at The Well (8pm). Check here for other scheduled appearances. Follow Liz on Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

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jessestoddard · 8 years

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Welcome to Chapter 8 of my blog-to-book project: Life After High School: Secrets To A Successful Life By Those Who Have Had Twenty Years To Think About It (or) What They Didn’t Teach Us Gen Xers In High School. This chapter is called The Apartment. If you missed the last post, click here, otherwise, you can start at the beginning here.

I decided to get out of the dorm and get my own place. The Apartment was on 43rd and Brooklyn in the University District. It was a fantastic top floor condo with a view of downtown. I lived there for something like thirteen years, with all kinds of roommates on and off. At one point my “sister” (cousin) Stacie was a roommate. She was doing well at the time with a great job but partied a bit hard at night. I did what I could to be supportive. At another point, I had five roommates in the one-bedroom apartment. I lived in the closet, all in the name of saving money and helping friends out. Scott stayed there during our monk years, where he prayed all day, and I measured all my food for the Zone diet and studied. We did not talk and we did not party for a year.

The funniest time at the apartment could fill another few chapters with stories. Scott’s brother Jon was a roommate, but we never saw him. He had a pair of shoes that lived in the corner of the room, with jeans and a shirt folded on the top. That represented Jon. Their younger brother Ryan was our butler, and literally had a list of chores to do every day in exchange for rent. When you have five guys with drunk friends coming over it was an endless job. The toilet alone required a Hazmat suit and a set of three-foot prongs to clean it without being exposed to the nuclear filth. Luke Pinnow lived there and worked at Trader Joe’s and for a short time the gym I worked in. He graduated high school the year after us. Luke was later a minority partner and employee of the gym I opened up in 2005, which probably ruined our relationship. One of my friends from the dance department, Michael Bilikas, who also majored in a bunch of science stuff and Greek, and took nearly as long as Scott McKinstry to graduate, used to run big events at the Show Box downtown, and the crazy nightlife kept him on his cell phone late into the night. He used to fall asleep sitting up with the TV blaring. He later went to NYU dental school. Of all the roommates over the years, 9-Ball was the funniest roommate by far.

Formally John “9-Ball” Angus, who later legally changed his name to “Jawn” Angus, was in a phase of his life that one might call the partying years. To me, he was just full of life and living every moment. Others might call him a drunk. To me, he was a friend and a very interesting roommate. One day, he invited the homeless man who sat out on University Way Northeast, colloquially known as The Ave. The man went by the name of Bear and had a hook for a hand. He had a cardboard sign he would proudly display next to his can (pun intended) as he sat with the other Ave Rats waiting for a handout. His cheeky sign read, “It’s For Beer.” At least he was an honest bum.

Now, I prefer to view 9-Ball’s invitation an act of generosity, charity, and as philanthropic humanitarianism. One could also make an argument that he was just doing it for a laugh or as a bizarre social experiment, perhaps to see if the man could out drink him.

Upon arriving back home that day, I was surprised to see 9-Ball and Bear hosting a poker party. I can’t remember for sure, as many of those parties were a little hazy in my memory banks, but I seem to recall cigars and several other gentlemen from our usual crowd. The apartment had become an episode of Cheers, but Norm sitting at the end of the bar had been replaced by a homeless derelict who indeed could drink everyone else under the table… And he did.

After that, Bear became an honorary member of the Stoddard Tenement House, and his hook became our crest.

It was an amazing time. There were women in the place here and there (I am so sorry for those poor souls), but the primary players were a motley crew of young men somehow loosely connected to one of the tenants. In addition to those formally paying rent, there was a cast of characters that rounded out the mix.

My childhood friend Gary Hunter, a math genius who went to Whitman college, would come over and help organize the poker parties and bring exotic liqueurs, food, and cigars. He was on his way to becoming a successful bond trader and highly sought-after analyst of some kind. He worked for Washington Mutual Capital Corporation before the crash. I would go and visit him when I was working at the 5th Avenue Theater on our lunch break. Gary always has at least two computer monitors in front of him at all times. There is a legal statute somewhere that says that whatever is on the monitors must be at least three years ahead of everyone else and at least thirty IQ points above my head. Gary is one of those people who saw the crash coming and warned me, but I bought swamp land in Florida anyway (literally and figuratively) and lost my shirt. Years later, real estate investment trusts and really smart people in California pay Gary a lot of money to be smarter for them as he sits in his underwear in his living room. To be honest, no one really knows what Gary did or does. From what I have been able to deduce, Gary creates Excel spreadsheets that other people use to try to figure out other spreadsheets, that analyze things that other people try to figure out using spreadsheets that Gary made. There is then a bunch of smart people who ask Gary when they should jump and how high, and then somehow at the end of it all some guy in Rhode Island ends up owning twelve apartment buildings for a nickel.

Another friend I met at the gym, Nick Lacy, was an African-American singer and club hopper who I loved dearly and somehow ended up at the club Neighbors with. I did not know what Neighbors was when I went, and it made it that much more interesting. I grew up very fast in those years. I dated Tania, who’s family was from Mexico and was an exceptional Salsa dancer that I met at the University of Washington Ballroom Dance Club. We went out dancing all the time for several years. The culmination of our relationship was a bronze in the Seattle ballroom dance competition. We tried for a while, but it wasn’t meant to be. That was that and she moved to Australia.

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Nick’s buddy (who I shall not name to protect the innocent), would come over already high and looking to get more stoned. He had completed a master’s degree in a very competitive program at the UW, and now was doing nothing with it. One time, at the end of a long drawn-out soirée, he couldn’t find any more beer in my fridge. He looked at a half-empty (which he saw as half-full) glass of beer that someone had put a cigar out in, and with only a brief pause, shrugged his shoulders and chugged it down, ashes and all. These were lengths to which one would go to keep the party going at the Stoddard Tenement House.

Those years ended abruptly when the owner of the condo, an airline pilot with a stressful life, suddenly passed away from a heart attack. His wife and daughter were in shock and mourning, and I knew they wanted the daughter to be able to stay there, as she was a college student too. I decided it would be for the best if I just moved out to get out of their way. I had a deposit all wrapped up in a new building up the street that was already past the opening deadline and kept postponing. I had nowhere to put my stuff, so I stored some of it downstairs in the laundry room and some of it out in the alley behind the building in our garage space that was not at all secure.

What seemed like an act of courtesy turned into very bad timing. A few hours before I was to move out, we were all having one last little get-together. 9-Ball noticed some young punks in the alleyway four stories below who were mouthing off and throwing insults at us through the window. 9-Ball very correctly set the young hooligans straight and they fled the scene, not knowing that they would throw something much worse than insults in a matter of hours. We left the apartment to finish our work (I literally had to go work at University Fitness) and I came back later that evening to find splattered egg all over the walls of the living room. Somehow, he had insulted the next pitcher for the mariners or something, because that kid had an arm like a cannon. Either that or they had some kind of deadly accurate egg gun. I realized we had left the windows open on that hot evening and from four stories below, these kids had managed to launch those eggs through our windows and all over our walls, destroying the paint.

The others were gone, and all I had with me was the newest roommate on the scene, Andrew from the dance department. Andrew had just moved in and never even knew any of the other guys and yet from the goodness of his heart, he stayed with me that evening to paint the entire living room and clean up the mess. He lasted most of the night, and I pulled the rest of the all-nighter and finished the job. I turned the keys in and went to the gym the next morning. Without a home, the backroom at the gym became my new living space. I worked during the day, and then pleaded with Fahreed, who started at eleven, not to tell the boss that I was sleeping there. I am not sure if the boss would have cared, but I felt ashamed. Fahreed’s shift would end at five in the morning and I would start. It was a strange time.

Years later, after acquiring a well-paying oil refinery job, no doubt with help of his sheer charisma, 9-Ball began to travel to exotic locales in order to help with the expensive process of the winding down of refineries. On location in a tropical setting, he was a major car accident that should have taken his life. Swearing to become changed man, he swore off his previous lifestyle, including all drinking, purchased a race bike, and became an avid marathon runner and tri-athlete. I visited him once when he lived on Alki in Seattle, to see his many ribbons and accolades lining his wall when he was running an average of one marathon per month. He was lean and sinewy and truly embodied a new man. He legally changed his name to Jawn Angus.

Farewell 9-Ball, your memory shall forever be cherished and worshiped by the suppliant Ave Rats and Bums of University Way North East. Thus is the tale told by descendants on the Ave who’s cardboards signs now read, “It’s For 9-Ball,” and who wear pendants and various pieces of flair, all with the image of a hook on them.

In the next post, I will continue with more interesting interviews.

Are you from Generation X? I want to hear what you think! Please comment below and participate in the conversation about What They Didn’t Teach Us Gen Xers In High School. What do you wish someone told you when you were eighteen?

Life After High School: Chapter 8 The Apartment Welcome to Chapter 8 of my blog-to-book project: Life After High School: Secrets To A Successful Life By Those Who Have Had Twenty Years To Think About It

#Blog-to-Book

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