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lowlypotatofarmer · 1 year

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i have Many Thoughts about the rwrb movie!!!

okay i was writing tags for what was going to be a short snippet of thought on the movie but i just kept going in the tags and decided i wanted to write my opinions down somewhere. bear with me...

first and foremost it was exactly the type of cringe movie i expected it to be. the acting was pretty often subpar, as anticipated, but i have to say the leads put their whole PUSSIES into the emotional scenes. like the whole confrontation after henry essentially ghosts alex?? man those actors had RENT DUE and i love that for them.

this is 100% going on my list of comfort movies that i’ll end up watching twenty times, but it is, of course, flawed, and i would like to Talk About It

now, book to movie adaptations are very very rarely done justice, and this one proved to be no exception. i know things have to be excluded for budget/runtime/page-to-screen translation, and i am a smidge disappointed with what ended up on the floor

obviously june is a huge missing piece of the puzzle. i know she wasn’t hugely plot-relevant necessarily, but she was necessary to alex’s arc in discovering himself, and in her own character arc. i understand removing her if necessary, but i had hoped they would fill in those gaps with nora. which they did not do

getting into that, nora and bea, both of whom were incredibly strong characters in the book with their own story and interests and relevance to the story outside of being sounding boards for the leads. i personally feel they butchered both of those characters in the film. bea has no personality, none of the spark we see in the books. nora as well, was so so smart, was such a great friend to alex and was always there for him. her shining moment of emerging with the answer to the hack that no one else could find was totally excluded too, because of the change in that entire plot as well. i would’ve liked to have gotten to see the ‘super six’ too, like i thought the karaoke at the texas bar was fun, sure, but it didn’t have the party feel that made that scene in the book so fun, along with the groups blending to become fast friends just would’ve been great.

now…richards! he was such a non-person in the movie. obviously i don’t care one bit to hear about him or his platform or whatever it was we see in the book, but by leaving him and not having the trail lead to him regarding the emails makes it very dull and just a very thinly veiled question of ‘whodunnit’ because it’s implied that it’s the journalist but god knows how he got those or why or how he knew etc. not to mention the whole predator arc which would’ve been SO INTERESTING to explore and the exclusion of luna in order to tell that story will make me mad forever. but hey, can’t have twelve plot points in a movie!

i also didn’t really appreciate the erasure of alex’s bi awakening. i really loved how in the book he had to take some time to think through his sexuality and figure out where he stood (and nora using her analyst brain to help him with percentages would’ve been such a wonderful moment to replace that scene in the office, which was okay but could’ve been better). it was such an interesting time to read about, especially the call w liam, that i would’ve liked to see it, but i mean some things had to be cut, and in the end i mean i guess it wasn’t about their sexualities, it was about the people.

now that i’ve mentioned At Length some of my issues, i have to give the movie props for their text-to-screen adaptation of the texts between henry and alex. like having henry walking around the room narrating those texts, or being in bed with alex while they’re on the phone? such a fantastic move, it was awesome and i love how well it worked. i was wondering how they were going to do it with so much of their relationship being via text or email (and i wish they’d had more of the emails in there, like some quotes or some lines like ‘see attached bibliography[….]’)

i also thought sending alex to texas was a nice touch, i loved seeing him campaigning for his mom and helping to register voters and get to make a change in his home state. that was a nice addition that the book didn’t have.

and i know this is me getting all picky about a movie that is essentially supposed to be a love story, condensing a 400 page book into a 2 hour movie is hard, i wouldn’t want to do it, couldn’t do it, but i just think that there are some little changes, such as giving the girls a personality, that could’ve been made.

i might edit this as i think of more, i know there were some others but they’ve escaped my brain. hope this made sense, i read the book again a few days ago and just finished the movie so all the discrepancies are Jumping at me rn :)

(also rip to the cornettos scene…filmed and cut but never forgotten 💔😔)

#rwrb movie spoilers #rwrb #rwrb movie #red white and royal blue

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theflyingfeeling · 3 years

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Found a cute Valentines prompt: “I can’t get over how a few months ago I wanted to learn your name and now you’re having breakfast with me in my sweater on Valentine’s Day.” With Olli/Aleksi or Olli/Joonas, I'm indecisive^^

Awwwwww, that is very cute indeed 🥺 I'm going with Olli/Joonas for this one 💗

“Come to sleep with me, my darling.”

Joonas cracked his eyelids open just enough to see Olli smile and shake his head.

“It’s almost noon,” he replied, changing out of his rain-soaked t-shirt.

“Which is snog o’clock in the Porko residence. Not..jog o’clock.”

Olli laughed some more and reached his hand to tickle Joonas’ bare soles, peeking from under his duvet. “I needed some fresh air.”

“It’s raining.”

“It was but a drizzle,” Olli smiled and walked up to Joonas’ wardrobe as it was his, taking out the first sweatshirt his hand found in the messy pile of clothes. Joonas made good use of the last few seconds he had to enjoy the view of Olli’s toned back muscles before the fabric of Joonas’ favourite baby pink sweater covered it, making Joonas exhale mournfully.

“Got us some breakfast on my way back,” Olli told him as he walked towards the bedroom door. “Put some pants on and join me, will you?” He turned to smirk at Joonas who was stretching his hands above his head.

“A shirt is optional?”

Olli replied with a wink, so Joonas made his own conclusions.

When Joonas finally rolled out of bed and sauntered to the kitchen, Olli was already halfway through his stuffed baguette, his other hand stirring his coffee.

Joonas could so easily get used to this; he had missed sharing breakfast with someone as much as he had missed sharing his bed, and the fact it happened to be with someone as caring and sweet and hot as Olli made Joonas feel like his chest was going to burst from all the love trying to fight its way out, straight to Olli’s gentle hands.

It may have been less than three months since Joonas had, quite literally, bumped into Olli at the local library where he had gone to shelter from the rain while waiting for Joel to pick him up. After their first encounter (filled with bashful smiles and flirtatious jokes), Joonas, never much for reading books, had visited the library every day in hopes of seeing the cute guy carrying the entire Tolkien bibliography. Almost a week later, just when Joonas had been about to lose all hope of ever finding the guy again, cursing himself for not asking for his number or his name the very least, he had noticed a familiar curly head peeking in between the shelves, absorbed in a thick book with fancy cursive writing on the cover. Joonas still remembered the way Olli’s eyes had lit up when Joonas had cleared his throat behind the guy, the soft “Oh, you!” Olli had uttered, and how Olli’s name had felt in Joonas’ mouth when he had said it for the first time, the double L lingering on his tongue like it had always belonged there.

Now, the consonants weren’t the only part of Olli that had made a home on Joonas’ tongue.

His favourite was obviously Olli’s own tongue, slipping against his with such an ease, as if it was born to do so. His fair neck was also a lovely place for Joonas to drag his tongue against, not to mention Olli’s belly button and the insides of this thighs. A whole another story were the parts of Olli that could fit inside Joonas’ mouth almost in their entirety, such as his fingers, among other body parts.

Right now, however, Joonas was going to focus his efforts on pressing their mouths together, making their tongues work in unison, like they had done the night before, as well as in the early morning, before Olli had left for his jog.

For this purpose, he sat on Olli’s lap, wrapping one arm around Olli’s neck, resting the other on his chest. He didn’t get far with his plan, though, as he noticed something on the table.

“What’s that?” he leaned over to take a better look, identifying the item as a box of some kind, covered with a glitter wrapping paper.

Olli smiled and reached for the box. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, passing it to Joonas, who, without wasting precious time, tore the wrapping and revealed a plain cardboard box. Cracking open the lid, he saw the inside was filled with heart-shaped chocolates, covered in blue, purple and red tinfoil wrappers.

“You’re such a cutie,” Joonas twittered and showered Olli with kisses all over his face, planting the final dozen on his giggling mouth. Then, although in that moment it was the hardest thing Joonas ever had to do, he got off Olli’s lap and walked over to one of the kitchen cupboards.

“I got something for you, too,” he said, rising on his tippy-toes to reach the top shelf. Knowing Olli preferred healthy snacks, Joonas had bought him a heart-shaped jar of pink-dyed dried pineapples, papayas and other fruity delicacies.

“Awwww,” Olli smiled and opened the jar instantly to pop a handful of fruit in his mouth. “Thanks, you’re a cutie too.”

“Did you read the message?” Joonas pointed at the small slip of paper attached to the string he had tied around the container.

Olli raised an eyebrow and turned over the note. He read it in silence, his lips slowly forming a smile.

“Is that a Gandalf quote?”

“No, it’s a Joonas Porko quote.”

Olli’s smile widened, and he grapped Joonas’ hand to pull him back to his lap.

“Nevertheless,” Olli said, pausing to kiss Joonas with such tenderness that made Joonas melt in his arms, “I must say I agree.”

💗

"Love is never late, nor is it early. It arrives precisely when it means to."

#blind channel #blind channel rpf #blind channel fanfiction #joonas/olli #valentine's day fluff by theflyingfeeling #the cuddlebros!! 🥰🥰

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berkowitzbrat · 3 years

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Berkowitz and the Inverted Electra

Hello! Well, this is where i’ve been all this time. This post required a lot of sourcing and research, and therefore a lot of time, because it’s very theoretical. Anyway, here’s my magnum opus. Enjoy.

An Electra Complex is defined by the psychosexual relationship between a girl (or, in the ‘inverted’ sense, a boy) and her (his) mother, coupled with a sexual desire to possess their father. Oedipal and Electral urges originate during the Phallic (3rd) stage of psychosexual development.

As a male, Berkowitz would be expected to cleave to the Oedipal urges to kill his father/possess his mother; however, I don’t think this is the case. The Phallic stage takes place between the ages of 3-6 years old, around the time that Berkowitz was informed of his biological mother’s death, and his biological father’s abandonment of him. This, coupled with the continuous image of death surrounding women as he was growing up [1], helped to solidify this inverted Electral urge, the fascination with death&women and possession&men. In terms of possession and men, Berkowitz would have thought that only his biological father was still alive, and this developed (particularly later in his life) a great need to find his father, to reclaim some part of himself, and rid himself of the guilt he felt for driving his father away after (as he thought) killing his mother [2]. Another scenario during which he exhibited possession&men linked directly to death/control&women was when he would be taken to indoor pools and witnessed the thrall and power which men held over women, particulalry in situations in which there is sexual subtext, such as changing rooms [3].

So, great. He’s attracted to the same sex (more on this later) and death&women are interdependent concepts for him. What next? For Freud, it’s the Latency stage. This stage begins at age 7 and continues until puberty, which for boys is around 12/13 years old. This is the stage at which the Oedipal/Electral complexes begin to dissolve in order to decrease the tension and take on their gender role (whatever that may be) as the child realises that sexual gratification exists without, not within, their parents. At this stage is usually when the child begins to become more comfortable with the same sex parent--but David has always been more attracted to the idea of his biological father, as it is all he has. It could be said, then, that the Electra complex was forced upon him by circumstance, the circumstance of his adoptive-father’s lie about his biological parents. Regardless, Berkowitz eventually becomes very close to his adoptive mother, Pearl, and began to vie for her attention, such as poisoning her parakeets in order to have nothing to compete with for her affection [4]. The typical progression of Berkowitz is entirely inverted in terms of Freudian psychosexual stages. This is a stage of negated sexuality, hence the attatchment, traditionally, to the parent of the same sex, and to make friends of the same sex; however, because Freud’s an asshole, he doesn’t consider that ✨homosexuality✨ is a concept and thinks that all children must go to the parent/friends of the same sex as sexuality cannot be prompted here. But we can take liberties here because we live in the real world. There’s nothing abnormal about Berkowitz, he was just following the pyschosexual stages as somebody interested in the same sex.

Woah! You say. But he killed women because of pent-up sexual frustration! The gun is his penis!

Sure. For most; but I’ve always felt that Berkowitz did things a little bit... differently.

The Genital stage, or the final stage, begins at puberty (12/13) and continues/ends into adulthood. As traumatising as Pearl’s death was for David, her death coincided perfectly for her metaphorical death in the psyche of 13-year-old David. During the Genital stage, sexuality is no longer ‘hidden’ (latent), and rather becomes a thing necessary to be fulfilled for emotional release. Attention turns once more to the gender in which one is interested, and David, growing up in the culture that he did, turned to women. At 15, he had his first sexual experience, a blowjob, and sources (unknown) state that he preferred ‘oral sex and petting over regular intercourse’[5]. It would be plausible that he perhaps came to prefer this, considering his one known experience with ‘regular intercourse’ resulted in a venereal disease, but I’ve always contended that maybe he preferred so-called ‘petting’ due to his... less favourable position with heterosexuality. But, as I said, I feel as if David did not explore, or rather felt he could not explore, his sexuality until later on in his life (and, even then, due to his Baptist beliefs, promoted homophobic views because, y’know, Christianity and being born in the 50s) and was, in fact, more interested in men than women. If this is grabbing at straws for anyone, I will mention his ‘homosexual fling’ [6] with inmate Gary Evans, who was long suspected to be bisexual/homosexual due to his collecting of gay magazines and, according to Hugo Harmatz, ‘love letters’[citation needed] from Berkowitz stashed amongst them.

An addendum about Berkowitz’s latent stage: when he was around 10 years old, his parents had sex whilst he was in the same bed [8]. What could be more confusing, traumatising, and shaping, than your parents doing... that... during one of the most sexually devoid periods of your life! I believe this shaped his view of performance hugely. He was shown, at a formative period, that it was okay to perform in a sexually motivated manner whilst other people were around--non-consenting other people, at that. I believe that this is the reason he took his killing out into the open. It was a sexual thrill, the killings. It was heavily related to the sexual negation of wanting to kill your mother in order to possess your father. I am by no means saying that this is Berkowitz’s 100% proven, uncontestable motive, but the ideas of psychosexual analysis seem to apply to him in an accurate and very curious way. The traditional, heterosexual view of these stages do not match up to his psychology, but the homosexual interpretation does.

So, we move forward to his early 20s. He returns from Korea, looking for his father, the only piece of his biological existence he believes to be alive. He still wishes, all these years later, to possess the father--the destruction of the woman has only intensified after multiple failed attempts at dating, a horrendous virginity-loss experience, and the frustration surrounding an attempt at heterosexuality. But, here we stand: his biological mother is alive, and his biological father is the one who is dead. How terribly, terribly confusing. And still, Berkowitz attempts a relationship with his biological mother and half-sister. This goes south, however, when he discovers that he was given up due to being born out of wedlock, and he drops contact with his biological family.

The disollusionment is unfathomable. His biological father, his raison d’etre, is dead. His adoptive father has moved to Florida with his new wife: this new wife has fulfiled Berkowitz’s Electra Complex, in his mind, at least. Kill the mother. Take the father. His biological mother is not who he wanted to have. His adoptive mother is dead. What is left? A display of fulfilment, sexual fulfilment, as public as it has always been shown to him--through the bedroom of his parents, through the public changing rooms. Murder on the streets. Getting to kill a woman as he always thought he had been decreed to from birth, from his first supposed mother, his biological mother.

(bibliography under the cut. thank you for reading)

Bibliography:

Radford University: Berkowitz, David [3, 8]

Simply Psychology: 5 Stages of Psychosexual Development

Tumblr/Berkowitzbrat: Exploring the Why [1]

Tumblr/True Crime and Cannibalism: David Berkowitz’s Timeline [5]

Westchester Magazine: David Berkowitz’s History in Westchester County [4]

Wikipedia: Phallic stage, Latency stage, Genital stage

Wordpress/Can’t Stop the Bleeding: How to Stuff a Wild Bikini [6]

Youtube: David Berkowitz: In His Own Words (1/9) [2]

And here’s my whole folder of resources for general Berkowitz reading materials and media: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1VKlZJwRR4bpoPzO7AejAMtAJaVoBGuTg

#psychology #david berkowitz #son of sam #holy shit i'm back!!!#freudian elements #freud #analysis #electra #oedipus #adoptive parents #biological parents #discourse welcome

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litafficionado · 3 years

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Four Questions with Garielle Lutz:

I’m extremely beholden to Garielle who took the time to respond to my silly, garbled, childish, intrusive questions. You can purchase her latest book Worsted here and here, among many other sites. --------- Q. You've attributed the resuscitation of your literary career in quite considerable measure to your teacher and editor Gordon Lish. It seems like you guys are particularly close, even as you seem to have largely confined yourself to Pittsburgh(mostly driven by your erstwhile teaching career but also by your liking the city over time). How does it feel to hear someone like Gordon speak so highly of you, “I think there’s more truth in one sentence of my student [Lutz] than in all of [Philip] Roth. Lutz gives [herself] away. “The speaking subject gives herself away,” says Julia Kristeva. I thoroughly believe that. What you see in Lutz, [her] lavish gift, is [her] refusal to relax [her] determination to uncover and uncover. It is, by my lights, quite wonderful, quite terrific.[…]Lutz is entirely the real thing?” Does one feel vindicated? How do you navigate the waters of self-effacement and self-indulgence as a writer and as a person? A. I haven’t had a literary career before or after studying with Gordon Lish. I don’t think one finds one’s way to him in hopes of launching a career. Anyone with vulgar ambition along those lines would have been shown the door pretty quick. I would never presume to be close to Gordon or to feel that I am part of his life other than in my role as a student. He dwells in another realm entirely. I attended his classes and tried to grasp, to the best of my abilities, the things he was saying about how to get from one word to the next. He also talked about how to free a word from the constricting range of its permissible behaviors, how to drain it of every sepsis of received meaning, until there is nothing left of the word but the skeleton of its former self, just the lank, gawky letters sticking out this way and that, and then how to fill the thing up again, to the point of overspilling, but this time with something that would never have been allowed to belong in there before, and then see whether the word, now close to bursting, can hold up and maybe have a new kind of say. I’m always surprised and relieved whenever Gordon says anything approving about anything I write. I think that for a lot of his students, his opinion is the only one that counts.

Q. You've said, "A typical day goes like this: noon, afternoon, evening, night, additional night, even more night, furtherest night, then bedtime, though I don’t have a bed or furniture of any kind.” Have you always been a lychnobite, sensing the overwhelming superabundance of life after the sunset or is it a relatively recent development facilitated by your retirement from teaching? Do you consider yourself in any way to be a minimalist? Does your room bear any resemblance with a sparsely lit opium den where all exchanges happen at the floor level?

A. I think the pandemic has had a lot to do with it. Lately I’ve been up until five, sometimes six. But I’ve always found mornings the harshest and ugliest part of the day (maybe it’s just because of the place where I live, but I never open the blinds anyway). There can be something awfully scolding about a sunrise the older you get Evening seems to extend every form of leniency, and in the dead of night, expectations go way down, which is where they maybe ought to stay. I do spend all of my time on the floor, but my apartment doesn’t bear any resemblance to an opium den. It’s more like a crawlspace or the back of a dollar-store stockroom.

Q. Even with your reputation of being a page-hugger than a typical page-turner, how do you decide which books to read apart from your line of work? Do you try to keep it largely in the familiar territory, like exploring the oeuvre of a time-tested writer? How does one unshackle oneself from this constant niggling that one ought to read so many books? Here's Ben Marcus: “When I was in graduate school, there was this sort of cautionary adage going around by the poet Francis Ponge that we can only write what we’ve already read and one way to hear that is you’re just sort of doomed to kind of regurgitate everything you’ve read and so if you’re just reading all the popular books, the books everyone else is reading, in some sense you’re maybe unwittingly confining yourself to a particular literary practice that’s gonna look pretty familiar. I remember at the time thinking, okay well if that’s true, if I’m just fated to that, then I’m gonna read things that no one else is reading. I loved to just go to the library and pretty randomly grab books, because I think for a little while, and I’m kinda glad this passed, but I really just had this feeling that a writer just consumes language and just sort of spits it out. So it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t have to be a great novel for it to be worth-reading. And I still read very little fiction in the end compared to non-fiction, essays, works of philosophy, science. And the other sort of dirty secret is: I don’t finish a lot of books. I just don’t care enough. I only finish a book if I have to or if I really want to. And, often, I’ll stop reading a book three pages from the end. I think that as writers, we probably feel a lot of pressure about what kind of a reader to be, what kind of a writer to be in, and we feel this shame, like “I haven’t read DH Lawrence, I’m such an asshole.” You begin to feel like you’ve these deficiencies and you gotta make them up and you never will and a lot of it is just kinda tyrannical. Of course, obviously, we must be naturally motivated to read and read and read and read but I guess I just started to notice that…I got a lot of my ideas by just reading…e.g. a gardening book…like the weird way a sentence was structured.” Then there's Moyra Davey: “Woolf famously said of reading: “The only advice … is to take no advice, … follow your instincts, … use your reason.” A similar thought was voiced by her elder contemporary Oscar Wilde, who did not believe in recommending books, only in de-recommending them. Later, Jorge Luis Borges echoed the same sentiment by discouraging “systematic bibliographies” in favor of “adulterous” reading. More recently, Gregg Bordowitz has promoted “promiscuous” reading in which you impulsively allow an “imposter” book to overrule any reading trajectory you might have set for yourself, simply because, for instance, a friend tells you in conversation that he is reading it and is excited by it. This evokes for me that most potent kind of reading — reading as flirtation with or eavesdropping on someone you love or desire, someone who figures in your fantasy life.”“What to read?” is a recurring dilemma in my life. The question always conjures up an image: a woman at home, half-dressed, moving restlessly from room to room, picking up a book, reading a page or two and no sooner feeling her mind drift, telling herself, “You should be reading something else, you should be doing something else.” The image also has a mise-en-scène: overstuffed, disorderly shelves of dusty and yellowing books, many of them unread; books in piles around the bed or faced down on a table; work prints of photographs, also with a faint covering of dust, taped to the walls of the studio; a pile of bills; a sink full of dishes. She is trying to concentrate on the page in front of her but a distracting blip in her head travels from one desultory scene to the next, each one competing for her attention. It is not just a question of which book will absorb her, for there are plenty that will do that, but rather, which book, in a nearly cosmic sense, will choose her, redeem her. Often what is at stake, should she want to spell it out, is the idea that something is missing, as in: what is the crucial bit of urgently needed knowledge that will save her, at least for this day? She has the idea that if she can simply plug into the right book then all will be calm, still, and right with the world. […] Must reading be tied to productivity to be truly satisfying […] Or is it the opposite, that it can only really gratify if it is a total escape? What is it that gives us a sense of sustenance and completion? Are we on some level always striving to attain that blissful state of un-agendaed reading remembered from childhood? What does it mean to spend a good part of one’s life absorbed in books? Given that our time is limited, the problem of reading becomes one of exclusion. Why pick one book over the hundreds, perhaps thousands on our bookshelves, the further millions in libraries and stores? For in settling on any book we are implicitly saying no to countless others. This conflict is aptly conjured up by essayist Lynne Sharon Schwartz as she reflects on “the many books (the many acts) I cannot in all decency leave unread (undone) — or can I?”” What way out do you suggest? Do you deem it worthwhile to eschew any shred of obligation and be propelled in any direction naturally? Like you said you found grammar books and lexicons more engaging and enjoyable than the novels.

A. I seem to remember that in some magazine or another, James Wolcott once said “Read at whim.” That has always sounded like the best advice. And I assume it means to feel free to ditch any book that disappoints. Like Ben Marcus, I’ve had experiences of abandoning a book just a few pages from the end, but I often don’t make it that far in most things anymore. I came from a long line of nonreaders, so I’ve never felt any guilt about passing up books or writers that so many people seem to talk about a lot, and I don’t expect other people to like what I like. Some books I’ll start about halfway in and then see whether I might want to work my way back to the beginning. Others I’ll start at the very end and inch my way toward the front, one sentence at a time, and see how far I can go that way. I seem to remember that in The Pleasure of the Text, Roland Barthes recommends “cruising” a text, and maybe something like that is what I’m doing at least some of the time, if I understand what he means. And every now and then I’ll read a book straightforwardly for an hour and afterward wonder whether the time might have been better spent staring off into space. Too many books these days seem ungiving. It’s the ungivingness that disappoints the most. A lot of contemporary fiction has the gleam and sparkle of a trend feature in a glossy magazine, and I can appreciate the craft and the savvy that go into something like that, but I am drawn more toward stories and books that demand being read slowly and closely, pulse by pulse, the kind of fiction where everything--what little might be left of an entire blighted life--can pivot on the peal of a single syllable. Q. I'd like to ask you so many questions. But let this be the last one for matters of convenience. Also, in a capitalistic world, one's enshrouded with guilt for taking one's time without being remunerative in any way. Among the books and films that you recently encountered, which ones do you think deserve rereads/rewatches? A. I used to feel like the woman you’ve described so movingly above, someone who questions her choice of books almost to the brink of despair. At my age, though, I no longer have a program for reading, a syllabus or a checklist, and I’m okay with knowing there’s a lot I’ll never get around to. I’m happy being a rereader of a few inexhaustible books and chancing upon occasional fresh treasure. The one book that has shaken me the most in the longest time is Anna DeForest’s A History of Present Illness, which will be out next August. It’s a blisteringly truthful novel written with moral grace and unsettling brilliance and an awing mastery of language. A couple of recent books I have read in manuscript, books that totally knocked me out with their originality and uncanny command of the word, are Greg Gerke’s In the Suavity of the Rock (a novel) and David Nutt’s Summertime in the Emergency Room (a short-story collection). I haven’t watched many movies in the past few months, and the ones I watched aren’t ones I’ll probably be rewatching anytime soon.

#Garielle Lutz #lit #Worsted #Moyra Davey #Ben Marcus #Gordon Lish #Anna DeForest #A History of Present Illness #Greg Gerke #In the Suavity of the Rock #David Nutt #Summertime in the Emergency Room

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procrastinatorproject · 3 years

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I was taggged by @regionalpancake to post the last sentence of my current WIP. There was an actual rule, but I’m too tired to go looking now, and also I’m me, so I’m not going to post a sentence, I’m going to post a paragraph 😋

From The Cake is a Lie, Chapter 4: “Findings“

According to the Navigational Hologram, some Earth cultures have a tradition of eating a little piece of sweet food, a so-called Betthupferl, before one goes to bed (cf. Franz 138 ff.). While the ENH himself finds his cultural roots in parts of Earth where this custom is less common, he adopted it about one year ago, when a group of travellers, whom the Araña Cósmica was conveying between settlements, introduced him to the concept. Since then, he has incorporated the consumption of a small, usually chocolate-based treat into his daily shut-down routine, creating a prime example of ritualistic consumption.

-------------

From the Bibliography: Franz, Barbara, ‘Das Betthupferl im 24. Jahrhundert. The Demise, Resurgence, and Spread of a Cultural Tradition’, in Customs on the Move. The Proliferation of Cultural Idiosyncrasies across Multi-Planetary Communities, ed. by Ithon Tha’mek, No-Lam, and Vi-Lam, UFP University Excellence Programme - Cultural History Division, 54 (Varenda; Mirada; Lor’Tan, Andor; Essen, Earth: UFPUEP Publications, 2389), pp. 181–99

From an as of yet unnamed stowaway-on-Sirena fic:

"Besides,” Rios continued, “I'd never bring food into sickbay. Last time I accidentally walked in with a half-eaten apple you gave me that horrible rash that wouldn’t go away for a week." Suddenly the EMH's face went entirely blank. "Such an action would be prohibited by my hippocratic coding." Rios gave the doctor a suspicious look over the top of the tank. “If you say so...” The hologram wisely decided it was time to change the subject. “If you didn't drop the chirimoya into the tank, who did? Last time I checked, you were the only person on board inclined to eat organic food.” With a sigh, Rios straightened his back and cracked his neck to the sides. “Are you sure it wasn’t there last night? With all the people running around the ship before we left, someone might have thought this was a biowaste recycling unit.” “My colonies were still fine when I turned off my programme three hours ago,” the EMH said with conviction. Rios yawned. “Maybe the mould got peckish.” The look the EMH gave him could have corroded tritanium.

And then the thing I have actually been working on the last week or so: I HAVE MADE FLOOR PLATES!!!!

(yes, it is completely ridiculous, thank you for asking 😁) (also: the two that seem to be in the wrong direction are not my fault, they’re actually that way on the set, so I just faithfully reproduced them!)

Anyway. If you been working on anything cool or even just... on anything, take this as your excuse to tell all of us about it!

#wips #tag meme #tag game #or something like that #i am way too tired 😅#anyway i'll file this under...#star trek picard #la sirena #lili's writing adventures #the cake is a lie #baby on board #and #mappening is happening #slowly XD #Though I have to say I'm proud I finally got around to doing the floor plates #even though i have convinced myself about half a dozen times now they are COMPLETELY wrong and i have been mistaken #about every assumption i have ever made about this ship #i should probably go to sleep 😅

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bangtansfavwriter · 4 years

Text

📚🌱book store owner! namjoon🌱📚

- you were still trying to find your way around town as you moved there like 3 weeks ago

-you spent most of your time furnishing your flat and getting groceries as you were snacking all the damn time

-the weather was also kinda bad so you didn't really mind

- on one morning you got up and it was surprisingly sunny outside

-so you thought "why not explore the city a bit?", got ready and went out

-after an hour or so that you've spent in a stationary shop, you noticed a cute book store that was right across the street

- you almost didn't notice there was a shop in there bc of all the plants and flowers hanging down the balcony above the shop

- that's why it felt like a huge discovery to you bc this was probably the cutest book store you'd ever seen, with a very handsome guy sitting at a table in the front of the shop, between some peonies and dahlias that were planted in raised beds

- the guy was fixing something which you recognized as a ukulele when you walked past him and quickly made your way into the book shop, when you heard him grumble and say something like "broke it again..."

-you shook your head when you walked in and forgot about the angry ukulele guy when you got the first look at the superbly organized and clean shop with freaking bonsai trees literally everywhere you'd look

- there were 2 kids at the comic section, some youngsters revising something at one of the tables inside the shop and an old man reading a book next to a tabletop fountain

- as you made your way through the store you noticed something else that made the store even better than you thought, because whoever owned this shop was a salty but funny book nerd

- the book sections were titled in a rather unusual way.. to say the least. one section, for example, was called: "books you probably hate when you start reading but when you get to the end you have an existential crisis because of how good it was"

-you walked to the next section, already curious to see what was next and were surprised to see pretty much the entire bibliography of kafka right there in the "love him or hate him, you ain't him" and chuckled, because you too didn't know anyone with a neutral opinion on Kafka, people either loved him or hated him for his work

-you, however, loved him and apparently so did the person who put this section together

-you full on started laughing when you saw the section "kinda overrated, but suit yourself" and saw "romeo and juliet" displayed at the very front

- "guessing from you laughter, I'd assume you probably agree with me" you heard someone say behind you

- you turned around and zoned out for a sec, as you mustered the gorgeous man in front of you who had the sweetest dimples you'd ever seen

- "you know... I'll get shy if you stare any longer" he said with his deep voice and a slight smirk on his lips

- you snapped back into reality after he said that and quickly tried saving yourself because you already felt your cheeks burning, and you didn't want him to notice that

- "oh sorry, I suppose I was just startled. you're very tall, you know? kinda intimidating with all that... height.."

- he smiled and nodded and you mentally slapped yourself for this statement of yours

- "you're right, by the way, about romeo and juliet. absolutely overrated story about dramatic teens." you said and put the book back "did you come up with these categories?"

- "yeah, maybe it's a tad bit too personalized, but it's my humble opinion about some 'classics' the general public is trying to shove down our throats" he said

- "like 'old man and the sea'" you said and started laughing when he shot you a look of bewilderment

- "don't you dare insult hemingway in this household" he said, but started laughing himself after he said that

- "that was by far one of the most boring books I have ever read in my entire life!!"

"but it depicts the long struggle of the old man who faces his struggles and realizes how they ultimately become his-"

"boooring! and hemingway got a nobel peace prize for literature? for that writing? you should make a new category in your store - 'got prizes but at what cost (hint: my patience)'"

-he broke into laughter and you physically had to refrain yourself from poking his dimples

- your felt your blood rush into your head again when he shot you a beaming smile and said "maybe I should make a new category. 'controversial opinions from a gorgeous stranger' - how does that sound?"

- you quickly changed the subject, because his smooth answer actually made you flustered - something almost no one ever succeeded in

- "are these all your bonsai trees?" you said and walked some steps away from him, secretly hoping he'd follow and continue the conversation you were too shy to make a flirt out of

-"yes, cost me a lot of money and almost a friendship, but these are my babies."

-"this friendship... there was a rather angry looking guy sitting in front of your shop. does it have to do anything with him?" - "did he have a ukulele?" - "...yes." - "yeah that's him. jin hyung is mad at me because he helped me carry that big boy there (- he points at the biggest tree next to the check-out) and I obviously couldn't see what was around me and I accidentally kicked his ukulele. apparently it's broken now, I don't know." - you could somehow understand the flower-boy's anger but the book store guy was cute so: "he shouldn't have left around a damn ukulele then?? i mean?? "

- you giggled as he blurted out "I KNOW, RIGHT?" while wildly gesticulating in excitement about the fact that a stranger agreed with him

- you both went silent after laughing together, the tension didn't go unnoticed by neither of you. you remembered what he said to you earlier and had to suppress your smile. these couple minutes you spent with this stranger made you smile more often than you probably did this month altogether and you were aware of the fact that this is obviously something very special. but you just moved here and had to get adjusted to your new life in this city, would it really be sensible to get a new guy this quick? hell, he probably isn't even single, right? with these looks AND that height plus these dimples that you highkey wanted to kiss?

- he interrupted your train of thought by just clearing his voice, which you were incredibly thankful for, as you got very tongue-tied that moment:

"I should probably get back to work..."

-that was definitely not what you wanted to hear and you clearly couldn't hide your disappointment, bc his eyes widened all of a sudden and he started fidgeting nervously.

- "I should go, too, then..."

-that was not what he wanted to hear either... he sighed deeply and looked around quickly before softly pushing you into an aisle ("yearning 101")

- your breath hitched, his breathing became rapid too, as there were mere millimeters parting your lips from each other.. he gently ran his hands up your arms and you felt goosebumps all over your body. the only time his eyes left yours that moment was when he looked at your lips, that were more than eager to meet his at that moment. just as he was about to lean into you - "KIM NAMJOON! You owe me a new ukulele, you airhead!" was heard across the entire shop, followed by the front door slamming shut

-both of you stared at each other in shock before breaking into loud laughter

- "Oh my god, way to ruin the mood!"

You rubbed your sides that started aching from laughing so much. "You should go after your friend, you know" you said and could tell, by the look on his, that this was certainly not his priority at the moment. He scooted closer to you again. "Tell me your name, gorgeous." - "Y/N..." - He repeated your name with a hushed voice, as if he wanted to keep it a secret from the world. The mere melody of name leaving his lips affected both of you in a way, that you knew you had to explore further. "Say, Y/N... Any chance you might come along again tomorrow?" - "Most definitely" you replied with a smirk on your lips. "Oh, that's a relief. That'll bring me through the day and dealing with hyung. Maybe I'll even build a new section until you come back." You chuckled and looked at him. "Surprise me then, Namjoon~" you teased. "Maybe something like 'books to read all night because you thought of someone cute'?" - "'Books I randomly put together after I saw the cutest smile on earth" may be an option, I don't know" - "Oh, you're getting bold! 'Books I should have sorted instead of blatantly flirting with a customer'. What are you intentions, hmm?" you retorted sarcastically and slowly made your way to the door. You laughed as you saw the slightly offended look on his face. "Books I need to convince a sweetheart that I'm nothing like Joe Golberg!" - "Books how to learn to let people go and then go apologise to people!" (You two were now shouting through the store, the customers were confused but smiled at you two)

"books I will never read today because I'll see you tomorrow!" he yelled last, before you waved at each other with a smile and you left the store.

- Namjoon was growing more and more impatient the next day, as he jumped everytime he heard the door open, but each time it was some customer and not you. He ultimately starting losing hope and felt a little stupid for actually staying up late and creating a whole new section in the shop, hoping to show it to you as soon as possible. The mere thought of seeing you again made his heart race, that's why it was even more disappointing for him when it was almost time for him to close the shop and there was still no trace of you. He heard the door again and sighed very, very deeply, as an old man walked into the store who was one of the few people Namjoon actually despised, because of his overly-specific wishes. And, of course, the fact that he never actually bought a book. As his life energy was once again being sucked out by the most pointless conversation ever, he thought of you again. He wondered if something happened that made you change your mind. Was he too cocky? Did you think of him as some player who just flirted with each customer he found attractive? He sighed again. "Young man, you don't sigh in front of customers! Were you not taught any manners!". Namjoon, with his best customer service smile, tried to convince the man that it was just him, being absent-minded and that he didn't mean to offend him (even though he'd have every right to do so). In-between all the hassle, he didn't even hear that the door opened once again. It wasn't until you called out for him, that he noticed you finally were in the shop, with him. He stared at you with a blank expression on his face when you rushed towards him and immediately apologised for taking so long, which was because of the moving company being earlier than expected. Namjoon just stared at you while you rambled on, as did the old man. You apologised over and over again and then excused yourself when you finally realized that you probably interrupted Namjoon while he was talking to a customer. "Y/N!" he called after you. You turned around and looked at him with a quizzical look. "There's a new section in the back... Maybe you should check it out." You two smiled at each other, neither of you wanting to break your gaze. "Young man... I think I'm gonna take this book here. You can never go wrong with the classics" the old man said and grabbed 'The old man and the sea'. Namjoon did his very best not to laugh in his face, only did he now have a smile on his face that he absolutely could not hide at that moment. Two victories in one day. This day could only get better.

Meanwhile, you went to the very back of the shop, curious about what would expect you in the new section. A book joke again? One of the things you were talking about yesterday? You lost your train of thought when you noticed a section, that you didn't pass by yesterday. "My loneliness is killing me", with books by Dickinson and Poe at the very front, followed by "I must confess, I still believe" with romance novels all across the table, decorated with peonies he was growing in front of the shop. "The new section is in the next aisle, love" you heard Namjoon say behind you. You hesitated a bit, kind of overwhelmed with how fast you could feel everything developing. Yet, everything felt so right. "Go right ahead, I'm right here", he said reassuringly, as if he sensed your hesitation. You nodded and smiled at him. The most beautiful table in the entire shop awaited you in the next aisle. Inbetween beautiful bouquets and absolutely dashing table decorations were Shakespeare's sonnets and other love poems that were among your personal favourites as well. You looked at the section title, written on a card that was put into one bouquet.

"Books that will help me ask you out"

💕

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“The fantasy of a woman exhibiting and disciplining another woman’s body attained its most spectacular form not in the visual images but in the printed pages of England’s leading fashion magazine. In 1868, almost every fashion plate in the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine included a girl alongside two adult women, and that same year a debate raged in letters to the editor about whether parents, especially mothers, should use corporal punishment to discipline children, particularly girls past puberty. The fashion plate’s image of the quietly contained, fashionable girl who worships her female elders became a story of unruly daughters and stern mothers. The fashion image’s obsession with dressing and covering the body became the reader’s drive to expose it; the proud mien of the plate’s figures mutated into narratives of humiliation and shame.

Only one element remained constant from image to text: the world in which both rituals were staged was dominated by female actors and objects. “I put out my hands, which she fastened together with a cord by the wrists. Then making me lie down across the foot of the bed, face downwards, she very quietly and deliberately, putting her left hand around my waist, gave me a shower of smart slaps with her open right hand. . . . [R]aising the birch, I could hear it whiz in the air, and oh, how terrible it felt as it came down, and as its repeated strokes came swish, swish, swish on me!” This description of a girl being birched by a woman first appeared in an 1870 supplement to the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine that extended a debate about corporal punishment raging in the journal since 1867.

Editor Samuel Beeton justified publishing the monthly supplements, each consisting of eight large, double-columned pages of small type, by citing the overwhelming volume of letters received on a topic “which, of late years,” had “aroused . . . intense, not to say passionate interest.” Beeton priced the supplement at two shillings and made it available by post, thus guaranteeing its accessibility to middle-class readers. Like the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, a respectable family publication that advertised in the pages of Cobbin’s Illustrated Family Bible, the supplement presumed an audience of housewives who would be drawn to its advertisements for Beeton’s Book of Home Pets and The Mother’s Thorough Resource Book.

The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, as its title announced, was aimed at the middle-class women whose homes defined the nation. By the 1860s, the thirty-two-page monthly cost sixpence and reached roughly 50,000 readers per issue. With two color fashion plates in each issue, a republican editor who supported women’s employment and suffrage, and articles on “The Englishwoman in London,” “Great Men and Their Mothers,” and “Can We Live on £300 a Year?” the journal combined fashion, feminism, and thrift. Fashion magazines had always had heterogeneous content—astronomer Mary Somerville first encountered algebra while reading “an illustrated Magazine of Fashion”—and the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine prided itself on being learned and political as well as practical and stylish.

The magazine had both women and men on its staff, and Isabella Beeton codirected it with her husband until her death in 1865, soon after she completed a best-selling opus on household management. The publication of correspondence revealing women’s preoccupation with corporal punishment and its overlap with pornography might surprise us today, but only because we erroneously assume that Victorians imagined women and girls to be asexual unless responding to male initiative. Victorians themselves did not set such limits on female desire, and many found the letters on corporal punishment published in the eminently respectable Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine provocative, with their use of onomatopoeia, teasing delay, first-person testimony, and punning humor, all typical of Victorian pornography.

A letter from “A Happy Mother,” published in 1869, explained that the author put cream on her children before whipping them, so that punishing them produced whipped cream: “I scream—ice cream.” Some readers denounced the correspondence as indelicate and indecent, warning that it might arouse male readers, and accusing women who flogged children of improper motives. In the 1870 supplement, a “mother” worried about how a gentlemen might respond to finding an otherwise “useful” publication marred by “immodest” descriptions of punishments by “ladies.” One letter fulminated against “people who take pleasure in giving . . . exact details of the degrading way in which they punish their children.”

A correspondent signing “A Mother Loved By Her Children” condemned “the indelicacy in which every disgusting detail is dwelt on” by a woman who described a punishment she had received from another woman. “A Lady” protested “the offence to decency and propriety in publishing vulgar details” about “the removal of clothes and ‘bare persons.’” Readers who protested the indecency of the letters recognized that reading about punishment could provoke sexual sensations in both men and women. The voluminous correspondence began as a short query in 1867: “A Young Mother would like a few hints—the result of experience—on the early education and discipline of children.” The first two published responses opposed whipping, arguing that mothers who resorted to physical punishment would lose the self-control needed to discipline children properly.

Though Beeton himself opposed corporal punishment, he published many letters in favor of it. The debate quickly became more specific: whether it was proper for adult women to punish girls, especially those past puberty, by whipping them on the “bare person.” Whether writing for or against corporal punishment, correspondents provided detailed accounts of inflicting, receiving, and witnessing ritual chastisements in which older women restrained, undressed, and whipped younger ones. Letters described mothers, aunts, teachers, and female servants forcing girls and young women to remove their drawers, tying girls to pieces of furniture, pinning back their arms, placing them in handcuffs, or requiring them to count the number of strokes administered.

…Corporal punishment is where pornography, usually considered a masculine affair, intersects with fashion magazines targeted at women. Both types of publications were mass-produced commodities that created an aura of luxury, and both depended on the relative democratization inherent in an economy organized around consumption and leisure. Pornographic publications and monthly women’s journals had similar formats: both combined short stories, poems, historical essays, serial fiction, current events, and letters to the editor; both featured detachable color prints that could be sold separately; and both released special Christmas issues. Their common interest in corporal punishment led to even more concrete links between pornography and fashion magazines.

John Camden Hotten, the publisher of many pornographic works, advertised a pseudoscientific study of Flagellation and the Flagellants in the supplement to the Englishwomen’s Domestic Magazine. Other pornographic publications actually reprinted verbatim material first published in fashion magazines. In his exhaustive bibliography of pornography, Henry Spencer Ashbee mentioned the “remarkable and lengthened correspondence” about flagellation in “domestic periodicals” alongside his discussion of flagellation in “bawdy book[s]” such as Venus School-Mistress and Boarding-School Bumbrusher; or, the Distresses of Laura. The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine was more available to women readers than pornography, but Victorian pornography was not the exclusively male province it is often assumed to be.

Like the fashion press, pornographic literature expanded during the middle decades of the nineteenth century; between 1834 and 1880, the Vice Society confiscated 385,000 prints and photographs, 80,000 books and pamphlets, and 28,000 sheets of obscene songs and circulars. Who wrote and read pornography remains a mystery: publishers falsified dates and places of publication; authors wrote under pseudonyms; and individuals left few public traces of their purchases and reading experiences. The scant evidence we have suggests that pornography was a predominantly but not entirely male domain.

Newspapers reported women publishing and selling obscene books and texts; one woman has been documented as the author of a French pornographic novel that circulated in England; and women of all classes frequented the Holywell Street area where obscene books and prints were sold and often visible in shop windows. After publisher and bookseller George Cannon died in 1854, his wife ran the business for ten more years; in 1830 a police officer testified that Cannon hired women who “went about to . . . boarding schools . . . for the purpose of selling” obscene books, “and if they could not sell them to the young ladies, they threw them over the garden walls, so that they might get them.”

Women did not have to purchase pornography directly to read it, however, since they might easily find any sexually explicit books that male family members brought home. Women did not need to turn to pornography to encounter sexually arousing descriptions of older women disciplining younger girls; they could read material in the pages of a ladies’ home journal that would be reprinted as pornography. The correspondence about corporal punishment blurred distinctions not only between pornography and the women’s press but between male and female readers. Some worried that the magazine had become so obscene that it needed to be hidden from both; Olivia Brook wrote in 1870 that she now put the magazine “out of reach of any casual observer, and where especially no gentlemen can read it.”

…In The Other Victorians, Steven Marcus influentially argued that all pornographic accounts of whipping, even those that represent women birching or being birched, were nothing but displaced versions of repressed fantasies about father-son sex. That interpretation assumes that erotic desire between women was irrelevant to Victorian society, and that sex between men or family members was impossible to represent directly. In fact, the only impulse Victorian pornography repressed was repression itself. Victorian pornographers represented same-sex acts of all kinds and freely indulged their obsession with incest, including sex between fathers and sons.

…Victorian pornography helps to explain how the family could simultaneously be organized around sexual difference and be a site of homoerotic desire, for in it the family is a hotbed of sex, but same-sex acts do not imply fixed sexual identities. Representations of sex between men and sex between women were never confined to specialized publications. Sex between women was regularly featured in pornographic texts and in images that depicted two or more women engaging in tribadism, oral sex, anal sex, digital penetration, mutual masturbation, and sex with dildos. Flagellation literature described women achieving orgasm from punishing girls and penetrating girls with fingers and dildos while birching them.

…The convergence of pornography and women’s magazines on the topic of flagellation points to their common origins in nineteenth-century liberal democracy, which promoted the free circulation of ideas among individuals who could demonstrate self-control and tasteful judgment. Pornography had affinities with Enlightenment and utilitarian ideals regarding the empirical investigation of nature and quests for knowledge, increased well-being, and merit-based rewards. Fashion was a feminized version of liberal democracy, for it depended on a woman’s ability to train her taste and accommodate her individual style to fluctuating group rules.

By following fashion codes, women learned to fit their bodies into a social mold; by improvising on those codes, as fashion itself demanded, women developed the kind of restricted autonomy associated with liberal subjectivity. As Mary Haweis explained in The Art of Beauty (1878), clothing was a form of individual aesthetic expression and therefore had to follow “the fundamental principle of art . . . that people may do as they like.” The liberty underlying the art of dress also upheld of liberalism’s ideal of personal freedom as a source of originality and political renewal. The correspondence columns of fashion magazines allowed women to participate in the public discourse central to liberal politics.”

- Sharon Marcus, “Dressing Up and Dressing Down The Feminine Plaything.” in Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England

#between women #victorian #history #sexuality #sharon marcus

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jurijurijurious · 3 years

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So I finished reading the movie novelisation of “The Golden Age” written by Tasha Alexander and here are my thoughts!

It’s one of those weird books which doesn’t really know where it sits canon-wise; it doesn’t feel like it sits well in the cinematic universe it claims to be based upon, and I think that’s because it uses a lot of history to bulk itself out - but none of that really lends it to the atmosphere and “canon” of the movie. In many ways, it also appears to disregard the preceding movie entirely? The novel includes Burghley, who was very clearly ousted in this movie-verse in the first film, Robert Dudley rears his head near the end, which totally unbalances everything, and even Essex makes incongruous, pointless cameos. And the overuse of the Queen’s nicknames for all her courtiers becomes tiresome and again doesn’t fit with the movie-verse very well. I could forgive one or two, I’ve done it myself, but the constant “Moor”, “Eyes”, “Lids”... Blegh. Not in this version of events. I get what the author is doing but it doesn’t work.

I will put my hands up to say that yes I too will pepper my historical bollocks with facets of historical fact but I think the author here was trying too hard to flesh it out with stuff which actually doesn’t resonate with what Shekar Kapur does, or even have much relevance to the story. Alternatively, there is the possibility that Burghley and Dudley and so on were actually in the early drafts of the script (upon which the author would have based her work), and therefore screenwriters Nicholson and Hirst are to blame - but why they’d also retcon what Hirst had written in the former movie baffles me. (Though hey they might, wouldn’t put it past Hirst.)

That aside, it’s easy enough to read and I think gives a stronger focus on the feelings of Raleigh who, in the book, is written as being equally in love with the Queen and with Bess Throckmorton, which may have been the intent in the film but for me it always came across that he truly loved Bess whereas he admired the Queen but it never felt like he desperately loved her? I don’t know, maybe I focus on watching her and Walsingham’s dynamics so much I forget the central focus of the movie...

The timeframe of the book feels more drawn out than the movie, with Elizabeth taking weeks to sign Mary’s warrant, with Bess visiting Raleigh regularly for secret sexy trysts, and so on. Movie’s don’t tend to have the luxury of drawing out events, I guess, but things felt like they simmered for longer in the book.

There are some interesting line changes in the book which are either altered or given to different characters in the film. The one that hit me hardest was how in the film Elizabeth laments something like “I have given England my life. Must she also have my soul?”, but in the novel we get a much more personal accusation when the Queen says to Walsingham, “Francis ... I owe you my life. But not my soul.” That sounds like it was lifted from my shippy fics. I think it’s one of the few moments in the novel I truly loved, though the Queen and Walsingham’s friendship/relationship is scantily built in the novel - but I suppose I may compare it unfavourably against the novelisation of the first movie where Wals and the Queen get on like a house on fire and it is quite shippy.

The Queen is still depicted as being devastated by Wals’ loss at the end, holding back tears, and yet if you just read the TGA novel on its own, it’s hard to understand why as, though they are amenable together, and he thanklessly serves her throughout, there isn’t much there to suggest a deeper bond. But at least my shippy heart gets this lovely line at the end: “You’ve been more than a protector and advisor. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” Tell me more...

We also get more of William Walsingham being a more capable figure for the Catholics rather than the slight afterthought he is in the film, where his involvement is never really explained or expanded upon. He seems to qualify as a lawyer to a degree and in the novel we understand why he is given Mary of Scots’ correspondence to analyse - it is to make sure that the words she sends are, in his opinion, solid enough to give them clear consent to act.

There is a lot more of Walsingham’s network of agents in brief scenes, too, murdering people who have witnessed or heard acts or words too great to allow them to live, including the scene at the end of the story where, in a post mortem final act, Francis has his brother William assassinated in Paris by an agent. Protecting his monarch from beyond the grave. I like that and it’s a shame it was cut, as it says something important about Walsingham’s character, though again I guess that since so much of the undercover agent scenes were cut from the film, it probably wouldn’t feel coherent to leave it in. I know we nearly got that rather uncomfortable scene where Bess Throckmorton wakes at night in her bed and Walsingham is just sat in her room, watching her, and all he does is give her a warning to keep him informed (we assume it's for her infidelity with Raleigh in the book as she gives up info about her cousin herself, strangely enough) then leaves. That scene is in the deleted scenes on the DVD so almost in the movie. To be honest, though I love sneaky Wals, this does seem a bit petty and unnecessarily creepy of him so I’m glad that one bit the dust.

The author has left a bibliography at the back of the book with history books she referenced when writing the novel, and the first one on the list is by Alison Weir who I know you all love. Heheh.

Anyway, overall, inoffensive and entertaining enough but it’s the usual mediocre kind of novel you expect to accompany a big film release. (Do they still write movie novelisations? It feels like something that’s dying...)

I feel like it’s time for me to re-read the original movie novelisation now. It’s again similar in some ways in that it tries to weave in more history than we probably need in a story based on a movie which never pretends to be accurate, but it’s also crazy-fun with its Walsingham content.

(If you do want to look up the book, the ISBN is 978-0-06-143123-4, or do a quick search on eBay and you should find it pretty cheap.)

#elizabeth: the golden age #elizabeth: the golden age novelisation #tasha alexander #elizabeth 1998

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tristanlovesthequeen · 3 years

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The Paddock

Tristan Chase Sparrowe

11/25/2016

The Bull

One day in the fall of autumn, when the moon is high and bright, orange in hue and full in complexion, when the clouds hang oppressively low in the sky I wandered through the meadow to the buffalo paddock, newly installed by decree of the mayor of San Francisco about two months ago.

The headlines in the newspaper were all the same, dismal in hue, recording the afterthoughts of the Mayor. “'The park commissioners expect soon to procure a buffalo cow who will lighten the hours of his confinement,' Harrison says”. Tomorrow the buffalo, Anastasius will be married to his bride-to-be, a new import from a ranch in Wyoming, where my uncle lives with his wife, and a dog, where they have retired and where my uncle hunts and participates in environmental conservation.

It's brisk, with many clouds of smoke blowing from the corners of my mouth into the Fall air. The grass has just been clear cut, and the smell invades my nostrils. The dew from the morning and previous evening cling to the individual hordes of grass scintillating in the dawn evening light. I have been up for a day and a night approximately and everything seems to vibrate around me.

I am here with a specific purpose. No one is around the buffalo paddock the night after Thanksgiving, the city itself is deserted, let alone the park and its many intertwining trails. I could walk for miles on these days in San Francisco, traversing the entire seven by seven without seeing a single person.

I reached into my backpack and extracted a long pair of bolt cutters I had purchased for a penny at Goodman Lumber two days ago.

A swift look to my left, and to my right, and into the stable at Anastasius as he sleeps. The strong bull grunts and twitches in his sleep as steam puffs from his nostrils. His side rises and falls as he breathes and his ears twitch a bit. It is a pity for such a sculptural beast to be imprisoned as he waits for a wedding he has no say in and a migration pattern that is now limited to across the paddock. Either way, an option might be a change of pace for him. A change of scenery, a chance to spread his wings before wearing his proverbial wedding ring around his hoof.

A link in the chain link fence snaps open and then another, and another as I make an archway about the size of an Ort cloud in the distance. Finally the metal links curl like a pad of melted butter to the wet grass. Anastasius sighs deeply and continues his dream. I ponder where he might be in his mind for a moment. The plains with his kin, avoiding native species of humans and the great white hunters of the fields where they used to graze. Possibly butting heads with an alpha male or turning on his heels to run. In space or in a hell like place, with demons floating above his massive cranium. An endless pasture where he sits in a cloud of cow fermones, butterflies braiding his mane.

I find myself walking a few paces ahead, erstwhile extracting the axe from a loop in the lining of my coat. I question my motives one last time before raising the axe above my head and, hearing the blade glint I let it fall into a mass of decomposing wood that surrounds the buffalo encasement. A crack resounds and a group of black birds flutter into the air squeaking as they fly. Anastasius stirs. I let the blade strike again, over and over until I break a hole in his cage. I kick the horizontal beams until they become diagonal and finally...

The bull's eye catches my attention. He has been watching me for some time. I breathe “You're free now lil' buddy,” and continue to circle around back towards the hole in the cyclone fence. Anastasius whines a bit. And grunts again.

I consider my motives and consider this new found freedom that I now share with the bull. It never felt like optimism to free the bull, just felt like a circumstance, a necessity, of the era that I live in. The symbolism of this pack animal now caged by himself, a migratory creature that is now forced to stay in one place. A metaphor for the elimination of the Native Americans who relied so heavily on the existence of the herd. And the grasses that cultivated with the motion of the species, and now wanes due to it's disappearance. What a pity. I wonder why he does not leap anymore, if he is lacking some sort of bacterial family in his gut or if his brain is lacking a certain chemical, why he has accepted his fate as a caged being, why he does not call out or try to create an alliance with a human to help facilitate his escape.

A mild panic surges through my veins and works its way into my knees making me weak for a spell. I tuck all my tools and hike back towards the main road. I decide to wait for a moment by a streetlamp and spark up a cigarette.

I think about the stars for a moment and try to locate Orion's belt. Somehow when compared to the power of the cosmos, my own worldly problems seem immaculately minuscule. And then came a dull rustle from the bushes lining the Fulton street border of the park. Anastasius slowly emerges from the darkness, then pauses, kicking his hind legs out to stretch. One, and then the other. A glow from my cigarette and the plume of smoke from my lungs catches his attention and he freezes.

Now that nothing is separating myself from such a large powerful animal I feel the weakness in my knees again and somehow the cigarette's effects seem more intense. I lower my head a bit to acknowledge his presence and say “fair thee well monsieur.” He lowers his head back at me and then he trots off in the direction of Ocean Beach.

His silhouette pirouettes and fades into the darkness of the night. When I arrive home I undress and lay in bed, and count to slow down my brain. Again I imagine the distance of the night sky, the size and millions of stars in the sky, compare them to the personalities here on earth and the endless multitudes of people. Once again I feel terribly small. Eventually I drift off and I, too am one with the cosmos.

The next day is the opening ceremony of the arrival of the new bison to the paddocks. Anastasius is to have a wife.

I make my way towards the modest crowd of people who have showed up to see the young bull procure a new wife. News teams are there and flashbulbs take snapshots of the Mayor arriving and emerging from his Lincoln town car led by police escort.

No one seems to suspect that Anastasius is not present, then again no one seems to care. The mayor stands up on a soapbox and gives a short speech, then motions like a circus conductor with his left hand to the truck containing the cow. Two men stationed on either side of the truck wearing overalls boots and golfers caps let down a metal ramp and a gate to the flatbed.

The cow, Anastasia, seems to be alarmed by the noise of the cheers of the crowd and the visage of a small excited yapping dog. She immediately starts to gallop into the paddock making a swift round and then charging out of the hole in the fence that I had cut the night before.

The music from the bandstand stops and the crowd gasps. The mayor throws his pork-pie hat to the ground and starts to shout at his assistants. A moment passes and sirens from firetrucks and police vehicles start to whine.

A large gap toothed grin stretches across my face. I laugh for a moment and then my forehead crinkles and I start to grimace. I don't pretend to understand what is going to happen to the bison nor do I feel guilt about setting them free. Seeing this crowd in a frenzy sets me off in an opposite trajectory from the crowd and the escaped cow.

That night at home with a hot toddie sitting by my wood burning stove with the neighborhood cat, Noodles, listening to the radio, the broadcast starts to announce, “In other news, police officials say they located the escaped buffalo which were to be married today on Ocean Beach and Ortega. The bull, Anastasius, and the cow, Anastasia were standing near the sea foam giving each other Eskimo kisses when authorities arrived. The mayor arrived shortly thereafter to find the police troop crying tears of joy. The band played “Auld lang syne” and the mayor hugged his wife. The mayor's assistants opened bottles of champagne and as the corks flew into the air the buffalo walked side by side down the coast.”

Noodles meowed and rolled around on his back.

Bibliography

1) http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Oldest-bison- at-Golden- Gate-Park- dies-at- 22-

5870761.php

2) http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Golden-Gate- Park-baby- bison-found- dead-

2443708.php

3) https://localwiki.org/sf/Golden_Gate_Park_Buffalo_Paddock

4) http://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=Buffalo

http://poormagazine.org/node/5456

http://sheriffmichaelhennessey.com/Sheriffs_Stories/Getting_Buffaloed.html

“12 Short Stories of the Bison in Golden Gate Park.” JSTOR web article.

The Bison or Buffalo in the United States. The Indiana Quarterly Magazine of History, Vol 6. No.3 (September, 1910) pp. 114-117. Trustees of Indiana University. Http://www.jstor.org/stable/27785281. JSTOR web article.

Poaching Pictures Yellowstone. Buffalo and the Art of Wildlife Conservation. Alan C. Braddock. American Art, Vol 23, No.3 (Fall 2009), pp.36-59. The University of Chicago Press on behalf of the Smithsonian Institution.Http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/649775. JSTOR web article.

#Tristan Chase Arcelona

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sincerelyreidburke · 4 years

Note

I for once am in a mood for quindo fluff. Some playful bickering perhaps?

Given that you’ve asked me for this twice, Percy, I would have felt very bad not giving it to you.😂😂😂😂 Here’s the Quindo bickering content of your dreams, but from Remy’s POV! Set during junior year, and briefly featuring two more fictional hockey players of my creation.

Also on ao3, in the ficlet collection. (Ask/send me anything about the crickets!)

junior year | october

The commotion in the kitchen wakes Remy up from the best nap he’s had in awhile, and that in and of itself is a sin.

Naps are not only a spiritually enriching experience, they’re also essential. Remy is slowly learning to use them as a remedy for the fact that he only gets so many hours of sleep per night. Ben keeps telling him that he should look into taking melatonin or something for the insomnia, but it always feels like a problem for another day. The other day it’s a problem for has yet to come.

So today, after he wakes up at five AM and does not fall back asleep, he spends the better half of the morning in the library busting out his entire upcoming paper for HI 387 (British Empire). When he finishes formatting his bibliography, he feels his primal nap instinct coming on, and the sky outside looks gray, which just helps the urge along. He gathers up his stuff, walks back to the house on Beech Street, changes into sweats, and flops into his bed with his feet on the pillow and head on the pile of stuffed animals at the end of the mattress.

Only God and Ben Shaley can judge him for his stuffed animal collection.

Some indeterminate time later, he wakes to the noise downstairs. He can’t make out exactly what’s being said, but he’d know Quinn’s shrill voice anywhere, piercing the stairwell and creeping right up into Remy’s room.

There’s a steady rain drumming on the window, and he lifts his head off of his arm. He feels like he accidentally imprinted the sleeve of his sweatshirt onto his cheek, if the weird bumpy sensation when he runs his fingers over his face is any indication. This is a sign of a good nap. Unfortunately, it’s been interrupted.

Downstairs, Quinn is still talking. He has one volume, and it’s loud.

Remy buries his face in between his stuffed snake and his duck, and sighs.

He lays in bed for a minute more, weighing the merits of attempting Naptime Part Two versus going downstairs to see what the fuss is about. In reality, he knows that there’s probably no fuss at all, and that Quinn is just on another of his random rants which must double as practicing onstage projection based on how loud and animated he can get. Remy fishes through his plush pile until he finds his phone, where he checks the time— it’s 3:02, which means he slept for at least two and a half hours. If he tries to go back to sleep now , there’s no way he’ll ever be able to get to sleep at the normal time to go to sleep.

So he rolls over, sits up in bed, and rubs his eyes. He feels a mighty yawn coming on, but it doesn’t actually hit him until he fixes his shirt— somehow, under his hoodie, it bunched all the way up to his chest in his sleep. And the ankle seam on one of his joggers is up to his knee.

Wow. It really was a good nap.

The yawn hits him when he stands up and out of bed. He kind of feels like a zombie, walking after such a deep sleep. He guesses it isn’t such a bad thing to be so well-rested. It’s been awhile.

Downstairs, Quinn’s voice persists. When he opens his bedroom door and steps out into the hallway, another factor comes into play— somebody is cooking down there, and, well, okay, he can say ‘somebody’ but the smell tells him without a doubt it’s Nando. It smells like that spicy chicken soup recipe he loves making on rainy, crappy days, and Remy had no idea he was hungry, but all of a sudden his stomach growls like a feral cat.

Jeez.

As he heads down the stairs, slow but steady, he can gradually start to make out Quinn’s words. “... do not understand even in the slightest how you can work like this—”

“Baby,” he hears Nando laugh, which puts a temporary stop to Quinn’s tirade. “I swear, there’s a method to my madness!”

“Oh, it’s madness, alright,” Quinn replies. “I mean, goodness , Sebastián—” There’s a clatter of dishware, like someone has put something in the sink. “You’re building an entire tower over here!”

Remy rounds the corner into the kitchen just in time for Nando to protest, “But I’m gonna clean it… promise!”

Quinn is the first thing he sees, orange-haired and pint-sized in a baggy (obviously stolen) sweatshirt and gesturing snappily. He stands next to the counter. “The issue isn’t that you’ll clean it eventually,” he’s saying to Nando, who leans against the stove with a goofy grin on his face and a ladle in his hand. The huge pot on the burner behind him, Remy wagers, must be the source of the smell. “The issue ,” Quinn adds, “is the mess.”

Which, okay, yeah. There’s a mess.

Nando has stacked the sink full of obviously relevant dishes, and both counters are laid with evidence that he was there, from cutting boards to empty cans to knives. Nando being a disaster cook isn’t new news, not to Remy or to Quinn or anyone else in this house— but he must have struck a nerve with Quinn today, by the looks of it.

Quinn looks ready to gear up for another rant, and Remy’s half-asleep brain doesn’t really love the thought of that, so he cuts in before he can. “ Crisse , Q,” he says, rubbing his eye as he stands in the kitchen doorway. “Is there a national emergency?”

Quinn folds his arms and lets off a sigh, leaning his hip against the counter. “There may as well be.”

Nando is grinning at him, like he’s trying not to laugh. “ Baby .”

They’re not alone in the kitchen, though— Ben is at the table by the window, sketching by the looks of it, based on his huge spreads of paper and the pencil stuck into his bun. Jordy and Sam are playing cards at the same tabletop Quinn is leaning against, and X is next to them, on his phone. “Stay out of it, Rem,” Ben remarks, turning in his seat to face him, with a half-grin on his face. “He is on the warpath .”

Quinn snaps his head over to Ben. “I am not on the warpath,” he says. “I am maintaining a sense of order.”

Nando puts his hand over his face and makes a noise like he’s trying not to laugh. Quinn whips back to him and jabs his finger at him menacingly, which is really hard to do when you’re 5’6 but your boyfriend is 6’4. Quinn does it anyway. “ Sebastián Hernandez , you are going to get it—”

Remy suppresses a laugh of his own, and slumps into the chair across the table from Ben. “How long has this been going?” he asks, in a low voice.

Ben is still grinning. “Like ten minutes?” he replies. “He got in from his drama thing and unleashed holy terror.”

Remy sighs. “Great.”

“I hear you talking about me, Ben,” Quinn calls across the room, despite the fact that calling is completely unnecessary given the size of the kitchen.

Ben shields his face with one hand. “White flag! I surrender. I’m sorry, your majesty, for my great offense—”

“ Benjamin .”

Ben winces, and pulls the pencil out of his hair. “Message received,” he remarks, and goes back to his spread of papers. It is drawing stuff. Remy doesn’t understand architecture homework, but Ben is great at it.

Remy watches as Quinn walks back to the sink. He turns the faucet on, as if to conquer the stack of Nando’s cooking collateral. “How do you people live like this?”

“How are you surprised?” X asks, not looking up from his phone but grinning like crazy. “You were in here all last year.”

Which is true. Although Remy just moved into Beech for his first year this preseason, Nando lived here last year, too. Quinn is well familiar with the disasters he makes in kitchens, particularly the Beech kitchen. At least freshman year, he was relegated to the shitty student kitchen in the basement of Wilson Hall, the freshman boys’ dorm. Beech Street gives him a space of his own. Which is good because the whole team gets to eat his food. But bad in the process of making said food.

“I’m not surprised, Xander,” Quinn says, turning to X, in a slightly less homicidal tone. He holds a soapy blue sponge in his left hand. “I merely wish that a certain boyfriend of mine would learn to clean up his messes—”

“I told you, baby,” Nando replies, stirring his soup with the ladle, “I’m gonna clean, when I’m all finished. What’s the use of cleaning during the process, when I’m just gonna make a mess again on the same surface?”

Quinn turns off the sink, presses his fingers to his own temple, takes a long breath, and replies, “What’s the use of keeping your empty bean cans on the counter?” He points the sponge to the counter, where there are, in fact, empty bean cans everywhere. His point makes a flicking motion and sends a stray sud flying into the air. It lands on the floor. “ Empty bean cans , Sebastián.”

“They’re just cans,” Nando replies.

Quinn bristles, puts the sponge in the sink, and dries his hands on a kitchen towel. “And the rubbish barrel,” he replies, pacing to the counter, “is right there.”

Quinn scoops the cans off the counter, opens the top of the nearby trash, and drops them into the bag beneath. With a hmph , he turns his pointy, freckled nose up at Nando, like he’s saying so there.

Nando blows him a kiss, which intensifies Quinn’s rage. “Thanks, mi amor .”

Across the table, Ben is still grinning even as he draws, like he wants to laugh, and Remy can’t blame him. This is not at all an unfamiliar dynamic— since their earliest days dating, Nando and Quinn’s relationship has been characterized by bickering like they’re an old, married couple.

Well, okay. In actuality, their ‘bickering’ looks more like Quinn bitching at Nando and getting nothing but heart eyes in return. Nando is a simp, and Quinn is an irritable priss, and they’re in love.

Remy doesn’t get romance, but he knows it works for them.

Ben looks up from his sketching, and catches Remy’s eye across the table. He wears the unmistakable smile of someone who is going to cause problems on purpose. “Duck,” he murmurs, in a mischievous voice with volume only for him. “Watch this.”

“Oh, God,” Remy mutters, but it’s too late.

Ben leans over the back of his chair and remarks, “Y’know, Quinny, you talk mad shit for someone who can’t cook to save his life.”

Remy snorts into the neckline of his sweatshirt. “ Ben .” At the stove, Nando guffaws. Jordy and Sam, who, as wise, observant bystanders, have chosen to remain quiet right up until now, both start heckling like their brains are connected. (They’re a D-pair, so they probably are, come to think of it.) “ Yoooo ,” Sam mumbles, and Jordy lets out a quiet, “Oh, shit.”

Flushed pink in the face, Quinn whirls on his heel to face Ben and Remy’s table. He has the energy of a tea kettle that’s ready to start screeching. “ Benjamin Shaley .”

Ben grins, owning his chirp. “What, so you can dish it, but you can’t take it?”

“You’ve gotta get used to that,” Jordy cuts in. “Being manager comes with the responsibility to get chirped…”

“Oh, trust me, Jordan.” Of all the people in the kitchen, Jordy seems to have irritated Quinn the least. “I am well accustomed to the chirping.”

“Yeah, Jordy,” Nando adds, with a big grin as he pulls up a steaming ladle of his soup. “He’s been dating me for two years.”

“Oh, please ,” Ben replies, because he is clearly not done. “I’ve never heard you chirp him in your life , Nanny. All you do is kiss his ass.”

Remy snorts again. “ Yoooooo !” Sam cries.

Nando drops his ladle into the pot. “ Rho ! I do too chirp him!”

Ben laughs wildly. “You do not ,” he says. “You don’t dare chirp him. You’re too busy simping twenty-four-seven.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you chirp Quinn,” X offers, still grinning at his phone.

Remy jumps on the bandwagon. “They kinda have a point, Nanny,” he says, and waits for the reign of terror to descend upon him.

But Quinn has apparently tuned out. Rather than participate, he has chosen the duration of this exchange to tidy up Nando’s counter mess. He throws away trash— the fragments of a poblano pepper, the remaining bean cans, a bag that held frozen corn. Then he deposits the cutting board into the sink with the knife Nando was using.

“There we go.” He wipes his hands on the dish towel, then turns around to face their side table again, and Remy thinks for a second that he’s going to take another shot at Ben. Instead, Quinn looks to him , which is terrifying until he says, very evenly, “Hello, Remy. I heard you had a nap.”

“Uh.” Remy isn’t sure if Quinn would kill him if he laughed. He can turn on a dime. It’s terrifying. But also beneficial, for managerial purposes. “Yeah,” he tells Quinn. “It was a good nap.”

“Well, good.” Quinn dusts off the front of his sweatshirt. It says Hernandez on the sleeve, as if its sheer size on him wasn’t proof enough that it’s stolen property. “I hope we didn’t disturb you too much.”

“Oh—” Now Remy does let out his laugh. He doesn’t dare tell Quinn that yes, actually, he did wake him up. He really did need to get up for the afternoon, so it doesn’t matter. “Uh, no. It’s fine.”

“Good.” Quinn smiles, then turns back around, walking to Nando by the giant soup pot. He rises on his tiptoes and kisses his cheek. “Isn’t that better?” he asks him, gesturing to the clear countertop.

Nando is still grinning, like the huge simp he is, and smiles sideways at Quinn as he stirs the soup. “Much better, baby.” He wraps him up sideways in his arm. Quinn gets swallowed by the sheer size of him, as usual. “Thank you,” Nando adds, and gives him an actual kiss.

Quinn is still flushed in the face, but now it’s that cheesy blush Remy has watched Nando give him so many times. Just like that, Quinn has cooled off, and the noise level in the kitchen is better for it. Remy looks away, because watching them together always feels like an invasion of privacy, even when they’re engaging in mild PDA. He thinks it’s just a him thing.

Nando keeps cooking. Quinn keeps him company. Ben gets back to drawing, and X to scrolling, and Jordy and Sam to their cards. The rain keeps pattering at the windows, and conversation returns to a normal level, and it’s a perfectly normal Sunday afternoon.

Yeah. Remy doesn’t get romance. And he definitely never will. But he loves this team, and he loves this house, and he really loves his friends.

#crickets #quindo #rat boy #ficlet #ao3 link #mini quinny #nandoooooooo #rhode island headass #kiersey men's hockey #kiersey college #mel writes

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courier-sux · 4 years

Text

wip wednesday

my need to show what i’ve been working on won out. also today’s the day all my assignments i put off are due so pray for me lol (currently writing an annotated bibliography about two gay dudes from old kingdom egypt, livin’ the dream)

feel free to say i tagged you, insp. by @its-sixxers and @saddeniq

context: jack got shot real bad

She looked like a different person, laying in the cot with the blanket pulled up. The gauze that was wrapped around her shoulder was just barely visible under the thin sheet covering her chest. Jackal always carried herself with so much confidence, to the point where you started to believe that nothing could really happen to her; without her hat and duster, no grin on her face, she just looked... human. One who’d come face to face with her own mortality yet again, stable now but could slip away any moment. That was why Arcade had told him to keep an eye on her, as if Boone could’ve done anything other than stay by her side.

It made him feel unmoored, seeing her so vulnerable. More and more it felt like Jackal had become one of the only constants in his life. Someone he could count on to be there when everything else went to hell and faded away. Now, that was all being threatened.

Boone tried and failed not to blame himself.

He’d made progress in regards to chalking things up to some outside force, but he still struggled with it at times. If it wasn’t fate, then it was one hell of a coincidence. It felt like a .308 round was always at the source of his grief, and to be confronted with it yet again was like a slap to the face. A clear message from whatever had it out for him.

You knew you had bad things coming, but you got close to her anyways. Look what happened.

She wasn’t awake to distract him from those thoughts, to pull him out of his nightmares like she’d gotten so skilled at doing. He had a choice to make: give up on his attempts to keep his distance, or try again to push her away, harder than he ever had before. Cut her off entirely if necessary.

He wasn’t sure how he’d cope if it came to that, but it wasn’t about him. It was about her.

Boone reached out and took her hand in his, desperate to feel a sign that she was still alive. “I don’t know what to do about all this, Jack,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. Her hand was cold and limp in his. It made him feel like he was holding on to a corpse, a comparison that nearly made him break down all over again.

So much blood. It turned everything red: the dirt she was laying on, her leather armor, his hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Reaching for a pulse and finding it absent. Realizing that the breaths you’d heard by your side for over a year had been silenced.

His eyes squeezed shut at the memory. He tried to picture what she’d do if she were awake. Maybe she’d punch his shoulder, tell him to buck up — this wasn’t the first time she’d come close to death, and it wouldn’t be the last. Or maybe she’d stick her cold hands under his shirt just to make him jump, like she did to cut the tension when they had to share a bed, and she’d laugh in that way that made her nose wrinkle with mirth.

But for now, Jackal was still.

#there's more to this but i figured it was long enough #idk why i like writing boones Inner Monologue so much #for having 3 IN the boy's real good at thinking himself to death #im still determined to write someone other than him for the may prompts #ideally ill get to that after im done with my classes.#also it is true: jackal is the one to put her cold hands/feet on other people #OK ill shut up now #wip

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empressxmachina · 4 years

Link

--Also on Wattpad--

Mouse Trap, pt. 3

“I can see you just fine.”

“Oh… Oh, my god,” Lauren breathed in her own panic and filth, slid down her wall with her back to it, toppled in a puddle of regurgitated food, sweat, fear, and tears.

If she was indeed in one of his spaces as it had appeared, then it was sensible that he could see her whenever he desired. Knowing how or, worse, why, however, was another story that she wasn’t sure that she wanted to read. As exciting as the technology seemed, was she as safe as this overbearing onlooker tried to claim?

With every new action and word, Lauren’s confidence waned.

The enhanced zoom on the screen was then stretched further out, revealing the entire plaza that held Lauren and later, eventually, the whole block in which it was contained. Everything not within a certain radius from the center was smudged into a blur, almost as if he rubbed it all out for himself, giving all that was untouched a tilt-shift feel. Her form, now more antlike than ever, was illuminated in a bolder, verdant glow to differentiate her from everything else, which proved immediately useful.

Mesa Metro was, in her eyes, the miniature megapolis she had only envisioned it was to him up and over yonder.

The snapshot then became a living map of sorts, changing to a silent video with a snail trail in Lauren’s same green hue following her as she exited the area, taking some insectile public transit as far as she could go before walking the rest of the way. The rest of the days between then and now was spent with her glow spiraling in the same place as where she currently was: home, never leaving, never having expected a response.

With as much surveillance as she had for her things and how dystopian Mesa Metro could be at times, she never felt more out in the open than she did now. Luckily for her, there seemed to be no footage of her inside the house. Still, how much had he already learned of her domicile with her glasses and watch just sitting there?

Did his omnipresence include space within walls, too, or various altitudes of places, or other angles than the locked bird’s-eye – more like a midday sun’s eye – view? What were the chances he already figured out her house’s floor plan and her place in it?

“I haven’t gotten to probe your existence from end to end to know for sure, yet,” a new message started, somehow still legible from her further distance away, “but much is already clear.”

“Y-Yet?” Lauren echoed, audibly coughing from her own confusion. Whether he meant that he hadn’t finished or hadn’t started, she could only wonder... and hope he’d reconsider both options.

But she didn’t have to, for long.

“One could say I’m already halfway deep in prodding, managing this conversation and all,” the transcriptions continued. “So, why stop now?”

Lauren’s heart sank, her wishes vanishing like his words every few seconds. ‘Halfway?’ In only some minutes!? She was officially stuck in quicksand with not enough calmness to get herself out. The remaining semblances of peace she could imagine were all in the after, nothing in the now. With that crater from a pen’s cap still fresh in memory, multiple visions of ends of days once again flashed in her head, ranging from elongated and cataclysmic to subtle and swift, all of his doing, surely, and it was all her fault.

“Well… with you not having manipulated your new ‘update’ for some time, now, perhaps you’ve seen enough of it.” Truer words had never been spoken. Lauren had seen enough of a lot. “Though with that research I appear to have interrupted, I would’ve guessed otherwise, believing you’d want as much as you could get.” That statement did nothing to relieve Lauren, either, proving he could go and had gone further into her data – her existence, even – on top of reading her psyche unfortunately well.

How deep would he go? How far could he go?

The dictating carried on. “You’ve fawned over me with your tiny files up to moments ago, and you’ll continue to do so. But in this now, despite all that…”

The ellipsis lingered, and Lauren waited for a judgment to be dealt unto her. Whatever she was to get, she deserved. She couldn’t say the same for Mesa Metro and all past it if it came to it, despite their flaws; she prayed she’d be forgiven when it was all over. That end wouldn’t be today, it seemed, as the foul stench of a new purpose – extreme subjugation or maybe just her upchuck – began to waft over her.

“…I grow tired of this single-handing for what should be a two-way affair, so I shall leave you to satiate.”

Before she could say or think anything else about this whole encounter, the disembodied domineered, shutting down his presentation, sucking every visual and word into a simulation centered on the screen. For uncomfortably long, it left a frozen void in which Lauren could only stare at her drained, draining self as she pushed off the wall and crept toward it.

Just as it started, it was nothing again.

Time went as slowly as her computer was dark, and she hated having to think for herself again. There were too many new variables now, and none of them made any sense.

“What… the fuck… was that?” Lauren interrogated herself, running a hand through her stringy hair, slumping in her chair. “Was… Was that shit real? Any of it?” With the pains in her body and the wetness on her clothes, there surely was no denying something bizarre went down just now. But saying that this was the first time she had ever gone delirious and malnourished in her own home would be a lie.

It was late. Lauren hadn’t gotten proper meals, exercise, sleep, or sunlight for days. The lack of lights on her computer showed that it wasn’t merely on standby or sleep mode but was entirely shut down, probably from inactivity. Her glasses and watch mirrored that, fading to a dim lime on the now dormant network connection. Her phone had died. Her room was a mess. She was a mess.

Her present was a repeated past and a probable future. Nightmares as daydreams were a constant for her. While there was no way of denying the astral projection and municipal annihilation from days ago with her data and the outside news, she couldn’t think of any sane reason why a higher being like that – he – should waste effort on someone – something? – like her. Directly her.

She didn’t deserve the attention. She never did before, so why now?

Lauren could feel the essence of sleep attempt to overtake her, pulling her toward another haggard hibernation at her desk, despite her bed being within reach. On instinct, she began to pull her hoodie’s hood over her head and retract her arms out her sleeves to make a makeshift cushion that’d hopefully bolster her and any nearby gear and tools on her eventual fall out of consciousness.

A crick in her neck was eminent in a couple of hours as her figure faltered down… but the Fates decided to bring it in early with some sun.

Just as her eyes were to close, the computer suddenly awakened, shining its near-blinding light across Lauren’s scleras. She jerked back into action, seeing her lock screen come into focus.

“S-See?” she argued through a yawn. “It was just an update, after all. No need to worry.”

With no intention of continuing research further into the morning, Lauren decided to just play it safe, checking that the update didn’t set any progress back. If it had, she’d have to make a journey into one of her several external drives or servers and make a new surface-level copy. Going from program to program – note-takers, stimulators, other data aggregators – all appeared to be well, softening Lauren’s heart for a quick retiring to bed.

Her last stop was her blueprinting software, where she had a deconstructed view of the materials and layers used to construct her space-warping lenses and its logging watch supplement. So much technology stuffed within such a narrow space. Companies tried to do less with less success, yet here Lauren was, literally going out of the box, out of this world.

It was a marvel to see in action, and it was even more marvelous that it worked. Lauren knew she had prowess – she wouldn’t be freelancing, otherwise – but she was also her harshest critic. The collections of her own comments on her own works badgering how and why she did things in a particular way (and how they somehow managed to work) probably weren’t right for her mental state, but they pushed her to work harder with each new design.

The text and links in her margins and other documents linked externally were worthy of their own analyses and bibliographies. They all followed a just-as-intricate organizational system, too, categorizing thoughts by time, purpose, solution, and the like, along with graphic dividers like color, font, and size. With how frequently Lauren looked at her green sheen and its related script during testing and active use, she vehemently didn’t use them to jab at her own processes.

So, despite her tiredness, it was clear to see the lone flag of that scheme, amidst the waterfall of colorful banners and bubbles, slightly bolder and more massive than the rest.

“What?” Lauren questioned, scratching her scalp with uncertainty. Doing so showed her that she required a shampoo session, finding filth collecting under her nails, but that was an issue for another time. “Did… Did I make this?”

Hovering the mouse cursor over that flag, she found its author listed as not her name or alias but instead “<null>,” leading to several possibilities, all discomforting. A) it was her own comment, and self-referencing was apparently terrible, now, B) an invalid character was put in the wrong place, which could have its own map of reasons, or C) an unauthorized entity had gotten access to the system. Nothing in the background showed any signs of a virus, and nothing in the foreground gave any clue as to which cause was the true one. So, with bated breath, Lauren clicked twice and dove in.

The window hung for a period, a loading circle replacing the pointer and her anxieties with doubts of security again. She knew that doing anything when not at 100 percent or at least sixty percent had such a high probability of something going wrong or something important going missed. But she couldn’t back out now, not with her computer likely to lock up. Luckily, all stayed free and open, and that flag dimmed from being accessed. Though, from the looks of it, there was no reason why its reference should’ve frozen her system as it did.

It was a PDF with just a handful of pages, and two of them were blank.

The bookends were empty, and the inner layers didn’t have much to them, either. In fact, one of the pages was an exact copy of a print that Lauren had already made. Her materials list as diagrams was reposted as the second page. The page after that was similar, except that about half of the items were deleted. But the last page was a puzzle: an almost literal puzzle.

The second page was copied again; however, the missing items that Lauren knew were replaced with a new set in a similar style. They were all recognizable in some way, reasonably findable from a store or online, but a combination that she had never considered. Both as a group by itself and in totality with everything else, the question was how they all fit together.

Its creator, quickly made visible to not be herself, clearly knew what they were doing with the additional subtitle in the footer of the page: ‘to satiate.’ At the realization, a chill ran down Lauren’s spine.

It hadn’t been a dream.

There were no instructions, just visuals, and as the genius she was, Lauren knew what they all were meant to be, stating their purpose with a wheeze,

“An earpiece.” An optimized headset with a mic and speaker from which she felt a disgusting aura of déjà vu.

This was his earpiece: the one that put her in this debacle in the first place.

If her intuitions were right, then the construction wouldn’t be complicated. Maybe time-consuming, sure, based on the glasses and watch being the bases for it, but not hard. They would make things harder if she went through with making them, though. But did she really have a choice?

She was just a circuit in his machine, instructed to make new circuits for new machines for her circuitry in his machine to interact with the said machine and its circuits. It was laid out in front of her, like her monitor’s light across her face, including what would probably be an everlasting truth:

Her death would be heard.

#g/t #my writing #zero to one #giant male #sw #the trilogy is over #yet it'll only get worse from here

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fiorashreehan · 4 years

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adabellatovey1990 · 4 years

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