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rayatii · 1 year

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Raya Recounts: a brand-new series of overly-detailed opera summaries with unsolicited commentary!

Episode 6: Pagliacci

Pagliacci (“Clowns”) is an opera in a prologue and 2 acts, by Ruggiero/Ruggero Leoncavallo (it’s never clear which is the preferred spelling of his first name, so I just decided to kill two birds with one stone). Leoncavallo remains known today as one of the top composers of the verismo style (derived from the Italian word “vero”, meaning “real”), which also include Giacomo Puccini and Pietro Mascagni. Verismo is an Italian movement from the late 19th to early 20th century that centered around writing operas that, rather than focusing on the historical and fantastical stuff that had been largely prevalent since the genesis of opera itself, tell stories about relatable characters, everyday situations, blurrier lines between “good” and “bad”, and most importantly, REAL emotions. And the opera we are looking at today is especially adamant about all this.

Pagliacci is definitely Leoncavallo’s most famous work, particularly for the aria “Vesti la giubba”, which you are very likely to hear in any piece of mainstream media as sung by a tenor in a clown costume. But more on that later, I promise. The opera itself was an absolute success when it first came out, and still remains widely performed today. Anyway, he also wrote the song “Mattinata” for the incredibly famous tenor Enrico Caruso, as well as a version of La bohème that is much, MUCH less famous than Puccini’s, but still has some banger tunes. Both are still less well-known than what we are looking at today.

Leoncavallo was inspired to write this opera after witnessing the success of Mascagni’s famous verismo work Cavalleria rusticana (hey, let me know if I should give it the Raya Recounts treatment someday??); because these two works share many similar themes (and are also quite short in general; around 75 minutes or so??), starting with the New York Met Opera in 1893, it has become something of a tradition to stage them both in the same evening. This double bill is colloquially referred to as “Cav/Pag”, and there have been lots of disputes in the opera circles on social media about which work is superior (I absolutely refuse to answer this unnecessary dilemma!! They’re both great in their own very different ways. I could probably write a whole essay about that, but this is not what we are talking about today).

The libretto was written by Leoncavallo himself for this very opera, and he claimed that it was based on an actual murder case that his father, who was a judge, presided over when he (today’s composer/librettist) was still a child; it apparently involved one Gaetano d’Alessandro who, with the help of his brother Luigi, murdered one Gaetano Scavello, a servant in the Leoncavallo household, because they were both in love with the same girl. (Read here Leoncavallo’s own account of how the opera came to be.) However, there doesn’t seem to be any other evidence of this being true. Actually, when Pagliacci became a thing, the French author Catulle Mendès sued Leoncavallo for plagiarism because he thought that the plot was similar to his own play La femme de Tabarin, BUT he had to drop the charges because someone else sued HIM for plagiarism for this very play.

This title was suggested to me by an anon ask back in early January. Whoever you are, I hope you didn’t find this too long of a wait! Because this work is shorter than those treated in the previous installments, this post will most likely be much shorter than the previous ones, not counting the obligatory unsolicited commentary.

As usual, the solo characters’ names will be bolded when introduced (and in this case, both bolded and italicized for the characters of the show-within-the-show), and I will give potentially bad Italian translations for the important numbers (damn, so much Italian in this series!).

I apologize in advance if the “keep reading” option doesn’t work; it has been failing me for this specific post, and literally pushed me on the brink of breaking down crying. I hate this hellsite.

Spoilers, of course!

The Prologue starts off with a orchestral prelude (technically in C major, but it’s pretty tonally adventurous, at least in my opinion) that features at least one musical motif that we will definitely hear later on, and at some point during it, Tonio, a baritone with really bad kyphosis (we’re in 2023, and we should normalize the fact that the term “hunchback” is considered derogatory. Thank you, @madmozarteanfelinefantasy, for making me realize that long ago) dressed in his Commedia dell’arte costume, comes in from behind the still-closed curtain and directly addresses the audience, introducing himself as the Prologue (Prologue: Si può? Si può?; “Could you? Could you?” or something like that. It’s not every day that you see an opera character breaking the 4th wall!).

He claims that the author himself is using the ways of old-fashioned performing arts in his work, which is why he sent him (the Prologue) to speak to the audience. But NOT to give out that typical speech about how they should not be alarmed because the tears and agonies that will be shown onstage are not real and blah blah blah blah blah (man, this gives me severe flashbacks to reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream back in Grade 10 English class), but rather to tell them quite passionately that the author chose to depict a real story that he was reminded of one day, that he penned it with genuine tears and sobs (are you sure it was not ambition to match/surpass Mascagni at this verismo thing?? 😏), and that all the love, hate, screams of rage and cynical laughter that will be shown onstage will be depicted as in real life, and that the performers are real people of flesh and blood who breathe the same air as the audience (man, for a debut in verismo, Leoncavallo really be fucking hammering the meaning of verismo into our brains). That being said, he calls for the show to continue, and disappears behind the curtain.

The orchestra briefly reprises the main theme of the prelude before the curtain actually opens on Act 1. We are at a village located in the Italian province of Calabria, somewhere near the town of Montalto (Leoncavallo’s childhood homeplace), on the Feast of the Assumption (well, it literally says “on the day of the feast of mid-August”, but I guess that’s what it means), sometime between 1865 and1870 (yes, all these details are indicated in the libretto and the score). We hear an out-of-tune trumpet and a bass drum in the distance, and the peasants from the village, all men, women and children, rush to see where that sound is coming from (we also hear the offstage voices of two principals, but I’m too lazy to elaborate because it’s not very important). They joyfully announce the return of “Pagliaccio” (the Italian word for “clown”, but also a relatively close equivalent of the Commedia dell’arte stock character Pierrot) and his troupe of traveling performers (Chorus: Son qua! Son qua!; “They’re here! They’re here!” It slaps so fucking hard).

Indeed, a group of people enters the stage in a cart drawn by a donkey (obviously replaced with a truck or something in most modern-ish productions) (in the libretto, the men are dressed in their respective character costumes, which they will change out of later in that scene, but nearly every production I have watched has them dressed in everyday outfits throughout the whole scene, probably for practical reasons).

You’ve got Canio, the leader of the troupe, who is the one beating the drum; Nedda, his wife, who is literally just sitting there; Beppe (actually, there is a lot of debate as to whether his name is actually Beppe or Peppe, because Peppe is what is written in the older scores and libretti, but Beppe is the spelling we usually see nowadays, so that’s the one I will be going with) who is the one leading the donkey, and Tonio, the most-likely Tired Of Life™ Ugly Designated Fool we have met earlier. Everyone cheers for Pagliaccio (Canio, that is), the prince of clowns who supposedly drives troubles away with his cheerfulness (I mean, this is rural Italy in the 19th century, obviously he is going to get a massive fan-club).

After thanking the crowd (and loudly beating his drum to stop them from interrupting him), Canio, a tenor with a significant amount of vocal maturity required (and THIS time, it does actually make more sense for this age to reflect that!!!!), announces that he and his troupe are putting up a show this evening at the twenty-third hour*, where they will see antics involving, among other things, the good Pagliaccio setting a trap and getting revenge. It’s at the twenty-third hour, do not forget!

(*Note: the actual term here is “ventitre ore”, which does translate to “the twenty-third hour”, but according to what I read, this is NOT supposed to mean “11 PM”, but is actually a timekeeping method from rural Italy way back in the days, that calculated the time based on the parts of day during which the Angelus (or “avemaria” in Italian) was recited, meaning that in this case, the show will be presented between vespers and the evening Angelus/avemaria, i.e., sometime before/at sunset. That makes much more sense than 11 PM tbh.)

Anyway, the villagers confirm that they will indeed be there at the twenty-third hour, and a bit of confirmation-repetition ensues between them and Canio. After that, Tonio goes to help Nedda off the cart, but Canio beats him to it and slaps him, telling him to fuck off (not literally, but you get what I mean). Everyone laughs at him, and Tonio internally swears revenge. A villager (who is either a baritone or a bass because his music is written in bass clef, but there is literally zero info besides that, and I have the vocal cords of a little girl so I can’t give a more precise decision) asks Canio if he wants to join them for drinks, which he accepts, and Beppe (who happens to be a tenor with much less required vocal maturity than Canio) asks to join in as well.

When Canio asks Tonio if he wants to come as well, Tonio tells them to go ahead, saying that he wants to clean the donkey. Another villager (a tenor, given his music in treble clef) jokes that Tonio wants to stay alone in order to make a pass at Nedda, but Canio does not take it very well. He warns the villagers not to play such games with him, and explains that while onstage as Pagliaccio, if he finds his wife with another man, he would simply give her a silly lecture and then calm down and probably get the crap beaten out of him or something (I’m not sure if that’s exactly what he means) and the audience laughs and cheers and all’s well that ends well, in typical Commedia dell’arte fashion. But if he were to actually find Nedda cheating on him in real life... well, the story would have a very different ending (Un tal gioco, credetemi; “Such a game, believe me”. I’m not sure if this really qualifies as an aria. Foreshadowing much??). Nedda, a soprano with a voice much more youthful and lyrical than her husband (which is kinda telling), very briefly internally expresses uneasiness of some sort. The male chorus of villagers asks him if he is really serious about this. Canio replies: “excuse me, I love my wife!” (it’s not clear to me whether he is actually answering yes or no to the question, and the different translations I have seen seem to conflict with each other.) As he says that, he kisses her on the forehead.

At this moment, we hear what is supposed to be the sound of bagpipes (tho in the score, it’s apparently meant to be represented by oboes??). According to the chorus, it’s pipers who are accompanying a gaggle of happy couples on their way to church. Sure enough, church bells start ringing vespers. After Canio reminds them yet again that the show is at the twenty-third hour, the chorus happily leaves to go to church, all while imitating the “din don” sound of the bells (Chorus: I zampognari!; “The pipers!”. In the libretto, the aforementioned pipers and couples appear onstage at one point, but I don’t think that’s necessary), while Canio and Beppe go offstage with some of the men from the village.

Nedda, left all alone onstage, expresses worry over the apparent violence in Canio’s manner, fearing that he might uncover her secret thoughts. But she brushes that off as silly, fearful dreams, and decides to focus instead on the beautiful mid-August sunshine, which fills her with life and a desire she can’t identify. She looks up at the sky, and sees a bunch of birds flying above (represented in the orchestra by high woodwinds and violins playing tremolo (meaning “trembling” in Italian; in this specific case, it’s quickly alternating two notes that are not too close to each other); she mentions their screeching). She asks herself what they are seeking, where they are going, all that. She mentions that her mother, who was a fortune-teller, understood their birdsong, and used to sing it to her when she was a child; she imitates it by trilling (i.e., alternating two notes close to each other very quickly. I myself have yet to learn this technique in singing, tho my teacher did say long ago that I would someday).

Nedda goes on to talk all about how birds fly in the sky, free like arrows, defying clouds and the sun, following a dream. Nothing can stop them, not even the wind, storms, rain, or lighting, as they fly above chasms and seas (insert that one John Cena “Are you sure about that?” meme that probably no one else rememebers bc it dates back from when Vine was still alive). Perhaps they are vainly seeking a strange land they have been dreaming of, but they are driven by a mysterious power that pushes them to fly on and on (Recitative and ballatella (probably meaning “ballad” or something like that): Stridono lassù; “They screech up there”).

At some point during Nedda’s aria, Tonio has come onstage. When Nedda finishes, she notices him. He explains that he was enraptured by her singing. She dismisses him in an amused manner and tells him to join the others at the tavern. He tells her that while he may be a deformed guy who arouses nothing but mockery and disgust, he harbors sincere dreams of love, and experiences genuine anguish whenever she passes by him disdainfully, she literally has him under her spell!

Nedda obviously does not take him seriously, and tells him that he will have time to give her this declaration of love again when they perform onstage this evening, but that he should spare himself the trouble right now. As he angrily insists that he truly wants her right now and that he will make her his, she continues to mock him and then threatens to call Canio (damn, on one hand, Tonio is definitely a massive dick who doesn’t take no for an answer, but on the other, Nedda is most likely mocking him for his physical difference, at least in great part, which is definitely quite assholish; but that also applies to everyone else in this opera). At which point Tonio attempts to force himself onto her, but she grabs Beppe’s whip (the one used for the donkey) and whacks him across his face with it. As he leaves offstage, Tonio swears on the Virgin of the Assumption that she will pay for this. Nedda calls him a snake, saying that his soul is as deformed as his body (yes, actual line in the libretto. Tonio’s characterization did NOT age well at all).

Immediately after that, someone else joins Nedda onstage. It’s Silvio, another baritone who is definitely much hunkier than the previously-seen one, and a young local from the village who happens to be Nedda’s lover. So she is indeed cheating on Canio as was feared!! Man, it’s not every day that you see the soprano cheat on a tenor with a baritone; usually it’s the other way round. Anyway, Nedda chides Silvio’s rashness in showing up at this hour of day, but he assures her that they risk nothing because Canio and Beppe are still drinking at the tavern, but even so, he was careful to sneak through a scrub he was familiar with to join her. Nedda tells him that he narrowly avoided bumping into Tonio, who just told her he loves her and attempted to force himself onto her, but that she managed to push him away with the whip.

Silvio takes pity on what happened to Nedda, and then begs her to stay with him, because once she leaves the village with the troupe at the end of the holiday, what will become of him, of his life? He tells her that if it’s true that she never loved Canio, that she hates her job and all that touring around, and if her love for him (Silvio) is not some made-up bullshit, she should run away with him tonight (Duet: Nedda! Silvio!... Decidi il mio destin; “Nedda! Silvio!... Decide my destiny”. It’s over 10 minutes long, I swear). Nedda desperately begs him not to tempt her with such a crazy idea, and says it’s best for them to part, but assures him that she cannot tear him from her heart, and that she will only live off her love for him. After they both repeat some of their respective lines at the same time in a musical fashion, Silvio accuses Nedda of not loving him anymore.

At this point, Tonio, who has appeared somewhere onstage, unseen by the lovebirds, makes his presence known to the audience by internally going “ha!! I’ve caught you, slut!” (yup, because “sgualdrina” = “slut”), before quickly leaving. Meanwhile, Nedda desperately tells Silvio that she does love him. Silvio asks her why did she bewitch him, why did she kiss him with such ardent passion if she is just going to leave him the next day? (Okay so in the libretto, the stage direction says “lovingly, trying to charm her”, but the words alone sound pretty whiny.) Nedda replies that she has forgotten nothing, that she wants to live a life of calm, peaceful love with him, and that she is completely giving herself over to him. They both decide to forget everything (presumably agreeing to run away together, I guess), and they intensely re-profess their love for each other, with Nedda asking Silvio to kiss her.

They obviously start making out after finishing the duet (well, it doesn’t actually say so in the stage directions, but it wouldn’t make much sense for them not to make out after all those repeated “kiss me!” lyrics). As they do, Tonio and Canio sneak onstage. Tonio advises Canio to walk up to them slowly to surprise them. Meanwhile, Silvio starts to take leave of Nedda, telling her to meet him here in the middle of the night. Nedda assures him that she will, and adds: “Until tonight, and I will be yours forever”. It’s when these exact words are uttered that Canio cries out, alerting Nedda of his presence, who desperately urges Silvio to flee, which he does. Nedda tries to stop Canio from chasing Silvio, but he pushes her aside and runs offstage in his pursuit. As he does, Tonio laughs cynically, and Nedda sarcastically congratulates him in a disdainful way. Tonio says just as cynically that he has done what he could, but that he hasn’t lost hope of doing better. Nedda expresses her disgust, and he responds that she doesn’t know how happy he is.

Canio returns onstage, very pissed; Silvio has managed to outrun him. He furiously asks Nedda the name of her paramour, which she absolutely refuses to give him. Canio goes as far as to threaten her with a dagger (dude, what the fuck?!!!), but Beppe comes onstage on time to stop him from doing anything, telling him that the people are leaving the church and coming to the show. Canio struggles against him, still demanding the name of Nedda’s lover. Beppe asks Tonio to restrain him, and urges everyone to get dressed for the show (dude sure has his priorities straight, even within the risk of homicide). He reassures Nedda that Canio is violent but a good person (once again, “are you sure about that?”). Most likely after Beppe and Nedda leave, Canio is still in the midst of a violent hissyfit, and Tonio tells him to keep it together for the time being, since it’s very likely that the guilty lover will attend the show and give himself away. Beppe briefly reenters to remind the two to start getting ready, and he and Tonio go offstage.

Left alone onstage, Canio absolutely despairs at the idea of having to perform while he is in such a state that he is barely able to check himself (THAT’S IT, THAT’S THE ARIA (or Arioso (i.e., a sort of bastard child between recitative and aria) in this case) THAT IS SO INCREDIBLY FAMOUS IT’S A STAPLE OF OPERA REPERTOIRE AND HAS BASICALLY BECOME A MEME IN AND OF ITSELF!!!!! Recitar!... Vesti la giubba; “Perform!... Put on the costume”. Well, “giubba” literally means “jacket”, but I’m going with the common translation for this specific context). But as he dresses up in his iconic white costume and applies the iconic white makeup onto his face, he also tells himself he must make an effort to become Pagliaccio for the time being, because the audience is paying to have a laugh, and so he must turn his tears into laughter, and laugh at his own grief (as indicated in the iconic line “Ridi, Pagliaccio” (“Laugh, clown/Pagliaccio”)) so that the audience will applaud. Man, it’s such an intensely emotional aria that it’s kinda difficult not to feel some sympathy for Canio in that moment (well, depending on who is singing), even though he has been jealous and murder-y for the most part so far. That’s verismo for you. Also, it’s not written in the libretto but most tenors finish singing this aria by sobbing loudly.

(I would like to (not so) briefly interrupt our scheduled program to talk a bit more about this aria, because it’s so fucking iconic that it has been referenced in countless movies, TV shows and commercials. For example, check out this hilarious Rice Krispies commercial (featuring a singing mother-in-law who looks at hell lot like Montserrat Caballé...). Or this absolutely wholesome Coca-Cola commercial that probably would have given this opera a happier ending. Also, for those who don’t remember, on Halloween 2021, my costume was actually Canio/Pagliaccio. Here are a couple pictures, as well as a vid I posted on TikTok. And yes, I am entirely of the opinion that “Vesti la giubba” and “The Show Must Go On” are basically the same song. And speaking of Queen and Freddie Mercury, the opening of the song “It’s A Hard Life” is directly lifted from the melody of “Ridi, Pagliaccio”. Here is a video that directly compares the two.)

Anyway, the act ends on a very sad Canio who has just single-handedly codified the Sad Clown™ trope while faced with the task of acting out something onstage that reflects his own real life. And that’s fucking painful!!!!!!

After an Intermezzo in E minor (switching to E major around midway through) that is definitely less famous than Mascagni’s (but still quite nice, and also includes at least one musical motif we have heard; the first theme also kinda reminds me of the beginning of Ravel’s Tz*gane), Act 2 opens on the exact same location as Act 1, but obviously at a later time of day. We hear the same out-of-tune trumpet and bass drum that opened Act 1. There is a little stage occupying the area (if it hasn’t already been shown in Act 1, as indicated by the libretto), and Tonio, dressed in his costume, is ushering the excited villagers to their seats. According to the chorus basses, there are kids running around (at least I think), which. Yeah, I have definitely seen that. The crowd is getting excited/impatient for the show to start, and there seems to be some squabbling over seats somewhere at one point, it’s just basic pre-show audience chaos. At least until Beppe, who is also dressed in his Commedia dell’arte costume, calls for everyone to get seated with no shouting.

Meanwhile, Silvio, who has blended into the crowd, meets Nedda, who is ALSO dressed in her Commedia dell’arte costume, as well as collecting the audience’s money. She tells him to be cautious, as Canio hasn’t seen him. Silvio reminds her (as he pays for his seat, obviously) that he will be waiting for her (so that they can elope, remember). After their exchange, the chorus repeats their pre-show audience chaos lines, with Beppe calling once for everyone to pay before getting seated, before he retreats backstage with Nedda. The audience continues to call for the show to start, until a bell rings loudly, indicating the beginning of the show, and the curtain of the stage-on-the-stage rises.

The Commedia (Play) (even indicated so in the score) has started. As the (real) orchestra plays lighthearted incidental music that heavily contrasts with the rest of the opera (believe me, it’s important), we see a little room with a table and two chairs. Colombina (played by Nedda) informs the audience that her husband, Pagliaccio, will be home late at night, and wonders where the fuck is that idiot Taddeo? Suddenly, we hear a solo violin plucking some open strings. As the orchestral strings play a soft accompaniment, we see/hear (because in the libretto he’s offstage, but in most productions he’s not, and he is strumming a lute/mandolin/something) Arlecchino (played by Beppe) serenading Colombina, singing typical serenade stuff about desperately pining for her and wanting to kiss her little mouth and asking her to open her window (Serenata (Italian word for “serenade”, obviously): O Colombina. No translation needed).

(Another pointless fun fact! Back when I was in Grade 10, way before I got into opera, my Drama class did a unit on Commedia dell’arte, and we were all asked to pick one stock character to portray and study throughout the whole unit (we were seven students). I picked Colombina, and it was so much fun.)

At this point, Taddeo (played by Tonio; basically a stock foolish servant character) comes in while carrying a basket, unseen by Colombina. He takes the opportunity to ogle her, and his comically exaggerated reaction at her beauty (at least as indicated in the score) makes the audience (of the play-within-the-play) laugh. He contemplates confessing his love for her now that her husband is away. Colombina then turns towards him, and he confirms to her that Pagliaccio is indeed away, and that he has bought the chicken that he was asked to buy (the one inside the basket he is carrying), which he presents to her by dropping on his knees. He tries to confess his love for her, but she interrupts him twice. The third time, during which he calls her pure and chaste as snow and says that he cannot forget her no matter how harsh she is with him, Arlecchino enters through the window while carrying a bottle, and then grabs him (Taddeo) by the ear and kicks his ass, earning laughter from the onstage audience. When Taddeo realizes that Arlecchino and Colombina are in love with each other, he gives them his blessing and decides to keep watch for them (man, that is literally the one thing that the “real life” situation and the show-within-a-show don’t have in common). He exits the room as the onstage audience laughs and applauds.

Arlecchino and Colombina embrace (comically, according to the score. Also, in quite a few productions, all the movements are done in a dance-like sort of way), and then they sit down to eat a dinner fixed by Colombina, complete with the bottle of wine that Arlecchino brought. After they have gobbled down some yummy food and chugged down some yummy wine, Arlecchino gives Colombina a vial of sleeping drug to slip to Pagliaccio when he comes back so that they (Arlecchino and Colombina) can run away together. But then, Taddeo bursts in (still comically), warning the two that Pagliaccio is here, and that he is very upset and knows everything. He goes off to hide away (probably inside a closet or something, like in some productions; in the 2015 Met production, he hides inside a freezer, and it’s hilarious).

As Arlecchino escapes through the window, he reminds Colombina to pour the sleeping drug into Pagliaccio’s cup. Just as Pagliaccio (played by Canio) comes onto the stage-on-the-stage, she replies: “Until tonight, and I will be yours forever”. Canio internally realizes that these were the EXACT SAME WORDS that Nedda said to the guy she was cheating on him with, and he starts to become really upset, but tries to pull himself together to continue with the play. Pagliaccio tells Colombina that he knows there was a man here, and when Colombina denies it, Pagliaccio points out that the table is set for two. Colombina claims that Taddeo was seated with her and hid himself out of fear. She reveals Taddeo, who begs Pagliaccio to believe her, claiming that Colombina is pure and that those pious lips of hers abhor lying! The onstage audience (at least, the score says it’s just the chorus tenors and basses) laughs.

Well, this is enough to push Canio over the edge; completely breaking character, he rails at the onstage audience, and violently demands once again that Nedda give him the name of her lover. Nedda tries her best to keep the performance going by calling Canio “Pagliaccio” twice, but Canio replies passionately that no, he is not Pagliaccio; he has the right to be honest, and the whiteness of his face is because of shame and his bleeding heart’s desire for revenge with blood. No, he is only the guy who foolishly took her in back when she a starving orphan in the street, and gave her a name and loved her to madness (ewww, the implications) (Arietta (or at least, Wikipedia refers to it as an arietta, i.e., a short aria): No, Pagliaccio non son; “No, I am not Pagliaccio”).

Half of the chorus women comment on how this performance seems so real that it’s making them cry, and a few chorus men tell them to shut up. Meanwhile, Silvio in the audience comments internally about how he can barely hold himself back. Canio continues with his rant, going on about how he was so blinded by this delirious passion that he had hoped that if she didn’t love him, she at least felt compassion towards him, and that with every sacrifice he made on his heart, he believed in her more than God himself. But no, he sees nothing but vice in her soul, and the only law she follows is that of her senses (wow, that was difficult to translate!). He tells her that she doesn’t deserve his pain and that he wants to crush her under his feet in his disgust. The onstage audience can’t help but applaud and shout out “Bravo!”; it’s clear that they still think it’s all just a performance (ugh, show, don’t tell, Raya!!).

Nedda (as herself) challenges him to drive her out of here this instant if he judges her unworthy of him. Canio derisively tells her that she is clever, that she would definitely take the opportunity to run off with her darling lover. But no, he will make her stay and tell him the name of her paramour. Trying to get back into character, as the orchestra reprises the lighthearted theme of the Comedy, Nedda tells him that the man who was sitting with her just now is no one but the harmless Arlecchino (it’s not actually indicated anywhere, but usually productions would have him reveal himself, which definitely makes sense).

The onstage audience starts laughing, but it quickly dispels due to Canio’s furious attitude; as the people start doubting that there is any acting going on (with some commenting on how this is some serious and dark business, and others telling them to shut up) and Silvio can barely restrain himself, Canio becomes completely enraged by Nedda’s defiance, and demands that she tell him her lover’s name, actually threatening her life. She swears in the name of her mother that she will never tell him; she may be unworthy, whatever he thinks, but she swears to God that she is NOT a coward (sorry). Beppe tells Tonio that they must leave, he’s scared (sorry again, this was the first thing I thought of), but Tonio tells him to shut up. Nedda says that her love is stronger than his disdain; she will not speak, even at the risk of death.

As the fight escalates, there is general confusion going on among the onstage audience; some villagers are restraining Silvio (to be fair, they know less than him what is going on), and Tonio is restraining Beppe the whole time. It all culminates when the basically out-of-his-mind Canio grabs a knife from the table (in some productions, Tonio even slips it in his hand!!) and stabs Nedda in front of the terrified crowd. In her dying breath, Nedda calls for Silvio, who rushes towards her, but Canio immediately figures out who he is and also stabs him to death. We hear the famous final line: “La commedia è finita!” (“The comedy is finished!”, usually shouted out rather than sung), and after a thrilling solo timpani roll buildup, the orchestra plays a bombastic reprise of the “Ridi, Pagliaccio” motif.

(Quick note on the “La commedia è finita!” line: in the libretto and the score, it is assigned to Tonio, but many performances nowadays give this line to Canio instead, sometimes while sobbing over Nedda’s dead body (like the first production I ever watched; from Ascunción in 2015). Many, many justifications have been given for the assignment of the line to either Tonio or Canio, and some productions have tried being more creative with it, from what I heard. As have some memers.)

But all this debating aside, the (REAL real-life) curtain falls on these harrowing happenings.

The end! ❤❤❤ This has been an overly-detailed opera summary with unsolicited commentary, I hope you enjoyed ;)

- Raya / rayatii

(PS: this opera’s title is often mistakenly given as I pagliacci (“The clowns”). But speaking of titles, fun fact, it was initially going to be titled Il pagliaccio (“The clown”), but the guy who initially premiered Tonio asked Leoncavallo to change it to the plural Pagliacci, in order to highlight other characters in addition Canio, particularly his own so he could steal the spotlight. I personally do find the title “Pagliacci” to be better.)

(PPS: sorry for the long post; have this bit from the Simpsons that uses “Vesti la guibba” (transposed down from E minor to B minor, however) and adds another layer of meta to the opera (couldn’t find a clip with a better quality, sorry), this tvtropes theory about Nedda’s origins (which honestly makes so much sense and adds a whole extra layer to her characterization), and a personal reflection about how real-life couples singing the parts of Canio and Nedda (such as Roberto Alagna and Aleksandra Kurzak, who have sung a handful of Pagliacci’s together these recent few years) give the opera a whole extra level of meta so that you get a husband and wife playing a husband and wife playing a husband and wife... Y’know what, there should be a movie about a husband and wife slated to sing Pagliacci together, when an affair with a stagehand or something results in disastrous consequences... AND WHAT IF THEY WERE PLAYED BY A REAL-LIFE HUSBAND AND WIFE??? - okay calm down, Raya.)

(PPPS: I have read/listened in several places about how Canio can be interpreted in various ways; sometimes, he is an absolute cinnamon roll in general, but just absolutely snaps Don José-style when it comes to Nedda’s infidelity (for example, the 2020 Vienna production with Roberto Alagna; not the interpretation I would go with, but it pleasantly surprised me); sometimes, he is portrayed as an alcoholic or something, as a way to explain his violent behavior (for example, the previously-mentioned 2015 Met production with Marcelo Álvarez; at least, it seems to be implied iirc); and sometimes, he is just portrayed as a complete sleazeball from the beginning (for example, the 2015 Salzburg production with Jonas Kaufmann, complete with sketchy tattoos. Yeah well, I didn’t actually watch that production, but I heard a bit about it). All this room for interpretation, no matter what we do or don’t agree with, is a big reason why I find opera to be such a beautiful genre. Yeah okay, this is kinda my way of making up for not referencing enough productions throughout the actual summary, but give me a break 😅)

#raya recounts #opera #opera summary #overly-detailed opera summary with unsolicited commentary #pagliacci #leoncavallo #ruggiero leoncavallo #ruggero leoncavallo #too many links #and A LOT of unsollicited commentary #(i mean i don't think i have seen as much commentary in a previous raya recounts post)#again i apologize in advance in case the 'keep reading' option decides to fail me still #i'm way too devoted to this

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jerzwriter · 11 months

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I was brought back from the death by the need of knowing more about Ethan and Eva lol

From the ship ask game: 3, 10, 14 and 42, please and thank you 😌

Thank you for these. It will get me prepped to write them!

3. What was their first impression of each other?

It was not good. She was treating a patient on a rotation in the ER, and Ethan came over, offering an unsolicited opinion that she did not take kindly to. She thought he was being a misogynistic ass, but he mistook her for an intern who would have been too junior to handle such a serious case alone.

Of course, neither handled it well, but when they realized the error, she eased up - he stayed all Ethan. So she walked away muttering "Arrogant prick" under her breath. Ethan heard her and said, "Excuse me?" She smiled condescendingly and said, "Thanks for the tips?" This will be a frenemies-to-lovers story.

10. Do they share any hobbies or interests? How do these things bring them together?

Yes. Quite a few. They both love to cook; they are both multi-lingual and always want to pick up more languages. They both love to travel. They love classical music (including opera). They both love hiking, antiquing, and quiet nights at home. They love documentaries, and they like to keep their circle of friends small.

When Casey and Tobias see all this, they're like !!!! What are you waiting for!?!?!

14. Do they enjoy PDA, or are they more private with affection?

While they will engage in PDA, in general, they're more private. That said... they do engage in PDA, they just try to do it on the dow-low... and almost always get caught. lol

42. What’s their relationship like with each other’s friends/families?

This is in the Tobias/Casey world, so T/C are very good friends with Ethan. Casey is friends with Eva first. Initially, Eva thinks Ethan and Tobias are jackasses, lol. In time, she grows to like both men, and four have a nice friendship going forward.

Alan, Naveen, and Harper all love Eva and vice versa.

Ethan's relationship with her family is complicated because her relationship with her family is complicated. Ethan lets Eva take the lead, and he tends to avoid the relatives that give her grief. But when needed, he will step in and ALWAYS have their back. He's very close with her father and older brother, who she is closest with as well.

Eva was very much married to her job, so she didn't have a bevy of friends. She has one or two close friends who live back home in New Jersey, and Ethan gets along well with them.

Thanks for the asks, dear!

#ethan ramsey #ethan x eva #ethan x mc #asks answered

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nightwhispcrs · 9 months

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tucker mccall ( young & the restless , alexander skarsgård fc ) ; 45 years old ; uses he/him ; is not aware that he is not from washington dc ; been stuck here for ~ a year . non magical.

death tw , car crash tw , cheating tw , alcohol tw

listen , when this brat popped up in my fav soap opera i hated him and thought there was no way i would get attached and now ... here i am . who am i if not a collector of messy chaotic neutral muses ?

tucker is a playful , sarcastic , manipulative , romantic , brilliant , selfish , charming , poised , quick-witted , boat-rocking , bear-poking , aloof guy who just knows exactly what to say to get under everyone's skin at precisely the right time .

tucker mccall has a checkered past to say the least ?? some might describe him as a con man , others as a business genius , others as a professional homewrecker , and some might just call him a cold hearted villain . for the most part , tucker chills and kind of does his own thing . he absolutely loves gossip and jumping in uninvited or providing unsolicited advice , but his efforts are generally so smooth that you won't realize a snake has entered the garden until you've been bitten by it - and then , you'll likely never forgive him .

he's got quite the reputation around town , but he takes it in stride with a smile and sarcastic quip , even throwing out random quotes from buddha when others get annoyed by him ( he once spent a year at a buddhist temple after nearly dying in a car crash and being in a coma so ... take from that what you will . )

personally , i think there is a heart and some good in him somewhere , but you'll just have to dig a lil deep to find it . maybe real deep . speaking of deep , if you want to bond with him just hand him a bottle of top tier liquor and ponder the cosmos or engage in spiritual , intimate , deep conversation and he'll be all ears . as long as he's not in one of his whiny self pity party moods .

in washington , tucker works as an art curator / director for the hirshhorn art museum . gives him an excuse to wear turtlenecks , which he loves .

#i brought another muse yea yea yea u cant stop me #( ✰ musings ⟶ tucker )#( ✰ interactions ⟶ tucker )#( ✰ face ⟶ tucker )#( ✰ answered memes ⟶ tucker )#hw: intro

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lucrezia-thoughts · 3 years

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yesss it's marcus & max monday! can we talk about sugar daddy marcus pike? hnnggg he'd be sooooo good to you and buy you all the pretty things. oh and obviously he takes you to all the exclusive gallery openings (and maybe even to the opera) to show you off.

but he also just loves the little moments of the both of you cuddling on the couch or slow dancing in his apartment.

and that's not even mentioning how he can wreck you in bed.

Okay, this one feels like a personal attack, love, because OMG SUGAR DADDY MARCUS PIKE IS JUST...... *unintelligible screeching noises* So....perfect... 🥺💚 I love the way your brain works, love!!

gn!Reader (gender neutral)

Warning(s): sweet Marcus, all the fluffy feelings... just Marcus... he needs his own warning...

Marcus would never let you put a label on what the two of you had, but all the signs were there...

If you ever so much as looked at something twice, it was yours the next day. If you mentioned an event in passing, there were digital tickets in your email within the hour. And that said nothing of the unsolicited gifts...or the name he liked to be called...

You shook those thoughts from your head and smiled as you ran your hands over the silky fabric of the designer outfit Marcus had laid out for you. This man was so perfect and you felt so lucky to call him yours... your daddy. With a sigh, you sprayed your pulse points with Marcus's favorite scent.

"Baby?" you heard him call from the hallway and couldn't help the shiver that ran through you at just hearing his voice.

"In here, daddy!" you answered and gasped softly when his hands slipped around your waist a moment later.

"You look incredible, baby," he whispered into your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your neck before nuzzling your cheek.

"Daddy-" you started to protest, but Marcus was having none of that.

"Listen to daddy, baby," he urged and guided your head to look into the mirror. "You're perfect, baby..." he breathed into your ear as he slid his hands along your body, "perfect... and all mine."

You nodded your head at his attentions and turned in his arms to capture his lips in a soft kiss. "I love you, daddy..." you whimpered into the kiss and wrapped your arms around his neck.

You felt him start to smile against your lips and you broke the kiss to giggle when he slowly started swaying your bodies to a nonexistent melody.

"Daddy!" you laughed as his hands wrapped around your waist and he guided you around the bedroom. "We're going to be late..." you tried half-heartedly to remind him about why you'd been getting dressed in the first place.

"I'll get us tickets for tomorrow," he whispered, "right now, I just want you in my arms, baby..."

#marcus & max mondays #lucrezia answers #nobody touch me #i'm feeling things #sugar daddy marcus #hi friend!!#i 💚you #gender netural

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thebrownssociety · 3 years

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Looney Tunes Headcanons - Off-Set, Part 2

This is a bunch of headcanons about what I think some of the LT’s are known for being like outside of the WB bubble. As there are a lot of them, it’ll be uploaded in stages.

References to homosexuality.

Porky Pig is well-known for being the off-screen face of Looney Tunes. Because Bugs and Daffy have a lot of filming commitments it’s Porky who attends Toon-town related things on behalf on the Looney Tunes.

He’s judged fashion shows, cooking shows, car-races [Toon Town has a lot of car races. They have a lot of different terrains which provide a wide variety.] and Variety Shows. Unfortunately he’s also had to uncover various episodes of cheating during these competitions. [No, you C-C-CAN’T take a magic potion which g-gives you a p-p-perfect voice in a sin-sin-sing - vocalising competition!]

Porky is also known for being one half of the original Looney Tune Power Couple. Him and Petunia have been together forever and during that time, although they have had disagreements they’ve never been that serious. They split up once in the late 40′s and that was due to [unfounded] rumours about Petunia dating Elmer Fudd. [Of all toons!] They laugh about it today, but at the time it was rather difficult.

He’s also the one who sticks up for the other looney tunes, major or minor ones, and in the olden days was well-known for challenging the producers the most. There was one famous incident in about the 70′s when Rocky and Mugsy were accused of having committed a series of well-known burglaries. Even when the rest of the LT’s were convinced they’d done it, it was Porky who was saying ‘Just because they’re t-t-thieves doesn’t m-m-mean they did this crime!’ Unfortunately it turned out Rocky and Mugsy HAD done it, but the thought was there.

Five opinions he’s well known for having:

1 - Just because we act a certain way on screen doesn’t mean we have to act that way off-screen. [That being said, he doesn’t get drawn into arguments about what a toon is doing off-set. Reporter: ‘Pepe Le Pew has taken up cooking! Do you think it’s wise having a skunk in the kitchen?’ Porky: ‘A-a-as long as he can do it without b-bur-burn - destroying the place, I don’t care!’]

2 - Every toon deserves an education. [Porky is also off the firm opinion that there is no such thing as a ‘stupid’ toon, or one who is completely incapable of learning at least the basics of education. This opinion has been tested on many occasions but he still has it.]

3 - Petunia is amazing, fantastic, awesome, brilliant and the love of my life. Did I mention she’s amazing?

4 - Everyone should go abroad. Porky loves travelling and has a wall covered in pictures of places where he’s been. He also likes buying hats from the countries [in a reference to his first short ‘I haven’t got a hat.’ now he has just shy of one for every day of the year.]

5 - Just because a toon isn’t working anymore doesn’t mean they aren’t a toon. To this day Porky is still in touch with Beans, Bosko, Honey, Oliver Owl, Foxy and Roxy and supports their endeavours. [Namely, Bosko and Honey’s restaurant, Oliver's mechanics, Beans chimney sweeping and Foxy and Roxy’s low-key acting gigs.]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Elmer Fudd is known for a variety of things. In the olden days it was his extremely good acting skills, reserved - but not shy - personality and his debated relationship with Petunia Pig. [There was never any romance between them, just very good friendship and a deep level of understanding of one another.] Once Porky and Petunia got engaged he was an ‘established bachelor’ [despite being less than 21 at the time, it was more the fact he showed absolutely no inclination towards a romantic relationship with anyone that put him in that category.]

When he was 24 [1959] it came out that Bugs loved Elmer. Elmer admitted he felt the same way and a relationship started. [Details of this can be found in my ‘Unsolicited’ Fanfiction.] It was quite an unusual relationship due to the fact they didn’t live together, didn’t spend a lot of time together [mainly due to a mix of filming commitments] and didn’t go out of their way to show affection publicly.

They got engaged in 1982, then married in 1992. Both events were well-publicised in Toon Town.

Aside from his relationship with Bugs, he’s known for surprising everyone by proving to be very smart when the toons were allowed to access proper education. As well as a teaching degree, he’s got a degree in Law. [Much to everyone’s surprise.] It only took him a decade to get up to an High School level of education, and he passed with flying coulors. [Despite a snooty human-teachers best efforts]

Five opinions he’s well known for having:

1 - Daffy Duck is not an idiot and is actually very clever. Elmer has been of this opinion since he first met Daffy and despite multiple instances when Daffy has acted like the dictionary definition of a complete and utter nimrod, he’s been unwavering in this belief. Thankfully when the toons got access to education Daffy proved Elmer right and gained a degree in Performing Arts.

2 - Opera is brilliant. Elmer loves all kind of music [excluding heavy metal and some raunchier pop songs.] but opera will always remain his favourite. It’s one of the many things that bonded Elmer and Bugs. Elmer’s favourite song is ‘I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General’ but his favourite musical is ‘The Phantom Of The Opera.’

3 - No one is a complete idiot and everyone should be encouraged to learn. Due to his own experiences of being treated like a complete imbecile by pretty much everyone - even Bugs has been known to do this on a few occasions - he does his best to be nice to those who are also utter idiots and encourage them. Unfortunately, like Porky, this approach has been tested to breaking point. Two words: Pete Puma.

4 - In the same vein, Books are brilliant. Elmer is a massive fan of reading and reads a wide variety of stuff. He reads non-fiction on a range of subjects [Cooking to real-life crime] and he also reads fiction again, over a variety of genres. [Crime, Romance, historical fiction, children's books, the works.] Elmer normally aims to read for at least 30 minutes twice a week. It used to be more, but parenting, filming and The Looniversity have restricted the time he can devote to it by quite a margin.

5 - Everyone should be given three chances. Elmer does his best not to judge someone when he first meets them, especially if they’re acting like a bit of an asteroid. The second time he forms a bit more of an opinion, but normally keeps quiet about it [except to Bugs, Daffy and Porky.]. Third time he meets you he’s got a good idea of what you’re like and how others are reacting to you. Then he decides whether or not he wants to be around you. Once he’s made up his mind it’s very hard to change it.

The main exceptions to this rule have been the Tiny Toons. Seeing as they’re literally little version of Elmer’s family [and he’s parenting three of them, namely Elmyra, Buster + Babs] he’s cut them a lot of slack.

#looney tunes headcanons #porky pig #elmer fudd #bugs bunny #daffy duck #tiny toons #elmyra duff #buster bunny #babs bunny #rocky and mugsy #these are headcanons only #pete puma #long post

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the-general-hux · 4 years

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@finishwhxtyoustartxd

Armitage Hux rested his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger side window. His parents had stopped talking hours ago, his mother was asleep in the front seat and his father was driving with white-knuckled fingers crimped around the steering wheel. Hux shared the backseat with luggage that wouldn’t fit in the trunk of their rental sedan. His knees pressed against the back of the driver’s seat and he longed for chance to stretch out his legs. His eyes blinked open and shut as he looked out the window at the endless procession of trees.

Traffic slowed down and his father spat out a string of curses at the other drivers’ abilities to keep stopping distance on the rain slick road. The air smelled damp, even through the filter of the air conditioning. A small town appeared and a sign declared it Bayport. Perhaps the settlers had never heard of redundancy, Hux thought. A smiling whale spouted a flourish of water on the sign. Hux gritted his teeth and put in his headphones.

Tourists crossed the highway, oblivious to oncoming traffic and the increasing frequency of his father’s cursing. A bead shop. Souvenirs. Weed shop. Rinse and repeat. Hux caught a glimpse of some amazing biceps in front of a coffee shop and he wrenched his neck to see if the potential face matched the muscles, but his father turned a corner and Hux lost his sight line. He huffed out a sigh. Probably just a tourist, maybe one of those bikers that cruised up and down the Oregon coast. Doing what? Whale-watching?

They pulled into a driveway that was marked with a jaunty lighthouse, Driftwood Cove. They named the rental house. Of course they did. His father stopped the car, turned off the ignition and announced. “This is our home for the next month. Let’s try to not kill each other.”

“No promises.” Hux said and his mother shot him a warning look. “Fine. You work on your book, you work on your paintings and I’ll work on growing a thick coat of mildew.”

“Now darling, it’s not that bad. The ocean air is marvelous for my health and I only have so much time with you before you go off to college and leave me behind.”

Forty two days, six hours and twelve minutes, Hux thought as he got out of the car. He sighed again and nodded because that was what you did when your sick mother guilt tripped you. This wasn’t his idea of a beach holiday. The sky was painted in shades of blue and gray, the whole landscape looked angry and battered into submission by the relentless coastal wind. Then he turned to the ocean. There was a haze covering the entire Pacific Ocean, as far as he could squint. “Twelve hours in the car and I can’t even see the fucking water.”

Hux claimed the room at the very top of the rental, it had a window overlooking the ocean and a stupid sign. “The Crow’s Nest.” He dragged his luggage up the stairs. The whole room smelled musty and forgotten. He sat down on the edge of the queen bed and flopped backwards, staring at the rafters. There was no need for a bed this big in such a small space— Hux scrunched his face up in disgust. Do not think about how many people have had sex in your bed, just don’t. That way lies madness, Hux thought. I am not going to look under the mattress pad.

“Boy!” His father hollered up the stairs, “Come help your mother with her junk!” Hux blew out the breath he was holding and descended the stairs.

It started to rain.

It continued to rain for three days. Drops splattered on the window panes and wind shrieked through the eaves. Hux made a bet with himself about how soon the roof would fly off. It was even money. He curled up on the bed, surrounded by fifteen decorative pillows that some poor soul had embroidered with seagulls and a two year old copy of People magazine. He’d read it cover to cover three times. Cellular service was complete shit and WiFi was apparently an alien concept in rustic vacation rentals. His father’s laptop had not survived the road trip and Hux’s had been commandeered, so no jerking off to his carefully curated archived amateur Alpha porn. The television downstairs had a dial to change the channels. All three channels.

“I’m going to start talking to myself. I am. I’m going to start talking to myself and go find a great white whale to have a battle to the death with. Honestly, it’s inevitable.” He could go talk to his parents. See what they were doing— Hux shook his head. Mother was sleeping, exhausted from her medication and Father was writing. He could write for days at a time, eating what was brought to him and pissing in a milk jug by his desk. He had a bestselling series, it was Regency romance of all things and the royalties were sending Hux to a very good school.

“Yet another thing for me to grateful for.” Hux told a decorative seahorse on the wall. “I have to get out of here. I have to.” He grabbed his coat and one of the guest umbrellas from the hallway. “I’m going out!” He called to his father who grunted in response and waved him off.

Hux made his way down the driveway towards the town center. He paused in front of the map of the town, drawn in a cartoon fashion that made the library and the police station look like equally jaunty places to visit. His sneakers squelched with wetness as he made his way to the coffee shop. It seemed like ages ago that he’d caught a glimpse of those glorious biceps. Everyone was wearing shapeless polar fleece and practical galoshes that he coveted with an practical intensity he’d never truly felt before.

He ordered a hot milky tea, something to chase the cold away from his bones and wrapped his fingers around it. “It's June,” he reminded himself and the counter girl smiled at him and then at his Omega Pride lapel pin. “It really is June, isn’t it?”

“It usually clears up by now. It’s not so bad. Just remember to take your vitamin D pills until the sun comes out again.” She pulled another shot of espresso after that bit of unsolicited advice. Hux pushed his sopping wet shock of red hair out of his face. He was not a natural sun worshipper, but the next time he saw the sun even he might offer up a few prayers of gratitude.

Hux wandered over to the small shelf of used books that lined the back wall. A hand lettered sign read, “Lending Library”. Out of habit, he looked for his father’s name on the spines of the books. Only one volume this time. The fourth. Savage Unbroken Hearts. Hux couldn’t read his father’s writing, it was far too intimate an act. It was worse than the time his father had walked in on Hux taking a selfie, wearing glitter and a rainbow thong. Hux cringed at the memory and selected a paperback space opera that boasted about galactic conquest. He sat down at a table and thumbed through the yellowed pulpy pages. The previous owner had scrawled his name in childish block letters on the interior cover. Ben.

The counter girl gave him a plastic bag for the book and Hux stepped out into the rain. It wasn’t going to defeat him. “You hear me?” Hux muttered to the weather as he made his way down the boardwalk. He rolled his eyes at the tiny salon and a candy store that was only open on the weekend. He paused in front of a photograph studio that specialized in pirate portraits. Skywalker Studios. Tourists grinned in tawdry costumes and posed in front of pirate flags. Rain dripped from the tip of Hux’s nose and he snorted in disdain. There was a 90% chance that his mother would drag them all in here for a souvenir portrait.

The beach access stairwell was just beyond the photography studio and Hux gripped the guardrail as he wrestled with both the slippery seagull shit smeared steps and the wind that threatened to steal his umbrella. The ocean was surging, the tide rolling in. Hux stared out at the dark, seething waters and felt begrudging respect for the power and intensity of the storm. Also for the warning signs posted all over the beach. Rolling logs that could kill you. Rip tides. Sneaker waves. Tsunamis. This was not the ocean that was in the brochures. Icy spray hit him in the face and he blinked saltwater from his lashes.

There was a man strolling along the pebbled beach. Long dark hair whipped around his head. What kind of Alpha bullshit was this? It was a stereotype of course, but the only person who would have the sheer ballsy stupid confidence to be walking on that beach would be an Alpha. A shameful thrill trilled up the back of Hux’s neck and he tasted the salt on his own lips.

The man reached the stairwell and as he ascended, Hux hid behind his Driftwood Cove umbrella. The man paid him no mind as he passed, Hux peeked out from beneath the umbrella shade. He swallowed hard as he caught the hint of a defined, youthful jawline, speckled with interesting moles that reminded Hux of constellations. The man unlocked the door to Skywalker Studios, stepped inside and flipped on the OPEN neon sign.

Oh god dammit. He wasn’t going to follow that weirdo guy, no matter how broad his shoulders were, no matter how bored Hux was, no matter— he stood on the steps of the photography studio and pushed open the door.

A bell jingled announcing Hux’s presence as he folded up his umbrella in the entry way. “Just a moment!” A deep voice called out from behind a curtain. “Be right out!’

Hux looked at the puddle of rain water accumulating around his feet and he flushed with embarrassment. He glanced to the side at a mirror for the tourists to check their costumes. His hair was plastered to his head, water dripped from his ears. No, no, no this was a mistake—

The broad-shouldered stranger walked out in a muscle baring tank top, drying his hair with a towel. The lack of fabric made one thing painfully clear to Hux’s libido. This was the owner of the Glorious Biceps. He wrapped the towel around his hair in a makeshift turban and looked at Hux. For a long moment, the Alpha’s plush pink mouth fell open as he took in the bedraggled, soaked ginger making a mess of his shop floor. If the Earth could open up and swallow me whole right now, that would be just dandy, Hux thought. He turned to leave.

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infinitelytheheartexpands · 1 year

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andrea chénier: the reign of terror sucked

dialogues des carmélites: the reign of terror sucked 2: electric boogaloo

#‘but chronologically the execution in ddc takes place first savannah #i don’t really care i’m going by opera order #opera #opera tag #andrea chénier #dialogues des carmélites #dialogues of the carmelites #unsolicited opera thoughts #reign of terror #french revolution #giordano #umberto giordano #poulenc #francis poulenc #AM I WRONG THO

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violetsystems · 4 years

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#personal

I had to clear the porch of all my plants yesterday. I was asked to move them by my landlord’s wife so that dirt didn’t get into the air conditioner below. Yesterday the husband banged on my door and read me the riot act. In his mind, this is not something I argue with. And honestly over the years, it’s been cheaper not to complain. That is until you realize you are cloistered into a literal daily soap opera with everyone’s hearts on their sleeve. Including the police. I honestly don’t have the capacity to worry about anything except my own private space these days. Everybody seems to know something about me on the surface but not the whole story. People brush by with projected questions every day. They snoop. They follow. They try to get a read on what I’m thinking. Which boggles my fucking mind because I’ve written it here weekly for over five years now. Some people on here know me more intimately than anyone in real life. I think that is special and a large reason why I’ve kept things very ethereal and romantic here. I don’t force myself into anything or anyone’s life. And yet I find myself encroached on in such a unsafe and disastrous way I don’t know where to go anymore. I’m stuck. The last three responses on LinkedIn were women I didn’t know. The first from the post office I was nice to then ignored. The second was an unsolicited request from a student at NYU. I ignored that one. Then an all too obvious ghost profile from Atlanta that worked as a makeup artist for Ulta. All of them I found a light way of saying I’m on the platform for professional reasons. All of them I feared were catfishing especially when the conversations turned to “do you wanna hang out?” The last one was a little more human and I need connections. Professional ones. My last job and everything with it just ghosted me in the most heinous way possible. I’m in a vulnerable position seemingly. And everyone seems to think this is the final blow. They’re closing in for the kill. They’ve surrounded themselves around me. I can’t escape. The whole neighborhood has me on trial every square inch I walk. None of it makes sense unless you count the police down the block making sure I’ve been made contact with. It’s surreal and not so obviously unconstitutional. It’s my life every day now. It sounds like shit out of a spy movie. And this is what my life has become. And if I talk about it openly I’m the first to be shoved in the oven and gaslighted. How did it come to this? I don’t really care. The lesson I have learned from all of this is that time and distance will tell. Nobody knows how drastically my financial state has changed other than my bank. And this entire time being tortured, followed, analyzed and picked over I’ve just been building up equity week by week. The plants didn’t go to waste. I rearranged them in the bathroom. It made things less scary. The only place where I feel safe anymore. Inside the locked doors of my apartment.

If I were to sum it all up with one phrase. This is the phrase. What the literal fuck is wrong with people? The answer is too dark to repeat. This is just how people are. You can be above it. Or you can sink to the bottom with the rest of the trash that floats down there. I tend to stay away from everyone. People have year after year pinned the blame on me. And yet no one can stop reaching out to me or pressuring me to be a part of something I’m not. Welcome to society I guess. It makes me angry. And the one thing I’ve had the luxury of not being the last few weeks is angry. I’m not the hulk. I am hiding a blinding rage inside me. But it’s not my own. And I realize sometimes that for all the shit people try with me, it’s a sure sign none of it works. I’m somewhere else entirely. Wondering if I should seek out a job in China next year and prepare my language skills the rest of the year. Wondering if I will even have to work at all after all of this. It’s all going to cave in at some point. Nobody can go through what I’ve gone through and just disappear. Unless someone really feels they need to off me. Which is a fear I live with for no real purpose. I don’t really gain anything from being exiled and ignored. Some great big test year after year about how one day I’ll be “discovered.” What the fuck am I doing down here writing for anyway? I’m 46. I’d play Khan in a Star Trek reboot. But really I’m trying to connect just like everyone else. And people have consistently taken this as a vulnerability or a mental illness to manipulate and turn on me. That’s just the evil of human nature. Life teaches me that evil people will just tell you it’s in their dna. They fuck into existence enough tax havens. The panama papers made sure of bringing that to light. But here I am an only child with no legacy other than my parents who one day will cease to be. I’ll be out here paying my taxes until my dying breath while people use them to fund police actions so blatantly corrupt you’d better be putting the rest into a good lawyer. Chicago is a city of lawsuits. And I fear sometimes it’s just a con on top of a con. They had it set up. Destroy my life and offer me no choice but to accept their version of what I should be. And they got caught with their pants down so much that I feel it’s not so much a cover up but an orgy of greed and corruption. Chicago is no better than Donald Trump in that respect. Neither are both sides of the political coin people roll down the street to you as bait. You can make a change. I can actually. I received an email that my vote by mail ballot was accepted. The email account that wasn’t locked out after twenty years of service to an art school that I gave my very soul to. No student loans to show for it either.

I can tell you how this all ends. It ends great for me. And bad for anyone who is tied to holding me back. I know this because a year ago I was far worse off. And I have been the only person I can ultimately rely on these days. My own good judgement. My own legacy which people cast doubt on. My body of work that reaches past a job that never wanted me to be me. I learned a lot about being inclusive. How to be an ally in my own way. I’ve seen that respected and appreciated down here. I’ve put it into practice in my life in my search for a new career. I’m not looking for a job. I don’t need to be plugged back into some matrix of human capital for the sake of maximizing the GDP. I’m not interested in people forcing their ideas of what is best for me in a hidden, corrupt fashion. The big brother nation state here is nothing to brag about. We are far worse than China in that respect. Americans are at the mercy of capital. We are bullied by landlords, developers, politicians, police, institutions, and countless other mobs. When we disagree, we are put on trial and hunted until we admit we are wrong. We are watched with the human eye from the shadows like a rabid animal breathing down our necks. No luxury of the fourth wall of CCTV. We are conned and herded into ghettos and experimented on for marketing pogroms. We are told we are irrational when we question a 2 trillion dollar valued company’s need for 30% of profits from independent developers. We are sick and tired of hearing your endless excuses. We see how full of shit you are. And some of us revolt. Some of us tear it down. And some of us sit back knowing full well this is the way it has ended for some of us. My love of this country. My freedom that isn’t free. The lie I live from day to day. Sounds very depressing. I must have brought it on myself. And I did partially. Trying to get close to something real. I got very close to myself. I ended up healing myself in ways I didn’t know I needed. And I ended up being in a very different place while people around me stayed the same. I feel tied down. I feel torn apart. But mostly I feel indifferent because you can’t hurt me any more if I don’t believe you have any power over me. And this is the boring nature of my life now. I sit back and plan like I always do. Get things in order. Know what my rights are. Know how badly they’ve been violated. And know the world is just a planet in the universe. A planet we both share. Air we both breathe. Private and intimate thoughts that are stuck inside my head only to be pried out with forceful hands. They’ve tried for years. I have too many scars to show for it. And they’ve never heard the secret out of my mouth. Or if they did they never really listened. It’s not about them. It’s about us. <3 Tim

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momo-de-avis · 5 years

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Wordtober Day 18: Misfit

Presented without comment.

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It’s not like I’ve always wanted to be an actress, it was just something I discovered at one point, and I was already good at public speaking so—not that far a distance to travel, right?

Well, almost. Because you see, as soon as I left school and decided on following that path, I realized I was actually not that good at it. Until then, I thought a few school plays and some praise from the drama teachers was enough, but then I was thrust into the real world and found myself facing the most dreadful monster anyone in the arts will face: criticism.

And criticism said that I sucked at it.

I never really went to college, I just took it to be a stupid idea—spending thousands for three years of studying acting. It’s not like it was a medical degree, or law school—I mean, it’s not on the same level of demand, right? I just thought, a few workshops, some professional one-year courses, a few masterclasses with well-known names, and it would suffice. I read a bit on my spare time too, mostly plays, and though I tried picking up books on acting, I generally just quit after a while, bored out of my mind.

I always loved the idea of pretending to be someone else on a stage or in front of a camera, this thing about letting go of who you are entirely as you prepare for a role, and embody someone else so deeply you almost forget about yourself. I always was fascinated by method actors losing their marbles over those wacky roles they poured themselves into, body and mind. A bit morbid, yeah, but interesting. I thought I was learning more from them than I possibly could in a three-year-long university course.

So I did what I could, here and there, and after four years my resume amounted to a few masterclasses and courses that cast me aside before a fellow competitor who showed up with big university names listed alongside pompous grades. This might have been about when I realize I’d made some serious misjudgement, and a petty one at that.

Six years down the line, and I was making a living out of being an extra on random shit on the telly. A few soap operas, some historical TV shows, even talk-shows. They paid little, but at least production provided a snack, and the good thing was that I got to stand in the back, watching the crew go mad about a slight fault in equipment or what-have-you, which gave me the chance to strike up a nice chat with some pop star from the telly out there. It was fun, even educational, considering TV stars love giving you unsolicited advice when you share your wish of becoming an actor with them. But it was actually quite crushing too.

I mean, I had to listen to these people going on about never quitting, never giving up on my dreams, that it’s a cutthroat world out there, competition this and that, and everyone wants a piece of what they have—go on, fly, you little bird! Sure. But not really. I might have misjudged things and should have gone to university, definitely, but it’s not like I didn’t try. I did try. I went to casting calls nearly every week, attended lectures, all that. I just hated wasting my time with networking, the one thing everyone insisted on was absolutely a necessity, like whatever talent you might have, it won’t matter until you talk like a pompous ass.

Ten years, and the best gig I had landed was a poorly made theatre production about a little kid on the moon that was, if I am being honest, a straight-up rip-off from The Little Prince, and intended at a younger audience too, though I suspect the theatre director’s decision on casting grown adults to play little children in an almost demeaning way was the major ingredient to attracting a series of college students who had a laugh with it. The critics weren’t nice about it either, but I did my job.

There were other jobs, but they were equally bad, if not worse. This one just paid best.

Twelve years on, and I escalated to a commercial on toothpaste, where I played the fake doctor saying nine out of ten dentists went absolutely nuts over this one brand, while holding a tube of—I kid you not—bland white paste that smelled of plaster. Later on, I’d even do a fast food commercial where I had to bite into a burger riddled with needles to keep the lettuce, cheese, tomato and beef straight, and though my stardom amounted to a close-up of my nostrils and biting teeth, it took me five tries because I was terrified of being impaled in the gums.

I was frustrated, I won’t deny it. I was even ashamed of showing my resume to whoever, and for every casting call I attended, I could see the disdain on those faces sitting behind that desk—that dismissive look of a casting director as she pushed her glasses down the bridge of her nose, read my miserable career’s story and asked me questions I dreaded answering. I even auditioned for bold parts I knew I’d never get, things like proper characters on TV, the lead detective on some cop show, or the love interest in a soap opera, even standing girl showing off the prices in some quiz crap.

Nothing.

You speculate when you fail, you know. Think often that it’s you: maybe you’re ugly, you’re cursed, you don’t dress properly, you don’t talk right, you lack whatever bedazzle these people, sitting at the top, have—you just lack something. Though I had the talent, I think—I might have sucked when I first started, but I got better, and there are enough mediocre actors out there making six figures to prove talent doesn’t mean shit in this world—right? So I really could not tell why I was failing, when I tried—I tried, time and again—and I just failed and failed and failed. Fail again, fail better—Beckett was a lying twat, that’s what.

Then, one afternoon, I went into a casting call for something grand, a secondary role for a recurrent character on a major TV production, some sci-fi stuff. It seemed easy enough when I read the script and the guidelines of what they were looking for, and I didn’t really do much practising—I’m good at improvisation, I reckon, even tried it for a while, though it mostly deals with comedy and I am not funny. But outside of that, I swear I am good at improvising—so I went with it, given what I had.

And I blew it. I mean monumentally blew it. I stuttered every single line that came out of my mouth, I asked to stop and try again five times, I paced back and forth with heavy breaths, trying to put my mind in order, but everything was just scrambled inside my head like when you drop a bunch of papers on the ground and try to put them back together, and I was sweating profusely—I mean, I looked like a morning jogger on his way back home. I don’t know what happened to me, I just froze in an instant of panic like I never had before—it’s my greatest quality, I can just stand before an audience and act, audiences just do not bother me at all, I’m good like that. But that day I just… felt wrecked. I couldn’t even admit to myself I should have prepared, but I had set this goal, that if I’d manage to just improvise the right way with no proper warm-up, then that meant I was good.

But I wasn’t. I blew it bad. And I walked out of there absolutely certain I had missed on yet another major opportunity.

As I opened the door to leave, someone else was coming inside, though at first I missed it and nearly let the door smash against their face. I turned back abruptly, held the door for them, apologized and… froze.

She looked exactly like me. I mean exactly the same. Same sandy-brown skin, same heart-shaped, chubby face, same light brown hairs, slightly discoloured at the tips, same tawny lips and brown eyes, even the same freckles on the nose—just everything exactly like me.

Our eyes locked on one another and she smiled, but I was certain I was just so shaken I was beginning to imagine things, so I just went home and never thought about it again.

Eight months later, the show debuted. I didn’t have any intention of watching it, considering it reminded me of my worst failure yet, but I was just skimming through the channels that night and happened to stop there for a second to reach in and grab my water bottle, and I saw it. I saw her.

She had gotten the part, and she was on TV, playing the side-character that was to be recurrent as well, but with my face. Exactly like me in every aspect—even as she spoke, it was my voice, same precise tone and accent, same quirks to the Rs and fluctuations of the Ls—just everything. A carbon copy of myself.

I searched her online—the name, at least, was different—and was slapped with a never-ending list of websites showering her with praise. The secondary character who was stealing the show, a new star was born; the flesh, the depth, the vigour she gave this mundane woman on the screen, the unmatched talent—truly, a rising star.

I can’t express just how angry it made me feel. She looked just like me—it was impossible that nobody could see it—and it turns out, I hadn’t dreamed it, that day. The more I searched her online, the more her face showed up—everywhere, just everywhere, endless pictures of this woman who had stolen my face and my talent and now every pair of eyes in the country—the world!—was on her.

I called my mum, asked her to have a look, insisted on the similarity without ever really saying just how starkly equal we were—and she dismissed it. Laughed. What do you mean!, she screamed, amused. Tou two look nothing alike! I called a friend, asked the same—even before I could spell out my troubles, she was already showering her with praise—oh, have you seen the show?, it’s marvellous, I love her role, she just puts so much heart into it, you have to watch it! But when I pressed her, she pushed it aside—looks didn’t matter, she told me—though that wasn’t even the subject at hand—and surely, you two look nothing alike.

Yet everywhere, it was me that I saw. That woman had my face, my body, my voice—and had stolen my talent.

I tried to forget about it, kept going to casting calls—and somehow, from that moment on, it seemed my luck turned for the worst. I got struck by an unexpected sense of panic, sweating profusely and shuddering at every step, hyperventilating as if I was about to pass out, and forgot my lines. I trusted my instinct on improvisation still, but that one tool that had helped me so much in the past was suddenly useless. I became afraid of hearing the sound of rejection—no, nada, zilch, bye, you suck, choose another career—it haunted me at night and I’d wake up with tears as I thought about this woman with my face stealing my confidence.

Nobody could see it. Everyone I asked, everyone I knew, I insisted she looked exactly like me, but they couldn’t see it. They laughed it off, said I was imagining things; when I pressed, they began to walk away and frown at me with suspicion as if I was nuts; when my reason began to cloud my judgement, they showed worry, suggested I should seek help. At last one day, I screamed at mum for not daring to see it and she started crying, saying I was just jealous of her fame as I had been all my life, with my dismissive attitude towards all and any who got the things I had wanted for so long without even trying hard.

She was lying, of course. I wasn’t jealous, though I couldn’t stand their pep-talks during filming breaks, between a coffee and a cigarette, and their follow-your-dreams bullshit. But this was different. I wasn’t jealous, it was just outright unfair! She looked exactly like me, how could nobody see it? And ever since she appeared in this world, she had stolen my everything—my attention, my chances, my glow, my focus. I was a shit actress again because a random stranger with my liking simply pulled the rug from beneath my feet and reaped the profits of what I had sowed!

It got worse, of course. I started drinking to get her face off my mind, but she was all I thought about, which is incredibly bizarre because the face that popped up in my head at night, as I rolled in bed with a headache, was mine, but now I was seeing myself from the outside, as—I suppose—the world saw me, but through this heavy filter of absolute scorching hatred. Yes, I hated her; I hated her so much it was all there was on my mind; I hated her with all my might, with all my vigour, and I wanted her to go away forever so I could retrieve what she had stolen.

I mean—it was unfair! Because my mum was wrong, I tried so hard, and this broad stole my appearance, my face, my voice, my outside, and suddenly she’s being given the chance to rise to the top! I even checked her resume: she attended university, worked with a drama company for three years, did comedy improv—are you joking me? Everything I tried and failed at, everything I shoved aside because I didn’t want to waste any time—she got it? That’s what separated us, what made me a failure, and she a star—a college degree?

And I mean—what else? Did she have anything I didn’t—despite, well, clearly my appearance? Maybe she fell for that crap everyone kept telling me, in the most condescending manner possible: you have to talk to people, networking is the way to go! Just talk, like that—just hold up a glass of wine and pretend, pretend you’re just like these uptight assholes standing at the top, share a laugh at a joke you don’t understand and be all fancy to their eyes—was that it? Because there had to be something else, something else besides my appearance and my talent. Just something.

I searched for very long, so long I lost focus and was out of work, eventually. I watched her videos, her interviews, analysed her behaviour—she even had my tics! The way she bit her lip, picking at the skin, while she listened to someone talk, or how she clicked her fingernails together when she thought about a question, turning her eyes down to her lap—those were mine! I even remember seeing pink magazines going on about how cute it was that she bit the skin of her fingers before a live interview because she was nervous—seriously? I did that!

Just… everything. Everything there was to know about me now existed in this person like an unauthorized biography. She told people my life’s story, my experiences, my past—the dogs and guinea pig I had as a child, the tiny scar on my knee from when I fell on the schoolyard at eight years old, that quip about the piece of paper I burned during class at fifteen.

Even when she talked about the things that were clearly hers, there was something of me. There was this one interview where she admitted she almost didn’t go to college, and when the interviewer asked why, she said, with a coy smile and pushing a lock of her hair back—like me: oh, because I was so afraid of trying something new and being put to the test, just being put into this position where I would be forced to be critical of my own talents, and I was scared of failing. And then, she looked straight into the camera.

I swear, watching that face, sat on my couch, I swear she was looking at me; I swear that bitch knew. She knew she was talking about me, because those were my thoughts. That nervousness, that hesitation, that was me on the day I held the form in my hands to apply for drama school, but didn’t. That fear was mine. And senseless as it was, I was in the right to claim my own fears, dammit! I had stood in the rain, shaking with anticipation, and I had thrown the papers in the bin because I didn’t want to be subjected to the endless torture of being told by college professors that I sucked!

My drinking got worse, my eating habits were shit, I moved back in with my mum, and my life just generally spiralled out of control. I attended casting calls with a hangover and ruined my chances; I started bawling my eyes out in the middle of shooting a commercial for a coffee brand; I fell asleep while filming a documentary where I played an extra, and was kicked out when I started a fight with the casting director on another shooting because she complained about my lack of makeup. Everywhere I went, I was just a shadow of this woman that twinkled before the cameras like a star in the skies; I was just the shameful part of a starlet, a skeleton in a closet I didn’t even know. The evil twin, if you will.

I thought my life was over. A year passed, and my mum thought I was developing an unhealthy obsession with this woman, saying I should just walk up to a mental hospital and check myself in—no more suggestions, just blatantly saying: you’re insane. My friends stopped talking to me because, according to them, I was acting strange, unable to let go of the inane idea that some random actress who had risen to fame so quickly looked, acted and existed exactly like my carbon copy. They refused to see that she was me. They refused to acknowledge that her stories were mine. They denied any similarity—over and over again, they just told me I was batshit crazy.

So I quit. I quit my dream, my life and my passions, and I just let this person possess my everything, while dreaming of hating her so much I’d kill her if I had the chance.

And that was it. It was either me or her, but this world was not made to have the two of us in it.

I tried messaging her. Found her online, every profile I could, and pasted the exact same message on every one of them, sent privately: you stole my life. Seconds later, every single messaging system beeped: you stole my life. The exact same words I had sent her, now sent back to me. I tried again, this time typing something different: you’re pretending to be me, you scheming little bitch—and they beeped back: same message, ipsis verbis. Eventually, I slammed the keyboard, producing a string of incomprehensible jargon of just random letters, numbers and symbols—and hit enter. And the exact same string of nonsense was returned to me.

I stared at the blinking cursor for a long time, shuddering in the half-darkness of my room in dread, certain nothing about this was normal, and yet the prevailing emotion to my heart was just pure, boisterous rage. Whatever it was, whatever she was, it was clear she was keen on driving me insane, forcing me into the piths of my own madness, until all there was to my existence was my obsession with this double that had stolen my life and made a spectacle out of it—while no one believed me.

So I looked for her. It wasn’t hard to figure out where she lived, not with all the gossiping magazines stalking her to the gym, to the store, to the movies, complaining about her outfits—outfits I owned, too. It simply took a little patience, some careful watching, some geographical studying of her movements, and within two weeks, I managed to figure out where she lived by simply following her route home.

It was night when I finally decided on confronting her. She turned the street and walked ahead calmly, hands deep in her pockets, and I stalked her into an empty alleyway with barely a light on. She stopped in front of a closed door, placed her hand on it and turned around—looking straight into my eyes with a twisted, perverted smile. Then, she pushed the door open and went inside—and left it ajar for me.

The building was bare empty. I mean bare empty. Every light was off, the lift not working, no sound coming from behind any door in any hallway. No plants, no garbage bins, not even a piece of advertising flapping off some mailbox—nothing. As if nobody lived there, except her. It was so vacant, so hollow, it made me shudder, like I was walking into a trap, and were it not for my obsession on hating this woman, on setting this matter straight once and for all, I would have gotten out of there. I was shaking in terror, absolutely mortified of the idea of what I would find there—I mean, the walls were dirty, with chipped off paint, some of them riddled with old graffiti—it seriously looked stripped bare of life, and like it had been so for a very long time.

But I still went inside. Terrified of what was to come, quivering at the sight of every dancing shadow, breathing heavily, I went into that dark, hollow building, reeking of old pipes and copper, and found the only door open with light inside.

I went in, but the flat appeared abandoned as well. There was but a ratty old sofa in the middle, a broken coffee table in front of it, no TV and no electrical apparatus of any sort, just old furniture scattered about. No curtains either, just the electric lights outside shining in with ease, and it cast a faint glimmer of yellow and orange on the absolute misery that was the flat. Even as I crossed the door, a million things cracked under my soles and I saw, to my surprise, there was just rubble everywhere, pieces of old stone crumbled down, broken glass here and there and garbage. A dusty bottle in a corner, a syringe glistening beneath an old chair, cigarette butts and empty crisp packets everywhere.

She stood under a doorway, her face absolutely frozen, the traits of her that composed me barely visible under the lack of light—and I trembled at the sight. I hated her, but there was something inhuman to that woman, something out of this world. She wasn’t normal. She was not supposed to exist. She was not something someone just made happen, something that just existed, that was just… there. She was like a glitch, a malfunction that nobody set straight, and I wondered—how long had she been there? Had she been there all my life and I hadn’t noticed? Had she been watching me from afar, waiting for the right time to reveal herself in full and take over my insecurities and failures to aggrandize them and twist them to her own liking, making me the sorrowful, miserable looser on the fringe of despair?

I didn’t know what to do for a long time. All my body felt compelled to do was cry, just curl into a ball and cry, and sobbing into my clothes, bawling like a toddler, I just said: why? I wanted to tell her I hated her, I wanted to pick up a shard from the floor and stick it into her skull, I wanted to cut her and make her bleed, to watch her wither in pain and maybe even cry too—but I just teared up and shrivelled in tears.

I don’t know how long it passed, but it seemed quite long. Throughout, she didn’t move—she just stood and watched. When I finally wiped my tears and looked into her eyes, she was smiling—that same perverse smile of someone sketched into reality solely to cause you fear and horror and make you tremble in your whole existence, just someone tailored to be your very own tormentor. I hated her still, but what I felt more vividly inside my pumping heart was utter, paralyzing fear. Fear she would take over me so completely I would eventually vanish, evaporate like sand in the wind, gone into thin air, forever; until all that was left was but a faint memory of someone who might have been there once, but wasn’t anymore—until that too would be gone. And I’d be nothing but a mistake forged somewhere in the past, by two people who had sorrowfully made sex one night to produce a child, and that child would fall into oblivion, stolen from the memory of the world forever by an alien meant to mimic my very own self.

I was so terrified she would take everything away from me that was all I’d be left with: nothingness, obscurity. Worse: me. Just me. Just my failures and my life. Just a life led through a string of mistakes I had swept under a rug to pretend they had never been there and moved on with a false sense of security, terrified of starting over. I was terrified this woman, who had stolen everything that was me, was there to laugh one last laugh and take all that I had left: my broken self.

And there she was: the projection of a failed dream. Successful in all I had never been, able to overcome every step I had climbed down, clambering her way up while I kept on falling. The ideal. The past and future without so much as a hint of the present—in the flesh, through me, in my image. Laughing in scorn.

She gave a step forward, picked up a shard from the floor, twisted it in her fingers; her smile grew, white teeth glinting silver, and something daunting fell on my shoulders as I watched in silence, quivering in dread. She looked again at me with a glare, and the corners of her lips fell abruptly as she frowned and pressed the shard between her fingers.

“Is this what you want?” She asked; with one swift gesture, she pulled up her sleeve and gripped the shard. The glinting piece of glass entered her flesh, a slick, thin line of red slithered up her arm, and it thickened as the pressed deeper and deeper—eyes locked on mine—until the blood pooled on the ground beneath her.

I flinched, gasped and held onto my arm; I felt that jabbing pain too, but it was somehow sweet, and instead of warding it away, I embraced it—though the crying returned, and this time more copious than before. And when she was done, she did it again—slicing herself until the blood squirted out and her fingers were covered in red, and not a slight sense of pain to her. All I could say was one thing: stop hurting me.

She stopped, dropped the shard on the floor and walked away. For a very long time, I couldn’t move, cast over a sense of paralyzing terror so great I was afraid of opening my eyes and find things I didn’t want to see—but glad, so glad she was gone. And I knew then—somehow, I knew—she was gone for good. Gone from my life. Gone from the world.

I looked down at my arm, pulled up my sleeve, and there was a scar there, long and thin, but marked with a lump of creasy skin.

It was morning when I went home. From that day on, she ceased to exist. No more articles about her, her name wasn’t listed in any movie, and every poster ever made with her now featured someone else. When I told people her name, they didn’t recognize it.

She was just gone, as if nobody had even noticed she’d been there at all.

And now, being the only one who remembers her, who remembers all that horrible, gnawing pain that ate up my arm that night, or that paralyzing dread of seeing my double steal from my failures, feels like being stuck inside a cage forever.

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Past Challenges:

Wordtober Day 1: Ring

Wordtober Day 2: Mindless

Wordtober Day 3: Bait

Wordtober Day 4: Freeze

Wordtober Day 5: Build I

Wordtober Day 6: Build II

Wordtober Day 7: Enchanted (Encantada)

Wordtober Day 8: Frail

Wordtober Day 9: Swing

Wordtober Day 10: Pattern

Wordtober Day 11: Snow

(Skipped Day 12)

Wodrtober Day 13: Ash

Wordtober Day 14: Overgrown

Wordtober Day 15: Legend

Wordtober Day 16: Wild

(Skipped day 17)

#wordtober #my wrodtober #writing #my writing #creative writing #fiction #more magical realism than horror but hey #this one's personal #my wordtober #i fucking mispelled it the first time and tumblr wont let me delete it smdh

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d-noona · 6 years

Text

BARTERED BRIDE

SUMMARY: Kim Namjoon is a ruthless financer used to buying and selling stocks, shares and priceless artifacts. But now Namjoon has his eye on a very different acquisition – Y/N L/N. Left distute by her father’s recent death, Y/N walks into Namjoon’s bank looking to extend her overdraft. As Y/N needs money and Namjoon needs a wife, he proposes the perfect deal: he’ll rescue her financially if she agrees to marry him. But in this marriage of convenience can Y/N ever be anything more than just a bartered bride?

WORDS: 1898

Kim Namjoon x Reader

M.List | Ch. 03 - Coming Soon!

CHAPTER 02 - A Little Push

She was on her way to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee when someone pressed the front-door buzzer. Answering it, Y/N found a bike messenger outside.

“Miss L/N?”

“Yes” she answered. “Big Hit X-Press, Package for you. Would you please sign for it?” Y/N wrote her name on the form and took the padded bag. There was nothing to indicate where it came from, only a plain white label with her name and address printed on it. Perhaps it was something she had ordered and forgotten about.

She closed the door and, walking back to the living room pulled the tab that opened the bah and peered at the contents, immediately recognizing the file Kim Namjoon had said was a resume of his life. Now there was a sheet of headed paper clipped to the cover. Aiming at the sofa, Y/N flung the package from her. As soon as she had her coffee, she’d find some sticky tape and a label, send the file back, unstamped, with UNSOLICITED UNWATED BUMPH written above the address.

She went to the kitchen, half-filled the electric kettle and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar. Usually she drank herb tea, being on a more or less permanent health kick. But sometimes, on days like this, she allowed herself a shot of caffeine. Postponing dealing with the package, she spent the next hour going through her father’s wardrobe, making sure nothing in the pockets of his suits before she folded them. Rather than giving them to a charity shop, she hoped to sell them. The chaos he had left behind him made it essential to raise money in every way.

With the hanging cupboards empty, the next job was the drawer, but after another cup of coffee or maybe a glass of white wine. She opened a bottle of Muscadet and filled a glass. Instead of taking it back upstairs she couldn’t resist her curiosity about the letter that man Kim Namjoon sent with the file. Later she debated going to a movie to make her mind off her problems for a couple of hours. But there she was still a lot to be done and she had already wasted half an hour reading the contents of the file.

She decided to phone for pizza and concentrate on the job in hand. During the evening she would call her mother, her mother didn’t know about the interview she had with Namjoon. Y/N felt it best not to mention it. She’d been trying to play down the financial side of her situation. Her supper arrived sooner than she expected. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t the pizza delivery man who stood outside. It was Kim Namjoon.

Y/N’s friendly expression froze into a mask of dislike. “What do you want?” she said curtly. “I thought you might have calmed down a little by now.” Says Namjoon. “I haven’t. I’m busy” she started to shut the door but he put a foot across the threshold and the flat of his hand on the door to hold it open. She had never expected to herself saying ‘How dare you” to anyone but it was what sprung from her lips, followed by a “Get out!”

“I’m not inside yet,” he said blandly. “We have things to talk about. May I come in?”

“We have nothing to say to each other. You have no right to pester me like this. If you don’t go away, I’ll call the security man and have you thrown off the premises” the further time passing Y/N’s annoyance started increasing. “On what grounds?” he dared say. “Making a nuisance of yourself!”

Kim Namjoon smiled, showing his dimples. However his smile wasn’t a kind or amused smile. It was the sort of expression she associated with sadists about to do something which would give them pleasure but cause excruciating pain to their victim. “I think you’re bluffing.”

He stepped into the hallway. To her chagrin, Y/N let him, she had not much of an option. He was far too large and muscular for her to use physical means to deny him access, she had muscles of her own, but not in the same class as his. He had looked a strong man in his office, but that might have been partly good tailoring. Now that he had changed out of his city suit into chinos and a dark blue cashmere sweater over a cotton shirt, it was clear that the breadth of his shoulders over nothing to clever padding.

“This is outrageous,” she snapped, while instinctively backing away to avoid coming into contact with that tall and powerful male body as he closed the door. “Don’t pretend to be in a panic. You know perfectly well I’m not going to harm you.”

“How do I know that? You’ve already shown signs of derangement.” She says nonchalantly “Not really. I’ll admit to being unconventional. You’ll get used to it.” He glanced around the hall and then with a gesture at the open door of the living room, said “After you.” Having no choice but to act on her threat or let him speak his piece, Y/N walked ahead of him. If he expected to be invited to sit down, he could think again. Grinding her teeth, she saw that she had left the file on the low glass-topped table in front of the sofa. Even worse, it was open, proving she had looked through it. But the first thing that caught his eye wasn’t the file but the half-full glass wine, her second, she had left by the telephone.

“A bad habit, drinking alone,” he remarked, with sardonic glance at her hostile face. “I don’t as a rule. It’s been a tiring day. I’m not used to dealing with people who think they can trample roughshod over the rest of the world.” She folded her arms and glared at him. “You have to be the most objectionable person I have ever met.”

“Because I want to marry you? Even if they don’t wish to say yes, most women regard a proposal as a compliment” he says. Y/n quirked her brows up “Not when it comes from a stranger who regards women as chattels.”

“There are cultures where it’s the custom for girls not to even see the face of their husband’s face until after marriage ceremony. Marriage is a practical institution. It’s because our culture ignores that we have so many divorces. Wouldn’t you rather stay married?” Y/N scoffs at this. “I am not interested in marriage, certainly not you.”

At this point the buzzer sounded again. She saw him looking displeased by the interruption as she went to answer the door. This time it was the takeout delivery man. She took the box to the kitchen before paying him the money she had ready in her pocket. Rejoining Namjoon, she said pointedly, “My supper’s arrived, I’d like to eat it while it’s still hot.”

Ignoring the hint, he said, “You ought to keep your door chained until you see who your caller is.”

“Normally I do. It’s only because I thought you were the man with the pizza that you were able to barge in” y/n replied. “That was lucky…for me.” He began to look round the room, taking in the color scheme, the books and paintings, and the mirrors. Y/N loved mirrors, especially antique ones. As a child, her favorite book had been a copy, inherited from her grandmother, of through the looking glass. Somehow the wrong way around view seen through a mirror always looked than what was really happening around her. She had often wished she could step through the frame of a mirror into a world where things we the same but different. Her parents’ marriage a happy one and herself a model pupil like her elder sister. “Nice room. Who designed it?” asked Namjoon.

No one had ever remarked on the way the room looked. She couldn’t help feeling a slight sense of gratification that someone had finally noticed the effect she had spent a lot of time and thought achieving. “Nobody well known,” she said. “Please, I want to get on with my supper and I have everything packed by tomorrow afternoon. I really don’t have time to talk. Even if we had anything sensible to talk about.”

“A pizza’s a poor sort of supper, especially if you’re eating alone. Let me buy you a decent dinner and try to convince you that my plan makes a lot of sense, then, if you like, I’ll give you a hand packing.” While Namjoon continues to survey the room without looking at her. “ABSOLUTELY NOT. No way!” Y/N said emphatically, but not with much hope he would accept her refusal. He didn’t, “No to dinner, or no to help with the packing?”

“No to both and no to everything. Have another look through some magazines and pick some other woman. I am not for sale, Mr. Kim” she says indignantly. “Do you like music?” he asked. Disconcerted by the seemingly irrelevant question, she said “Some music, yes.”

“Have you heard of Min Suga?” he continues. “Never heard of him.” It was an exaggeration. She had heard the name but that was the limit of her knowledge. “He was a Korean composer who lived in the last century. His most important work was done in Prague, helping to form a national opera. He had a nasty end. Went deaf and died insane.”

“If I wanted to know about the lives of obscure composers I’d borrow a book from the library.” Y/N is starting to get pissed. “Is reading one of your pleasures?” replied by the man. “Yes, as it happens, it is. But –“

“That’s good. It’s one of mine and I have a large private library.” Feeling her temper starting to simmer, Y/N said patiently, “I shouldn’t think it includes the kind of book I enjoy and if Min Suga is one of your favorite composers your cd collection would send me to sleep. I had enough of that stuff in musical appreciation sessions at school. I only like pop music.”

It wasn’t true. She had thought that if she was to share her love for classical music this might put the man to further push his determination on marrying her. Not visibly deterred, he said “The reason I mentioned Min Suga is because his most famous opera was called THE BARTERED BRIDE. BARTER, The exchange of goods, was how people traded before money was invented, I am not trying to buy you Y/N. I am however proposing a trade-off. Things I need, for the things you need. Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come out to dinner?”

“Definitely not….”

“In that case I’ll leave you to your pizza and take myself off for some Arbroath smokies at Scotts, or maybe their Loch Fyne smoked salmon.” As he mentioned that two specialties of one of Korea’s best restaurants, the hard eyes warmed with malicious amusement. Could his private detective have found out that she adored fish and seafood. On his way to the door, Namjoon added, “I’ll call you in the morning. After you’ve slept on the idea, you may find it more appealing.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll take the phone off the hook.” She snapped and let himself out.

#KIM NAMJOON X READER #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok.#Park Jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #nts #bangtan sonyeandan #smut #romance #fan fiction

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townhemp49 · 2 years

Text

FOREX-Hawkish Fedspeak Keeps Greenback King, Yen Slumps To 20-12 Months Low

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#bitcoin

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formerly-rosaline · 5 years

Text

About Rose

I’m not sure if I already have one of these, and I can’t find a template to make one, so I’m just gonna shoot my shot and do my best here.

Full name: Rosaline Pearl Sirena Draconus Durant

Time and place of birth: Wednesday, April 1st, 1992 at 3:01am (the witching hour) in the Touro Infirmary Hospital of New Orleans, Louisiana.

Zodiac: Aries sun (fire), Pisces moon (water), Aquarius rising/ascendant (air). Pisces, Aquarius, and Capricorn (earth) dominate her natal chart. Monkey (water). Alder tree. Red hawk/falcon.

Species explanation and list: Came about through ritual as well as conception originally; her soul collects more species each time she’s born (reincarnated) to non-human souls. Her soul is fragmented, there are more Roses throughout the world of different names. She only inherits certain traits from each species. She is predominantly draconic, sirenic, and succubic. Rose also has some wolf/lycanthrope, vampire (tribrid - blood, energy, and sexual separate from the succubus), banshee, Valkyrie (last life as one), Amazonian, basilisk (possibly only for this life), fairy, human, and possibly more - she doesn’t know everything just yet. Without feeding, her abilities become even more drastically limited.

Characteristics: Abilities may begin in childhood, but Rose’s memories don’t begin to resurface until teenhood and young adulthood. She may also repress her memories, furthering the process, in attempts at normalcy. Jack of all trades. Artist, but not in the layman usage of the word - dancer, singer, creative writer, musician. STEM major, always good at STEM. Linguaphile; often multilingual. Current fluencies: English and French, with some German, Spanish, Latin, Greek, Korean, and Russian. Much of her interest in languages and ability to learn them rapidly stems from former lives. Very pensive and philosophic, a stoic in the regular sense of the word but an existentialist in practice.

Favorites:

Fast food: Whataburger

Ice cream: chocolate chip cookie dough

Sushi: eel

Starburst: pink

Jolly Rancher: blue

Color: every shade of blue

Feature: her eye color

Dish at Olive Garden: The Tour of Italy

Italian dish: Alfredo anything

Asian dish: Japchae

Steak: Medium rare filet mignon

Eggs: over easy

Pizza topping: pineapples

Comfort food: macaroni and cheese

Wine: Riesling

Thanksgiving dish: Stuffing

Ice cream topping: mochi or cookie dough

Alcoholic drink: Scotch

Starbucks drink: Chai latte, affogato

Harry Potter film: Deathly Hallows part 2, but book is Goblet of Fire

Marvel movie: Avengers Infinity War

Beatles Song: Hey Jude

Instrument: drums

Band: Snow Patrol

Person: George Lewis

One Hit Wonder: Cars by Gary Numan

Beach: Pfeiffer Beach, Los Padres National Forest, California

Animal: goat

Season: fall

Thing about a rainy day: staying in

Flower: Lily. Seriously. Don’t fucking buy her roses, it’s not funny.

Sea creature: her damn self

Winter sport: luge

Fairy tale: Vasilisa the Beautiful

Eye color: green

Day of the week: Saturday

Way to relax: hot bath

Thing to do: make others smile

Mental disorders: PTSD (doesn’t deal with her past traumas, emotionally detached, dissociates regularly), bipolar disorder. Eating disorders, elaborated on at the end of this post to prevent triggering. Substance abuse disorder (alcoholism and more).

Abilities: generally, able to do much by pure will and thought. “If looks could kill,” incarnate. Some technopathy. Outbursts of preternatural strength. Slight elemental control, minor mind control. Communication with entities beyond the veil despite her attempts to shut them out. Astral projection.

More abilities and characteristics, positive and negative, by species:

1. Dragon: old soul/wise beyond her years, increased intelligence, heightened senses, increased empathy and strength, stronger persuasion via a golden tongue, foresight or future-delving. Manipulation, word twisting, speaking in riddles. Strong debater. Bloodthirsty. Intensely greedy. Power hungry. Delusions of grandeur. Arrogant. Pansexual. Extroverted. Stubborn and/or hard-headed. So cold you’d bet she’s anemic. Close-minded. TOO LOUD. She wants your heart, but on a GOLDEN platter; she’ll never love you. You are so beneath her, who the fuck do you think you are? Enemy of the siren. Fiercely loyal to those who have earned it. Family is the most important thing. Money can buy happiness, and it has for her. Warmest smile. Tacky bitch. Really good at Words with Friends, Scrabble, fighting you, chess. Wants you to succeed in life, and gives you unsolicited advice on how to do it all the time. Annoying. Always has an upset tummy. Does she have IBS? Beyond the veil: red with orange eyes. Your typical bigass crimson red dragon, will breathe fire on you. Her kind is less prevalent than they once were.

2. Siren: leads people astray readily. Seduction. Outright deception. Enticement and intimidation via a silver tongue. Increased strength and agility. Strong swimmer. Telepathy with other sirens. Enemy of the dragon. Brutal bitch. Savage, almost feral at times. Ambivert. Manipulative. Intensely maternal. Your mom friend to the extreme. Loving. Pansexual. Invasive. Monster. Might eat your liver in the pool. Always too hot. God, that voice, let’s hope you never hear it. Opera. SUSHI!!!!. Friendly, communal even, but only with those she considers family. Too good for pop music unless it’s Ariana Grande; increased hearing, gets audio overload at any normal volume. Subtitles, please. Can’t fucking understand English to save her life. Will teach you sirenic, but you can’t speak it. Whistle notes. LOWER YOUR FUCKING VOICE. Half-naked, huge tits. Firm hugger. Beyond the veil: ugly ass deep sea thing you never want to see, but her Venetian red tail is pretty... Second, translucent eyelid. Sirens of the sea are populating as rampantly as always, given the content of the earth which is saltwater. Avoids all of her kind to protect one she loves.

-Unpopular with both dragons and sirens due to some old war. These two species are most dominant.

3. Succubus: a touch that can manipulate, seduce, control, compel. Feeding, starving. Glamour. Conceited. Preppy bitch. Sarcastic. A gaslighter. Manipulative. Extroverted. PANSEXUAL, literally doesn’t care, will fuck you, don’t let her. Fake. Craves you. Enemy of the siren. She’s that overly sexual friend where you can never really tell whether they’re kidding or really trying something with you, you know? She’ll never tell, either. Got that?? Fear her. Run; she will definitely fuck your brains out and fucking eat you, God she’s fucking starving. RUN. Don’t give her a drink, and so help you if she gets to three or more. There is no God; God is dead, she has killed him, she drained his chi. RUN AWAY: fucking demonic. Don’t let her in. She made sure no one is here to help. Don’t look at them. They won’t help you; they’re under her control. You will be too. Beyond the veil: Horns. Tail. Wings. Greyish-purple all over, even her eyes; looks like a gargoyle. She doesn’t eat enough to pigment, and who cares? Glamour will make her perfect anyway. Finds feeding unethical. Slip-ups happen, though; I’m coming for you.

4. Wolf: increased agility, strength, and durability. Heightened stamina, senes. Increased stamina. Fast healing. Telepathy with other wolves. FIERCELY loyal. Respectful. Hungry. Bloodthirsty. Feral. Beast. Aching in her soul and bones. Titanium. Sushi. Friendly and communal all the time. Pansexual. Major ambivert. Audio overload too. Will cry if someone raises their voice from across a room. You’re too boomy. Stop that. Will kill anyone who makes you shed a tear. Don’t let her. Specifically tell her not to while you are crying. She will do it, I swear. Alpha bitch. Beyond the veil: albino Eurasian wolf, mistaken for an Arctic wolf. Icy grey eyes. Her kind is dead; those eyes show it. What’s an alpha without a pack? Heartbroken.

5. Valkyrie: Literally wishing to death, has to stop herself from it because it’s so easy. Planting doubt in the minds of the steadfast and resolute. Asexual. Will give you hallucinations. Manipulative. Spooky bitch. Might want you dead, might not. Don’t cross her or she’ll imagine you to eternal slumber. You won’t be in Valhalla, either.

6. Amazonian: Increased strength. Tracker. Skilled with weapons. Will navigate. Misandry. Lesbian. Introverted. Feminist bitch. Will stab you.

7. Banshee: Future-delving. A screech that will drive you mad and physically harm you only when members of inhuman royalty are dying. Introvert. Asexual. Beyond the veil: Blind as a bat, deaf as a white cat. Only sees the astral world in her head. Just looks like herself minus the white eyes. Only brought out by screaming, and terrified the entire time, but can remain after. Will cough or vomit blood for a while after screaming. Can’t control it. Scared bitch. Voice may not return to normal for weeks. Enemy of the siren. Prefers to, and sometimes must remain after screaming, mute. Cannot sign. Can see and feel your energy.

8. Basilisk: Increased ability to intimidate. Muted. Affinity for reptiles. No other abilities or notable change. Beyond the veil: she cannot turn into the giant snake of lore, nor turn to stone. If looks could kill, she would just kinda spook you. Literally just herself. Angry bitch.

9. Fairy: No increased abilities but she’s cuter and has more of a sweet tooth. Vocal change to higher pitch. Please give her Jaffa cakes, hot tea, and head pats. Beyond the veil: a tiny, wingless fairy of greens, golds, and purples. Don’t let the look fool you. Evil bitch.

10. Vampire: Increased sense of hearing and smell. Bloodlust. Ability to compel. Seduction. Extrovert. Clean freak. If there's no blood on her, it's like she never did it. Feeds on the environment around her, including people, naturally. Constantly tries to keep that shut off. Wants very badly to eat you. Hungry bitch.

Sometimes she wakes up a certain species, sometimes situations or location bring them out. Sometimes the need to feed or emotions will cause certain species to rush to forefront. This is akin to having different personalities, but it’s all her.

Face Claims:

-Young Adult (main): Penelope Mitchell, The Vampire Diaries, The Curse of Downers’ Grove, Hemlock Grove.

-Adult: Jennifer Morrison, House, Once Upon a Time, Star Trek.

-Teenage: Jenny Boyd, Legacies, Hex, Viking Quest.

-Child: Emily Alyn Lind, Revenge, Enter the Void, J. Edgar.

Physically in this realm: curly blonde, cornflower-eyed, average height (around 5′6″), girl next door but relatively average appearance, with multiple piercings (nipples, several ear piercings, and belly). Birth mark on the top of her left breast.

TRIGGER WARNING: EATING DISORDERS, SELF HARM:

She has a highly fluctuating weight (between 114 and 178) due to eating disorders - anorexia nervosa restrict type and bulimia nervosa binge purge type. Sheuses exercise, laxatives, suppositories, etc rather than the usual purging. Faint cut scars adorned her thighs and left wrist; she had them tattooed to cover them but the white lines still showed. There was a flower over the wrist, a portrait of a fox on her right thigh, and a portrait of a Renaissance-era woman on her left. There were cigarette burns inches below the Renaissance woman and the flower tattoo. There was another one midway on her outer right forearm.

#tw eating problems #tw eating disorders #tw ed #tw ed mention #tw eds #about muse #about rose #ptsd #tw ptsd #tw ptsd mention #tw bipolar #tw bipolar mention #tw mental disorders #tw self harm #indie rp #rp bio #cw alcoholism

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