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elizabethshaw · 3 years

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I finally finished listening to Gallifrey for the first time today (and I've loved it so much, I wasn't expecting it to be quite this good but it was AMAZING), so here's some incoherent thoughts in no particular order:

Starting off on a happy note before I get going - Gallifrey is just? So good?? I'd heard a lot of good stuff about it long before I'd even started listening to Big Finish generally, but it really blew me away with how brilliant it is!

I really love how well-defined the characters and their relationships are, and how they all grow over the course of the series. The developments all felt really natural and in response to what each character went through, and very believable in general

I wasn't prepared for how much I was going to love the main four characters either (I only really knew Leela and Romana from watching Classic Who, knew nothing about Brax other than "the Doctor's brother" and "causes problems", and almost nothing at all about Narvin), but I have to say I'm really attached to them all now :)

Leela and her whole arc throughout the series is just amazing. I'd already liked what I'd seen of her in Classic Who (even if I do have... issues with the basic concept of her character and the stereotypes it's based off), but imo she gets taken to another level in Gallifrey altogether. I just love her whole story about grief and healing and learning to find a place for yourself in somewhere you don't seem to fit... and Louise Jameson's acting is fantastic

Romana's arc and growth is also wonderful. Like she comes so far!!! She goes from being unable to admit even that she has friends and just cares about people, to saying that she loves Leela and Narvin in Unity and it really gets me :')

I'd heard a bit about Narvin and his character development beforehand, but it really impressed me how well done it all was? I'm gonna admit that when I was listening to s1/2, I didn't like him much at all, but the growth and changes he goes through as a character are incredibly well written and I have a lot of love for him as a character now

Brax is great. I wasn't sure exactly what to expect from him, but he's actually so much fun as a character! (Even if some of his decisions are... interesting, let's just say) I like the unique dynamic he has with the other main characters, and think he also provides a v interesting contrast to them as someone who's a bit more morally grey? But yeah. He's very cool I like him a lot

Leela and Romana's relationship in particular is my absolute favourite in the series, and just. I love them. They both care about each other so much and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I have thought about "There will be a place for you with me. For always. Whatever face I wear." every single day since I first listened to Spirit in November someone help me

I think overall (although I've enjoyed all of them) series 2 is probably my favourite? It's just so incredibly chaotic and the plot and character work tie together so well

In terms of favourite episodes, there's a lot tbh, but Spirit, Imperiatrix, Renaissance, Lies, Soldier Obscura, Mindbomb and Disassembled are all up there (you can see my s2 bias shining through there oops)

Idk if this is a controversial opinion (I've only really lurked around the edges of the fandom so I'm not 100% sure what the general consensus is) but for the most part I generally enjoyed the Time War series?

Like, I think overall the earlier series appealed to me more, but I did still get a lot of enjoyment out of the time war stuff and thought there were some really good stories in there (Soldier Obscura, The Devil You Know and Unity in particular were absolutely brilliant)

I guess my one main issue with that part of the show is probably (and this is something I've seen a couple of other people bring up) that the characters were all so far apart for most of it? Like I understand that the writers were wanting to try something new and were wanting to avoid retreading the same beats as before, but imo the crux of the show's drama is the relationships between Leela, Romana, Narvin and Brax, and the fact that they weren't together for most of the episodes after TW1 meant the emotional resonance wasn't quite the same - the plots were still v good and I enjoyed that aspect, but I did miss them interacting more regularly yknow :/

I think this also ties into my problems with the finale (although apparently bf have confirmed they're making more? so idk if it's really the end), because the story itself was pretty good, but the lack of any real emotion in the few interactions we got between Leela, Romana and Narvin hindered it from having as much impact as it could have, and some of the writing for them in general just felt very off (esp. in regard to Romana). I'm also just. Not hugely convinced by Matt Fitton's ability to write finales from my own listening experience and I think that feeds into it too but yeah

A similar issue that frustrated me a bit tbh was how consistently Brax was left out of the series altogether for most of the time post-s4? I'm not an expert on his character (Gallifrey!Brax is the only one I'm familiar with), but I liked him a lot and having him as part of the main cast of characters was really fun, so it was a bit disappointing that he didn't make as many appearances, especially as I would've loved to see his relationships with the group develop as much as the ones between Leela, Romana and Narvin did

On a completely unrelated note, as someone who's hyperfixated on the War Doctor audios a Lot™, I loved spotting all the little references and nods to those in the TW series. It just made me really happy and the sense of continuity was cool

I got very excited every time they mentioned Ollistra ngl. She may be Awful but I love her

The parallels in Gallifrey are also so good?!?!?? There's so many that I just go completely insane over

The parallel between Romana's promise that Leela will always have a place with her in "Spirit" and Leela telling Romana she'll never be alone because Leela is coming with her in "Renaissance" particularly is just. Yeah. I think about it a lot ngl

Also love the K9s. The bickering between them in the early series is incredible and I wish they'd kept that going longer

Darkel is just the Worst. Honestly think she's one of the most effective villains I've ever come across bc I don't think I've felt that much unbridled rage at a fictional character before. It certainly made watching Trial of a Time Lord for the first time the other week an Interesting Experience

The fact that seemingly all the main four basically adopt Ace as their child is incredibly funny to me ngl

And going on from that, what I'd love to see (and what I know Big Finish will never make :/) is a series set between Enemy Lines and TW1 that's just the gang + Ace messing around and having fun yknow? I want to see them all being happy and making chaos at the CIA

I also find it really funny that at the start of the show, all the characters would go on about how the CIA are Suspicious and Not To Be Trusted, and how the whole organisation is kind of antagonistic at that point, but then by TW1 every single main protagonist is involved with the CIA in some capacity, like. Way to go guys

I hadn't actually listened to The Apocalypse Element, Neverland, and Zagreus when I originally started listening, and it didn't stop me enjoying anything at the time but I have to say certain stories (especially Extermination) make a lot more sense with that context; it should be interesting relistening to the earlier stuff now I have that context tbh

And. Yeah. I am already wanting to relisten again even though there's a lot of free stuff from the BF website on my account which I haven't touched yet oops

Anyway long story short, Gallifrey is genuinely brilliant and I'm so glad I've listened to it

#bethan talks about dw #bethan listens to big finish #idk if anyone is actually going to read this (and if you do i admire you bc it's. long)#but i've had a Lot of thoughts over the past 3 1/2 months of listening so i wanted to get some out haha #usually i'm kinda nervous about posting text here (maybe bc people will actually see it? idk)#but my need to scream about gallifrey has overcome it which is impressive ngl #and fingers crossed the read more works i don't want to clog up anyone's dashes :/

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theelliottsmiths · 4 years

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So anyway, Mein Herz Brennt Making of liveblog, one of my favourites

First of all, I do take any use of piano MHB as a slight towards my tiny hands. -1 point

I really would love to visit this place, it's beautiful

I love that Oli introduces it and then Till is straight in there talking about murder and stabbings. Trust that to be what intrigues him. I feel like 'smells like murder' isn't a direct translation but that's purely because I spent like ten minutes trying to work out what words he says. It rhymes, which is suspicious.

Oh this was before he let his chest piercing reject all the way out in the grossest way

When schneider says Krankenhaus it sounds very Geordie and I'm convinced that kind of thing is why Auf Wiedersehen, Pet was created

Richards eyes light up when he's talking about the room he's in and it's one of those looks where it's just. I would love to listen to anything anyone has to say when their eyes have that sparkle.

"the scavengers had already been here" cue Paul talking about his criminal past thieving from there. See, another example everyone forgets of him being the biggest bastard of them all. The smile is a front.

One of my favourite ever Rammstein things is the combined joy and mockery from Paul when Richard is revealed to be wearing the bird mask and it wiggles as he nods. He looks like a little black cockatoo. Richard looks embarrassed to be wearing it but Paul is having the time of his LIFE.

The way is echoes in his mask makes him sound like he's clucking

Flakes glasses perching in his cone make him look like that sesame Street doctor or scientist

They all suit this make up so much and I wish they'd consider it as a stage look

Peck. Not intimidated.

Considering the nightmares Till has/had, ouch

Richard looks so much like a little vampire prince but like, a character from what we do in the shadows. He makes his own smokescreen entry/exist and everything.

Melanie!!!

Richard has many tendons in his neck huh.

The sounddd. I used to always be curious as to whether or not people in music videos were making the sounds it looks like they're making and now I know and I'm uncomfortable. This and also later when till does the heart

His laugh is never what I expect it to be

That uh. That doesn't look like he's in pain the way the injection sounds implied. At all. Not that I'm complaining but it gives mixed messages.

I'm so sure Richard is the only one I've ever heard use the word quasi. It makes sense for him if true but maybe I only notice because of the tone he uses? His is quite a punchy nasal tone it might just be more noticeable.

Till with kids is always the most adorable wonderful thing. He's really helping to keep them relaxed despite the creepiness of the stuff they're shooting.

"if you look at the cover then you'll recognise a morbidity to the whole thing" till, my darling, do you think people don't already ~see the morbidity~?

I googled and the lady doesn't pronounce renaissance with a g like Till does and that interests me. In fairness I have to assume it's like in Norwegian how words like restaurant are pronounced with a g sound because it's closer to the French sounds? It's not like we in English donut the French way either but the Google translate lady does. This is why I always suspect that when I'm learning a language I'm learning the language wrong and at some point I'll find out there's a Real, For Adults version if the language that's totally different. This is irrelevant. Accents are fun and I like being able to notice them.

It feels so strange seeing this knowing what Eugenio did

Paul taking pictures because he knows better than them

Something about a child saying "ah yes, I know Till and Flake very well" is hysterical.

You can feel the dismay and disapproval radiating off till as he tries to be diplomatic about the Spanish understanding of linear time. He struggles to find a positive and only comes up with the fire walls. "It should have gone out before we filmed anything because they were fucking around with the playback so long but it didn't" is his only compliment.

The German word for French is wild.

Do they know they could have hired an interpreter? Interpreters existed in 2012 I know this

This whole thing with Melanie is beautiful you can't deny that the arm Eugenio made with then was lovely.

Till in the dress with Melanie in his lap. I don't off the top of my head remember seeing it in either video so I simply must assume that it was just what he was wearing that day when he showed up. She's so tiny on his knee I'm glad they're still friends.

"you're left in a state of trauma when everyone stares at you all the time" did this need to get so heavy? It's interesting that he focused more on her voice than her appearance there, though in fairness it's pretty high

They all love her so much and it's totally understandable.

Mit rock n roll und cola trinken

I have to skip the screaming the secondhand embarrassment is too much.

Part 2

Again, this liveblog is so long

Sometimes Oli speaks like his body isn't used to talking.

I want, so badly, to know if Richard was having memories of his dreadlocked youth The tiny cup in his elegant hand is so pleading and then you look left and. It sure is something.

Are they freckles or acne scars across Tills shoulders?...cute. The first set of arm/chest wounds, not so much. I do spy his lil tummy scar

Richard does look like he almost swooped in for a kiss and then changed his mind because of the camera. Paul turns his head that way and then Richard tries to save with a step back and face rub (his own). Just saying.

The fact that a few of them have taken pictures on their personal phones warms my soul it's such a nice reminder that they're good friends outside of work and My Heart

Schneider and Paul ready at a moment's notice to be Dumbasses. J'adore.

What if Zoran was more of a background character tho actually

God, schneider is beautiful. An ethereal, pure beauty that exists no matter how he's being styled.

See okay how is flake almost taller than Oli right now he's not even doing his standard open legs and swan spine thing

It must be so hard to find Oli sized clothes. Flake is also tall and slim but he's a lot more leg, whereas Olis height seems largely to be torso. I have to assume a lot of his stuff is tailored or custom made now.

I always forget about the marks on tills back when he's in the nightmare dress

The child staring with great confusion at a bright red flake reading. I would love to know what his favourite books are.

The childs plural poking and prodding at a very patient Oli, who gracefully bends his spine in ways I've never seen a human do before. I wonder if he's ever dressed up as Lurch from the Addams family.

The actress playing the woman in this half is so beautiful and has a power her younger counterpart lacked when she was threatening him with her weapon.

I am a dummy and was like weird why is Paul speaking Norwegian. I know full well he wasn't saying unnskyld because I've heard Germans say their equivalent before and I assume Entschuldigen either sounds like that fast or shortens so what the fuck, rhi

Till guiding people through him murdering them is truly one of life's greatest pleasures. They trust him so completely. I would like to watch them dance the elegance would be astounding.

Paul lurking watching with what I choose to see as pride as till slaughters an old woman.

Paul being critical (again, as always, rightly so) of the hallway mouthing the lyrics decision.

"for this in prepared to make compromises" he says, hating every bitter word of it

I would like to know what he wanted to say about till and then see him get into trouble over it.

I would like to see till in a bouncy castle. He's adorable jumping into the comfy pit I want to see him in a bouncy castle. Child, utter child.

Paul takes every opportunity to say how hot he thinks they all are and I love that about him. Sometimes your friends are all hot and everybody needs to understand that fact.

Their approaches to pretending to play cello are all so uniquely them. Flake and Richard are taking the time to try and understand what they're being told, whereas Paul just fucking. Lays into it, attracting the weirdest looks from Oli. Richard looks beautiful with that cello and I think he should learn to play. For fun not for work. It's not just that he looks so handsome, but I think that's the easiest way to convince him. I think he'd be good at it, and not being the lead at something might be good for him.

I appreciate that Oli is skeptical because yeah they do all look like they've never held a cello before.

They do, however, all look lovely in their dresses. I'm trying but actually I can't not say that Schneiders little sternum dip makes it seem like he has breasts in that dress and it's a good look for him.

Till singing it in such a high voice, more like his speaking voice, is both interesting and lovely. Oli is trying... So little compared to the others. Laughably incorrect

Why yes, I am laughing at the sheer length of the spikes. They're just... They're so fucking long. So long.

Paul is actually probably the best one there, ironically. They're all comically out of time. They're professional musicians. I know they aren't used to bowed instruments I do understand and I don't want to be uncharitable but also they are struggling. I want to see cellists react to this.

Pretty dresses! And the nightmare but with the most awful and worst fingers! Like the Grinch but goth.

Both Schneider and Richard had the same neverending shoot idea and I am Intrigued.

Till waiting for Schneider with the umbrella :)

Wir brennen! Paul is always so happy to play with fire.

#rammstein #liveblog #dont talk about richards neck this isn't the time or place #me rambling #The Nightmare #vaguely #complete liveblog

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kill-for-cookies · 4 years

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Promise is a beautiful lie (pt. 5)

Dhawan!Master x Reader

Words: 2362

Note: I suppose this is my favorite part for now. It makes me feel so damn good. Hope, you enjoy it!

previous parts: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

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"Are you sure you don't want to? I wouldn't mind..."

You were standing in the doorway of the TARDIS in a light purple dress with a mask in your hands. The Doctor brought you to Venice of the 16th century. in the Renaissance. To a masquerade ball. What could be better? You felt like you had been dreaming about this all your life. Just didn't know it. But here you were. You barely stood still to not run outside.

Besides, the masquerade ball is the best place to hide from problems, obsessive thoughts and well, have fun, of course. The voice of reason told you just tried to hide from the Master. First of all, there was too much of him lately. You had seen (well, heard) him too often. Maybe more than anyone else in the Universe. Even the Doctor hadn't seen him so often.

Secondly, after your "day off", he began to communicate with you telepathically. Usually it was taunts and sneers, but sometimes it was a pleasant conversation (as much as possible with the Master). The problem was it often happened at the wrong time. When you run from shots or listen to another brilliant plan of the Doctor. So you needed to relax and just have fun.

"I don't like masquerades. Don't want to spoil your evening" the Doctor gave you a sweet smile and stepped out of the TARDIS.

You followed her. Before your eyes was a magnificent palace with large staircase. The same staircase that you imagined when you read Cinderella. You hadn't even started dancing and were already over the moon.

The Doctor was walking fast and you were trying to catch up. Of course, she always walked fast, but it was like she tried to keep distance from you. You felt she was hiding something. You didn't just feel it, you knew it. You couldn't be fooled easily.

"You're lying. Something's wrong, I'm sure of it. So tell me" you knew she would say the opposite, but you weren't going to give up. Stubbornness was your middle name, after "luck".

"It's all right. I'm just not in the mood today" you would believe her if she said that two months ago, but now she was clearly lying.

"Doctor..." you stopped. You wouldn't move until she told you what she was hiding. "You don't know how to lie. You located an alien technology, didn't you?"

"You won't leave me alone until I tell you..." it seemed more like a statement than a question. But you nodded, which made the Doctor sigh. "Fine. I found a trace of alien energy and need to check it out."

"Is there anything I can do?" firstly, knowing your adventures, she needed help. Secondly, it was unfair that you would have fun while she saved the Earth.

"Don't worry, I can handle it" you raised an eyebrow in complete disbelief. When the Doctor said that, you worried even more. She was a magnet for trouble (as you were lately). "I'll be careful, I promise."

You didn't believe her anyway. But who knew, maybe there wasn't anything dangerous? At least, the Doctor promised you. It didn't help, of course, but it was something.

"If you need help, you know where to find me."

With these words, you hugged the blonde. Not to say it was comfortable to do it in a ball dress and corset, but you didn't care. Her arms didn't immediately hug you back. Either the Doctor didn't expect this from you or she was still socially awkward and didn't like hugs.

Smiling at her, you put on your white mask with gold patterns and went to the large staircase, leading to the palace. You found yourself in a spacious hall with huge chandelier in the center. There were a lot of people. Apparently, such balls were popular. Although this wasn't surprising, because first masquerades appeared in Venice of 16th century.

You looked at the dancing couples whirling in the waltz. Dresses fluttered and there was no end of the dancers. You enjoyed this show. Your heart was pounding with excitement and it took your breath away. It would be a lovely evening. One of the best in recent time. Maybe in your life.

You decided to stand a little apart to get used to this new atypical for you surroundings. After all, there was no such thing in the 21st century. And you rarely went to parties. Usually, if you did it, it was because your friends made you. So in every sense, a masquerade ball in the 16th century wasn't definitely your typical surroundings.

"I suppose you have an admirer."

You turned your head to the source of the voice. To your left was a lady in a red dress with orange patterns and a red mask. She looked rich. You assumed she was from a noble family. The phrase about the admirer exactly referred to you, because the nice lady looked right at you and smiled sweetly.

"What makes you think so?"

Her remark confused you and your cheeks a little blushed. Not every day you were told someone liked you. You usually ran for your life or talked to that arrogant Time Lord in the purple coat.

"That man hasn't taken eyes off you for 3 minutes."

The lady in red pointed to a dark-haired man in a black jacket with white buttons and stripes who was dancing with a girl in a green dress. On one of his shoulders was a gray-purple cape and the same color was the mask on his face. It suited him very well.

You couldn't take your eyes off him. Damn, you'd be lying if you said he wasn't attractive. When your eyes met his, you looked away and your cheeks were red with embarrassment.

"You are very lucky. He is followed by all the girls at this ball and he only pays attention to you" added a nice lady in red.

Lucky? Ha! It was funny, considering your last adventures... Although who knew, maybe the Universe was on your side tonight? Maybe for one night it decided to stop mocking you. You looked at her again and wanted to say something, but you were interrupted.

"Do you mind if I steal her from you?"

It was that man in black who stood to your right. He addressed your new friend. You looked behind him and saw a large crowd of angry Venetians. You could only imagine how much those girls hated you right now. He was really selling like hot cakes. How did he get through them anyway?

"Of course, I don't mind" the lady in red replied. You caught her look at you. Her eyes said 'you're welcome.'

You barely had time to turn to this mysterious man, when you felt he took your hand and gently kissed it like true gentleman. In the blink of an eye, you were in the middle of the room dancing a waltz. It was all happening too fast.

Even the music was fast. Your feet tried to trip over each other. And it was all about the music, not that you didn't know how to waltz. You were the one who danced it well. Your dad thought every self-respecting girl should be able to waltz. He was a good teacher, though.

Maybe it was also because it was actually your first time. Or maybe because you were looking at an attractive guy in front of you. And you were over the moon. You didn't think this travel would end like this. It was a good idea to ask the Doctor to bring you here. You couldn't always save the Universe. Sometimes you needed to rest, have fun.

'Enjoying the evening?'

Well, of course, how could be without him? The Master definitely knew how to spoil the moment. You tried to get him out of your head, but you couldn't. Apparently, this trick didn't work anymore. You should think of another way.

'Please, Master, just leave. This is a very bad time.'

You tried to get mad at him. Really tried. But at this moment it was impossible. You were too happy with this situation. Ball, dance, admirer (who would have thought this would happen?).

'Aren't you happy to hear me? You're breaking my hearts' you were sure he must have put his hand on chest.

"Are you okay?"

The voice of the guy in black brought you out of your telepathic conversation with the Master. You were still dancing. Probably, it lasted only a couple of minutes, even though you thought it was fifteen.

"Yes, I am. Just... being in my thoughts."

You were even a little ashamed to lie to your mysterious admirer. He really seemed like a nice guy. And you'd appreciate it if there wasn't this damn Time Lord who decided to ruin your evening. Well, at least he wasn't trying to blow something up.

'Oh, so you're not alone…' you could sense his annoyance through the bond, even though he tried to hide it from you. In general, judging by the Doctor and the Master, Time Lords didn't do well with their emotions.

'You don't like being not the only one trying to get my attention?'

You looked at the young man in black and smiled at him. For some reason, he looked a little tense, but when he saw your look, he smiled back. It was a little strange and suspicious. But you quickly dismissed this idea. Enough with suspicions and assumptions. You need to break this vicious circle for one evening.

The Master didn't answer you. But it wasn't necessary. You felt through the bond his irritation (surprisingly, not anger) and something else… He was pleased. He must be up to something. And you would regret it very much. It couldn't be otherwise. But at least, he left you alone.

Unfortunately, the waltz ended, but you didn't want to say goodbye to your mystery man. You spent almost all your time talking to the Master and you didn't even enjoy the company of your admirer.

And then you got an idea. You quickly grabbed his hand and pulled him to the balcony. It was probably the best place to be alone. After all, everyone else preferred to be in the hall, enjoying the masquerade.

Your mystery man was surprised at first, of course. But as soon as he understood your idea, you saw a smile on his face. He clearly wasn't against your idea.

“I'm sorry I was so thoughtful all the time” you said after a long pause.

“And me for not saying anything. I couldn't get enough of you.”

You turned your head sharply toward the man in black. Of course, this wasn't the first time someone has told you they love you. You had boyfriends. But none of them ever told you something like this.

Your mystery man approached you and attached something to your dress. You didn't want to take your eyes off him, but your curiosity got the best. You saw a red rose. You looked up at him again. He was only a couple of inches away from you. You could feel his warm breath on your cheek.

“Thank you. It's so beautiful” your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Not as beautiful as you.”

His eyes seemed to mesmerise you. You couldn't (and didn't want to) look away from them. So dark and deep. It was like there was a whole Universe in them. They glittered a little. Maybe it was the candles, illuminating the palace. But for some reason, this glitter reminded you of the Master. There was something similar. Something you didn't see. Why couldn't you just forget about him for a minute?

Something was definitely going to happen. You could feel it. It was like the air between you two was electrified. But unfortunately, nothing happened. You heard a familiar voice calling your name. The Doctor. Why she appeared at such bad time? But you knew she might need help. Besides, you said she could rely on you.

“I gotta go” you closed eyes and took a deep breath. You didn't want to spoil the moment, but you have to.

“So your name is Y/N?” when you opened eyes, you saw a grin on the face of the man in black. He was attentive. The more time you spent with him, the more you liked him.

“Actually, masquerades imply no one knows anyone. This is an unspoken rule.”

“The rules are made to be broken.”

It was hard for you to do that. This mysterious man definitely managed to win your heart. And you would have done anything to stay with him. But you had no choice. You took the courage and turned to leave. But before you could take a couple of steps, your hand was grabbed. You turned to your admirer, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“I'll see you again, don't you think?”

That sentence broke your heart because you knew the truth. You would never see him again. And deep down, you knew you'd never loved someone so much. It was so strange, though. You hardly knew him and you already loved him. Not fell in love. But loved. All the time you were talking to him, you had the feeling you knew him for long time. But this was crazy. It couldn't be… or could it?

“Unlikely. I'm a traveler. And I'm leaving right now.”

“I have a feeling we will meet again and again” you couldn't help but smile at that. You didn't want to spoil his mood. And yours, too. Let there be a glimmer of hope.

You heard your name again. The Doctor was waiting. You have to go. But before you do it, you had one unfinished thing. Otherwise, you would never forgive yourself.

“Thank you for this evening.”

With these words, your lips quickly and tenderly covered his and then you ran away. You didn't care even if in the 16th century it was shameful. Hiding your emotions wasn't for you. Besides, you needed to thank your mystery man for this lovely evening.

#doctor who #dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #dhawan!master imagine #thirteenth doctor #thriteen #the doctor #the master #the master x reader #the master imagine #dw #dw imagine

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britt-rae-law · 5 years

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It wasn’t Rocket Science, It was just Brain Surgery

09.12.2016 - It has been 10 months since my brain surgery to partially remove a central brain tumor. Emotionally and psychologically coming to terms with the experience has been the hardest part. It has been a difficult topic to really talk about and explain to others, which is why I have found it easier to shrug it off as no big deal. I also feel self-conscious about my experience to a certain degree. But lately I have been thinking about how reading other people’s stories about brain surgery recovery helped me in a way no one else could have: explaining what to expect, if certain things are normal or not, the do’s and don’ts of recovery and finding the personal motivation to recover. I have learnt a lot about myself and have had an epiphany about life and identity. I came to realise that your entire being - who you are - is shaped by your brain. You are because you can think and feel; and you can’t do that without your brain. Your whole body is just there to protect and utilise your brain. I have decided that it might not only be cathartic for me to write my own experience, but could also be encouraging and useful for others.

On the 2nd of February 2016, my world was changed forever. After months of going to doctors in order to treat - or at least find out the cause of - severe migraines, random projectile vomiting, pins and needles, constant fatigue and sometimes blurred vision, I finally found out from a specialist that I have a brain tumor. Sitting in the waiting room and seeing the nurses facial responses to my MRI scan was unsettling. Waiting rooms are undoubtedly a symbol of anxiousness. I remember not knowing what I was about to be told, but feeling the tangible sense of unease fill the room. I could never have predicted how much my life was about to change.

The news was surreal, one of those “this happens to other people, not to me” moments. I didn’t grasp then what I was being told. After a couple of days back at home, I returned to hospital where I met the neurosurgeon who was to perform my operation. He carefully explained the procedure; cut open my head, remove the veins of the tumor, cut down the middle of my brain, drain the growth then cut out what they can. Funny how the first time I cried was when he told me that I would be missing three months of varsity.

I don’t remember much after that. I had the surgery on the 9th of February and had been in a deep sleep for a couple of days. I was told that I had two grand-mal seizures and an aneurysm; my left side having lost motion. Waking up and becoming conscious really are two different things. I had been told stories about being awake and having conversations with people, but I do not remember any of those experiences. During the process of becoming conscious, I was suddenly aware of how different everything felt. How difficult it was to perform simple tasks and that everything over-stimulated me to the point of exhaustion. As I was slowly becoming aware of my body and what I had just been through – knowing the long row of stitches across my head is evidence of the trauma – I became responsive and emotive. I was experiencing fear, anxiety, restlessness, nervousness, worry, doubt, and a lingering unknown. There was a massive flood of emotion for a couple of weeks owing to the realization that I was alive and had survived something so traumatic. Then I couldn’t sleep. I was so scared. The nurses would bathe me and talk to me until I calmed down. I remember having asked to brush my teeth at 3 A.M and the nurse said no. That was the first time I cried since the operation. I think I cried every day after that. They don’t tell you if you will eventually stop being so emotional; and if so, when?

My biggest shock came when the physiotherapist asked me to move my legs up and down and I could only move my right one. I would lie there for ages thinking, “move”, and picturing my left leg sliding upwards and downwards. But nothing would happen. The frustration experienced in that moment was something I had never felt before. The disconnection between my thoughts and actions and that loss of control was absolutely terrifying. Looking at me, you would never think I was having such an intense internal struggle. I may have just been lying there, but I was spending every waking moment trying to overcome my body’s resistance to movement through thought. I felt trapped inside my own body. That’s when I realised that you and your body are so separate. I experienced this again in situations where I would grab things tightly in my left hand, clenched fist, and be unable to let go. I had grabbed a nurse once, and no matter how much I wanted to let go, my hand was not listening. This was a similar side effect to split brain patients; my left side of my body was not listening to the right hemisphere of my brain.

The realization that I stuttered, and spoke very slowly, frustrated me. I would try to speak as little as possible and would grow despondent upon hearing myself, as it did not coincide with what was going on inside my mind. I had uncontrollable tremors in my hands and arms. An occupational therapist tested me with some basic mathematics and memory exercises. It was harder than I thought it would be. I felt like a child as I struggled to identify shapes and objects. At times I would be okay then suddenly hit a complete blank and panic. She said this is called a “brain stutter” and occasionally this still happens to me now. But I have learnt to take a moment to think of something else until I am settled enough to return to the previous task. I have forgotten things. But I don’t know what things I have forgotten until I am presented with a person that I should know or story that I should remember, but don’t.

Learning to walk was the strangest feeling. I never knew how much thought and co-ordination goes into something so “easy”. I noticed how my concentration during such a seemingly simple task was affected so greatly by the environment. I became aware of how different walking is in a crowded space versus an empty space; a well lit space versus a dim space; stairs versus the ground, ect. I eventually changed my mind-set so that instead of feeling frustration or upset when I was struggling or unable to do things, I would celebrate small victories. Victories such as eating without messing, going to the bathroom on my own, putting on my slippers by myself, using a zip or fastening a button and picking things up with my left hand. These are small achievable goals that kept me positive and motivated me to recover.

The aknowledgement of this tumour and the aftermath of the surgery changed me. I became aware of this foreign body within my brain and its presence became defining. In order for me to move on in life I had to accept and normalise its existence. No one has the intention of making someone diagnosed with a tumour feel like a pariah, but it tends to happen with the sensitivity of a life altering diagnoses. The fact that I was someone with a brain tumour surrounded by people who do not have one; or that I am someone who has had multiple brain surgeries, automatically makes me feel like an outsider.

Audre Lorde in her Cancer Journals said “either I could love my body one breasted now, or remain forever alien to myself”. This statement hits hard. Coming to terms with your own identity is no easy task especially when it is something life altering; I had been through this process once before with my sexuality. And so I decided that I needed to accept myself with a tumor and as a brain surgery survivor, or be alien to myself once more.

These internal struggles continue – even now - unbeknownst to those around me. My thinking is definitely slower than before and it takes me longer to process and respond to things – sometimes this can be overwhelming, even if I am the only one aware of it. This is where insecurity comes in to play; at times I wonder if I am being perceived as “normal” in social situations. This then makes me feel like I should explain to to strangers that I am still recovering so that my behavior can be understood. I don’t know then if people are looking at me with curiosity, concern or confusion. Sometimes I feel strong in what I have overcome, and at times I feel so alone in my experience. I learnt to go easy on myself, and take things slow. My happiness comes from being myself in comfortable spaces; a renaissance that is truly liberating. I say renaissance because there is a clear distinction of myself and life before and after the surgery. Things feel different. Things are different. There is no way to tell if what I feel/ felt was normal. But my new normal involves an inner peace that does not take life for granted.

I didn’t know that It would take this long. I didn’t know that I would have such difficulty placing my own personality. I didn’t know that I would feel so foreign in my own body, so much so that I didn’t like looking at myself in mirrors or photographs. I wasn’t okay with being this person. That I would put on so much weight from the medication and the lack of mobility. Or that I would be so fearful of old symptoms returning and that I would feel a sense of guilt for surviving something that so many others didn’t.

The surgery is physically over, but mentally, I am still processing everything that had happened. I could go on but instead I will say that I am thankful my surgery went so well and that I was where I needed to be at that time. Now I am able to adjust to new strategies and am dealing with these overwhelming feelings in healthy ways.

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20.09.2019 - Today I write this 10 months after my second craniotomy under completely different circumstances. I have experienced this recovery at a different stage of my life, I am older, wiser and more motivated; facing a new perspective on the human experience. Learning from everyone around me as I know that everyone has a story and everyone is a lesson, offering a unique perspective on the chaos of humanity. My second diagnosis and surgery did make me wonder what lessons I still needed to learn. I was angered. Then depressed. Wasn’t one surgery enough? Then I surrendered. Truth be told, there has been a lot to learn... and there’s still so much more! The most valuable lessons about my body, health, consciousness, community and purpose came from the aftermath of the second surgery. I suppose at some point, you need to decide whether you are going to be a victim or if you are going to use the resources you have access to in order to deal with the situation you are faced with.

Although living in the past can hinder your ability to move forward/overcome. Looking back and consciously reflecting on how far you have progressed through a certain phase in your life is rewarding. I often do that of course when I think about my progress from my first surgery until now. But do not stay there too long. Do not allow your past experiences to define you. Allow them to inform your future and motivate more progression. I am also acknowledging the importance of bridging the gaps between geography and lifestyles as the older you get, the more you realise you need the people from your past. I have been pleasantly suprised by the teachers, friends, classmates, mentors and family members that have laid branches and connections to me in the most unexpected ways and places. I reflect on these relationships and acknowledge their contributions with gratitude.

I came across a quote by Tony Robbins that said: “it is not the events of our lives that shape us and who we are, but rather our beliefs as to what those events mean.” And those beliefs are determined by the way in which we tell our story. The meaning we attach to the events—how we interpret them— is what shapes who we are today and who we’ll become tomorrow. And I am now actively telling a better story in this chapter of my life by creating the reality I experience rather than passively becoming my default self. Now knowing that things happen FOR you, and not TO you has been game changing for me. And since curating the world I immerse myself in - deciding which communities I am a part of, deciding what motivates me and why, choosing to only invest my energy into things that will contribute to achieving my goals - I have recognised the power in my sense of self.

This is a new sense of self whereby the changes and transformations I am making on the other side of this trauma have presented an opportunity to identify and build a new structure and way of living. This change has at times been uncomfortable - but as Nerri Oxman said in ‘Abstract Art of Design (Season 2 episode 2), “If it feels uncomfortable, you’re probably doing something right.” This process of change has also brought along with it responsibility, which I now understand as the ability to respond to circumstances. I am in control of my responses and no longer a victim of my diagnosis or as a patient, providing a reorientation around healthcare and healing. Now knowing that ‘Doctor’ means ‘Teacher’ (and not healer) and that movement and food is the best medicine, I can asses that medication, doctor visits and language were not the best ways for me to recover, but rather movement, community and nourishment has allowed me to surpass previous mis-understandings of what my healthy self should be, look and feel like. For me, the courageous part of it all has been turning towards the self, orienting the symptoms - how I feel and what could have caused the tumor to manifest - and making the necessary changes. Everyday I see how I have progressed in different facets of my life, I can’t help pass judgement on myself but i am aware that it is an endless process.

This has cultivated a new kind of strength coming from a different place of mature consciousness - one that has developed from healthy habits, consistency and daily practices.

And so the journey continues...

#survivor #Brain Health #Brain Tumor #Personal

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haphapner · 5 years

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The Madonna of Allentown

It happened again at Big Len's place in Allentown, Pennsylvania. A steady flow of true humanity came through there every day. Big Len's specialized in cold beer to go and weekly room rentals, an odd mix but it had been around for years.

I had just returned from buying a carton of cheap cigarettes.

It was my daughter’s sixteenth birthday. I hadn’t been pregnant for fifteen years, eleven months and nineteen days. On that morning, I experienced a miraculous conception. What would come from my womb some months later would not, indeed could not, be, from a man.

Long ago, I recognized that one should take these things as they come. The years and more than five-hundred-fifty pregnancies have tempered my weariness and bone crushing sadness with wisdom. Inexplicably I felt driven to invest in this child so that it would be more successful than all the others combined.

One minute, I was walking up the backstairs to my bug-infested room, a communal toilet and shower down the hall. The next, a fresh new soul spontaneously generated in my ancient womb. The cigarettes slipped from my grasp and bounced down the dingy stairs, bounding higher as they picked up speed. The carton cracked against the door and burst open spewing cellophane wrapped pleasure across the sun-lit landing.

“Shit!”

I can’t explain it; I just knew it had happened again. It’s like Zen, if you’ve experienced sartori, you get it; otherwise, you’re shit-out-of-luck.

I sat down three quarters of the way up the steep stairs. “Shit, shit, shit … I’m too tired for this.” I slammed my elbow against the wall; dingy, faded wallpaper fluttered. “How does this always catch me off-guard?” I took a long drag on a generic cigarette, my last. “So many myths about gods becoming men and walking among us, the gods of mythology were too chicken-shit to become women.” I ripped at a piece of wallpaper exposing years of corrupted paint. “Woman’s work my ass,” a sarcastic laugh slipped out. “Men should try motherhood.”

My story starts in the mists of time, before I conceived the collective unconscious of humankind. Known by a thousand names – Eve, Ishtar, Isis, Mother Earth – I am the Oracle of Delphi who doled out visions, generation upon generation, ad infinitum. The Greeks referred to me as Gaia, the one who sprang from Chaos and became the mother of all things.

Myth cloaks the truth trapping humanity in ancient prisons of ignorance. A son once said, “The Truth shall set you free.”[1] I have born more grief than the mind can conceive. In vain, I have staggered through humanity searching, always searching for true companionship, a true equal.

Jung wrote, “Whenever the earth mother appears it means that things are going to happen in reality; this is an absolute law.”[2] His words were confused. I do not appear. I never disappear. I keep moving, looking into eyes that cannot see, listening for words that convey meaning. Carl understood one thing. For those who come to know me, reality takes hold. Through the mind-numbing millennia, I have witnessed pockets of hope, people whose peaceful coexistence drew me toward the mainstream. Such communities were but flickering flames blown out by human progress.

Every sixteen years I become pregnant and carry the baby to term – which is usually some time during the twenty-fourth lunar month. I neither consult nor require a patriarch to participate in these sacred events. These children of fiat are my offering, my sacrifice to humanity, gifts meant to foster evolution so that humanity might come to a full realization of their divine nature.

Through the centuries, I have mothered some famous and infamous people. Ishmael and Isaac, those naughty boys who denied the goddess, were mine. Siddhartha and Jesus were my sons as were Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan, and Mohamed. You see, I am doomed to have sons, boys and men who must throw off the fear and oppression of women or die. Warriors, orators, gurus, and shaman alike I have birthed, but very few wise men.

Sid was a rebellious boy in the beginning. Jesus died too soon. I fled the Christian lands after seeing so much harm done in his name. Humans constantly teeter on the brink of madness. After the first jihad, Mohamed tried to honor me in his book, “Christ, the son of Mary, was no more than a messenger; many were the messengers that passed away before him. His mother was a woman of truth. But they had both to eat their food.”[3] Can you imagine? My own son did not understand the divine reality of the one who bore him into this world. With a broken heart, I slowly made my way north and west.

Sadly, most of my sons turned out to be self-centered egomaniacs. Tragedy seemed my only companion. Witnessing their utter lack of respect for women and the goddess, I began to desert my boys by their sixteenth birthday. Hitler broke my heart long before he broke the world. I fled to the west.

I arrived in the new world just after the turn of the century. My next child, Sunnyland Slim, soulfully interpreted my heart through his fingers and songs. But the moral decay and utter inhumanity of the last several centuries had brought me low. I took a long vacation, which brought me to Big Len’s with my only daughter.

Human potential for greatness is exceeded only by its arrogant individualism.

Around each child’s thirty-third birthday, when the calendars of the sun and the moon align, is a powerful opportunity in their lives. At those times, the collective unconsciousness draws toward the surface of conscious thought throughout the earth’s inhabitants. At that time, every generation faces the great question – will they accept their maker as she is. Only during that powerful alignment of the lunar and solar phases, is vision able to break the bonds of human limitation and broach the domain of collective reality. That unified vision is the key to human evolution.

I loved the renaissance when men nearly grasped the divine nature of humanity. Rubens honored me, and all women, with his exquisite art. Things had always been dicey with the boys, but they really went downhill fast during the industrial revolution. My son Karl wrote about a community of equals, but he was no Jesus. He thought economics could alter the human condition. He could not see that lasting social change will only come through an evolved race.

For thousands of years, since the men of this species overthrew the goddess, violence toward women and children has run rampant. The prehistoric patriarchal revolt disfigured the male capacity for love, trust, and connection. In the process, my heart fractured and so began my perpetual search for wholeness.

The myth of the ages is that human men become mature. Their adult lives are lived as an extension of their boyhood. They do not mature they merely age. Their deeply buried true self rarely surfaces. Panic ensues in the hearts of men when they glimpse their feminine side. The fear of homosexuality is but a disguise. Their terror lies in something sinister and primal that they cannot face.

They fear me in them. In the gap between Eden’s fall and recorded history, they knew me as the goddess of all things dark and uncanny. Men’s hearts filled with fear, knowing I could strike them down with arrows of conscience even from afar. In rebellion against the true nature of all things, they have subjugated women since the dawn of human history. Once they seized control, they denied their essence and proclaimed their superiority.

To survive I had to go on the lam. Of course, modern humans have no recollection or understanding of these things. Primeval instinct leads men to oppress and deny their nature and needs. They do not comprehend that their claims of physical superiority and manifest destiny are born of fear.

Men need not fear. I am the self-existent One. Ex nihilo I made all things. I am woman and man, the beginning and the end, the lover of all things. I draw many into oneness creating a race of divine equals, who knowing their origins choose to embrace their divine nature. I alone procreate – the divine begetting the divine.

A sign flashed above my head, Sacred Heart Hospital. I floated along into an elevator. Everything smelled clean and white. Doors parted, closed, and opened again. People rushed past my horizontal floating frame.

“She’s in trouble. Get her into surgery.”

Who could they be talking about? How long had I been here?

I hear my daughter’s voice, “What is it? What is wrong?”

“She’s hemorrhaging. We need to take the baby now.”

“Looks like a lot of scar tissue, possibly an acute ectopic. Get the on-call surgeon.

“Blood pressure’s dropping, pulse is dropping.”

“She’s going into shock; we’re losing her. Come on people!”

The doctor explained that they had done a “clean house” hysterectomy. I would never have another child.

My firstborn daughter, now eighteen stepped forward and looked into my eyes. She held her new little sister with pride and hope. “Mama, she’s the one; the last one.”

[1] Holy Bible, New International Version, John 8:38

[2] Douglas, Claire, Editor. Visions: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1930 – 1934 C.G. Jung. Princeton University Press. 1997. Page 790.

[3] Koran 5:75

#fiction

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turtle-writes · 6 years

Text

Moicy drabble

Moicy drabble for @imssavv I hope you like it! It’s a little longer than I intended, but it was fun to write!

Angela Ziegler was a miracle. Moira had thought so from day one when the cute blonde doctor had welcomed her to Overwatch’s research team. Angela had smiled, greeted her warmly with a handshake, and Moira fell hard. The following chat and coffee only made it worse. How could she not love the woman? She was kind, bright, and interesting and she listened to Moira talk about her passions with unfeigned interest. There was no way such a woman could exist.

Moira had never denied her feelings for the doctor. She was quick to accept her crush, hoping it would pass with time, but resigned herself to the facts after a year had passed. She loved Angela, and it was hardly fathomable that Angela could love her in return. That was why Moira was currently giving the blonde a difficult time about the thermal cycler she’d borrowed after her own had malfunctioned.

“Moira, I need it back. I know you’ve finished with it and your order for a new one arrives tomorrow. I have research I need it for.” Moira raised an eyebrow, not looking up from the tissue sample under her microscope.

“Pray tell, Angela. What does a scientist studying nanotechnology need with a thermal cycler?” New cells synthesized within the sample under her microscope. The synthesis had become faster, but not fast enough.

“I’m not using it for nanotechnology. I’m designing a treatment for Genji to improve his sense of taste. The artificial receptors I implemented aren’t working as they should.” Moira looked up and spun her chair to face her coworker.

“I’m assuming whatever treatment you’re designing is genetic? Thermal cyclers aren’t used for much else. Perhaps I could be of assistance?” Moira hoped she could. Since being moved to Blackwatch, she rarely had any contact with Overwatch scientists. Interdepartmental projects in which she got to work with Angela were few and far between. She had no other excuse to spend time with the doctor. Her hope dwindled when a hesitant look crossed the other’s features.

“Are you certain?” The cobalt irises Moira so often admired were tinged with worry.

“You’ve seemed so busy with what research you’ve been working on. I didn’t want to bother you.” Moira folded her hands in her lap, adopting what she hoped was a pleasant smile. She would always have time for Angela.

“Not at all. I could use a break from my current project. I would be happy to offer my expertise if you so desire.” A smile rose to Angela’s face. Moira loved it when she smiled. Her eyes would light up and crinkle at the corners and it made Moira’s heart race.

“I would love that. When can I give you the details?” Moira checked her watch. It was a quarter past four, not too much time before dinner.

Wait.

Dinner.

No, that was a terrible idea.

She couldn’t do that.

Could she?

Before Moira had a chance to change her mind, she straightened her coat and turned to her coworker.

“Would you like to meet me for dinner this evening? Six fifteen perhaps? We could discuss the details then and start work tomorrow.” Immediately after the words left her mouth, Moira was mentally kicking herself. Dinner? Such a request was hardly professional. What had she been thinking?

The circling self-berating came to a halt when Angela nodded eagerly.

“That sounds wonderful! Should I meet you in the Atrium?” Suppressing the heat threatening to take over her cheeks, Moira nodded.

“Brilliant. I’ll see you then.”

If Moira broke into a happy dance after the doctor left, no one was there to see it.

…………………

Moira was radiant. Angela had thought so from the day she’d gone to welcome the research department’s new geneticist. She’d caught sight of the handsome woman in the hall and immediately turned back so as not to be caught like an awkward teenager blushing furiously in the presence of an attractive classmate. And Moira wasn’t just attractive. She had an angular face with sharp cheek bones and a jawline carved by the most skilled of renaissance sculptors. Her eyes, though mismatched, were almost childlike in their expression, and never in her life had Angela seen someone more made to wear a suit. She had a brilliant mind and so much passion for her work that Angela couldn’t help but get caught up in it.

This is why Angela was having a breakdown in front of her closet struggling to pick out an outfit. Honestly, it was just dinner. Dinner to discuss work no less. It absolutely was not a date and Angela had no right to make it one. Still, there was that infuriating little voice that sounded suspiciously like Lena in the back of her head that told her it could be.

Honestly, how could she think Moira would ever consider her as a potential partner? She didn’t even know if Moira was attracted to women. And even if she was, there was no guarantee she was Moira’s type.

Angela sighed, pulling an unassuming, unembellished, black dress from her closet. A girl could hope. She’d like nothing better than for Moira to pull her into those freakishly long arms and hold her close, or to let Angela snuggle into her side on the sofa. She wanted to listen to her talk about her day and watch the fire in her eyes burn excitedly as she shared her latest project. She wanted to love her and be able to tell her she was loved every day. But that was better left as a dream. It was unlikely such fantasy would become reality. Angela had a hopeless crush and could foresee no end to her struggling.

……………..

Moira glanced at her watch for what felt like the thousandth time. She had arrived in the atrium fifteen minutes early, and despite knowing Angela would likely show up in the next ten minutes, Moira’s stomach was twisting upwards and into her chest.

Honestly, she shouldn’t be so nervous. They were just discussing an interdepartmental project. The thought sent a burst of irrational happiness blooming throughout her chest. She loathed and loved that queer little phenomenon. And she knew once the night was over that bout of happiness would be equaled by disappointment.

“Hey! You’re early!” Moira definitely didn’t trip turning around to face the voice. Moira O’Deorain does not trip. But the laugh Angela gives at her startle may change her mind. Her laughter, a catalyst that amplified the pleasant warmth in her chest, would be worth the chip to her pride.

“I’m sorry.” the doctor laughed as her giggles faded to an amused smile. Her hair had been released from its tail and the lithe frame usually hidden under a lab coat now made an appearance cloaked in a well-fitting dress.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Moira tried her best to shove down the heat rising to her cheeks. She was too cute.

“No harm, no foul, doctor.” Moira smiled, hoping her expression wasn’t as idiotic as she felt and offered Angela her arm, realizing too late that the gesture was too forward.

“Shall we be going? I am curious about this little project of yours.” The doctor accepted the gesture, intertwining her own arm with Moira’s.

“Of course! I’m very excited to tell you about it!” Moira couldn’t keep the blush from her face.

Little did either of them know, they had an audience, pushing and shoving each other in an attempt to get a better look through the blinds in the office of one Captain Ana Amari.

“It’s a fucking date Morrison! The last time she wore that waistcoat was when your ecologist set her up with that Oasis professor! Pay up!” Jack nudged the Blackwatch commander aside and squinted at the exiting figures of the two women.

“Can’t be. They’ve been walking circles around each other for over a year. At least another month before they get with the program.”

“I know my people, Morrison. It’s. A. Fucking. Date.”

“Hm. I wouldn’t be too sure about that Gabriel.” Both men looked over to where Ana sat, casually flipping through the Blackwatch lab security footage and sipping at a mug of tea.

“It appears as though it’s work related, however,” Ana smirked as she rewound the footage. The holoscreen showed Moira asking Angela to dinner earlier that day.

“I believe it was Moira who extended the dinner invitation. Should they return with plans for a proper outing, I expect my winnings by next Tuesday.”

#moicy #overwatch #moira o'deorain #mercy #drabble #request

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magic-and-moonlit-wings · 6 years

Text

Chapter 8: Bridge Bricks and Babysitting

Becoming The Mask

The Museum of Arcadia was very different during its hours of operation. Much more brightly lit. Much less filled with the uneasy feeling he might run into Bular at any moment.

Jim veered away from his scattering classmates to loiter near their history teacher and the museum curator.

Eli was peppering Ms Nomura with questions and Mr Strickler was watching with poorly-concealed amusement as she indulged the boy's curiosity about Renaissance-era pottery. After a few minutes she sent Eli off to the exhibit in question and fixed Jim with a piercing stare.

Jim flashed his eyes and Nomura's shoulders relaxed, though her expression remained sharp. She flashed her eyes back at him. They were green in both her human and troll forms, but when she was in human form they lit up gold and red like every other Changeling's.

"At least one of them was actually interested in the lesson plan this year," Ms Nomura said to Mr Strickler. "So few of your students actually appreciate the history of ceramics and how they influenced the build-up to the Industrial Revolution."

They casually walked through a partially roped-off doorway and disappeared behind a hanging tarp. Jim glanced around to ensure no witnesses – all his classmates were elsewhere or actually focused on the displays – and followed the other two Changelings.

"It's more than halfway done?" he gasped in amazement.

Killahead Bridge was mostly under sheets, but the shape was distinct, as was the gap where they hadn't yet finished building the arched form.

"Hidden in plain sight as an upcoming exhibit," Stricklander boasted. Nomura rolled her eyes at his pomposity. Jim sat on one of the wooden crates and started toying with the stones and bricks in the open crate beside him.

"I anticipate full construction within three months, if the latest rumours lead to the final stones," said Nomura to Stricklander. "But just in case they don't … In the interests of growing Gunmar's legion, we're bringing in someone new." Nomura glanced sideways at Jim. The most recently-planted Changeling sat up with an attentive expression. "Any suggestions for their cover?"

Damn Toby for not being young enough to send to safety.

"What about the Nuñez baby?" Jim suggested. The question had been directed at Stricklander, but Jim wasn't sure Claire Nuñez gushed about her little brother to the teachers the way she did to her peers. He rolled a rounded stone thoughtfully over his palm. "Mrs Nuñez is involved in local politics, right? Might be useful to have an eye on the inside."

"It's a good thought," Stricklander agreed. "Now, Jim, Ms Nomura and I have more classified information to discuss. You'd best rejoin your class."

To some Changelings, that would be practically an invitation to spy. Jim tossed two of the three rocks he'd been toying with back into their crate and slipped the third, smallest one up his sleeve as he gave Mr Strickler a casual salute with his other arm.

I'm not ready. I need time; to think; to plan. We can't finish the Bridge yet. I haven't convinced anyone that Mom needs to stay alive.

It was selfish and petty and treasonous and he was being ridiculously foolish and he knew it. Gunmar would not reward the loyalty of a Changeling who delayed his escape.

But Gunmar didn't need to know. No one needed to know.

Jim would sneak the piece back into place once he had a guarantee of Barbara's safety. It should only take a short while longer to wrangle Stricklander into it. Otto might not even be back in the States until afterwards, with or without the Eyestone. Stealing a piece of Killahead was just a momentary fit of harmless foolishness for Jim's peace of mind. He'd give it back.

He slipped it from his sleeve into his pocket.

That night, in Trollmarket, he hid it behind one of the many bookcases in Blinky's library.

"Claire, I'm sorry, I can't babysit tonight."

"But you promised! Mom and Dad have that charity thing, and I have a Papa Skull concert – Papa Skull! I, like, live in their t-shirt!"

"Sorry, C-Bomb, but Dean finally asked me to a movie – and then Hank invited me out for ice cream. Tight Jeans Hank! Love can't choose, Claire!"

"But Mary, I need you!"

"I can babysit," Jim offered. Both girls jumped, having not noticed Jim and Toby listening in on their drama. Toby gave Jim a surprised look. Jim and Claire had worked on class projects together once or twice, but they didn't exactly know each other well.

"You can?" asked Claire excitedly. "Wait, have you ever babysat before?"

"Uh, yeah," Jim lied, and then added, truthfully, "Plus, my mom's a doctor, so I know infant CPR and everything."

"You're a lifesaver, Jim! Come to my house around seven? No sooner."

"Got it."

"I wrote his routine on the fridge – after playtime you can just put him down. He's a good sleeper. And he'd rather play with his food than eat it. He loves games. Peekaboo, hide and seek. What am I forgetting?"

"We'll be fine," Jim promised Claire. Enrique burbled delightedly and bounced in his swing.

"Here's the emergency contact numbers." She pressed a paper into Jim's hand. "Whatever you do, do not call my parents first."

"Because they don't know you're going to the concert, do they?" he teased.

"They'll be back late-late, and I should only be a couple hours. Three max. Um, help yourself to anything in the fridge … and if you eat babies, now is the time to tell me."

He forced a laugh and shook his head and tried not to think of Bular.

There was a honk from outside, presumably her ride.

"Hey – thanks for this." Claire smiled shyly and sweetly at Jim. "You're my hero."

"Have fun," he told her. Once she was gone, he lit his eyes red and gold. "So, Enrique, how's it going?"

The baby changed into a small green troll. It took a while for human vocal chords to develop enough for speech. "Fine enough. Pretty cushy assignment, even if I can't eat the cat."

"I brought some old argyle socks," Jim offered.

"Oooh, gimmie-gimmie!"

The smaller Changeling unbuckled himself from the swing while the bigger Changeling got the bag of socks from his backpack. They settled onto the couch. Jim switched forms as well. The couch felt strong enough to hold him.

"Yummy," Enrique mumbled with his mouth full. He'd bitten right into the zip-locked plastic bag like it was a calzone.

"Enjoy them while you can. After a few years in human guise, they start to lose appeal." Jim crinkled his nose. Even in his trollish form, he hadn't eaten cloth in years. At least plastic, glass, and metal still tasted good.

"Bossman send you to check up on me?"

"Nah. I just had a free evening." He scratched idly at the stub of his horn. "Plus I wanted to know how things have been on the other side, and you've got the latest news."

"Eh, what's to say? Still dark, gloomy, boring. Nobody knows how to have fun."

"What are the numbers looking like? There were thirty when I left, counting you."

"Down to twenty-three now."

Six Changelings lost was not an ominous death count for a fifteen-year period, Jim reminded himself, willing himself to keep breathing evenly. That averaged out to one death every two and a half years. They sometimes went decades without a death only to lose several in the same week.

"Hey, funny story," Enrique continued. "Somebody from this side's been sending blankets and candy and stuff through the Fetch once in a while."

Good; the Changelings left behind had been finding Jim's 'care packages'. He kept his expression mildly curious.

"They send books sometimes, and Dictatious hoards them if he finds them first." Gunmar's advisor was notoriously selfish with reading material. "But here's where it gets good. I've got some of those same books in the nursery here. They're stories for fleshbag kids! And he's been puzzling over the 'code' they're written in!"

Jim cackled at the mental image of Dictatious trying to 'decode' Dr Seuss or Robert Munsch.

His options for what to send had been limited to his own old things until a couple of years ago. Maybe he should print out the photographed pages of A Brief Recapitulation of Troll Lore and send that through, in case he needed Dictatious to do him a favour at some point. On the other hand, his 'care packages' were sent anonymously, and this was comedy gold.

"Hi, Mr and Mrs Nuñez!" Jim, sitting on their living room couch, plastered an I'm-trying-to-look-innocent-but-know-I'm-in-trouble grin on his once more human face. "I'm Jim; Claire and I go to school together. She –" was sneaking in behind them. "She's just in the bathroom. We were doing homework together, and Enrique started fussing, so we took a break to play with him."

They still looked suspicious, but now it was 'a strange boy was alone with our daughter' suspicious rather than 'we found a stranger in our house holding our baby' suspicious. Claire gave him a grateful look and ducked behind a door, closing it quietly and opening it loudly.

"Mom, Dad, hey!" She gave them the same nervous smile. "I, ah, see you met Jim."

"I should get going." He handed Enrique to Claire and grabbed his backpack from the coffee table. "I'll see you at school, Claire. Gracias for your help with the Spanish review. Let me know if you have more History questions."

"Bye, Jim!"

Jim ducked past her parents and bolted like – well, like a teenage boy who had just been caught in a teenage girl's home by her presumably-protective guardians while she was supposed to be home alone.

Damn it, his cover did not need this. He'd hardly ever get to compare notes with Enrique now.

Claire approached him at school the next day.

"Hey. Listen, I'm sorry about last night. I would've called to warn you they were headed back early but my phone died just after Papi texted me. But you were great. That was some pretty quick thinking. I owe you."

"Hey, no hard feelings. Did they buy it?"

"Mm. Sort of." She readjusted her backpack. "I'm still in trouble for having a boy over, but at least they think I was there the whole time. You might've even convinced them we really were studying. You should've tried out for the play."

"Ah … no, I'd never have found the time. Last night was … I've usually got a lot going on. But if you need a babysitter again, I could make time. Enrique wasn't too demanding; I really did get homework done."

Claire kissed his cheek. Jim was not sure how to react to that.

"Or maybe we could have a real study date sometime," she said.

He stared blankly after her as she walked away. Toby elbowed him in the gut and said something congratulatory.

Jim felt awkward and a little gross. Claire didn't know how much older than her he was, but he did, and her kissing him felt … not okay.

It was an innocent and unsolicited gesture indicating affection not necessarily of a romantic nature, he decided. As long as he didn't say or do anything to suggest he was flirting back, Claire flirting with him was no more inappropriate than Toby's crush on Dr Lake. And that was assuming she even had meant it flirtatiously. Platonic kisses and study dates were a thing.

Previous Chapter (Jim expresses affection through food and protective oaths)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (Toby gets suspicious of Jim’s recent behaviour)

This was originally imagined as two chapters, 'Grand Theft Bridge Piece' and 'Grand Theft Baby'. But I couldn't stretch the theft of the Bridge piece out; it was more plausible for it to be an impulse decision on Jim's part, rather than having him sneak into the museum later for premeditated treason.

As for Enrique, there would be too much risk of being caught if Jim were directly involved in stealing and swapping him, rather than letting the goblins handle it as they do in canon, so the Changelings wouldn't have sent Jim along on that mission. If he were already scheduled to babysit, they might have planned the swap to take place that night, but Jim babysitting was a very last-minute substitution on Claire's part which the Janus Order couldn't have planned for.

I hope Not Enrique being referred to as Enrique didn't confuse anyone. From Jim's perspective, they're both Enrique, because Changelings assume their Familiars' names. Not Enrique won't actually be called Not Enrique until non-Changeling characters find out that he's a Changeling.

Jim actually has no objection to troll-human romance. But he is an actual adult, if a young one (the troll equivalent of being in his early-to-mid twenties), so having an adolescent flirt with him is uncomfortable. If they were in college instead of high school, the ‘age difference’ would not be an issue. (Instead the main issue would be that he’s more attracted to trolls than humans, which, like his relative age, hasn’t come up in-story yet.) Jim’s relationship with Claire in this AU will ultimately be a platonic friendship ... assuming she ever forgives him after she finds out he had her brother kidnapped.

#trollhunters #Becoming The Mask chapters #Changeling Jim #Not Enrique #Nomura #Walter Strickler #Claire Nuñez #My Fanfiction #Monday is fanfic day!#caution: contains swearing #Tales of Arcadia #Familiars #Jim Lake Jr #Enrique Nuñez

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funkymeihem-fiction · 7 years

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My Lovely Assistant- Chapter 6 (Junkenstein Meihem)

Dr. Junkenstein was hard at work, soldering in the guts of yet another of his zomnic toys. Far from his usual grumbling and muttering, he whistled to himself as he worked, one of his favorite classical pieces. He’d always been a good whistler, though it tended to be done only when he was happy…and it had been a long time since he’d been this happy. In The Hall of the Mountain King whistled and tootled from his pursed lips, uncaring of the blue sparks flying near his face and goggles. “Doctor!” Mei’s voice called from behind him. He whirled around on his stool, dropping his soldering irons and immediately sat straight to attention. “Yes? What is it, love?” The soft shuffle of her cloth slippers hurried across the room, hop-hop-hop, coming to a stop beside him and waving a wax-sealed envelope. “A raven just dropped this off at the window. A letter!” “Give!” He snatched the paper from her claws, ripping it open as she crowded in beside him, listening to him muttering under his breath before lowering it to his lap in a baffled manner. “Uh…Well, that’s new? The Lord of the Castle is erm, inviting me to a party?” “A party?” she echoed, brow furrowing. “But…you said your Lord wasn’t fond of you.” “He’s not!” Junkenstein spat, turning on her with more vehemence than he meant, both hands gesturing rapidly. “He hates me, he hates everything I do! He’s never appreciated all the work I’ve done for this crumbling empire. I could have turned this fetid hole into the center of a scientific and magical Renaissance, and instead he turned me away, time and time again. Well he may be content to sit there and rot in these ruins…so that’s exactly what he’ll do, when we’re done with him! Him and his Engineer and all the villagers who mocked me, and his whole decayed kingdom! And now that I know the secrets of life, I’ll bring him back. I’ll bring him back just so I can destroy him again! And again! And again! It’ll never end!” Mei was silent for a long moment, watching his hands shaking and nearly tearing the paper in two. Hesitantly, she reached out to rest a gloved claw upon his shoulder. “Doctor? What about the invitation?” “Oh, right, the invite…” He focused, adjusting his goggles as he stared down at the paper with disgust. “Much as I’d love to throw this in the privy hole where it belongs, one can’t just ignore a missive from their Lord, eh? Especially don’t need them poking around at a time like this. Not when we’re so close. I’ll show my pretty face for a moment, just long enough to show I’m there, then come right back. Can you get my formals out of the closet, sweetness? Might need some cobwebs cleaned off them too. Tch…Asking me to a party now, of all times. After what they’ve done to me?!” The jiangshi’s arms encircled him abruptly, pulling him in against the crane sigil on her chest and holding him to the top of her bosom. His enraged trembling halted, burrowing his face against the dark cloth of her robe as she placed cool lips to his always-fevered brow. “Do you want us to keep a watch here while you handle them in the castle?” He uttered a muffled “Mmmhmm,” against her breasts before pulling his face out with a sigh. “Keep a lockdown until I’m back, sweetness. Anyone besides me tries to get in…well, feel free to eat them.” “You’re very kind, Doctor,” she said with a fanged smile. “Heh, aren’t I just the best? At least you see me for what I am, darl. And when all this is done, everyone else will see my greatness too!”

*** Dr. Junkenstein had never liked his formal wear. The coat and ruffles around the throat had been inherited from some dead relative or other and were decades out of style, but he’d never much bothered to update his wardrobe. Mei had done a bang-up job with what they had, though. He was clean, primmed, and pressed, and she’d even managed to slick his hair back…a little. It was starting to spring up in places it shouldn’t, but that was hardly a thing to worry about now, as he limped his way across the courtyards, to the castle proper. The castle was as dark and dilapidated as the rest of the grounds, but cheerful yellow lights flickered in the window as the doctor invited himself inside. It wasn’t much of a party, even by his standards. He saw a handful of local villagers, a handful of others from the next village over; and there was Lord Balderich himself, standing head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the party, and his ‘royal’ Engineer, who had grown in the other direction and stood head and shoulders shorter than anyone else as well. A single cello, being played rather badly, had been set up in the corner, and Dr. Junkenstein saw nothing of interest save for a table full of food and steins of beer. If he was going to be forced to this wretched gathering with these wretched people, he could at least get some decent grub and a drink out of it. He loaded up a platter with finger foods, snorting a bit when he took a bite. It didn’t taste anywhere near as good as the meals made for him by his lovely jiangshi. But what else could he expect from these dirty commoners? He shoved a handful of biscuits into his jaws, his cheeks almost overflowing, when he felt a gigantic hand clap around his shoulder. He nearly leapt right out of his coat and ruffles, turning wide-eyed and wide-cheeked to the form of Lord Balderich looming over him, casting him in his enormous shadow, big enough to even give his own Monster a run for his proverbial money. The doctor choked a bit, trying to swallow. “Mmmfmm?!” “Just the man I was wanting to see,” the giant boomed, smiling with large white teeth. “Our very own Dr. Junkenstein.” Dr. Junkenstein managed a leery smile and coughed a mouthful of crumbs up out of his throat, voice dry. “Y-you wanted to see me, sir?” Lord Balderich brushed the debris from the front of his shirt, his Engineer standing nearby and watching in disapproval as his Lord wrapped one bulky arm around the scrawny doctor and started to lead him through the gathering. “We haven’t seen you in a while, Dr. Junkenstein. Where have you been?” “Oh, uh! You know, doing this and that. Busy, busy.” The badly-played cello was getting fainter and they were getting further away from the party, off into the side rooms, and Junkenstein swallowed a bit nervously. “I mean, after all, Lord Balderich, you didn’t seem to very interested in my last creations…” Lord Balderich opened up one of the doors, to a room holding little more than a few flickering candles and an enormous keg. Junkenstein found himself abruptly sat down on one of the chairs, and a mug seemingly appeared from nowhere in front of him, sloshing with brew. Lord Balderich and the Engineer sat across from him, each with their own drinks, and his Lord smiled at him again in a rather unnerving way. “Sit with us, doctor, have a drink. Allay our…concerns.” “Concerns?” “Have a drink, doctor? A gift from some of the brewers to the north, much better than the ones up at the main event. Have a drink.” Lord Balderich seemed to be waiting, and at a loss, Junkenstein tilted back his drink. He sputtered a bit, not used to whatever brew was inside, some kind of strong beer that he’d never tasted before. With a cough, he offered a polite, “Uh, thanks. S’good?” The Engineer smiled. “Damn right. Now, why don’t we all sit down and have a good, hearty man-to-man chat…” ***

They had kept refilling his beer and asking him questions. Where had he been? Busy. In the tower. With what? New projects, probably nothing His Lordship would be interested in, as usual. What had those strange noises been, coming from his lab at night? Rats. Probably rats. Big ones. What of the omnic slaves he’d been working? Oh, all those got decommissioned aged ago, just like they’d wanted. Who was the shadowy figure stealing ducks out of the pond that one night? No idea, mate. The Engineer poured yet more beer into his mug, even as the doctor tried to shake his head, swaying slightly. “And we’ve had reports of figures, not yours, moving about your tower. More of your little machines playing at people, or do you have…visitors?” “Visitors?! S-sure I dunno what you mean by that!” Junkenstein sputtered, bubbles popping in the foam of his beer as they watched him drink more. “I know you have a tendency to talk to yourself, doctor. But I hear that you’ve been talking to…someone else,” The Engineer growled. “What are you up to, in there?” “Work! S’called work, not like you would know anything about that!” “Then you wouldn’t mind opening up that tower and showing us your work?” The Engineer stood, as if meaning to head to the tower right that moment. “Like hell! That’s my personal property, and you’re not gonna disturb us!” “Technically, Dr. Junkenstein,” Lord Balderich rumbled, “That is my personal property. And if you’re doing unscrupulous things, I have every right-” Sweat rolled down the doctor’s forehead. “You stay out of it, old man! S-sorry! Sorry, I meant, Your Lordship! But I won’t let you, you leave us alone.” “Us? Who is ‘us’ and what have you been doing?” “I’ve been busy, arright?!” He shouted petulantly, stomping his peg against the stone. “I’ve had a lot on my mind! I’ve got more things going on than anyone here could understand. No-body! Nobody except her!” “…her?” The Engineer said. “Yeah, I got a her now, and you better stay out of it!” “Who is ‘her’?” The short bearded man grilled him further. Junkenstein swayed on his foot and peg, his eyes unfocused behind his goggles. Some part of him knew that telling them about having a ravenous undead Chinese vampire as an assistant was not the best idea, but his being able to brag was an even bigger concern. “I told you I got a ‘her’ now. Ya wanna know why I been busy, mates? Because I got a lovely lady and I needed to put things right with her!” Both Lord Balderich and his Engineer looked surprised, shooting glances to one another before the shorter man asked doubtfully. “You? With a woman?” Balderich shushed him with a wave of his hand, smiling slightly and looking on to the mad doctor in slight approval. “Well that is…unexpected news. No wonder your behavior’s been stranger than normal. I had thought that you had more nefarious purposes, not simply problems with women-” “Well they aren’t exactly problems. And don’t act so surprised! Because I’m a man, with manly concerns, now. Had it with a woman, I did.” The doctor’s scrawny chest puffed, the lace around his neck even seeming to flare like a peacock’s feathers. “Then congratulations to you, my boy!” Balderich seemed strangely pleased to hear the news, his relief obvious. The doctor gave him a suspicious look, but Balderich merely continued, eyes growing nostalgic. “I suppose I need to apologize for assuming the worst. So you’ve been sneaking about with a woman? Hah! I wouldn’t have guessed it. But I’m sure we all remember our firsts. Or well, perhaps my Engineer is starting to forget after how many children?” The Engineer smirked and plucked at his beard, “I plan to remember again with her tonight, actually! Ha ha haaa!” Junkenstein blinked groggily, but smiled along with them. It had been such a long time since either of them had shown the slightest interest in him, and even if they weren’t bowing before him or praising his scientific advancements, he felt a little glow in his chest at even their minute approval. “She’s ace, mates. Dark eyes. Red cheeks. Grabbed right onto those nice plump hips, I did. Right down on the ground like beasts, we did! It was wild!” He took another drink of beer and it made his head spin. Balderich’s giant palm slammed into his bony back, nearly spilling his drink all over as he laughed heartily. “Now that sounds like the kind of woman we all need!” The doctor gave them a watery grin. “Couldn’t walk right for the whole night, then had to wash my trousers and everything…Like a man! I mean, that still counts, right?” “Hmm?” “Like kind of going all over the inside of your trousers because of all the grindin’ and movin’ and suckin’…” He rested his bony chin in his hands. The Engineer’s grin slowly faded and he gave a cough, and even Lord Balderich seemed unsure of what to say, giving the young man a look of half pity. “Well that’s…grrhmm…progress? You might not have reached your, er, full destination, but the journey is half the fun, they say! It’s good for a young hot-blooded man like you to live a little, sow your wild oats, do…normal…things. Just be decent to the girl, yes? Who is she? Not someone from the village, I suspect?” Junkenstein sighed dreamily, downing more beer. “No, she’s from…real far away. Ordered her out of a catalog…” Lord Balderich slowly put one hand over his face and the Engineer shook his head, muttering something about ‘other shoes always dropping’. “She’s not like anyone here, no. She’s real pretty but in a different sort of way. Real sweet, too. I don’t care that she can get somewhat strange or if she feels a bit cold or that she smells a little like mothballs! Sometimes you gotta…you gotta overlook little things in the name of love, eh?” His head was starting to hurt and his gut was definitely roiling, and he decided that the best thing to do was drink more beer to quiet it all down again. “Well, son, that’s a real noble way of looking at love. Good for you. Sometimes you have to overlook the little flaws in each other!” “Yeah! Yeah, mate!” he slurred into the woodgrain of the table. “Like…if she can overlook all my flaws, although not like there’s many, I can overlook hers.” “Hear, hear!” Junkenstein waved his arms, spilling more beer. “I’ll still love her the way she is!” “That’s the spirit!” “Yeah! It don’t even really matter to me that she’s dead! I brought her back! I love ‘er!” The others stopped and stared at the doctor took yet another deep drink, their smiles fading. Even through the haze of alcohol over his senses, Junkenstein could feel the mood in the room change. He looked at them over the rim of his cup, a dribble of amber liquid oozing from the corner of his chapped lips. “Uh?” And then Balderich launched out of his chair, roughly snatched onto the front of Junkenstein’s coat, ripping the lapels of it and starting go drag him away through the doors with a series of loud bangs. Dr. Junkenstein flailed, gripping at his arm, squirming wildly with cries of ‘What gives?!’ and ‘What’s the big idea?!’ but the massive man ignored him. His boot and metal peg leg scraped occasionally at the ground, even his massive height held aloft as he was carried towards the entrance of the castle, trailed by the scowling face of the Engineer close behind. Then there came the creaking of larger doors, and the cool night air on his face, and Junkenstein felt himself spinning end over end until he landed face first into the black mud and sewage of the overflowing ditch outside the castle gate. He peeled himself up out of the sickly mess with a groan, nearly retching, trying to wipe the muck from his goggles. Curious faces started to appear in the yellow windows and around Lord Balderich and the Engineer, peering around them at the crumpled form of the scorned doctor. “I told you before, Junkenstein! I will not have my subjects graverobbing, consorting with the dead, or you continuing your obsession with…with unnatural things!” Balderich’s huge finger pointed down at him. “I gave you a chance after we caught you digging up the cemetery…twice! But whatever wretched dead woman or whatever poor creatures you are keeping in that tower, I will not allow it.” He looked down to his grinning Engineer. “Get your men and unlock that tower. Break it down if you have to. And you-” He narrowed his eyes at the figure in the mud below him. “Get out.” Even with his senses reeling and his gut churning, Junkenstein knew that things had gone extremely poorly at this party. He tried to stagger upward, slipping in the stinking sludge as he saw the Engineer vanish back inside. Baring his teeth, he spat out a mouthful of black and faced down the Lord of the Castle. “Don’t you goddamn dare, you overgrown homonculus! You so much as lay one finger on that door, I’ll…I’ll call down the storms on you! You aren’t gonna get her, aren’t gonna get any of them! They’re mine! They’re all mine!” Something pelted him across the face. One of the villagers had purloined a sandwich from the party, hurtling it through the open door and hitting him on the forehead. Roast beef and tomato slid down his already filthy features, and as he went to wipe it away, a much more solid apple hit him square in the gut, almost making him keel over as he found himself beset by a storm of hors d’oeuvres. The villagers always had enjoyed a good show, after all, especially if the lunatic doctor was on the receiving end. And as usual, the Lord of the Castle stood by and watched, disgust written on his features as the man was humiliated further. Dr. Junkenstein turned and sloppily retaliated, throwing a chunk of bread that missed its target by a mile, staggering back towards the relative safety of his courtyard and his tower. A pastry smacked him in the back of the head for his troubles, the villagers booing and jeering at him as he went. He hobbled as quick as he could, his drunken state making it harder than usual to steer himself towards home. And it made it even easier for the Engineer and his band of followers to catch up to him, even trying to move past him to intercept his path to his own tower. Judging by the tools in their hands, they intended to break their way in sooner than later. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you fuckin’ dare!” The doctor shrieked, grabbing at the handle of the bolt cutters one of them carried and pulling back, trying to wrench it from his grasp. “You aren’t getting in!” They shrugged him off and he tried again, until he was roughly thrown back by the bulky arm of the Engineer. “Step aside, boy. You can pack up your things after we’ve made sure the Lord’s holdings are secure.” Torches were starting to appear amongst the gathering crowd, and Junkenstein knew it was only a matter of time before the pitchforks came out as well. He grasped onto the Engineer’s arm, uselessly trying to throw him back, spattering them both with more stinking mud. “I said no! It’s mine, she’s mine, they’re all mine! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you! Worthless, stinking, wretched cretins! I’ll kill-” A fist landed upside his nose and he spun like a ballet performer, red droplets flying to speckle over the sludge as he fell back. A cold breeze swept through the courtyard like a living thing, the flames of the torches flickering and guttering to one side all at the same time. As the crowd’s eyes turned to look, a purple and black blur hurtled across the dark expanse of mud and stone, moving so fast that the wind whistled behind it. It hit the Engineer like a well-aimed thunderbolt, the impact making a loud cracking sound as the stocky man was suddenly sent flying backwards. His back hit the stone wall, limbs splaying outward in almost a silly manner as he groaned loudly, peeling slowly off the vertical surface and landing face-down in the muck as well. Mei landed noiselessly beside the doctor, leaning down to wrap both arms under him and gently lift him upward. Caring nothing for his filthy state, she teetered him into a standing position before turning to the shocked sea of faces before her, irritably adjusting her glasses and placing her hands on her hips, lips screwing up around her fangs with an expression like a very, very displeased schoolmarm. “So mean! Honestly!”

#meihem #meirat #junkmei #junkrat #mei #junkenstein #junkenstein au #jiangshi #funkymeihem #balderich #engineer #story

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resinoasis · 7 years

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100 Questions for BJD Owners

Bringing back an old classic!

100 QUESTIONS FOR DOLL OWNERS

1. What is your name and birthdate? --Luna, 2/27

2. How long have you been interested in dolls? --Dolls in general: my whole life! XD BJD’s: about 13 years.

3. How many ball-joint dolls do you have? --Six

4. What is/are the name(s) of your doll(s)? --Lydia, Xander, Douban, Phoenix, Touren, and Ani

5. What type of BJD do you have? --DOD Tender Too and Bee-A, Luts Cutie Delf Mary, Lati Blue Rucas, Fairyland Elf Shiwoo/Soulkid girl hybrid, and BlueFairy Shiny Junior Leila.

6. Do you believe in Fate? --What the heck does that question have to do with dolls? And, um…no.

7. Who is the manufacturer of your doll(s)? Dream of Doll, LatiDoll, Cerberus Project, Fairyland, Souldoll, and BlueFairy

8. What was your first reaction when you saw your BJD for the first time? --MY BABY’S SO BEAUTIFUL!! o(ToT)o

9. Have you shown your doll off at a Doll Show? --Nope. I’ve taken them to a few meet-ups though.

10. Which do you prefer? Commercial BJDs (such as Kyon customed dolls) or Customizing your own BJD? --Customization all the way! I’ve done custom faceups on 3 out of my six dolls—no regrets!

11. How do you feel about Commercial BJDs? --They’re gorgeous!

12. Did you create a personality/background for your doll(s)? If so, describe them! --Sure did. I need to update their bios though and post them here.

13. What type of relationship do you have with your doll (ex. beloved daughter, friend)? --Lydia is my sweet little daughter! The others are kind of just “strays” I picked up, or they’re just involved with Lydia in some way.

14. Does your BJD have a nickname? --Not all of them, but Phoenix calls Xander “Xandie” sometimes (much to his chagrin), and I sometimes call Phoenix “Fifi” just for fun. Touren gets “wolf-kid” every now and then, and Ani is “the puppy”.

15. What special meaning does your doll's name have? --Lydia=Greek for “woman from Persia” or “beauty”, Scheherazade=The clever, beautiful storyteller from The Arabian Nights, Kovaleh=random Farsi surname I found. Xander is short for Alexander (just a name I like), Phoenix comes from her flaming red hair, Douban is named after a physician from the Arabian Nights and his surname al-Razi is after a real Persian doctor, Touren was a name my friend (his previous owner) invented, and Ani is named after a former student of mine named Anna.

16. Does your BJD have a special seat/place in your room? If so, where? --Yup, they all either have their own chair or share the bench.

17. Did you buy a chair specifically for your BJD? --Of course! Poor Ani still needs one though.

18. Does your BJD have accessories of her own? (ex. pets, toys, hairbrush) --Oh goodness, tons…they’re so spoiled!

19. What hard to find items do you wish you could get for your doll? --MSD sized tablets

20. What is the most expensive thing you've bought for your doll? --A DollHeart limited edition “Fer” outfit…y’all know how crazy expensive those are!

21. When you go out, do you take your doll with you? --Not usually, but I have taken them a couple places, and I always take one of them with me on vacations.

22. If so, where have you taken your doll? --To work, to my friends’ work, on vacation, to meet-ups, and to the mall!

23. Is there a regular place you take your doll out to? --Poor dears rarely gets taken anywhere…

24. If you do take your doll out of the house, how do you carry her? (ex. SD violin case, backpack,etc) I usually just carry them in my purse or in the official DOD carrying case.

25. When you do take your doll out, is it easy to do or do you find it's more trouble than it's worth? --I get sooooo paranoid when I take them out, so that’s why I don’t do it often.

26. Does your doll have a friend? Do you think your doll wants a friend? --They’re all friends with each other really, but they have some other friends outside of the house too.

27. If you could build your dream FCS for free, what would it be? --MSD, beauty white pureskin, F-13 head, boy body, 02 legs, 01 feet, 05 hands, optional cat ears, W-85N wig in black (natural), silver 16mm eyes, and custom goth makeup! (Basically another one of my OC’s Ame)

28. What is your favorite optional head? --MSD F-13!

29. What is your least favorite optional head? --MSD F-12…Bleh

30. What type of fantasy head would you like to see produced? --An elephant anthro!

31. What is your favorite wig for your doll? --They all only have one wig each…

32. What made you choose your BJD out of all the various types? --I love Bee-A’s elegant, mature face and her petite body! Plus she was a great price, but I would have gotten her even if she was the same price as the other DOD’s. As for the others they mostly perfectly fit the characters I had imagined them to be. (Except Touren, who was an impulse buy and I figured out his story after I got him)

33. Do you change your BJD's wig often and have you tried styling the wigs? --See #31…

34. How many wigs do you have? --Um, hello? #31??

35. How many shoes do you have for your doll? Does your doll have socks too? --I don’t feel like counting them all, but probably about 15 pairs of shoes between all of them (Xander only has one pair and Ani has two but the rest of them share shoes since they’re all the same size). Lydia and Phoenix share about 5 pairs of stockings.

36. What types of clothing does your doll wear? (name in order of favorite styles) --Lydia: goth, renaissance lady-style, casual, Xander: casual play clothes, Douban: casual and traditional Persian, Phoenix: colorful and frilly, Touren: punk, Ani: cute and playful.

37. Where do you purchase your BJD clothing? --I make most of their clothes myself, but occasionally I’ll buy them clothes from DollHeart or Dollmore.

38. Do you sew clothing for your doll? --Sure do!

39. Do you plan on dressing your doll as an anime character? If so, who? --My dolls have done cosplay before: Touren has dressed up as Sora from No Game No Life, and Douban has dressed as Gackt (okay not an anime character, but still cosplay!)

40. Do you make accessories for you doll? What kinds? --Arm warmers, scarves, belts, hats, hair ribbons, you naaaame it!!

41. Have you made doll items that you plan on selling? --I used to a while back, but I haven’t done it in years.

42. Do you sew/knit/crochet and for how long? --Yes, I’ve been knitting/crocheting for 10 years and sewing for more than twice that long.

43. Is there a type of music that you listen to when you are with your doll? --Not really, whatever I’m in the mood for at the time.

44. Have you ever thought about opening a doll shop? --I did for a while, but I had to focus on other things so I quit.

45. Do you have a specific area in your home where you keep your dolls or customize them? --They live in my home office/crafting room.

46. For how long did you know about BJDs before you actually got your BJD? --I first discovered them a year or two before I finally broke down and bought Lydia, then the others trickled in after her over a span of years.

47. Do you carry your doll around in the house? --Only when I’m showing them off to people, hehehe

48. Is there a special place in your house that you like to sit with your doll? --Sometimes I’ll sit with them while I’m making something for them in my craft room or while watching TV.

49. What are the comments you have heard in regards to your doll, after others have seen it in person? --“SHE’S SO PRETTY!!” or “that’s creepy”

50. Does your doll have their own website? --Do Tumblr and Instagram count? I used to have an actual website for my dolls, but I gave up the domain after a couple years because I wasn’t really maintaining it. Social networks are free, so I have those now.

51. What is the color of your doll(s) eyes now? Also give the size of eyes too.

-- Lydia: 16mm brown, Xander: 14mm violet, Douban: 12mm brown, Phoenix: 14mm light violet, Touren: 14mm brown, Ani: 12mm gold.

52. What is your favorite eye color for your doll(s) and why? --They all just have one pair that they wear permanently.

53. How often do you change the eyes? --See #52

54. How many different pairs of eyes do you have for your doll? --Anyone else noticing a pattern here?

55. Do you believe your doll has a "soul"? --Um, no…They do indeed have “life of their own” but it’s all in my imagination of course!

56. Do you talk to your doll? --Guilty.

57. When talking to your doll, how does she address you? -- Lydia addresses me as “Mama” but the others just call me Luna.

58. How do men react to your doll? --Most men have either thought they were beautiful or just didn’t really care…I have one male friend who can’t sleep in the same room with them though. XD

59. What was your favorite childhood doll growing up and why? --I had a rag doll named “Kachina” that I made when I was 11. I loved playing with her and making clothes for her! I even took her to Lebanon with me.

60. Did you have to sell items from a personal collection to raise money to purchase your doll? --Nope, I just saved money for a while.

61. If so, what did you sell? --Didn’t sell anything

62. How much do you spend on your doll a month? What is the maximum you would spend? --I don’t keep track of monthly spending really…I don’t think it’s out of hand enough to do that…

63. Have you purchased something you regretted later? --Nope

64. Do you like buying clothing sets for your doll? --Nah, I prefer to make their clothes. Especially since Douban and Ani are such odd sizes it’s hard to find ready-made clothes for them.

65. How often do you change your dolls clothing? --Every now and then, or if I make them a new outfit.

66. If you could take your doll anywhere with you in the world, where would that be? --JAPAN!! (I regret not taking any of my resin babies the first time I went, so I want to take at least one of them with me when I go back.) I did take Lydia with me to France, Xander to South Korea, and Ani to Spain.

67. Have you ever done something to your BJD and felt bad about it? (ex. leaving her naked all night, dropping her) --One time Lydia fell while I was taking pictures of her…Scared me to death, but luckily nothing happened.

68. What paint brand do you use on your doll? --Liquitex Acrylics and Faber-Castell chalk pastels.

69. If you were stranded on a deserted island with your doll, what 3 things would you want for your doll to have? --eh??

70. Does your doll have a girlfriend/boyfriend? --Hahaha, this is a fun question…Lydia has been long-distance married to a doll that belongs to a friend of mine for like 10 years now, Pheonix and Touren sort of like each other, and Douban is still single but too focused on his medical career to be interested in girls. Xander and Ani are too young still to be even thinking about such things (I think o x o;;).

71. Does your doll have siblings? --Lydia and Douban have a sibling-like relationship, Xander and Phoenix are actual siblings, and so are Touren and Ani.

72. Will you pierce your doll's ears? --Never!

73. Have you given your doll a manicure? What color? --Yes! Lydia has dark red fingernails, and Phoenix has a rainbow manicure.

74. Did you do the esthetic process on your doll? --Only on Phoenix so far. Xander has also had an elf-ear mod done.

75. If so, are you glad you did? --Yes! I have a special bond with Phoenix because I feel like she’s the most customized out of all my dolls. Xander HAD to be an elf, so no regrets there.

76. If not, why not? --Lydia was already sanded, Douban is tan so I’m afraid to do any sanding on him, and with Touren and Ani I just never got around to it.

77. If you could change anything they did with the BJD body, what would it be? --Umm…more options for hands (jointed fingers <3) and feet.

78. Have you sueded and wired your doll? --Ani was hot-glue sueded when I got her, but I actually removed the sueding because I didn’t like it.

79. If your BJD could be friends with any other BJD, which one would it be? --Hmm…they have quite a few friends already.

80. Do you plan to get more BJDs in the future? --OMG yes…I have 12 more dolls on my wishlist! (yes that means I want to eventually triple my collection)

81. If so, which BJDs? -- You might wanna sit down for this… • Umiko – Minifee Celine A-line Tan girl • Katja and Lexi – Kid Delf Almond BW girls x2 • Tara - Spiritdoll Smart Snowdrop BW girl • Maribel – Minifee Seorin A-line BW girl • Zahara – Littlefee Chiwoo girl • Kiri – Zuzu Delf Corni girl • Ouji – Luts Model Delf Avalanche Brown skin boy, cat ears added • Ame – Luts Model Delf Avalanche White skin boy, cat ears added • Jikai – Bluefairy Tiny Fairy Louis girl • Kairina – Resinsoul Bei White skin girl • QKR 2.0 – Resinsoul Bei Gray skin girl

82. Do you change the paint on your BJDs often? --Not really, Lydia and Douban are the only ones who I have re-done their faceups.

83. What is your BJD’s favorite color? --Lydia: Red, Xander: Green, Douban: White, Phoenix: RAINBOW! Touren: Black, Ani: Pink

84. In general, what is your SD’s mood or look? --Lydia: sweet, gentle mood; cute but deadly look…Xander: up to no good, Douban: professional, Phoenix: crazy colorful, Touren: punk, Ani: playful.

85. Describe your BJD's favorite outfit. --Lydia: crimson DollHeart Fer outfit, Xander: monster hoodie and jeans, Douban: brown striped pants and an open kimono jacket, Phoenix: rainbow wa-loli kimono dress, Touren: black leather pants and grey hoodie, Ani: teddy bear t-shirt and pink shorts.

86. Does your SD have a formal name? What is it? --Lydia Scheherazade Draculesti Kovaleh-Yueh, Alexander Elrond Kotani, Phoenix Zoe Kotani, Douban Ahmed al-Razi, Touren Oukami, and Ani Oukami.

87. Do you have any colored wigs for you SDs? (green or pink) Which ones? --Lydia’s wig has wine red tips and streaks in it…does that count?

88. What BJD would you like to see in the future?

-- At this point in the hobby, I feel like everything’s been done already, but I’d like to see more steampunk themed or android dolls.

89. If you have more than one BJD, do you favor one over the others? --Lately I’ve been paying lots of attention to Ani because she’s my newest doll and is a unique size…she needs a whole new wardrobe just for her!

90. Is your BJD for display only? --I guess you could call them “display mostly” XD I do pose them for pictures/photostories and I’ll pick them up when I show them to people, but most of the time they just sit around in their chairs.

91. Do you have any brand name clothing for your SDs? --Just a few Dollheart things for my MSDs and one 9NineStyle outfit for Ani.

92. Is there any BJDs you regret not buying? --Eh, not especially

93. Do any of your friends own BJDs? --Yup!

94. Do you have BJD get-togethers?

--I used to have friends over to do doll things and make photostories but I haven’t in quite a few years.

95. Have you lied about the true cost of your SD to your family or friends? --Nope, I’m pretty honest about it.

96. Do you think of yourself as being obsessive about your BJD? If so, explain? --I think I was at first, but I’m not nearly as bad as some other people I’ve seen.

97. If the house was on fire, what would you grab first? Your SD, wallet, clothes or no time and save yourself? --I’d probably grab my dolls and laptop (Mah FILES!) first…everything else is replaceable.

98. Did you buy a digital camera only because you wanted to take pictures of your BJD to show off online? --No, I have DSLR but I use it for other things besides just my dolls.

99. If you passed on, who gets your SD? wife/husband/kids/best friend/no one...it goes with me! Explain why! --I’ll give them to a daughter or granddaughter that I know will love them and take good care of them, but if I end up not having any kids, my dolls are going with me to the grave!

100. Do you think you'll ever tire of your BJD? Why/Why not? --Hehehehe…I’ll probably still be extra-possessive over them even when I’m a 90-year old grandmother!

#bjd #bjddoll #bjd questions #bjdquiz #ball jointed doll #doll collector #100 questions #bjdmeme #repost

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alittleoptimistic · 7 years

Text

Renaissance of the Mind: Chapter 3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Summary: Senator Thomas Jackson has spent the better part of his career swaying the public opinion to the belief that old souls are villainous. Everyone knows only people who screwed up royally in their previous life come back for another chance. They are criminals and should be imprisoned the moment they are discovered. But after a chance meeting with a strangely familiar young man, Thomas’s worst fears are animated. A lifetime of his own forgotten memories in his unwieldy hands, Thomas is faced with a decision.

His headache wasn’t going away.

In the last hour, he’d consumed four ibuprofen pills, half a bottle of aspirin, and copious amounts of alcohol.

This was turning out to be a poor decision.

A headache had started just after his speech and had yet to let up. His entire head throbbed and pulsed with every heartbeat. He was alone at home and taking one of the very few sick days he could, and he was distantly aware that he should probably call a doctor at this point. Two days of a migraine wasn’t normal. Right? Maybe?

He couldn’t hold onto a thought long enough to really consider it anyhow.

But he did know now that medicine overdose along with alcohol was a bad plan. Very bad.

He’d been puking in the toilet in the dark in his bathroom for the last twenty minutes.

And all the while his head continued to pound.

This was just some kind of flu. Something he’d caught. But man it was bad.

After what felt like an eternity, his stomach settled slightly. Thomas dropped onto the floor, exhausted, and stayed there with his eyes shut. After a while he had the presence of mind to flush the toilet, but after that, he just sat, trying not to think about anything. Everything hurt. He wiped his mouth with a growl of frustration and got to his feet shakily.

He’d need water and food after that, some part of him supplied. Or he’d faint. Slowly, he stumbled out of the bathroom, down the hall to his immaculate, very seldom used kitchen. All the curtains in the house had been drawn, and every light turned off. So naturally, he tripped over just about everything in his stumbling way to the fridge.

Once reaching the fridge, he kept his eyes shut as he opened it and cool light spilled out. He groped for something to eat and landed on a stick of butter.

Whatever. He’d take it.

His brain buzzed and whizzed around and the next he knew, he was on his couch, the stick of butter in hand, staring blankly at the swirling pattern on his ceiling.

“This sucks,” he croaked. “This is a big ol’ pile of cow dung, Jeff.” He frowned. “Jack… son.” Pathetic, really. Honestly, he couldn’t even say his name right.

He ate a piece of butter from a trembling hand and cursed the empty house in a general sort of way.

It was then, of course, that his cell phone buzzed. Light flooded the room like laser beams and he groaned, turning his head away.

But it kept on buzzing on the coffee table just a few feet away.

Muttering, he forced himself to sit up, and grab it.

“What?”

A shocked pause. “Oh.” It was Maria. “Goodness, you really are sick.”

Thomas would have rolled his eyes if that wouldn’t have hurt enough to send him to his knees. Instead, he blinked slowly. “Yup. What’s wrong?”

She sighed. “Ah, well, I was calling because I’ve been able to handle all of your responsibilities today thus far, but after that speech, if you disappear for too long-”

“They’ll forget about it.” She was right. They would. They needed to ride this wave of media presence if they wanted to get somewhere.

“Exactly. They need to keep seeing you. So… when can you come in?”

Thomas exhaled tiredly. “Uh, as soon as I can.”

“We really need you here, Mr. Jackson. I understand but-”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted. “I want this just as much as the rest of you. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

He could hear her smile in her voice. “Great! Awesome. Thank you, sir! Please feel better. I will see you tomorrow, then!”

“Tomorrow.”

He hung up.

And tossed the phone sloppily across the room.

He’d think about everything... tomorrow.

From the outside, Alex’s record shop looked like one of those crappy corner stores where you buy lottery tickets and cigarettes and people hang to cause trouble. There were bars on the windows and the door needed new paint. It got stuck every time Alex opened it, and he had to shove his shoulder into it get it to work properly.

But Alex didn’t care.

He’d poured his heart and soul into this little shop and if his heart and soul looked like a crappy corner store, so be it.

That said, on the inside, he had done everything he could to fix it to exactly his liking. Records of all sorts were stacked in boxes and on the walls and on shelves, and large posters were framed on the walls. There was a semblance of order. It went like this: new stuff, front of the shop, old stuff, back of the shop. And it worked just fine for him. If anyone needed help, they’d ask and he could find them the record in less than thirty seconds. He and his roommate/best friend Jack ran the place and Alex wouldn’t have it any other way.

Alex, per usual, shoved open the door. The smell of coffee and warm leather greeted him. There wouldn’t actually be any coffee yet, but he’d brewed so much of it inside the tiny shop, the smell was sort of ingrained in the walls. He flicked on the lights and smiled.

In the back of the shop, he’d set up the pay counter, and he had dozens of record players to use. He’d choose a style for the day, usually, and Jack would probably complain about it, but that was okay. He swerved around the randomly placed shelves of records. He did pretty well with this shop. Especially since records were coming back as ‘retro’ and ‘cool’. Whatever. He liked the music and he liked being able to see the music as it spun. He liked the way it sounded and he loved searching for songs. Forgotten songs. Lost songs. Songs so rare, no one had listened to them in decades. He’d dig like some kind of treasure hunter in people’s garage sales, obscure auctions, pawn shops, for more music.

And then, if he felt like it, he’d sell his findings.

Before, Alex hadn’t had enough time to appreciate such things like music. He’d been so hurried, so desperate to make something of himself, he’d been solely devoted to writing and politics. They were everything.

He didn’t have his writings or his political career now. They weren’t ‘his’ anymore.

And funny enough, that was okay. The world would keep on spinning whether or not Alexander Miranda chose to step into the public eye.

However, he would like to make it clear, that he could. He could become all that he was in the 1700s. After all, back then he’d started with absolutely nothing. Even at his lowest moments in this life, he had far more than he had as the young, scrappy, and hungry kid that stumbled off a burning ship into New York without a single friend in the world and nothing but the clothes on his back.

Yeah, if he wanted, Alex could do it again. It would take some luck, but he’d pull it off like he always had.

But, man, he really kinda liked music. And he realized now, he wasn’t the type of person that could multi-task. He couldn’t listen to music and drink in a bar and dance with pretty girls and- and live if he was constantly waiting to get back to his ‘real’ life of writing and politics.

So whatever. Yeah, he didn’t have much money, yeah he lived in an area that was burgled every other night and drug busted at least once a week, but he didn’t mind.

People were as kind as they were bitter, and music had a way of soothing people, making them happier for just a moment. He’d never figured out how to do that as a politician or a soldier.

He’d thought it was just one of those gifts some people had.

Like Eliza. She’d been able to make anyone smile the moment they walked into a room.

And Alex had just assumed he couldn’t do that. It occurred to him maybe he hadn’t really tried.

He plugged in his favorite player and thumbed through a few of his favorite records. He wasn’t a hard core Beetle fan, but they were alright if he was in the mood.

Eh. He wasn’t today.

He was still debating between a classical Bach or Kansas when the bell on the front door rang. Kinda. The bell had a tendency to get drowned out by the shoving and pushing and scraping that it took to open the door.

Alex sat down in a swivel chair, hands behind his head, and spun in a circle. “If I look at you, and you look high, Jack, you’re going home.”

Jack, the roommate, stuck a ruffled head through the door and huffed. “Uh, for your information, I am clean.”

Alex glanced at him and snorted. “Clean.”

The redhead, almost-former druggie looked down at his wrinkled t-shirt and jeans and shut the door behind him. “In the substance sense.”

“That’s nice. Physically clean would be nice too.”

Jack glared at him, straightened his jacket with an eye roll, and stomped past him. “I’ll wash my face in the sink.” He opened the back door and left it open behind him.

“There are a washcloth and some spare clothes back there too, I think.” Alex had put some in there when he wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to keep up his half of the apartment rent. He grinned and used his legs to push the swivel chair halfway off the ground. He could just see Jack enter the bathroom. “You’re the best!” He added with cheeriness he knew Jack would find extremely grating.

“You’re the worst,” came his muffled reply.

Alex chuckled and went back to searching through his stack of records. He liked old music as much as he liked new music. And when he said old music, he meant like, the stuff people tended to just lump together as either ‘hymn church stuff’ or ‘classic ugh so boring’ as well as the music made in the early twentieth century.

He chose something at random and clicked it in place.

Mozart. Piano softly washed over the room. Now that kid been something of a phenomenon. Jefferson had detested him if he remembered correctly. Wouldn’t play any of his music. Alex had no idea why, just that Jefferson had always been very irritated whenever someone attempted to play it. Alex chewed his lip. See, this was the thing about old music. It was flypaper for memories. Even now, if he played the song he and Eliza had first danced to, he’d be thrown back to that hot summer night and the feeling of the blue silk dress beneath his sweaty fingers. Her light touch on his shoulder and his equally gentle touch on the small of her back. It had been humid and the hosts ran out of punch halfway through the night, he recalled. But it had been some kind of magical time anyhow.

He was usually very careful about which old music he played, just in case it was too much for him that day.

With a sigh, Alex pushed himself out of the chair, stretched his back, and started the coffee machine beneath the counter. He didn’t actually like coffee, but the caffeine was too large of an asset. He needed caffeine.

Once enough for a cup had brewed, Alex quickly removed the pot, poured the coffee into his cup, and hastily thrust it back under the hot stream. There was probably a reason the coffee machine was stained brown. He smirked, wrapped his hands around the hot mug, took a sip, and bent under the counter to continue his never-ending task of sorting. He’d come back yesterday from a day of hunting with a dozen new records that needed a home in the shop.

He’d done this for a few minutes when someone shoved on the door. Alex frowned. That was unusual. People were not often here this early.

With an armful of records in one arm and his coffee cup in the other hand, he struggled to stand.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you.”

The records slipped, but suddenly someone was there, taking hold of a bunch and setting them down on the counter. Alex smiled. “Thanks,”

“You are very welcome. Pardon me, but are you, Alex or Jack, sir? The sign outside said Alex and Jack’s Records and I… I… Are you alright?”

Alex stared, horrified. He had gotten very good at recognizing people. Mia had been right. It was in the eyes. He couldn't do it every time, but sometimes...

And there was no way he would ever forget the eyes looking at him right now.

“B-Burr?”

The man frowned, confused. He was a dark-skinned, smartly dressed man with close cut hair and a very familiar cautious, concerned smile. “It’s Barron, actually.”

The coffee cup slipped from Alex’s fingers, and the moment broke. Alex cursed and jumped back from the hot liquid. “Oh jeez, S-sorry, sir. I- no, I’m, this is fine. I’ll just clean it up.”

“Here, I’ll help.”

Burr- Barron- whatever, leaned forward and Alex jerked back as if burned. “No. Really. I have a cloth right here.”

Which he did. He was always spilling coffee it seemed.

He bent beneath the counter, and once he was hidden, waves of terror crashed through him.

Terrified wasn’t exactly what he thought he’d feel like if he ever ran into him. But here they were. His hands shook as he scooped up the coffee and deposited the broken ceramic into a small trash can.

Good enough.

It was obvious Burr didn’t remember. Otherwise, he would have reacted when Alex said his name. So… there was nothing to do. Nothing but serve him as he would serve any other customer. It wouldn’t be fair to him otherwise.

When did his life get so complicated?

Taking a deep breath, Alex wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up. He forced a smile. “Sorry about that. And, I’m Alex.”

Burr laughed easily and shrugged. “Nice to meet you. And don’t sweat it. We all have days like that.”

“I tend to have quite a lot of them.” Alex laughed nervously.

Look at him. Small talking with his freaking murderer.

“So,” Alex gestured at the records around them. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Looking for something specific.” Please say no.

“Actually I am. I’m,” He smiled sheepishly. Burr, being sheepish. What the actual heck. “I’m a history teacher, and, I swear this is relevant, there’s a piece of music that was composed during the eighteenth century that I heard about at some point. And anyway, I thought it would be interesting to show it to the students. But, I can’t for the life of me find it anywhere. I asked around and, long story short, they said you were my best bet for rare music.”

Alex bobbed his head. Probably too many times. “So, you’re teaching like, world history?”

“American. Revolutionary War, actually.”

Alex’s voice cracked. “Oh.”

There was an awkward pause. Alex cleared his throat. “So, do you know the name of the song? The composer? Year it was made?”

Burr chewed his lip. “I… I remember learning that Thomas Jefferson, the president, I mean, was fond of it. He was there when it was composed. A friend of his was the composer.”

Alex racked his brain, wondering where he’d picked up something so obscure, but shook his head. Alex hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms with Jefferson. “Sorry, man. I’d need more information than that.”

Burr sighed. “It was a long shot anyhow. Do you have anything from that time period?”

Oh did he.

He forced himself to think. A businessman. He was being a businessman. “Uh, um, I know Thomas Jefferson liked Bach. A lot.”

Jefferson used to hum it obnoxiously loud when Alex was trying to speak.

Burr’s eyes lit up. “Anything you can think of. That would be great.”

Okay. Alright.

He could find some Bach. Scurrying, Alex got to the back of the room and flipped through several of his classical pieces. He was having a hard time gripping things. Everything kept slipping through his sweaty fingers. Bach. “Here we are.” Alex lifted a record. Nearly dropped it. “I don’t know how much you know about music-”

“Very little.”

Alex did that strange nervous laugh again, fully aware that it would seem profoundly weird to Burr. Barron. Ugh. “Well, anyway, this is great. I read in a history book once that he’d often hum it when he was trying to concentrate, or uh, trying to derail other people’s concentration.”

Burr laughed. “Alright. That is certainly interesting.”

Alex handed him the record. “It’s rare, so I doubt you’ll find it this old. It was recorded early twentieth century. More authentic, people say.”

Shrugging, Burr walked to the counter. Alex scurried after him. “Sounds good.”

Alex named his price and Burr paid without complaint. He caught a glimpse into his wallet, and Alex mentally rolled his eyes. Of course, Burr would end up rich. Again. He must have some other source of income. Unless history teachers were usually carrying that much cash these days.

As Burr folded his wallet, Alex couldn’t bear the silence. It would eat him up inside. “So, um, Revolutionary War. You know a lot about it. That’s like, Founding Fathers, right? Alexander Hamilton and stuff?”

He kicked himself.

Why did he say that? Why the heck did he say that?!

Burr’s eyes lit up again. It was strange, so very strange to see him this way. Something had happened after the war. He’d lost that light. And now it was back. “Hamilton. That’s not usually one people name. He’s a particular favorite of mine.”

Alex’s stomach fell to his converse. Right. Of course, he was.

“Bit of a prat, but a financial genius. No one ever argued that. And a brilliant lawyer. Did you know he defended one of the first suspects of a murder conviction once America was a nation?”

Yeah. He did.

Alex shook his head. “No. That’s pretty cool, though.”

Barron stared at something Alex couldn’t see but suddenly shook himself. He smiled that sheepish smile once more. “My apologies. I do not mean to give you a history lesson.”

Alex tried to keep smiling. “Well, I hope your students enjoy the music. And- and you yourself, sir.”

Burr dipped his head. “Thank you for assisting me. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

With that, he tucked the record under an arm, forced open the door, and exited into the city morning.

Everything froze.

And

Alex fell backward, landing perfectly in his swivel chair. He held up his hands to his face and watched them shake in a detached horror.

“Yo, anyone tell you your clothes look like a Grandad's? Uh, what’s up? You look like you saw a ghost.” Jack poked his head through the back door, a toothbrush still in his mouth.

Alex laughed, slightly hysterically. “I just sold an antique record to Aaron Burr.”

Jack wrinkled his nose, thinking. “Wait, like, the wig and red coat guy in the duel?”

Sure.

Alex was frozen, staring at the place Burr had been standing. He needed composure.

“He told you?”

“Hmm?” Alex forced his eyes away. “Uh. Yeah.”

Jack gave him a seriously? look. “And you just let him walk away? Alex, he’s a murder! You should have called the police!”

What? Why? “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything to me, Jack. He just wanted a record to show to his students.”

“But, dude, he’s killed, someone!”

Alex blinked, crossed his arms and turned his swivel chair to face Jack totally. “More than two hundred years ago. In an entirely different life.”

Jack shook his head. “No, no, man. You gotta get out more. They’re saying old souls are stuck in loops. They just do the same things they did in their first lives. That’s why they’re dangerous. He’ll kill again if he hasn’t already.” He cocked his head. “Actually, nevermind. Don’t call the police. I think I still have some weed in one of your lockers.”

It took Alex a second to register that. He was already thrown by Jack’s worldview. “What? Dude! You can’t just leave weed in the store!”

Jack shrugged. “Sorry?”

Alex sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands.

He was going to need more coffee.

#Hamilton #fan fiction #multi chapter #thomas jefferson #reincarnation!fic #fan fic

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ratherhavetheblues · 5 years

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INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘AUTUMN SONATA’ “People like you are a menace”

I can’t, for the life of me, regard Ingmar Bergman’s film, Autumn Sonata(1978), as the flat-out domestic clash others choose to believe. What is the real fascination and entry-point here, to me, is that the film’s protagonist, Eva, played by actress Liv Ullman, is made to look like a carbon copy of the actress, Ingrid Thulin, in the Bergman film, Winter Light (1963). Whereas Ullman generally holds forth as a flakey dreamboat, Thulin forever relishes looking and behaving scary. And, moreover, the latter’s performance, as an off again/ on again lover of a rural clergyman, looms very large in Autumn Sonata.Arguably the most contentious and demanding of all Bergman’s films, Winter Light needs to be carefully fathomed, if nonsensical soap opera is to be avoided here. Thulin’s Marta, in that 60’s puzzler, perseveres as a fatuous humanitarian infatuated by an angst-ridden atheist priest. The latter has come to detest her ugly body and her even more ugly attitude. But he is very fortunate that the sexton of the church (a retired, hunchback railway man, named Algot) is a far deeper student of spirit than he (which is to say, a far better acrobat)—quixotically larding his sense of Jesus as a misunderstood, sensualist mortal (mortal, period)—and, as such, a slow-dawning supplement of the so-called expert’s long-held, heretical orientation. It is this ironic eventuality of risk-taking which opens the door to Marta being still in the picture and now a beneficiary of a regime of that “juggling” of opposites so dear to the vision of this film series.

The return of the aura of Marta within the orbit of Eva effectively messes up the facile supposition that we are here to deal with the dynamics and possible salvation of a family. One other inspired touch, apropos of the elephant in the parlor, is the choice of career-long wayward Ullman’s adversary, namely, Hollywood star, Ingrid Bergman, a career-long, banner sentimentalist, in her swan song, as Eva’s mother—light years away from all her other pleasing roles confirming eternal feminine wisdom. As if to lend a hand in clarifying where these rather abstruse landmines lurk, the first scene ignores “timeless truths,” in order to broach something quite new. Eva is married to another clueless preacher, Viktor (no less), who idolizes her imaginative—Algot-like—zeal, and his is the sermon of the day. With Eva at her desk in the blurred distance, there is Viktor, just outside the study, addressing us, in close-up, with some good news, pertaining to her apparently significant, individual source of reflection, salient in its disinterestedness. (A preamble, to that singularity we’re supposedly to buy into by means of the acolyte/ guide, is Victor’s sense of seeming miraculousness in becoming her husband. This would constitute a sort of inversion of Jof and Marie, from the mother lode that is The Seventh Seal. It would also constitute this Norwegian backwater being a vaguely subversive agency.)

At that doorway, where we meet them, Viktor also provides a smattering of Eva’s rather cosmopolitan background. She had a several years’ relationship in Oslo with a medical doctor and had written “two small books” during that time, before cutting off the technician. (We should, on the basis of that sketch, recall the imaginative protagonist in Bergman’s film, Through a Glass Darkly[1959], who comes to grief with a husband/ doctor, loathing her failing to worship in the church that is rather bloody-minded science for the tone-deaf and feeble courage, and convincing her that she is schizophrenic and needing to be locked up in a mental hospital. In her being violated, she comes to regard God as a giant spider. As it happens, Ingrid’s role here, as Charlotte, a famous classical pianist, comes to show us her technique on the keyboard, which reveals one hand in action being like a flitting spider. Moreover, in the Ingrid vehicle, Gaslight [1944], she finds her run-of-the-mill-crook/ husband attempting to see herself insane, and ripe for suicide and a nice payday.) Eva’s next gig was as a journalist; and in that capacity she met Viktor at a bishop’s reception where she wouldn’t have to linger long—though seeing in Viktor a gentle front to make some progress.

On the day we meet them, he explains that he often pauses by her workshop/ study/ dining room to try to imagine how newish thoughts come about. Pulling out one of the “little books,” he tells us, “This is the first of her books. I like it so much. She has written, ‘One must learn to live. I practice every day. My biggest obstacle is that I don’t know who I am. I grope blindly. If anyone ever loves me as I am [which is to say, loves her vastly unusual and usually hated presence], I may dare at last to look at myself [to become a factor in a hitherto, totally, hostile jungle]. For me that possibility is fairly remote.’” Viktor reverts to his own statement, to confirm to us that the mild spouse looms, notwithstanding a strong loyalty, as part of the jungle which bedevils her seemingly placid home and militant planet. “I’d like to tell her just once that she is loved wholeheartedly, but I can’t say it in a way that she’d believe [she in fact not looking to him for accompanying her high-risk leaps]. I can’t find the words [he can’t find the daring].”

He leaves his post as Eva approaches us, folding a letter to Charlotte (of whom there has been not a word in seven years). Coming to his office, she’s of a mind to have Viktor read aloud what she’s now proposed for their partnership, with the one silent partner. (First, though, we hear from the active partner that she has learned, from a mutual friend, that Charlotte’s lover, a Renaissance man, Leonardo [no less], has died.) “Dearest, Mama, I know what a terrible blow this must be to you. [She and he actually knowing nothing of the sort.] I was wondering if you’d care to come to visit us for a few days or weeks. Please don’t say no, right away… We have a piano and you can practice all you want to. [A vaguely cavalier gambit.] It would make a change from a hotel. [Superstars don’t usually get kicked around like that.] …We’ll make a fuss over you and spoil you.” [The ambiguities of “fuss” and “spoil,” in play.]

For whatever reason Charlotte agrees to come, it is clear the fjord locale is not the attraction. On reaching Eva’s bailiwick, the visitor is most struck that her drive has aggravated her chronic back condition. “Well, here I am,” the communicator fails, a communicator who had failed to look at the letters mentioning that their four-year-old had drowned several years ago. (Don’t for a second imagine that this is a family reunion or any form of family. Both of the women are out for something transcending family. And both of them crash miserably.) Charlotte does feel obliged to say, “It’s beautiful here,” and promises to her daughter’s hope, “Indeed, I will” [stay a long time]. Getting down to business, Eva asks, “You’ll give me some lessons, won’t you?” Charlotte’s, “Yes,” could just as well mean, “That wasn’t what I came to do here.”

Eva, I think, when you take account of her daily “practice,” could well be using Charlotte’s disarray in order to challenge the long-term, almost forgotten, contempt she sees everywhere, but particularly in the mother who could and should be exposed as being far from the real deal. And what chased Charlotte out of the woodwork? The end of a gratifying liaison in an ancient villa, the loss of which prompting a revamp of her solicitousness? (She will mention, after the skirmish to come, “I am always homesick, but, moreover, I find it’s something else I am longing for…”)

The musical royalty inherent in Charlotte, after iterating that her back hurts (sign of a weak backbone?), dashes into a long account of being wonderful under the stress of Leonardo’s final days. (Travel does have a way of crowding out what you really should be attending to. Rather than shooting her geriatric face off, her agenda would be better met by listening and watching.) “I sat with him through his last day and night. He was in bad pain. They gave him shots every two hours. Now and then he cried because it hurt. He wasn’t afraid of dying.” This tug-of-war about grace might have been an avenue taking her and us a long way. Losing, as she carelessly does, such a field of well-being and ascendance might have put Charlotte seeing some playability about the hosts, a primer in a new solitude. Being an acrobat of high distinction in the mode of music does closely coincide with juggling as to others. Could she take that opportunity with Eva and Viktor? Did Leonardo open a door to her where there is much to be learned and enjoyed? (During the brawl to come, Charlotte reveals that her nothing of a set of parents—nothing but money—hurled her into a process of regarding nothing but the gratifications of brilliantly hitting the right notes.)

Eva’s moment to shine would be at the piano and its heretic arrangements. But her mother has tossed such a load of dismal screwballs at the outset as to shred her (truth to tell frail) reflective traction. (What looked, to her, at that sanctuary at the silent desk, being a go, nearly instantly becomes the ruin of all her rosy plans. The paragon of a range of sublimity puts foot to the floor a very common bilge of gossip pertaining to her friend’s cancer implicating the factor of plague, so omnipresent in the films of Bergman, where the functional so rapidly slips to the dysfunctional.) “The sun was blazing down and there were no awnings.” Then there were troubles securing a better room in the hospital. She opens the window at sunset (without any sharing of the beauty). “He said it wouldn’t be long…”—the kind of insert familiar from the world of Nicholas Ray. “The nurse said I should eat. But I wasn’t hungry… The smell was making me sick. Leonardo dozed off; then woke up and asked me to leave the room. He called the night nurse, and she came with a shot. A minute or two later, she came out and said Leonardo was dead… We had lived together for 13 years. And had never had an angry word. As often as I could, I went to see him at his villa near Naples. He was kind and thoughtful and happy about my success… One day, he gave me a long look and lovingly said, ‘This time next year I’ll be gone… but I’ll always be with you.’ It was sweet of him to say so, but he was apt to be rather theatrical… I can’t say I go around grieving. Of course he left a gap but it’s no good fretting… Do you think I’ve changed much?” “You’re just the same,” Eva tells her, having been seen, by quick cuts, overrun by Charlotte’s remarkable grossness.

The visitor/ technocrat eventually notices the disappointment and tears on her daughter’s face. “Did I say something wrong?” the star asks. Eva brushes it off as being excited and a bit tense. Tentative hugs break up to news of such a supposed vacuum here, specifically, activated by Eva’s church accompaniment and recitals. This prompts Charlotte to compare that virtual nothing with the five school concerts she gave in Los Angeles, each time seating 3000 children. “I played and talked with them. I was a huge success…” That unspoken provocation, now part of a new realization that her mother will always be a sterile, but volatile, brute, shifts the sophisticated hope into the shadows in order to posit a cheap assault of her own. With the fanfare, “There’s something I have to tell you,” Eva melodramatically discloses that her cerebral- palsy-victim-sister, Helena, whom Charlotte consigned to a clinic of the hopeless, years ago, to forget (later she will reason, “Why can’t she die?”), has for the past few years been living with the hosts. The doting mother had prefaced her annoyance with, “Some people are so naïve.” When Eva retorts, “You mean me?” the now feeling-besieged guest snarls, “If the shoe fits.” Not surprisingly, on meeting the one she hoped to never see again, she takes off her wristwatch, and, placing it on her daughter, tells her, “It was a gift from an admirer who said I was always late…”

A quick cut from this bemusing good deed finds Charlotte in her room devouring a cigarette and firing off the soliloquy, “Why do I feel like a fever? Why do I want to cry? I’m to be put to shame. That’s the idea. A guilty conscience. Always a guilty conscience. I was in such a hurry to get here. What was I expecting? What was I longing for so desperately?” Cut to the dining room where the hosts, putting out the best tableware, have become tentative, and in the case of Eva, pathological. “You should have seen her when I told her Lena was here! She actually managed a smile…” What she actually managed managed—along with the hostess who imagined taking the classy road—was to obliterate any traction toward disinterested discovery between them. Now tightened like snare drums, the duration of the visit becomes a fevered battle, testing us to see through shabby rhetoric (like the dead sermon of Tomas, in Winter Light, and the dead childishness of Isak, in Fanny and Alexander).

We’ll cover this death march in two ways: a brief unpleasantness which probably never should have seen the light of day; and, a more extensive survey, of the textures of civilized hate. “I’ll cut my visit short,” the world traveler tells herself. “Then I’ll go to Africa, as I originally planned” [hoping to find in exotica the coverage she hardly dares to admit she lacks]. At any rate, she is ruthless (not the same thing as resolute) in her makeover. (“I held her [Helena’s] face and felt the disease twitching at her throat muscles.”) What needs to be recognized here, for Bergman’s work, is that the convention of family, for all its pragmatism and caring, is grossly overrated and stands essentially as a means of instinctively crushing serious lucidity, which is to say, serious love. Eva is embarrassed in her no longer seeing any point of contributing her musicianship in Charlotte’s presence, while being forced to suffer it, anyway; that night, the hostess invades the top dog and rains a dismal hurricane upon her mother, for having been a very poor instance of the form. The visitor leaves in the morning, never to be seen again.

However unforthcoming the interplay proves to be, it’s a gold mine treating of endeavor and its quicksands. With Charlotte dressing like a Mayan goddess for the Nordic 4 pm dinner, and handed, by a phone call from her agent, a small fortune for a week’s labor, she’s ready for what’s left of the day. Before she has surfaced, however, the hospitality-2 slips into a register often heard in the films of Nicholas Ray. Eva blurts out, “It’s like a ghost falling on top of you… Do you think I’m an adult?” Viktor tells her, “I guess being an adult is being able to handle your dreams and hopes, not longing for things… Maybe you stop being surprised.” Eva adds, “You look so sensible with your old pipe. You’re very adult.” (Viktor being a cipher; but her rapid decline being chilling.) After the end of that premature dinner, there is, by the protagonist’s one and only fan (unaware that the recital is now a bad idea), his urging her to what in fact is an arrangement of a Chopin prelude being shot forward a century to come forth as discrete notes reaching for others of that kind and taking the pulse of the infrastructure of sound itself. “But you wanted your mother to hear you play,” the innocent calls out. A nervous and unnerved performance ensues, with cuts to Charlotte, clearly unimpressed. The latter’s formulated politeness—“Eva, my darling. I was just so moved—adds to Eva’s annoyance. “Did you like it?”/ “I liked you.” The expert adds, “We each have our own.” The hostess’, “Exactly,” does not rise to diplomacy. Nor does her insistence to have Charlotte deliver her own rendition. Not only does the guest provide a powerfully professional effort; but she adds a conceptual commentary, which comes to bear as an exploding of the revolutionary’s emotionality. “Chopin was emotional but not sentimental. Feeling is very far from sentimentality. The Prelude tells of pain, not reverie. You have to be calm, clear and even harsh. Take the first bars, now. It hurts but he doesn’t show it. Then a short relief. But it evaporates immediately, and the pain is the same. Total restraint the whole time. Chopin was proud, passionate, tormented and very manly. He wasn’t a sentimental old woman. The Prelude must sound almost ugly. It is never ingratiating. It would sound wrong. You have to battle your way through it and emerge triumphant.”

Eva gives credit to Charlotte’s cogency, particularly since it is, appearances notwithstanding, surprisingly close to her own cogency. Crowning her lecture, the leader of thousands intimates, “For 45 years I’ve worked at these terrible preludes. They still contain a lot of secrets…” (Secrets, in fact, which Eva, the fragile rebel, had broached at her hermetic writing table, and also, perhaps, in face of the sentimental accompaniment of the popular music of her era. Thereby, not only the rather heroic involvement with Helena, but the shrine she has maintained in her dead son’s bedroom, being for her a way, “to let my thoughts wonder” [also a shock to Charlotte], implies, despite quixotic concomitants, a concern for some kind of holistic action, which her present guest seems intent to avoid at all costs. During the cattiness when setting the table, Eva emphasizes her upbringing in the style of “beautiful words,” which she equates with a large measure of phoniness (and explicitly nails hapless Viktor—he’ll tell the inoperative mother-in-law that Eva’s tenure here involves never a moment of love [in fact, her experience in total never entailing love]—for his being one such weakling when trying to be affectionate). And yet, at the shrine for the boy, she runs with “beautiful words,” hoping to mesmerize the multi-faceted celebrity along a course of rather facile “secrets.” “All I have to do is concentrate and he [toddler, Eric]is there. Sometimes, as I’m falling asleep, I can feel him breathing in my face… It’s a world of liberated feelings… There must be countless realities, not only the reality we perceive with our dull senses… It’s just fear and priggishness to believe in limits…” Eva looks to the Mom who is not a Mom, to corroborate these findings. Charlotte, for all her scandal, is far too savvy to buy into that scenario.

And that rebuff, in the vernacular of another era of confusion—Viktor telling Charlotte, “She [Eva, the myopic seer] got lazy, gazing at the play of light over the mountains and fjords”—goes viral soon after the clichés of pleasant dreams are done. Just before that, however, a little pothole springs up, when Charlotte (never straying from the forum having made her a rich goddess) brings up the loveless marriage. “If only you’d leave people alone!” Eva snaps, before assuring that she’s cool. The cool one fumes in the stairwell, while the pragmatist counts her recent inheritance and fantasizes giving the hosts a better car. “It’ll cheer them up.” Where things stand now—livid that she’ll never be part of a majority—nothing could cheer her up. Hearing Charlotte having a nightmare provides a pretext to attack. The aftermath of such an event being a prelude, for Bergman’s work, to cling to security, there is the mother, who isn’t a mother, fishing (as her daughter had gone fishing) for solicitude: “You do like me, don’t you?” / “You are my mother,” comes back, as if she’d pulled a handgun. Ready to be devastating, the one who loves no one plays a game of love. “Do you like me?”/ The rapid response is, “I love you. I broke off my career to stay at home with you and Papa.” Eva adds the cutting complement, “Your back prevented you from practicing six hours a day. Your playing got worse and so did your reviews. Have you forgotten it? I don’t know which I hated more, when you were at home or when you were on tour. I realize now you made life hell for Papa and me.”

She’ll go on to skewer the guest for being unfaithful to her father, amused by the attempts to maintain that everyone in the loop was cool. She’ll go on all night in that domestic vein, while the concise drama comprises her caring not a whit about that matter (while confronting her impotence as a thinker and cowardly laziness as a human being, along with large amounts of wine, put her in a temporary perspective of such madness). Of course, some sanity would prevail—one of Eva’s eyes fastened over the glass, her eye distorted—as she cries out, “I’m so confused! I thought I was grown up and could look clearly at you and me. Now it’s all one big muddle!” But when Charlotte attempts to state the obvious, “You’re exaggerating,” she’s met with, “You’re interrupting!” After more ridiculous momentum, the interrupted (largely self-interrupted) investigator asks, “What am I to say?” The nasty drunk replies, “Defend yourself!” [the ugly brawl, in Sawdust and Tinsel, 1953, putting in a brief visit]. To which the sort of Merry Widow asks, “Is it worthwhile?” Eva relives a time when Helena was hale, if not hearty, and Charlotte and Leonardo came by the homestead for a visit. The celebrity soon hopped off to Switzerland to prepare more fabulousness, and Leonardo was confronted by an adolescent Helena being infatuated by him. The less than Renaissance Man rudely bolts to Alpine power, disturbing the young girl to a point of her condition flaring up. This memory becomes an indictment going so far as to Eva’s accusing her mother that her poor behavior was the cause of the sister’s being a cripple. (“He left on the last plane…” [a touch of Casablanca melodrama].) “There’s only one truth and one lie. You’ve set up a sort of discount system with life, but one day you’ll see that your argument is one-sided. You’ll see you’re harboring a guilt, just like everyone else…” During the long night, Charlotte had had her own confusion and tears, in addition to needing to lie on the firm floor to offset a lack of backbone. Eva had spent most of the night in a chair which becomes an ironic throne, to Charlotte’s being a supplicant. The last word really registering, as the night dribbles down to clichés, like an Ingrid Bergman movie, is the visitor on the way out: “What guilt?”

Eva takes a walk in a graveyard by the fjord, untrammeled by the bilious self-expression that shot down the proposals of the thinkers of the day before. It’s getting dark, and the mystic has an agenda—making dinner for Helena and Viktor. But the rather alarming multi-tasker gives us a break. Though being surrounded by the dead, she commences a dialogue (frequently complemented by cuts to Charlotte and her agent, in a first-class train coach, on the matter of “something else I’m longing for…” as they flee from a cursed detour). “Are you stroking my cheek? Are you whispering in my ear? Are you with me now? We’ll never leave each other.” [The artist/ profit-center asks her neat-as-a-pin associate, “What would I do without you?” She’s suddenly troubled and looks into the darkness outside, her reflection leaving her cold.]

Once again, Viktor addresses us about his wife’s singularity: “She’s in such distress since Charlotte left so suddenly. She has not been able to sleep. She says she drove her mother away and can never forgive herself.” Once again, he’s to read out loud a letter to Charlotte, which can’t be seen as annoying. “Dear, Mama, I realize that I wronged you. I met you with demands instead of affection. I tormented you with an old hatred that’s no longer real. I want to ask for your forgiveness. I don’t know if this letter will reach you. I don’t even know if you will read it. Maybe everything is too late. But I hope all the same that my effort will not be in vain. There is a kind of mercy, after all. [It’s interplay by her has not been well engaged by the puppy-love that she’s reached.] I mean the enormous opportunity of getting to take care of each other. I will never let you vanish out of my life again. I’m going to persist. I won’t give up, even if it is too late. I don’t think it is too late.” [“Beautiful words, going nowhere.”] Though Bergman would have regarded the films of Jacques Demy as an abomination, the latter helmsman, a student of Robert Bresson, does, in his musical fantasy, Donkey Skin (1970), provide an oracle right out of our guide here, to wit, “Life is not as easy as you think.”

We’ve been challenged, by Autumn Sonata, to investigate a musical cosmos both elegant and vicious, both solo and infinite. (The backdrop of the initial credits presents us with a wildfire [perhaps including blood].) Each of the protagonists readily sees through the other’s shabbiness. Charlotte refers, with much validity, to her daughter’s being a “crybaby.” Eva, finding her mother a lot like her long ago, Oslo boyfriend, describes Charlotte as, “People like you are a menace. You should be locked away and rendered harmless.” While Eva dabbles with, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” Charlotte, far more self-critical and sophisticated, notes, “Leonardo [in a seer role] once said, ‘A sense of reality is a matter of talent. Most people lack that talent and maybe it’s just as well.’” She asks if Eva knows what he meant. Recalling her mantra, “One must learn to live. I practice every day…” she comes to the matter differently. Talent and practice. The colloquium being a bust. But not a waste of time.

#ingmar bergman

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sunflower-conspiracy · 7 years

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I was tagged by @goodtobealunatic, thanks Angie! :)

Rules: Answer all questions, add one question of your own and tag as many people as there are questions.

1. Coke or Pepsi: Coke (but I don’t actually like soda so this is only if I’m desperate) 2: Disney or Dreamworks: Disney all the way (though I do love HTTYD and ROTG) 3: Coffee or tea: I prefer coffee, but I drink tea more 4: Books or movies: Books!!!!! 5: Windows or Mac: Mac 6: DC or Marvel: Marvel (sorry Wonder Woman) 7: Xbox or Playstation: PlayStation 8: Dragon Age or Mass Effect: Okay so I didn’t even know what these were so I ran to my brother (he tests video games for a living) and asked what the hell they were…what I’ve decided is even though I don’t play video games they both sound good, but I’d totally play Mass Effect. 9: Night owl or early riser: Night owl. I hate mornings. 10: Cards or chess: Cards 11: Chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate 12: Vans or Converse: My red Converse all the way 13: Lavellan, Trevelyan, Cadash, or Adaar: I literally have no idea what these words mean… 14: Fluff or angst: FLUFF. ANGST DESTROYS MY HEART. 15: Beach or forest: Um…Um…Um…I don’t know. My heart lays in both my home in California and my home in Colorado so um both? 16: Dogs or Cats: Dogs 17: Clear skies or rain: Rain 18: Cooking or eating out: Cooking cause it’s fun even though I suck at it. 19: Spicy food or mild food: Mild 20: Halloween/Samhain or Solstice/Yule/Christmas: Christmas!!! 21: Would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot (and no the winter coats and AC’s are not an option): Too cold. Heat is horrendous 22: If you could have a superpower, what would it be: Control of the elements! 23: Animation or live action: My heart belongs to Disney, so, Animation. 24: Paragon or renegade: Renegade 25: Baths or showers: Showers 26: Team Cap or Team Ironman: Team Cap 27: Fantasy or Sci-Fi: Oh that’s hard…probably Sci-Fi only because my favorite show is Doctor Who 28: Do you have three or four favourite quotes, if so what are they? If not do you think you will in future?: I chose five….this is in order by the way….

“Though my soul may set in darkness it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

“The Doctor showed me a better way of living your life…You don’t just give up. You don’t just let things happen. You make a stand. You say “no.” You have the guts to do what’s right when everyone else just runs away…”

“Am I a troubled kid? Yeah, you could say that.”

“Two plus two equals four; I put sugar in my coffee and it tastes sweet; the sun comes up because the world turns. These things are beautiful to me. There are mysteries I will never understand… But, everywhere I look, I see proof that for every effect, there is a corresponding cause, even if I can’t see it. I find that reassuring.”

“Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.”

29. Youtube or Netflix: Netflix because Bones 30. Classic Disney, Disney Renaissance, or Modern Disney?: Classic or Modern 31. What would you tell your younger self?: Life sucks sometimes sweetheart. You have a lot to come to terms with. You have a lot of people to forgive and you have a lot of things to forget. But you will get there one day. You will be okay and I promise you, you are going to meet the most incredible people in the entire world. You are going to love so many people and you are going to lose so many people. But don’t you dare for one moment ever let that convince you to stop going and stop loving because all of those people deserved to be loved even if they broke your heart. And you are going to screw up, but don’t you regret what choices you’ve made because they have led you to where I am now and I wouldn’t trade the people I’m friends with, or the relationship I have with others in my life for the world. Everything that we’ve done has led me to this here and now. And it’s beautiful. Don’t give up, you’ll be okay, I promise. 32. If you could change one thing about the world around you, what would it be?: abuse. I would end all abuse whether it’s of power, or of adults, or of spouses, or of children, or of animals. I would end all abuse. 33. Make music or listen to music?: listen 34. Shakespeare’s Comedies or Tragedies?: Comedies 35. What Song do you have stuck in your head right now?: Bad Day by Daniel Powter 36. Going to a concert or to a huge party?: Concert! I go to a music festival every summer 37. If you could meet a fictional character who would it be?: Rose Tyler :) (there’s others but she is the main one) 38 . Do you have songs that makes you feel strong? if so what are they?: Not really any that make me feel strong but I have a few that make me feel alive and happy, those would be: Drops of Jupiter by Train, I Lived by OneRepublic, and Hoppipolla by Sigur Ros.

I’m not sure I can tag 38 people! But I can tag a number of them, before i list them anyone who is on here can do this and just say i tagged you, in fact PLEASE do it! I’d love to see what people say! Anyways the people i directly tag are: @igiveupicantthinkofausername, @hermitinthetardis, @the-hot-fangirl (hello by the way thanks for following me), @because-fandoms, @asmilelikestarlight, @princesskittenoftardis, @tardis–dreams, @hellostarlight20, @secretfangirl18, @the-marauder-of-gallifrey, @thetenthtardis, @forever-is-my-promise-to-you, @wordsintimeandspace, @girl-who-follows, @julibellule, @everyjourneylove, @myicarusdoctor, @bowtiies-are-cool okay that’s all i can think of off the top of my head and quick scroll through my activity feed

#im rambling

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svlvpschool-blog · 5 years

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Educators' day

Educators are probably the most effective individuals in our lives. Some state, and I concur, that educators grasp what's to come!

Today we praise educators; recall our top choices and even the ones we generally got an issue with. Today is Teachers' day!

Teaching is a method for imparting learning. For any individual, learning begins from the phase of infancy. Teaching doesn't really begin in the best school in Yamunanagar. What is fortunate or unfortunate, what to do and not to do, what is correct or wrong is instructed by guardians even before an individual figure out how to talk. All the fundamental exercises like standing up, walking, drinking or eating, playing are educated by guardians or relatives. As the age advances, kids enter from the phase of infancy to youth when they cross the edge of their homes to step into a precise situation called swami Vivekanand school Yamunanagar.

Educators' day is a day to recognize and commend their commitment towards educating and empowering society. Be that as it may, I can't resist the urge to reminisce over how these festivals have changed throughout the years. During the '70s and '80s when I was in the best school in Yamunanagar, I distinctively recollect plucking roses to make a bundle for my group instructor and afterward bashfully hold up in a line to hand it over to the commendable beneficiary of my love. During school in Yamunanagar, blooms offered approach to greeting cards on which we would pen our genuine appreciation towards our subject educators, unquestionably place it on their tables and sit tight for their reaction. Instructors would invest generous energy analyzing our organizations and checking for the minutest defects. Their reactions would more often than not be encouraging, infrequent reprimands notwithstanding for linguistic slip-ups. During school in Yamunanagar, Teacher's day was enjoyable. We would spruce up like our educators and show junior classes, while they would savor an off day in the staffroom. The school was extraordinary, we had our preferred educators. Some were severe, others inviting however all were profoundly learned and open to discourses. We learned by listening to their talks, observing them, emulating them. We would approach them with all our subject related or inconsequential questions and adapted probably the greatest and best life exercises from them.

These days, educator's day greetings are traded over email's, WhatsApp messages or Facebook posts. Innovation has overwhelmed the individual touch in each relationship and instructor understudy connection is the same. Wellsprings of information have likewise changed. Prior we would go to books and well-perused educators. We had nobody with the exception of our educators to explain our questions and give us prompts look into in best school in Yamunanagar, which they so kindly and wilfully did. Presently online instructional exercises and video talks are the favored decisions for understudies. Prior we would spend abundant hours in the library reading and researching, presently google gives all the information that you need in a flash. In any case, the validity of information got to over the internet can't be vouched for. Eventually one needs to go to an educator for check and approval. Along these lines, one can securely say that educators are, will be, and have consistently been, basic.

I joined the teaching calling in 2001 and each and every day I feel cheerful for the decision that I made. The gigantic fulfillment that I get after a well-conveyed address, causes me to endeavor towards magnificence and flawlessness. Consistently on instructor's day, I am overwhelmed with messages and calls from my understudies and that fills me with satisfaction on having accomplished something beneficial with my life up until now. Today, on Teacher's day, I offer my thanks to every one of my educators whose indelible impressions are always scratched in my memory. My extraordinary gratitude to my guide instructor from swami Vivekanand school Yamunanagar, who directed my doctoral theory as well as encouraged me all that an educator represents. Being proficient and intensive in one's subject is an outright should; however, similarly significant is to be a decent person, one whom understudies can approach, identify with, gain from and endeavor to imitate. Much obliged to you, instructors, for being the signals and guiding lights towards a healthy life.

Under the aegis of UNESCO, the World Teachers' Day is seen on fifth October over the globe with the elevated aspiration of bringing together educators, trainers, leaders, specialists, and scientists from everywhere throughout the world to examine the advanced education scene around the world. The World Teachers' Day is commended to honor the commemoration of UNESCO Recommendations, 1997 concerning the status of advanced education teaching staff.

Instructors' Day In India:

India, being the origin of incredible sages and saints of unrivaled knowledge, has been an extraordinary supporter of social renaissances and gave significant impulse on a few events to the world to make goliath walks in the way of advancement and flourishing. India, on its part, school in Yamunanagar commends the Teachers' Day on fifth September consistently that coincides with the birthday of Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, the second President of independent India who is viewed as an outstanding specialist on the Indian way of thinking and an eternal embodiment of savviness.

Educators are the draftsmen of society. They are country manufacturers. The effect they have on their understudies can't be estimated in any terms. Best school in Yamunanagar Starting from the kindergarten, up till the college level and here and there even past, educators leave profound impressions upon their student's characters and lives. The importance of a decent instructor can never be undermined. An educator understudy relationship in school in Yamunanagar is the most caring of all relations where the instructor gives and anticipates nothing consequently. They inspire, control, coach, empower, fill in as good examples and are akin to guardians outside the home. Instructors

benevolently share their insight and encounters with their understudies and include their understudies in the best school in Yamunanagar' triumphs as their own, invest heavily in their achievements and consistently urge them to be better forms of themselves

Instructor's Day in India is praised on the fifth of September, which likewise is the birth date of Dr.Radhakrishnan who was the principal VP of India and the second leader of India.

He was an extraordinary pioneer as well as an eminent researcher who was adored by the majority of his understudies. He mentioned that his birthday to be praised in the best school in Yamunanagar as instructor's day as an indication of regard and thankfulness for them.

Instructor's day is commended as a token of regard and thankfulness and furthermore to tell the educators that they are being perceived as the purpose behind achievement in each individual's life.

Despite the fact that we generally tend to not comprehend the worth or significance of educators throughout our life and consistently considered them to be an individual who gave more work or reprimanded when we did any errors, as we grow up and nail our fantasy occupations that is the point at which every instructor views themselves as fruitful and that is when even we understand the penance each instructor took to shape us and make to a superior individual so our future would be a simpler street with the information they leave on us.

On this day allows all pause for a minute of our bustling booked life and think of our educators and expectation the best of wellbeing and happiness to be showered in their lives.

#http://www.lotusvalley.edu.in/

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celtfather · 5 years

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Celtic Heroes & Musical Legends #178

Inspiration is a funny friend. It finds you and guides you. It takes you to strange and wonderful places. It introduces you to heroes.

I started playing Celtic music in 1999... by accident. I had three "Celtic" songs in my song repertoire: "The Scotsman", "Irish Ballad" by Tom Lehrer, and an original Enya-esque song with nonsensical lyrics called "Lounging in La La Land".

I was practicing on the South Mall at the University of Texas at Austin when red-haired gentleman asked if I'd like to perform at a Renaissance festival. As a Dungeons & Dragons nerd, I was so excited I asked my friend Andrew McKee to start a band with me.

Soon the Brobdingnagian Bards found new Celtic music heroes and inspiration. For me, it was The Wolfe Tones, Christy Moore, The Irish Balladeers, and some random cassette that was called Irish Drinking Songs. That was my introduction to Celtic music. Those were my first Celtic music heroes.

Later, I added Ed Miller, Serious Kitchen (featuring Vicki Swan & Jonny Dyer), Dougie MacLean, The Elders, Gaelic Storm, Clandestine, and even Bing Crosby. So of course many of these you have heard on my podcasts.

Who are your Celtic music heroes?

Welcome to the Pub Songs Podcast, the virtual Public House for Celtic culture and change through music. My name is Marc Gunn. I am a Celtic Geek musician and your guide to a kinder, happier world.

Today’s show is brought to you by my Heroic Gunn Runners on Patreon. These generous people pledge $10 per month so that I can keep creating music, podcasts and live streaming video shows like Coffee with The Celtfather. Of course, you can support me for any amount. But these are my heroes. Thank you!

If you have comments or want to chat in the pub, email me. Use #PubSongs when talking about this show.

Cead mile failte! PubSong.net

Celtic bands mentioned in this show: Screeched Inn, Kilt, Spirit of the West, Great Big Sea, Flogging Molly, Koady and Tim Chaisson, Jake Charron, East Pointers, NUA, 10 Strings and a Goat Skin, Andrea Beaton, Syr, Stout Pounders, Patrick Ball, 3 Pints Gone, Darby O’Gill, Young Dubliners, Wicked Tinkers, Bad Gaggis, Kilted Kings, The Chieftains, Silly Wizard, Emerald Rose, Dropkick Murphys, The Larkin’s and the Moranes, The Pogues, The Tossers, Brobdingnagian Bards, Old Blind Dogs, Damh the Bard, Enter the Haggis, Gaelic Storm, The Fighting Jamesons, Celtic Thunder, Celtic Woman, Clannad, Barney McKenna, Lunasa, Solas, Leahy, Off Kilter, The Clancy Brothers, Tullamore, Runrig, Brian McNeil, Back Bush, Tears for Beers, Alan Stivell, The Sweet Sorrows

WHO'S PLAYING IN THE PUB TODAY?

0:16 "As Long As I'm Flyin'" by Marc Gunn from As Long As I'm Flyin'

Last week, I raised the question on my Facebook page: Who are your Celtic music heroes? What Celtic bands and musicians inspired you?

Here's a link to Irish and Celtic Music Podcast.

4:32 "I's The B'y" by Screeched Inn from Screeched Inn

7:05 "Happy Cammy Drammy Birthday" by NUA from BOLD

11:50 "Run Paddy Run" by Stout Pounders from 3 Drinks Minimum

14:21 "Doctor of Gallifrey" by Marc Gunn from Sci Drinking Songs

17:46 "Skye Boat Song" by 3 Pints Gone from Live at the Shamrock Club

22:19 "The B-52" by Bad Haggis from Trip

25:48 Rant: Is it Good enough to share with a friend? Remarkable enough?

31:19 "Name On My Soul" by Kilted Kings from Name On My Soul

37:27 "Hills of America" by Emerald Rose from Celtic Crescent

41:17 "Terror Time" by Old Blind Dogs from Four on the Floor

45:28 d20 Math Question.

46:36 "Antlered Crown and Standing Stone" by Damh the Bard from Antlered Crown and Standing Stone

51:36 "Lily the Pink" by Brobdingnagian Bards from Brobdingnagian Fairy Tales

54:38 Long-form podcast content

56:00 "Kiss Me I'm Irish" by Gaelic Storm from Bring Yer Willies

1:00:49 "Gasoline" by Enter the Haggis from Casualties of Retail

1:05:38 PUB CHAT I want your feedback. What are you doing today while listening to the Pub Songs Podcast? How has this show inspired you?

Send a written comment along with any pictures to [email protected]. Use the hashtag #pubsongs in the subject of your email.

1:05:54 NEWS

Podcast music submissions form at 4celts.com

1:06:33 "Nancy Whiskey" by Marc Gunn from Not Every Day Is St Patrick's Day

1:08:32 "Sinead Maire" by Lunasa from Cas

1:16:35 "The Ballad Of Jack Dolan (The Wild Colonial Boy)" by Tullamore from Wild and Wicked Youth

1:20:34 "Day After Day" by Tears for Beers from The Secret World of Celtic Rock

1:26:51 UPCOMING SHOWS

Coffee with The Celtfather every Wednesday at 11 am

Interstellar Ginger Beer & Exploration Co., March 8 at 7:30 PM. No cover charge.

St Patrick's Day on YouTube, March 10 at 8 PM. Free show!

Join me at The Hangout in Gulf Shores, Alabama on March 17 with Kilted Kings for a St Patrick's Day celebration on the beach.

Sherwood Forest Faire, outside Austin, Texas, weekends, March 23 and 30

1:28:50 "Raise a Glass in Parting" by Marc Gunn from Don't Go Drinking With Hobbits

The Pub Songs Podcast is listener-supported. Your generous pledge of as little as $1 or more per month allows me to create music, podcasts, and live videos for your enjoyment. Special thanks to my new patrons: Tina R., Kimberly K, UT Scot, Raised pledge, Paige, River G.

If you enjoy visiting the pub, please join the Gunn Runners Club on Patreon. You’ll get episodes before regular listeners, free albums, podcasts, videos and lots more. Go to marcgunn.net to join the Gunn Runners today.

If you enjoy the music in this show, support the artists. Buy their music and merch. Follow them on Spotify. Let them know how much you love what they are doing. And tell a friend.

Pub Songs Podcast was produced by Marc Gunn. To subscribe, go to Apple Podcasts, Spotify or to my website where you can join the Gunn Runners Club on Patreon and support my music and this podcast. I’ll also email regular updates of new videos, podcasts, stories behind the songs, plus 21 songs for free. Welcome to the pub! www.pubsong.net.

Check out this episode!

#pub songs podcast

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oovitus · 6 years

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Weekend Reading, 10.21.18

After one week off, it feels like a while since I’ve checked in for the weekend roundup! It’s good to be back. And I’m back at the very start of a week long break between DI rotations. I haven’t quite settled into it yet, but I have high hopes for some rest, some cooking, and some time with Ashley, who’s coming to visit later this week.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about riding an ugly wave of body dysmorphia, my most intense in a long time. Three weeks later, things are different. I haven’t quite crawled out from under it yet, but it’s less hot and angry and persistent than it was. I’m not relating to food with the harmony that I’ve built in recovery, and which has become my norm in recent years. But I’m not suffering, either. I’m recalibrating.

One realization that has emerged is that the dysmorphia wasn’t—isn’t—quite like it used to be. Yes, some of the triggers are familiar. I don’t doubt that the change and disruption and lack of control associated with the DI has stirred things up. But I see now that the unease I was feeling in my skin was also a reaction to a situation, a relationship, that wasn’t right. I wasn’t consciously registering the fact that it wasn’t right, but my body was communicating it to me all the same. And a sure sign that I did right to change the situation was my body easing back into a place of greater balance once I had.

This is new. I’m accustomed to regarding dysmorphia or torment around food as passing shadows of my disorder. It’s never occurred to me to interpret body struggle as a signaling system, or an alert that something in my life, rather than something within me, is amiss. Coming to this realization has actually reframed my experience of body dysmorphia, at least this time around. It has given me an appreciation of what I was feeling a few weeks back, which—no matter how painful and raw—were actually protective to some degree.

When I was in recovery in my early twenties, my therapist at the time suggested that anorexia might have served a protective role for the many years in which it dominated my life. Her point at the time, which my current therapist has echoed, is that the fixations and distractions of my relationship with food and self-deprivation might have sheltered me from realities and realizations that I wasn’t yet ready to deal with.

That resonated, and it still does. But I think that whatever protection the recent unease has afforded me is different, and new. It’s a communication system, my body’s way of telling me when I’ve found myself back within patterns—interpersonal or otherwise—that I’ve worked hard to break. And because it encouraged me to acknowledge things that my conscious mind had been refusing to see, I have to extend my body a thank you. It communicated to me in a way that was alarming, but it did send me an important, truthful message.

No matter how many years I spend writing about the recovery process, it never stops taking me by surprise. For all of its mess, recovery has taught, and continues to teach me, so much. I’m not at peace with my body tonight, but I am in conversation with it. It has things to tell me. And I’m listening. That’s something to be grateful for.

Have a good Sunday, friends—and here are my recipes and links from the week past.

Recipes

A gorgeous spin on fattoush salad for the fall, featuring grilled radicchio.

Replace ghee with coconut or vegetable oil in Sasha’s homey, cozy butternut squash kitchari for a soul-warming meal.

I don’t cook with Kohlrabi nearly enough, but Sherrie is inspiring me with her lovely dish of roasted kohlrabi and creamy (vegan!) Old Bay dip.

I seem to be all about the veggie-packed fall sides this week! Another awesome creation: Lindsey’s creamy, dairy free broccoli chop.

Finally, what speaks autumn, and comfort, and home, and tradition, more than a batch of homemade applesauce?

Reads

1. Like Emma, I’m a firm defender of the boiled vegetable.

2. As part of its Overlooked series, The New York Times profiles Yamei Kin, the Chinese doctor who worked to introduce tofu—and by extension, the health benefits of soy—to Westerners in the early 20th Century.

3. Meanwhile, Quartz profiles Barbara Lipska, a neuroscientist who suffered a major episode of mental illness in 2015 and has been endeavoring to understand how people lose their minds ever since.

4. Hakai takes an illuminating look at the relationship between man and bears through time. In present time, the article travels to British Columbia, where the two animals continue to live as neighbors.

5. Finally, The Cut talks to Nigella Lawson about her career in food writing. I really appreciated what she had to say about food culture in the 90s, which her work grew in reaction to:

I think what it was, too, particularly for us in the U.K., it was meant to be the age of our great culinary renaissance, the ’90s. But it was very much taking place in restaurants. So, people started thinking they had to cook like that at home.

…what had propelled me was going to a dinner party at a friend’s house. We sat in her sitting room, at her table, and she was in the kitchen cooking quite elaborate food. And we could all hear her crying loudly in the kitchen. Everyone was getting quite awkward. It was not an easy evening. And I thought, “No food is worth that. Better to call in a pizza.” I thought, “Something’s going wrong here, that people think they have to perform.”

It’s taken me a long time to cook for loved ones without any sense of pressure to perform or wrestle with my own ridiculous standards. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that simple food, prepared in a spirit of ease, is the best way to bring folks together at the table.

I’m wishing everyone a restful night. I know the week ahead of me will go quickly, but I’m ready to be present for every moment of it, and I’ll be back to share one of my recent low-key, weeknight-friendly, vegan suppers with you all!

The post Weekend Reading, 10.21.18 appeared first on The Full Helping.

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