#the line about 'its so american to want a mans life tied up neatly with a bow at the end' hit me hard

[rivkahstudies]

This morning's article: Ijeoma Oluo's book review of "Floating in a Most Peculiar Way" by Louis Chude-Sokei

#the line about 'its so american to want a mans life tied up neatly with a bow at the end' hit me hard #articles #rivkah reads #book review #nonfiction #black nonfiction #black memoir #identity #racial identity #ethnic identity

[anatrik]

folklore and evermore sister songs list

1. the 1- champagne problems.

Common themes:

Failed relationship with unresolved feelings on both sides.

No satisfactory closure.

Recurring devices:

Champagne ( Rosè, Dom Perignon)

Toasts with friends (rosè flowing with your chosen family// no crowd of friends applauded)

Overall reminiscent tone

2. cardigan- willow.

Common themes:

A strong undercurrent of Possessiveness that seems to imply that no one could ever know or love him like she does. (I knew you dancing in your Levis, drunk under the street light, heart beat on the highline...// That's my man)

A certain sense of inevitability born of the long shared history of the two protagonists.

All is fair in this love. (I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired...I knew you'd come back to me// there's one prize I'd cheat to win)

Recurring devices:

Infidelity and forgiveness (I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired...I knew you'd come back to me// wherever you stray I'll follow)

Scars (you drew stars around my scars// show me the places where the others gave you scars)

Trains (heartbeat on the highline, stepping off the last train//you know that my train could take you home)

Linked music videos

Similar instrumentals

3. exile- coney island.

Common theme:

Contemplating the death of a relationship and the role each side played in hastening it

Recurring devices:

Male- Female duet,

Call and response ( you never gave a warning sign, I gave so many signs// did I leave you hanging every single day? did I paint your bluest skies the darkest grey?)

References to fragility ( did I close my fist around something delicate// balancing on breaking branches, we always walked a very thin line)

4. my tears ricochet- closure.

Common theme:

Scathing indictment of a much loathed ex

Recurring devices:

The ex who wants to be the good guy/hero and everything to be neatly tied up with no loose ends ( don't treat me like some situation that needs to be handled//you're the hero flying around saving face)

Reaching out after its too late ( if I'm dead to you why are you at the wake cursing my name//reaching out across the sea that you put between you and me)

5. mirrorball- tolerate it.

Common themes:

Power imbalance

Going above and beyond for someone who doesn't appreciate it (or atleast doesn't let the singer know that they do)

Recurring devices:

Constantly giving one's best (still on that tightrope still trying everything//use my best colors for your portrait)

Insecurity and a pathological need to be palatable ( I can change everything about me to fit in, shining just for you// I take your indiscretions all in good fun, I sit and listen)

Self deprecating self awareness in the outro (I want you to know I'm a mirrorball// I sit and watch you)

6. seven- dorothea.

Common themes:

Friendship

Innocence

Blurring the line between a best friend and a first love

Strong Homoerotic undertones

Recurring devices:

Quintessential American Towns™ (Reading, Pennsylvania// Tupelo, Mississippi)

The trustworthy friend™ (cross my heart won't tell no other// if you're ever tired for being known for you know, you know you'll always know me, I still got love for you// and I've got nothing but well wishes for ya)

Shared Memories (sweet tea in the summer, your braids like a pattern// skipping the prom, the soul I met under the bleachers)

7. august- gold rush.

Common themes:

Summer romance

Forbidden fruit

Other woman perspective

Recurring devices:

The beach (salt air, your back beneath the sun// costal town we wandered around, ships on water)

Sex (twisted in bedsheets// my eagles tshirt hanging from your door)

Yearning and jealousy (your back beneath the sun, wishing I could write my name on it// I don't like that anyone would die to feel your touch everybody wants you)

Knowing he belongs to another (you weren't mine to lose// I cant dare to dream about you)

8. illicit affairs- tis the damn season.

Common theme:

"Driving a new Maserati down a dead end street"

Longing for things to be different

Recurring devices:

Time limit ( a drug that only works the first few hundred times//you could call me babe for the weekend)

Roads (take the road less travelled by// road not taken looks real good now)

Perfume (leave the perfume on the shelf...don't even exist//the holidays linger like a bad perfume)

Sneaking around (clandestine meetings//I parked between the Methodist and the school that used to be ours)

A once in a lifetime connection (you showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else// the only soul who knows which smiles I'm faking)

9. invisible string- ivy.

Common theme:

The unbreakable bond between soul mates

Recurring devices:

Color (green grass// ivy, single thread of gold //tarnished glow, teal shirt//opal eyes)

Physical allegory of their connection (invisible string tying you to me// your ivy grows and now I'm covered)

10. mad woman- no body no crime.

Common theme:

Murderous Female Rage™

Recurring devices:

Boats (my canons all firing at your yatch// good thing my daddy made me get a boating licence),

Infidelity (the master of spin has a couple side flings// her husband's acting different and it smells like infidelity)

Mad women.

11. epiphany- marjorie.

Common theme:

Taylor's grandparents

Death

Recurring devices:

The number 13

Dreams (dream of some epiphany// your closets of backlogged dreams)

12. peace- happiness.

Common theme:

Title subversion (would it be enough if I could never give you peace// therell be happiness after you)

13. hoax- evermore.

Common theme:

Extremely sad songs with ultimately hopeful messages

Recurring devices:

Melancholia (stood on a cliffside screaming give me a reason// I was catching my breath barefoot in the wildest winter catching my death)

Distrust (your faithless love// I couldn't be sure I had a feeling so peculiar that this pain would be for evermore)

Self loathing (barren land, I am ash from your fire// motion capture put me in a bad light)

Turmoil (sleepless nights, winless fight// I've been feeling unmoored I'm on waves out being tossed)

Hope (your faithless love's the only hoax// this pain wouldn't be for evermore)

- Anatrik ©

FINALLLY did it

Best 5 hrs of my life that I've "wasted"

#taylor swift #anatrik #folklore #evermore #parallels #the 1 x champagne problems #cardigan x willow #exile x coney island #mirrorball x tolerate it #august x gold rush #illict affairs x tis the damn season #invisible string x ivy #my tears ricochet x closure #epiphany x marjorie #hoax x evermore #peace x happiness #mad woman x no body no crime #seven x dorothea #taylurking #taylor nation #swifties #swiftieforlife #swiftie family #aaron dessner #jack antonoff #laura sisk #taylorswift #taylor notice this

[blishwix]

❝ WE ARE ALL WEARING MASKS. THAT IS WHAT MAKES US INTERESTING ❞

huh, who’s LUKE MITCHELL? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually JIMBO “WICK” BLISHWICK VI. he is a 35 year old PUREBLOOD wizard who is CEO OF A WIXEN TECH & MEDIA COMPANY. he is known for being CALCULATING, FRAUDULENT, HEDONISTIC, CONCEITED, and AMORAL but also CHARISMATIC, AMBITIOUS, INNOVATIVE, METICULOUS, and PERSONABLE, so that must be why he always reminds me of the song IT’S LONELY AT THE TOP BY BIG BAD VOODOO DADDY and STYLISHLY RIPPED JEANS AND SUEDE SHOES, PURELY AESTHETIC AND MISLEADING SOCIAL MEDIA FEED, NEATLY TRIMMED BEARD AND SANDALWOOD MUSK, HORN RIMMED GLASSES WITH SMUDGES ON THE LENS, MOLESKIN FULL OF ENDLESS CODE AND FUTURE TECH INNOVATIONS, EXTRAVAGANT PENTHOUSE OVERLOOKING THE CITY, WHISKEY STONES AND EMPTY DECANTERS, and CHARMING PERSONABLE SMILES WITH MALICIOUS INTENT HIDDEN UNDERNEATH THE SURFACE. i hear he is aligned with THE DEATH EATERS, so be sure to keep an eye on him.

GENERAL

FULL NAME: Jimbo Dashiel Bartholomew Blishwick VI NICKNAME(S): Wick, Jim, Dash, Bart (yes he legit will go by any of these) AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 35, 02/16/1994 OCCUPATION: Tech & Media Mogul GENDER: Cis Man PRONOUNS: He/Him/His HOMETOWN: Dallas, Texas CURRENT RESIDENCE: London, I guess ALMA MATTER: Ilvermorny, Horned Serpent BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

BIOGRAPHY

MEET JIMBO BLISHWICK: THE YOUNG AMERICAN CHANGING THE WIZARDING WORLD ONE STATUS UPDATE AT A TIME. 

I’m not sure exactly what to expect when the invitation comes in. It seems archaic to be communicating over owl. There was even a part of me that thought I should revert to the “email” form which my subject is so fond of. What if the wixen tech mogul’s fondness for typing meant he had poor penmanship? To my delight not only was Mr. Blishwick’s handwriting clear as day, but it came with a gleeful acceptance to be interviewed. So it was on that high note that I made my way to Blishwix HQ in London to meet with the illustrious CEO. What I had expected was some pristine corporate office with dark leather and wood accents, sterile and admittedly cold and disconnected from the world. What I was met with was surprising. Blishwix is anything but old school in its style. Much like the young hip branding that accompanies its many products and services, the corporate HQ of Blishwix is sleek, modern and very accessible. It’s a open space of mostly glass walls, the bull pen dotted with standing desks and stability balls replacing wheeling chairs. Towards the entrance to the main floor there is a food bar, one which changes weekly I’m told. This week it’s a cereal bar, last week it was a sushi bar, the next week it’s expected to be a pho bar. Employees are scattered around it with tablets and laptops, giddily conversing around mouthfuls of rainbow marshmallows and corn flakes. There’s also several corners tucked away with velvet cushions where some team members curl up with headphones and e-readers or handheld video game consoles. Designated comfort zones, the tour guide describes them as. It’s the Blishwix goal to make sure the employees are all comfortable, so whenever they get stressed out or overwhelmed, there’s always a little place they can escape to in order to calm their nerves. In truth, Blishwix looks less like a company and more like an urban hang out for pretty hipsters in crop tops and flannels. Surely the big man on top would have a more professional set up, right? 

Even the display in the bull pen did not prepare me for Jimbo Blishwick’s personal office. It’s one of a few closed off areas to the side of the floor, wide with tall glass walls over looking the bull pen, and predominately empty save for another bean sack, a slim desktop atop a standing desk, and a row of bookcases displaying dozens upon dozens of novels, all of which I can’t place and among the only print media to be found anywhere in Blishwix. “They’re muggle books,” says a voice from behind. When I turn and get a first glance at the figure leaning casually against the glass door to the office, my gut instinct is that this is just another one of those twenty something year olds squeezing stress balls on the work floor. He’s tall, wearing a handmade beanie in a burnt orange color -- One that is, frankly, not a good pair with his golden hair. His neatly trimmed beard and horned rimmed glasses speak of an elegance that doesn’t exactly match the acid wash tattered jeans or the faded t shirt worn under an oversized cream cardigan. The shirt is colorful and bears a phrase that doesn’t come easy to me. Woodstock. Perhaps this is another “muggle thing”. It isn’t until he draws close enough that I recognize the bare footed man. It’s Jimbo Blishwick himself. “Call me Wick,” he easily responds to my surprised expression, knowing full well he wasn’t what I expected. Instead of holding out a hand in a formal handshake and then pulling up a chair for the interview, he engulfs me in a hug and ushers me into the love sack. It’s awkward at first, but eventually I melt into it. It’s just as comfortable as it looks, and their use in the designated comfort zones make more sense to me now. Wick opts to sit crosslegged on the floor, a large coffee in one hand and a bowl of granola balanced on his thighs. He sips the coffee as my eyes wander the space, finding small and interesting little things to ask him about. 

The first thing that draws my attention is a set of crystals sitting on the top of his desk, and when I ask he lets out a howling laugh that echos throughout the office, surely drawing the attention of his hard playing -- and hardly working -- employees beyond the glass walls. “Oh, I had a bit of a headache,” he says with a somewhat amused grin. “My wife said they might help.” The wife in question isn’t some darling stay at home mom you might expect. In Wick’s own words: She’s the reason the “Boss Girl” phrase was invented. Selene Blishwick is as shrewd a business person as her husband is, and perhaps a bit more progressive. As I attempt to shift a bit in the cushion, Wick relays some confidential information about some of their upcoming branding collaborations. Each is more unconventional than the last, and they all have one vital thing in common: Selene Blishwick is the one that found them. I’d go into detail, but Wick swears it would become a marital problem if I spill the big secrets before they’re due to come out. Instead he offers a sly grin and taps a single finger to his lips. “Our little secret, then you can be the cool hip one among your friends who knew all about it before it came out.” An exciting proposition, though I realize that I do need something I can share with the public from this visit, and as Wick’s bowl of dry granola gets emptier I fear I’m running out of time. So I set out to do what I’d planned: a profile on the CEO of Wizarding London’s premiere tech company. 

When I ask Wick what was the event that kickstarted his long journey to bringing the wixen world into the 21st Century, he answers in one simple phrase: “A pen pal program.” I was surprised to say the least, but it all became more transparent as I urged him to elaborate. What ensues is a story about the overweight son of a MACUSA politician who was teased and bullied all his life and struggled to maintain platonic connections. “I had no friends,” he says, a sad truth but it comes out with a light and airy laugh. “But I didn’t make it quite easy for people to be my friend.” Despite his laid back and easy going charm, Wick reveals a disabling shyness and insecurity that kept him from engaging with the world. The only one privy to his thoughts and personality was the journal he carried with him wherever he went. “I always thought I sounded better on print than in person. I could be whoever I wanted to be on paper -- Handsome, smart, clever and fun. I just could never bring that outwards, you know?” I think we can all sympathize with the young Blishwick’s plight. It didn’t help that he had quite the shoes to fill. Sixth in his line, the Jimbos that came before the media mogul were all tied to American politics. They’re all charming and ambitious men, but Wick says he just didn’t have it in him to be a lawmaker. “Big Daddy” -- yes, that’s the moniker his father, Jimbo the fifth, goes by -- “He’s just built to be a Senator, I’m just the apple that fell a little too far from that tree.” Secluded and distant, educators began to worry that Wick’s development would be halted by the lack of socialization between him and his peers. So one Ilvermorny professor had suggested Wick be one of a handful of students elected to partake in a cross continental penpal program. “Fabricating friendship,” he called it. What they didn’t know is that the program would lead to a lot more. When I ask him who his first penpal is, if it’s someone he still has direct contact with, he lets another one of those amusing grins slip. “Oh yeah, very much so. I’m actually married to her.” 

A fifth year at Ilvermorny, Wick was matched with a Hogwarts student a handful of years younger than him by the name of Selene Rowle. According to Wick, their correspondence lasted throughout both of their schooling and beyond, until he had taken a chunk out of his trust fund in order to travel to the United Kingdom to meet in person. He says that’s the only time he used his family’s money to get where he is now -- literally using it to transport across the Atlantic. Leaving behind his family’s estate in Texas and the promising job at MACUSA his father had acquired for him, Wick came to London in order to meet his long distance friend for the first time. The only person “who really knew what he was about” he says. I ask if it was for romantic reasons. He thinks about it while he sips his drink. “I guess in hindsight it does seem a little romantic.” Whatever his reasons, Wick came and he never turned back. He said that one of the first times they interacted in person, he and his future bride had lamented on their past communication and the long waits between letters. “We felt like we’d left things off on cliff hangers so often, and you’d have to wait forever just to get some kind of answer to those burning questions the last letter gave you. It was one of the most frustrating things.” The pair wondered what it would have been like if there had been a more instantaneous way to talk with wizards across the globe. After all, Wick had concluded, the muggles did it just fine. During his teen years, the Texan said he had grown very interested in what nonmagical civilization was like. A “No-Maj Studies Class”, as they call the Muggle Studies program in the states, had a unit on the technological advances of the nonmagical community during much of the modern era. The professors tried to teach the students that this was all building towards a very dangerous threat to the magical community: exposure and the fast spreading of information over the internet. Wick saw something different. “As I thought about how I wished I had a better gateway to my penpal during my teen years, I just kept thinking about how muggles had that already figured out. They could instantly send letters to anyone anywhere in the world. No long wait times for traveling owls or anything like that. It was instantaneous.... And why shouldn’t we be like that?” 

It was this very thought that birthed the company the Blishwicks lead now. 

So how do you bring the magical world safely into the 21st Century as dictated by the nonmagical? That was no easy feat. For his part, Wick said he had to learn all about something that didn’t exist in their world, something that didn’t interact well with magic. And how do you study muggle tech without magic interfering? Simple: You “become a muggle”. That’s when I realized there was a book I recognized on his eclectic shelf of reading material. Daisy Hookum’s best seller My Life as a Muggle. It’s the first book on the shelf, in the most pristine condition. A first edition, and it’s even signed by the author herself, though Wick doesn’t remember the meeting. It has a simple message in it: I hope you enjoy the time you spend in the nonmagical world and make memories as fond as my own. “Oh yeah,” he laughs, “I did tell her I was also voluntarily giving up magic in order to help kickstart my company.” He says it with an air of unfamiliarity, like he only vaguely remembers the moment. Still, he presses on with the story. A controversial choice for the son of a self proclaimed “conservative-traditional” pureblood senator, Wick was shortly disowned by the American Blishwicks for his choice to give up his magic for two and a half years to live among the muggles. But it had purpose. “I may have lied my way into an internship with a tech company in Edingbrugh. I was trying to learn as much as I could about this muggle innovation. If I wanted to create something similar for our community, I needed to master their version.” He says it took more than the two years he gave himself to live among them, and he’s still studying it to this day, but after that amount of time he had the ground work he needed to then create his tech and media empire. The biggest obstacle wasn’t even in creating the highly secret magically encrypted network which allows smart phones to be used in the wizarding world. No, for Wick the biggest hurdle to pass over was the longstanding traditional values the community had. “I think there’s an innate fear in not just advancing the community, but in mirroring any sort of progress than the muggles have done. There’s nothing wrong with it, I mean we have adapted enough of their inventions into our own world already so why not take it a step further?” He refers to radio and electric hook ups that appeared in a lot of wixen homes in the past century. 

Blishwix started out small, creating and selling smart phones and desktops primarily with the idea in mind to change the way we communicate. Email was one of those first muggle digital contraptions that made its way into the wixen mainstream and has stayed, but within a short decade the company’s offerings expanded to mirror exactly what the digital world of the muggles looks like now. It’s becoming more and more rare to see wixen without a Loquix* in hand, or a Blishwix desktop at home. The Wixpix social media app, in which users post photos taken from the cameras on their cellular devices and add witty captions which can then be “liked” or “commented” on by users across the globe, continues to grow in popularity. And now the media and tech giant is rolling out a “streaming platform” -- a sort of home theater in the form of an app that catalogues film and television programs created by wixen for wixen. There’s Accio, an application that allows you to ask random questions and receive an answer instantly; Portky** which allows users to request forms of transportation when they desperately need it, including ministry-approved portkeys (or so it claims, we haven’t used it yet here at the Prophet). There’s even applications for those lonely wixen looking to find a love connection. Erised is one such app where user profiles are made with a handful of photos, a small ‘about me’ section, and a few small details that can be provided to prospective dates in order to help connect those with similar interests and hobbies. The married Wick does not have an Erised profile, but his assistant allows me to scroll through her’s and even swipe a few times on other profiles. I accidentally match her to someone she admits she can’t see herself interested in, but we all have a good laugh about it. These are only a few of many “experiences”, as Wick refers to them, offered by the company in order to branch the magical people from across the globe. “What is more beautiful than seeing people from different cultural backgrounds and walks of life coming together and sharing ideas and thoughts so quickly?” I realize as I’m sitting there in that bean cushion, scrolling through a prototype of the next Blishwix tablet that I know so little about the world beyond my little corner of it. I suddenly understand Wick’s enthusiasm about expanded communication. 

It’s all pretty exciting to see coming together, it’s almost impossible to understand what more could be done by Blishwix. So when I ask him what’s next, Wick gets a very eager look in his eyes. “There’s a lot of places we still don’t have our tech in that I think would be all the better for it,” he solemnly reveals, and I’m shocked to hear it. Since visiting Blishwix, I have seen their product seemingly in every corner of Wizarding London I explore daily. Who isn’t using connected to their expansive network at this point? “I would love to do a partnership with the Ministry. As the governing body, I feel like we can offer them so much that could continue to further develop the community and continue progressing us into the future. If we could get our desktops in every Ministry Department, we can further the sort of work that keeps our world moving. Just imagine how we could expand Law Enforcement, Education or Wellfare departments if we can make all the relevant information they need all the more accessible to their employees? Think about how much easier it would be for them to process information on our fast and reliable network.” 

On the topic of Education, Wick reveals his ambitions don’t stop with the Ministry. “I would love to see Blishwix in schools like Hogwarts,” he says, revealing what may be the biggest bombshell yet. “This whole dream started because of a chubby boy who had no friends in school and wanted a faster way to communicate with the one he made far away. I think a lot about that and how my life would have been different had I had this kind of technology available to me. If there are lonely kids like me who could have that, or even kids who are just struggling to get the information they need to be successful in school, and I could give them what they need to advance in life? Then I could say I’ve done what I initially set out to do. Until that day, I would say that Blishwix hasn’t been a success yet. Even teachers could benefit from the use of the internet and all the resources we have out there which we now have access to.” I begin to wonder if the technological genius is actually more of a philanthropist. “I don’t know, you tell me,” he quips when I muse out loud. Our interview comes to a halt by this point, and I’m left with so many more questions. What is Blishwix cooking up for the wizarding world next? What kind of innovations will define the company’s next decade? These, and so many more, questions are left unanswered as I walk out of Blishwix HQ, a takeaway bowl of fruity cereal in one hand and my previous generation Loquix in the other (scrolling through shopping apps in order to find that “love sack” I spent much of the afternoon lounging in).

The same day I begin writing this piece out, Blishwix has announced the Loquix VI, their most advance smartphone yet. They livestream details of their upgraded OS and hardware reveal on the company’s social media, an event I watch while typing this article up on my worn out typewriter. Halfway through and I’m out of ribbon, and I silently curse myself as I order a new set online. All the while the Blishbook Pro is being revealed on the stream, its sleek wireless keyboard and slim expandable monitor shimmering under the stage lights. I join in with the loud gasps from the shareholders crowding the conference room where the event is being held. The irony of this isn’t lost on me, and as I sit here writing out these last few paragraphs with a quill in my cramped hand I begin to realize exactly why I admire Jimbo Blishwick and his forward thinking. At least he’s not sitting here with ink blotches in obscene places, running to his editor’s office just barely before deadline with a mess of typed and handwritten article. I remember in that moment, drenched in the rain while rushing through the offices of the Prophet, the first line in his owl response to my inquiry for the interview: 

You should have just emailed. 

Touché, Blishwick, touché. 

*Portky app idea comes courtesy of Kim ( @strvngemagics​ ) **Loquix phone name comes courtesy of Vic ( @cfdiggorys​ / @moodyparis​ / @aarlingtons​ ) Both gave permission to use / mention these galaxy brained concepts in the intro and credit for their conception goes to them. Thank you guys so much!!

TL;DR: Wick is full of shit. What can I say? Here’s the ‘Murrican lad who claims to be some hip and cool CEO of a wizarding tech and media company. Okay he’s I guess apple meets zuckerberg. Idk I’m not galaxy brained enough for this afheiahfpea hence the very oddly written bio. Wick’s a pureblood from america who supposedly forsake his family’s purist ways and then decided to create a company modeled after muggle tech in order to “bring the wizarding world into the modern era”. In actuality? He’s a fucking bigot who created a network that he could use to spy on people who may be enemies of the cause. At least that’s how it’s being factored into the DEs. His theme song is “Somebody’s Watching Me” by Rockwell bc he’s always watching you. Gives off this very laid back and down to earth and charming persona just so he can gain your trust and meanwhile he’s leaking your information to the DE and helping them further their agenda. Some extra tidbits not seen above: 

He’s got some daddy issues which are leaking into his parenting. Aka he is not exactly excited to be a father but you wouldn’t know that from his Wixpix feed which feature so many “cute” dad photos with his baby boy. In order for him to become his best self, his dad had to make his life a living hell and he believes that’s how he’s gonna have to handle Zephyr as well. 

He is smart, yes, but he’s not some brilliant innovator like the world thinks he is. His empire is built on stolen material which he simply “adapted” to the magical world. He’s not original, but he is clever. 

He’s not a fighter, clumsy with a wand, had a severe stutter as a kid which made it very hard for him to cast spells etc, so he avoids battle often and instead offers up his company more for espionage for the DEs. He’s better suited to behind the scenes mayhem, and that’s kind of the way he likes it. 

He’s a coward. He’s hiding behind computer screens and tbh if things get really sticky he’s likely to try and sell out the DE in order to save his skin. Has an escape plan to the states if things get really sticky but the likelihood of him succeeding are slim to none. 

He acts very charitable and humble and kind but he’s conceited as hell and he’s a real shady bitch sometimes. Talks shit on everyone behind their backs

He’s had a few affairs here and there despite being married. Even with that, he is in love with his wife and feels a sort of fealty towards her. She’s a very important part to the company, she’s pretty much the brand of it and so he relies on her a lot to help manufacture their image even just as individuals to help the rouse. 

BODY IMAGE TW/EATING DISORDER TW. Wick has some body image issues due to his past tbh. He got bullied a lot as a kid for being overweight and quiet, his solace was in food and he was a binge eater. As he got a bit older, he made some desperate choices in order to lose weight to gain a slimmer figure. It wasn’t healthy, it landed him in hospital a few times, and eventually he had to meet with nutrition specialists and therapists in order to work out a more healthy mindset on food. He’s still harbors body imagine issues, but he’s learned to be better about it. Still, he maintains a very strict diet and work out regime because he feels his image is one of the most important things about him. He did meet Selene when he was slim and athletic and therefore thinks it’s best he maintain the figure even just out of fear she wouldn’t find him attractive otherwise. 

is any of the stuff he said in this interview true? Idk, idk

Idk, I hate this man and this bio afheuiahfpea I’ll end up rewriting it eventually. 

MISC

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic LANGUAGES: English FAMILY: Jimbo Dashiel Bartholomew Blishwick V (but they call him “Big Daddy”; father), Cricket Blishwick née Berkeley (mother), Beaufort Harland Blishwick (younger brother), Cora-Lou Blishwick (younger sister), Selene Blishwick née Rowle (wife), Zephyr Blishwick (infant son), and by extension all the fucking Rowles I guess PETS: TBD FACE CLAIM: Luke Mitchell ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: Aquarius MBTI: hm PINTEREST: (coming soon)

WANTED CONNECTIONS

interns - a couple new grunts at the blishwix HQ. they can be any affiliation, but if they are DE affiliated then they’ll know a little bit more about what is going on behind closed doors at the company. could be fun for future plotting purposes. 

co conspirators - other DEs who similarly to wick lead a double life in the public eye. philanthropists, media stars, all sorts of “do gooders” who are banning together in order to break “harmful stigmas and stereotypes and join the wixen community globally”. blishwix mission statement aims to create a platform for wixen of all types across the world to interact free of prejudice and judgement and to bring the magical community into a modern era free of harmful ideologies. of course that’s a fucking lie, so if you play a baddy bad who’s pretending to be goody good then this could be a fun collaboration. 

partnerships - alternatively, let’s see some honest to good people and groups get schemed by these fuckers. this would involve some potential screwing over but no worries, at the end of the day blishwix will tank and then your character can get their sweet revenge on this man and his corrupt business. 

idk hmu with ideas. 

#potterintro #sorry fam no fun doodle this time #bad men don't deserve it #ahfieafea i'm sorry this is kinda lame but i wanted to get something out there to help with plotting

[bigbeautifulmothwoman]

Family Values Ch. One

Martin Mathias x (S/I) Lena Wilusz

Braddock nightlife is almost non-existent, and that was how most of its residents liked it. A collection of old and new, families and singles. Braddock was religious, intended to be pristine under the light of the sun and quiet in the dark of night.

Braddock was not the best place for Martin to be. Martin Mathias, young and inquistive. Preferred his hair longer but dressed simply. He always felt as though he stuck out like a sore thumb by his mere existence, and as such worked tirelessly to make himself as unassuming as possible. Dressed plain, acted plain; he kept to himself in town, never wanting to make a fuss…

...So he took the night train to the next town over. By train or bus, it was about thirty to fourty-five minutes to Pittsburgh, close enough to be back home in time but far enough that his name wouldn't reach back to his family's ears. The day was for showing Tata Cuda that he was in fact not a monster; the night was to be one.

Stepping off the train in the Pittsburgh station, he found his way into directions towards the bustling center of town. If Martin was any one thing, it was careful. He always got what he needed, safely and how he wanted it. His first nightly adventure in Pittsburgh, he had decided, would be reconnaissance. Just thinking the word made him feel like a man out of the movies- he was already armed with the tools of his trade, packed away neatly inside the small leather case he carried them in. Just in case, he thought.

Just in case.

This night he wandered around town looking aimless, taking note of what kinds of things the place offered. It was already more diverse than Braddock was: a few larger grocery stores, a candy store, a small theater, and a multitude of restaurants lined the streets along with a number of other things to enjoy. Unlike Braddock, there were still a number of people roaming around at this hour; couples and singles alike. Martin finds it strange to see so many people out on an average night, the clock just barely hitting nine p.m. But this was only natural, he was only used to small towns after all.

The man comes to a stop rounding out his investigation back onto the strip of restaurants he'd passed before; his stomach growled. Dinner at his home wasn't always substantial, especially when he had no say in the menu. It was another night with a half full plate of something he could barely stomach. A decent amount of cash tucked in his pocket leads him into the first establishment that catches his eye.

The place was called The King's Tavern. His first thought was that his feet were leading him to some kind of bar, but stepping inside gave him an entirely different sensation. He couldn't understand how a place could look so much like his black white thoughts and yet still make him feel so...safe and comfortable. The entire inside was lit by false lamplight, with wooden tables and chairs. Some corners had booth seating with velveteen lined seats. His first instinct was somewhat correct, there was a small bar space with a woman standing behind it mixing drinks and pouring ales into steins. In this place, everyone else was out of place. For him, it was like stepping back into his own eastern Europe.

Confidence beside him, Martin slides into one of the available booths, still not looking for extra attention. He sat, waited, observed, and he saw her. A woman approached another table just before his. Somewhat petite, a corset keeping her linen blouse tucked against her skin and resting just over the waist of her skirts. An apron was tied around her waist, adorned with colorful floral embroidery in contrast to much of the dimmer atmosphere. Her face is soft but her eyes exhausted, a notepad and pen readied in her hands.

"All I'm saying is, the point is moot if you aren't going to keep everything to fact. No one in the 15th century would be wearing sneakers or have synthetic fabrics."

"Sir please, this is just a restaurant-" The woman tries to keep her cheerful work façade up despite her frustrations.

"It's just a little bit of extra effort, for the true authentic experience." The customer insists. By the look on the woman's face, Martin can tell a nerve has been hit.

"Well sir, the cobblers been ill and price of linen is up. We can make you a meal, but you'll get no women here. Now, can I get you something?" A thick European accent coats over her words, sounding impeccably natural. Martin can see that finally the man in front of him is appeased enough to let her slip from his attention and finally move onto his table. She sighs one more time before him.

"Good evening sir and welcome. Have you been with us before?"

“Ah, no, this is my first time. A-and uh. I’m sorry about...that-“ He says.

"O-oh...Thank you. It's kind of stupid, people seem to get really...annoyed? Irritated? Something like that. They don't even know what it's like there...only ever seen it in books. I'm sorry, you came to eat not to listen to me talk, please, what can I do for you?"

"I only have so much cash...do you have something easy? As, as long as it isn't stuffed cabbage?" He must have said something funny, because the woman chuckles happily at his remark.

"I'll surprise you then. And no cabbage, I promise." She departs as quickly as she comes, leaving Martin to sit in his own quiet. Shifting his fingers, eyes darting between spaces of decoration. His hands itch to dig into his bag and reset the organization of his tools another time, just to ensure they're in their proper places.

He keeps his hands planted on the table. You don't know who's watching, Martin.

He breathes a sigh of relief when the woman returns with a plate of food in her hands and a glass of water.

"I hope water's fine, I forgot to ask what you wanted… I can get you something else too."

"This is fine, thank you."

"Swell! I uh. I hope this isn't too forward but...do you mind if I ate with you? My shift is ending soon and my boss is letting me grab some dinner because of the time...and really I just don't want to sit alone. I-if it's not okay that's fine! I just thought I'd...give it a shot." Martin bites his tongue. Instead of speaking, he gestures towards the seat opposite him in invitation.

"Oh thank you! Let me go get my plate!" She scurries off again.

This was a surprise. Never in all his years, or at least the recent ones, had a woman throw herself so willingly towards him. Perhaps there was something new to him? No, he was sure everything was quite the same when he got up that morning, and no sickness magically changed anything about him. Not that there was any magic at all. Once again, she's back in his sight, another plate and glass in hand.

"I just got us both the same thing. Leftovers of today's rouladen special, leniwe pierogi, and some vegetables. No cabbage, I made sure!" She laughs again.

"I hope you enjoy it." She says.

"Thank you." They both dig in, enjoying their meals in relative silence as life continues around them. Martin is reminded of a past time, sitting at a table in quiet comfort, candles burning and exchanging longing glances sat on either side of the wood between them…

"Uhm...may I ask your name?" Martin wakes from his daydream once again, eyes now fixated on her, blinking slowly.

"Ah. It's...Martin."

"Pleasure to meet you Martin. My name is Lena. Lena Williams."

"...Lena?"

"Yeah...it's Americanized. Magdalena Wilusz, my family is from Poland."

Something somewhere in him felt like a dream came true.

A stout older man approached their table, two glasses in hand. He assumed, and assumed correctly, that this man must of been her boss, and the owner.

"Mr. Kaufmann, what's this for?"

"On the house, dear. You've worked hard this week, just enjoy your weekend off."

"...Thank you sir."

"My boss," she says, "he's a good man, really looks after us. He really is too kind…" She takes hold of one drink, glass frosting with cool condensation from the liquid inside. She takes a drink with eyes closed, sighing.

"It's really good, sweet like apples. Try some!" Martin is unsure what’s been brought to the table, but he trusts her. And she’s right, the flavor is light, crisp, and refreshing. The thought crosses his mind that this is alcohol, and alcohol can make him clumsy and clumsy is not what he needs if he is intending to feed, which wasn’t his intention in the first place with this trip… But the bite of it is only as harsh as cold lemonade in

summer and encourages him to continue swallowing the drink down as he enjoys his meal. The two continue talking, drinking as the evening winds down in the dining room and their food dwindles.

“H-huh, oh dear, its getting late isn’t it...this is about the time the bars start letting out...s-shit- oh! Sorry, I usually d-don’t curse…” Lenas face is molded with concern as the minutes continue to tick down. He thinks she must be worried about the influx of men flooding into the streets…

“I...i could walk you home…?”

“Martin, I couldn’t burden you like that-“

“You’re worried, a-about the people? You drank some and just want to get home safe, right?”

“...Yes. Even when I eat I leave fast...you’re really a gentleman aren’t you, Martin? I’m sure...I can find something to repay you.”

“I-I’m sure you can, if that’s what you...need to do.”

Martin was ecstatic. It still raised a conflict in his somewhat addled mind, but the ease of solving his sickness for one night also held high. As minutes passed on, the facts and choices began to swirl into a haze. Dinner was finished and the plates left to the closing staff. Coats were donned, Martin's bag of tools secured, and on they went with Lena leading the way. She kept herself steady by clinging onto his jacket sleeve, pointing out vague instructions to her home. It wasn't very far at all, if not a roundabout from her place of work. Just under thirty minutes from the restaurant, only taking so long due to their somewhat inebriated states.

"S-see? Not too bad...thank you Martin. You're such a sweet guy…" Lena says, finally arriving at her front door. She's still unsteady on her feet, wobbling just a bit as she stares down at her hands and the concrete steps.

"S-so, Martin...do you… mind if I do something stupid?" The man in question remains silent, merely nodding a positive response. Sure of herself, she plants her lips to his, fisting her shaking hands into his coat.

"U-uh, if that was b-bad of me, I'm s-sorry, uhm...but. Y-you're welcome to come in, j-join me-"

“Join me, Martin."

Echoes of her flitting about dim halls in a white gown guided his hand over hers, turning the handle and letting them both inside. He was going to do this. He was going to do...something. Combined, they bypass the dark living room and go straight through to her own space. Her room is messy, as that of any busy employee's, and gently illuminated by the one wide window with the drapes drawn open. A socket mounted night light assisted the moon in keeping the floor lit. Returning from a quick trip to the bathroom, she stands anxiously by the bed.

"I-i uhm...i-i don't know what to do, I-ive never...brought someone b-back like this…"

"I-its okay. I know what I'm doing. I-i'm careful." He tells her. It's a truth and a lie mixed together, not fully aware of what outcome will occur. Both of them have toed off their shoes, and again Martin guides Lena to her back, on her bed. She's softly cradled by her sheets, and when he rests his forehead to hers, she kisses him.

In the time that Lena was gone, Martin was quick. In moments, he prepared an appropriate dose of his sleep agent, and carefully stowed the exposed syringe inside his jacket sleeve. Knelt over her, he runs his hands up and down her legs, both removing her skirt and seeking out the best spot for injection in her thighs. He finds his chosen location, squeezing gently as she sighs. Again, he kisses her as he maneuvers the needle carefully and pushes down on the plunger. Breathless, her eyelids already begin to flutter.

"W-wha...M-martin, what was that…?" She questions, her voice high and airy.

"Don't worry, i-it'll...it'll make you feel better." Lena, now on her path to sedation, he begins removing his own clothes. First shirking his coat, he gets back up to carefully place the now empty syringe on the beside table, and follows up by then ridding himself of his pants. Next he goes towards her top, fiddling with the ties to loosen and remove the corset over her linen shirt, her own fingers lacing into his to pull the strings apart. He continues to run his hands over her exposed skin as the sedative runs its course through her veins. She sighs softly, the gentle treatment combined with the power of the sedative and alcohol has her eyes barely fighting to keep open. She finally succumbs to sleep as Martin cradles her face and kisses her nose.

“It's all going to be okay…” He promises to her sleeping body. Finally, he’s safe enough to do away with both of their shirts and her bra.

Her skin was perfect, soft. It was of course marred by a cocktail of imperfections: stretch marks, discoloration, one generous scar on her belly. But it was warm and comforting to the touch. He no longer needs to kneel over her, the next step…Without gathering his materials, he lays beside her, pulling her close in imitation of a loving couple.

He is so tired… He keeps admiring her skin. The minutes pass as he tucks her limbs into his own body. In her sleep she takes advantage, wrapping herself tighter around him, fingers coming to rest delicately on his cheek.

Martin was there to be a monster. He was supposed to take and leave as easily as he came, then to never see her again.

Instead, Martin falls asleep.

#martin 1977 #martin mathias #fanfic #Lola writes things

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Roguish Women Part 29

Summary: Kate is an American who fled to Paris to escape her past life. Now she's dancing and playing the part of a courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. There she meets Tommy Shelby who thinks she can be useful in expanding his empire. But has he been blinded?

Part 29: Kate tells her truth

            Francis Lynch was a wreck. She could barely stand or hold her head up and it had been three hours since the police had left. Three hours since one of the detectives informed her of her husband’s accident. In the wee hours of the morning, Ryan Lynch, drunk as a skunk, had fallen into the Boston Harbor and drowned.

            “What am I going to do?” She wailed from her seat at the kitchen table. Her head was in her hands.

            Her eighteen-year-old daughter was sitting on the floor, her knees tucked to her chest. “It’ll be alright, mom.” She said quietly. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her father was never the person he was meant to be. He worked twelve hours a day then spent his free time in the pub. He was never particularly loving toward his only child. After all, she was simply a mistake in his eyes. Young and reckless, he got Francis pregnant and his Catholic father guilted them into marriage.

            But Kate was still sad. She still loved him.

            “It won’t be alright!” Francis cried. “We’ll lose the apartment, we’ll lose everything!”

            “No, we won’t.” Kate stood up shakily and tried to comfort her mother. “I promise we’ll be alright.”

~~~~~ 

            “I worked to help pay the bills and to pay my neighbor for ballet lessons,” Kate explained. She sat down on the bed as she started to explain everything, she had lied to him about. “My mom worked too but my father brought in the most money.”

            Tommy wasn’t sure he expected the story to go so far back. In his experience, the farther back a story went, the more lies there were. But he tried to keep an open mind, she was being honest with him even if he was hesitant about it.

            “When my father died, we would’ve become homeless in a couple of months.”

            Tommy frowned. “You didn’t tell me your father died.” As far as the story went, or at least the one he was led to believe, Kate’s father was the reason for all of her troubles. Someone who was caught up in the American mafia, who placed all the burden on Kate.

            “Just, just listen.”

            He nodded and went to sit beside her on the bed. The last thing he wanted was for a confrontation so soon after reuniting with her. That’s why he had wanted to at least delay the truth. But he also didn’t want her to feel guilty either.

            “I’d known Frank Wallace and his brother Steve for a long time. They were already established as the Gustin Gang by that point and they controlled most of South Boston. I met Frank through my neighbor who taught me lessons. He had helped her rent and legal issues. So, I went to him after my father died.”

~~~ 

            “Girl like you shouldn’t be dealing in those sorta things, Katie,” Frank warned.

            They were at one of the bars the Wallace brothers owned. One of the places Kate’s father frequented. Kate looked around the place, wondering if this was the last place her father had been before he left and fell into the Harbor.

            “I don’t think I have a choice.” She replied quietly.

            “I’ll help you find a good job with better pay.” He assured her. “Don’t worry about your landlord either, I’ll pay him a visit if he gives you trouble ‘bout the rent.”

            To anyone else, it would’ve sounded like the perfect scenario. Having friends in gangs sometimes had its perks. But Kate shook her head. “I don’t want that, Frankie. You know how long I’ve been training to dance. I’m not going to give that up so I can work myself to death like…” She paused. “Whatever.”

            Frank tapped his knuckles on the table. “But to get into shit like bootlegging? You’re only gonna bring yourself more troubles.”

            “It’s what I want to do. I can do this and have enough money to take care of my mom. Meanwhile, I can hopefully get into a ballet company. Then over time, I might make more from dancing.”

            The older man sighed. “I know that I can’t fucking do anything to change your mind. But you need to know that this shit isn’t something you can walk away from. Not a little side job you can drop whenever you want.”

            “I know.”

~~~

            “I used my father’s identity to set it all up. I started to facilitate shipments from Europe to get liquor into Boston and then ship it all over the country. I put any debts in my father’s name and Frank helped me deal with anyone so nothing would be traced back to me.”

            Tommy wasn’t surprised that she had managed to create a bootlegging empire. Kate was certainly clever enough to get the job done. He was just unsure why she hadn’t confessed that to him when they initially met. But he wanted to hear her out so he nodded for her to continue.         

            “I was accepted into the Boston ballet company and began dancing. It became so much easier after that. I started to meet people who were higher up in the city. Rich people, people who wanted things done. Only the wealthiest knew who I really was. Everyone else thought it was my father in control.”

 ~~~

            “That was a beautiful performance, Miss Lynch.”

            “Oh, Mr. Weld,” Kate startled as she left the theatre through the backstage door. “I didn’t see you there.”

            The wealthy businessman was standing by his expensive, neatly polished car parked in the back alley. Mr. Weld was dressed in a tuxedo, demonstrating that he had seen the ballet performance that had just ended.

            “Let me drive you home.” He offered, opening the car door for her.

            “That would be kind, thank you.” Kate had no qualms about getting into his car. She was armed with a pistol and even then she doubted the man would attack her. She was far too valuable.

            “I do appreciate your work, Kathleen but I came here to voice some concerns.” Mr. Weld said as he got into the car and started it up.

            “By all means, tell me what you’re worried about.”

            The man sighed anxiously. “I understand you’ve been branching out to Chicago, selling to their bars. Word is you’ve gathered a few men there who act on your behalf.”

            “I don’t give out names of people I work with,” Kate replied calmly. “What I do in Chicago won’t affect my business with your bars, Mr. Weld. You’ll get shipments and protection as long as I’m paid.”

            “What I’m concerned about is the Chicago Outfit.” He ignored the mild threat. He’d been behind a few times with payments and had learned his lesson early on that it didn’t matter that Kate was a woman. She wasn’t someone to be messed with.

            Kate bit her tongue. The Chicago Outfit was frightening to anyone, but she didn’t show fear. “There’s no reason for concern.”

            “Pardon my insistence, but there’s been word that you’ve…you’ve been disregarding their territory lines. I would urge you to be careful or to even back out of Chicago entirely. The more you press…”

            “What?” She glanced over at him, still conveying that she wasn’t bothered even when her stomach was in knots.

            Mr. Weld’s fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel. “The more attention you’ll call to yourself. I don’t wish to have any ties to someone who upsets them.”

            “Then pay me what I’m due and our contract will be finished,” Kate replied with a tone of finality. “You can go over to the North End and ask the Italians for help. Because you won’t get any more help from any of my allies.”

            Mr. Weld swallowed. “Just please consider your actions a bit more carefully.” He parked outside of the Lynch’s apartment building.

            “I run my business how I see fit,” Kate said, stepping out of the car. “Let me know if you want to continue our business relationship.” She closed the car door firmly.

~~~            

            “I was making money but not enough to completely stay afloat. , I branched out further to Chicago and made mistakes. I was given a warning but I didn’t listen.”

            Tommy had been in the game long enough to know the consequences of ignoring warnings. “What did they do?”

            “They took a train to Boston and kidnapped my mother. They tortured her for days but she wouldn’t tell them where I was. They ended up throwing her in the river.” Kate tucked her knees to her chest as she stared at the floor with tears in her eyes. The sight of her mother’s body being hauled out of the river would always be etched into her brain. The guilt was so unbearable she tried to pawn it off to someone else. It was the Chicago Outfit’s fault. It was the fault of whoever gave them her mother’s address. It was her father’s fault for leaving them with no income. But in the end, there was no escaping it. Kate knew it was her fault.

            Tommy, although stunned into silence by her history, he instinctually wrapped an arm around her shoulders to comfort her. His actions had led to the death of others. He knew the weight of guilt that would always rest on his soul.

            “That same night I went to Santo. I wanted him to get revenge for me. I only knew him because he left me a letter after one of my performances. He hounded me for weeks about a business relationship and then something personal. I knew he was waiting for me after the news spread about my mother.”

 ~~~

            “My condolences, Miss Lynch.” Santo poured Kate a glass of wine. They were sat together in a secluded booth at one of the North End restaurants Santo owned.

            “Thank you.” She replied quietly. It still hadn’t quite hit that her mother was dead. Yet, there she was, willing to negotiate for revenge.

            “Why is it you wanted to come to see me so soon after your mother passed?” He asked even though there was a twinkle in his eye. A sort of knowing. There was no mystery as to why she was there.

            “Because I need the bastard who killed her to pay. I want him dead.”

            He raised his eyebrows as if he hadn’t even considered that. “And why should I help you? You’ve never proposed an alliance before, why would I risk any of my men to help you? You must know that the Chicago Outfit are dangerous.”

            “Because you’re the only one in Boston who has a feud with them, you would want an opportunity to raise hell, and I would pay you.” Kate knew that talking to gang leaders was never easy. She tended to get right to the bottom line to skip all the fanfare they were so fond of.

            “I’m a wealthy man, Kate, why would I need your money?” He adjusted his cufflinks almost as an example.

            “What else would you want?”

 ~~~

            “That’s where the deal came in. He killed the man who killed my mother. But when the deadline came, I didn’t have enough money. One of my shipments fell through and I lost a lot of money. I begged Santo to give me more time but he refused.”

            Tommy couldn’t help the instinctual anger he felt when Santo’s name was brought up. It only minorly distracted him from the bewildering story Kate was telling him.

            “I left before he could get me and ended up in France.”

            “And that’s where I come in,” Tommy mumbled quietly.

            “Yeah.” Her voice was almost at a whisper. Kate was terrified of what he would say to her.

            But he didn’t speak for a long while. He kept his arm around her, absent-mindedly rubbing her shoulder.

            “Say something, please.” She begged.

            “I don’t know what to say, Kate.” He finally spoke. “I just-I don’t know if it changes anything but I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you didn’t just tell me.”

            Kate felt like breaking down and just curling into a ball. Hardly anyone knew her true story. If she trusted anyone to hear it, Tommy would be high up on that list. But it was still agonizing to open up her old wounds. “Because when I went to France, I vowed to put it all behind me. I didn’t want to be that person again not after what happened to my mother. But then you came into my life and…” She put a hand to her face. “I don’t know I just thought you might be my ticket out.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “You made me feel safe. And if I had to go back to what I was doing before then I trusted you would be able to keep me safe. Especially if Santo ended up finding me.” She tried to explain as best she could. “But I still wanted to be rid of my past so that’s why I lied. Maybe I just didn’t want to admit what I’d done.”     

            Tommy wasn’t sure what else he could say. Perhaps she had a reason for lying to him. Maybe it was enough that she wanted to put her past behind her. Sometimes, Tommy wished he could just step away from it all and resume a new life. Start off on a clean slate without any debts. But the world didn’t work that way. Kate was now figuring that out.

            “I didn’t think I would fall in love with you. I didn’t even plan on staying in Birmingham that long. I had no problem lying because…your family was just another step in the road. But…then I-I fell in love with you and I just didn’t know how to tell you the truth. The longer I waited, the harder it got.” Weary from all the emotions she’d gone through in those past months, she slumped forward over her knees, holding her hands to her face. “I don’t want to be just another person who lied to you.”

            “C’mere.” He helped her sit upright so he could cradle her in his arms. “What we have is real, aye? It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened in America. The only thing I care about is what happens between us here.”

            Kate buried her face in the crook of his neck. She wanted him to push her away, to look at her with disgust and hatred. She wanted him to hate her for the things she’d done.

            But he held her close and kissed her hair. “It’s done, yeah? You’re coming home, you leave all of it behind.”

            “Tom, I lied to everyone. I put them at risk I-” She couldn’t say it, but she felt worse than Grace. She had lied for longer than Grace had. She had condemned Grace for lying, yet Kate had been lying all along as well.

            “Leave it behind, Kate.” He urged. “You can leave it behind.”

He looked over her shoulder, still processing everything she’d told him. Kate was right, he was blind when it came to the people, he was closest to. So distrustful of the world, but those who had his heart were above suspicion.

            They sat there for a long while, sitting with everything said and just getting used to being in each other’s company again.

            “How is the rest of the family?” Kate asked quietly, finally lifting her head, able to meet his eyes again. “Have they been alright?”

            He took a deep breath. Time for some of his own admission of guilt. “They’re all in prison and they’ve been sentenced to hang.”

//I hope this format was okay to follow. I just didn’t want it to be one huge text block of Kate explaining everything. 

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#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelbyxoc #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfiction #ofc #oc #season 4 #cillian murphy #cillian murphy character #cillian murphy fanfiction

[sesl2020]

The Details: are they God’s or the Devil’s?

I don’t care; I just love them.

Pick Stitching

Suit Linings

Interior Pockets

Flat Piping

Contrast Collars

and OMG the feel of the fabric.

In 2007 while working at Harry Rosen as Visual Coordinator for Alberta, the new spring season of Etro arrived. I almost cried. The jackets were so beautiful. Colourful mix-matched tweeds, luscious paisley satin linings and contrast lapels to die for. The guys thought I was crazy and not for the first time. (I had recently lost almost 100 lbs with Jenny Craig and was not quite sane) But…

Please excuse me while I rip off my shirt. I’m having a Chinook. This talk of menswear is making me hot. Yes ZZTop, there really is nothing sexier than a well-dressed man. Not necessarily expensive, just well. In the late 70’s/ early 80’s young men made a point of being grubby. Not even cool, like grunge, just grubby and unkempt with the absence of style. It was supposed to be Macho. Or Poetic. Hmmmm. Yes, this is the way I tell a story. Bare with me. He-Heh.

…But, the fresh new offerings reaffirmed my love of all aspects menswear. Back in the day, the mid 80’s, I remember the guys at Jack Fraser Menswear in Winnipeg where I was the Regional Display person (or Displaced Person as the called me)  teasing me at my excitement over a new box of ties. Not just any ties. New Bosa silk paisley ties. Yes, it’s supposed to sound like Boss. I got so sick of polyester neats and stripes. It was like Christmas when something new came in to go with all the pink dress shirts. Oh the 80’s.

And then again yesterday evening…. André, my hunnybunny, had gotten paid in Brooks Brothers Gift Cards. $1800 worth. Go figure. Very sadly, during the apocalypse our local Brooks Brothers closed their doors and, as far as we know, permanently.  So, unable to order online in Canadian Dollars, as usual I ended up calling them in the States where they manually entered my order and Gift Cards. Very Helpful, Thanks Michael!

Less than a week later and after paying $150 in taxes and duty Fed Ex delivered an oddly small box containing 5 pairs of dress pants, a windowpane suit jacket, and a $100 belt.  I says to André: ‘why did you order another black belt?’ He says: ‘I’ve never owned a $100 belt before.’ Fair Enough.

Eeek! forgot to do my 500 steps this hour. Back in 3.

Pant! Pant!

As he modeled them, he has a very cute butt and he knows how to strut, I was carefully taking all the tags and labels off, the feel of the fabric and the precision of the stitching brought me back to my happiest career hours picking out coordinates for the windows and dressing bust forms.  One of my weirder skills is being able to unpackage a dress shirt with all its itty bits put neatly in the shirt bag with my eyes closed in less than 5 seconds. If only there were Retail Olympics…

Anyhoo, it was the Grey Windowpane Jacket that really made me smile. The contrast red felt collar lining, the one red threaded button, the red flat piping along the interior lining and pocket. It even has a strip of lining to hold the double vents from flapping. Classic design well-executed is Nirvana. And makes me drool. 

But, don’t forget to undo the Vent stitching. It makes you look…..inexperienced.

Subtlety and Restraint are two excellent ways to describe menswear in general. Well, British and North American menswear. The Europeans are much more outgoing. As I possess neither subtlety nor restraint these are things I admire and covet. Nothing makes me happier than a faint blue, red, or bronze stripe hidden in charcoal flannel. Pick it out with a blue or oxblood tie, cognac shoes and belt and it’s sublime. Step back (5 foot rule) to see if it works. If the suit is striped add a plaid Windsor Collar shirt or if it’s plaid add a yarn-dye stripe. And a pocket square if you’re feeling impish. 

Ah the fabrics, and the ties, and the patterns and styles all with their unique lingo. Mmmm Lingo. 

Whisper with me:

Bespoke

Epaulet

Haberdashery

Collar Roll

Sartorial

Pinstripe

Sprezzatura…..

Definitely the Devil.

I’ve bought a lot of menswear over the years. For myself. My former partner would have nothing to do with anything that wasn’t an old dirty fedora and a dusty ripped trenchcoat. God, he sounds like a Flasher.  It was kind of the same thing as buying myself a present on Father Day because on Mother’s Day even after 3 children I still heard ‘you’re not my mother’. Not that I’m bitter. I gave the man Twins. What more can I do.

Having never been petite of stature or nature, sometimes menswear was my only option. 5’8, size 11 feet, and superbly curved I did not fit the skinny, big haired lollipop girl ideal of the times. Not only did they not offer any kind of fashion in a size 14-16, but all the pants were too short and all the sleeves were ¾. Ok, I had to take in all the waists in men’s stuff, but, as if being one of the only women working in menswear wasn’t enough, wearing it was my own personal rebellion against the female stereotype. That, and I loved the Jackets. Shoulder Pads reigned supreme at that time and they who had the shoulder pads had the power.

And, in any case, it was suicide to wear anything sexy or revealing. Sexual Harassment was rampant. And expected. And a man’s right. I almost stabbed a store manager to death with my wire cutters one day when he grabbed my ass and I automatically back handed him. Any job you applied for you had to have a professional answer ready for ‘How badly do you want this job?’ The things that were said to me on a daily basis even from my bosses would make your hair curl.

‘Do you know what would look good on you? Me.’

I remember a guy at the St. Vital store that kept trying to get me to go to his place for a quicky at lunch. One day I got so tired of it that I finally grabbed my tape measure and told him to whip it out ‘cause I wasn’t going to waste my time for less than 9”. He declined. And left me alone from then on. 

I digress, it’s so nice to be older and wiser and not care about being taken seriously. And people go to jail now for being…. impolite. I dress like a sexy bamf on a daily basis, embrace my curves and still have more balls than most men I’ve known. And I still love menswear.

Omg! Chinooking again. Why? Why do I wear lycra pants? Oh ya, they make my butt look almost as cute as André’s, but so hoooot. And not in a good way. Excuse me as I take them off also. That’s better.

Despite the handicap of his father, I managed to raise my son to be a well-dressed individual.  I think a lot of it was my Father’s influence as well. My Father came of age in the 50’s wearing khaki’s, Dack’s, golf jackets on the weekends and suits to work every day. And, of course, he taught me how to tie a tie. He was left-handed, but forced to be right-handed in school so he batted and tied his tie from the left. Which was awesome because I was right-handed so it all worked out when he showed me.

This is also the man who refused to by a new pair of jeans for the entire 70’s. He wouldn’t wear flares. He had a pair of twill demin pants in narrow white, yellow, and brown stripes that were so recognizable that my Great Aunt Vera recognized him from her moving vehicle as he was filling up at a gas station. It must have been the ’69 Biscayne*. She had just arrived in town from Winnipeg and hadn’t seen him for a few years. Those were some pants. But they weren’t flares.

The ‘80’s on were a big relief for him. He spent the rest of his life, we lost him to Cancer in 2005, in khakis and neat plaid short sleeved shirts and polo shirts. I kept his Grey Flannel Pants and Navy Blazer for years.

We also called him Sir…

And Again! Forgot to do my 500 steps this hour. Back in 3.

….When we would call him at the office, (in Grade 2, an avid reader, I called him every time I finished a chapter in Alice in Wonderland) you couldn’t just ask for Dad. Everybody was a Dad. So we asked to speak to George. When he came on the line he would say ‘That’s Sir to you, kid.’ And it stuck. Even our friends called him Sir. My sister’s kids called him Papa Sir. Kinda like Papa Smurf only more respectful. My youngest niece, Courtney, called him Papa Sewer, but that was just the way she spoke as a toddler. We found it very amuuuuusing. As did he.

Aaaaand, back to my son. I actually enlisted him to work part time at Rosen’s when he was 16. He wanted (or did he?) a part-time job and we needed a Saturday merchandiser. I’d already taught him and his twin sisters how to fold their clothes properly, iron a shirt, and do their laundry. I also taught them that when they look at clothing in a store they need to put it back exactly they way they found it. Respect for Retail. It was sooo fun to dress him and see him get measured for his first suit. Staff Discounts Rock! We never actually worked together at the same time, but it was cool to work at the same place.

I also told him, it being his first job, that ‘If you’re late, screw up, or make me look bad I will let them fire you.’ I also told him ‘Don’t forget we work this lifestyle, we don’t live it.’ Entitled is not a good look on anybody. He chose his Boss suit for Grad, slim fit with pointy shoes and put his long blonde hair in pony tail for the occasion. This was way before man-buns which he would have scoffed at anyway.

I was so proud of him at the first Christmas Party and and at the 2nd he wore his made to measure Tilford purple velvet peak lapel Jacket. As he danced with his girlfriend on the dancefloor I couldn’t help shouting ‘Shake what your mama gave you!’ He got me back when we did a company paintball tournament. The pic of us two in our guns an gear hung in the staff room for ages. But, kept he shooting me. It hurt.

‘William, we’re on the same team. Stop shooting me!’

‘Then stop being a pylon.’

If anyone has pics or memories of the things I’m describing, please feel free to share with rest of us!

*more on Dad’s Vehicles. ’64 Pontiac Stratochief ’71 Chevrolet Impala Custom and the Volaré Station Wagon Woh-oh. Volaré! Woh-oh-oh-no! Not a GM product. ‘Nuff Said. Stay Tuned.

#welldressedmen #menswear #devilinthedetails #metoo #haberdashery #merchandising #display

[reapers-carino]

Beauty in Simplicity|Ch. 1 (Yakuza!Hanzo x Hostess!Reader)

It was much too early.

 Twisting your wrist you glanced at the time as it projected itself an inch above your skin, grimacing slightly at the time. ‘0714’. Carding a hand through your hair you couldn’t help the soft sigh that tumbled from your lips, the soft click-clacking of your heels against the concrete sidewalk picking up. This was ridiculously early for you. If Ayane hadn’t called you with this ‘urgent favor’, you had no doubt you would still be wrapped up in your comforter, dead to the world until 10 AM at the earliest. The older woman, who you affectionately referred to as mamasan, was your boss and dear friend but you swore that as soon as you made it to the club you were going to have a talk about your ‘business hours’. Still, you couldn’t be upset with her, it appeared that a ‘special’ client had reserved an early trial meeting and she wanted her ‘best girl’ there. Her flattery worked, obviously, pulling you out of your bed and sending you down the road towards the coffee shop on the corner before catching a cab to Roppongi.

 She had kept details scant, as was normal, not wanting any prying ears to possibly pick up anything over ‘unsecure lines’. The patrons of the club valued their privacy and every girl that worked there as well as mamasan were more than happy to comply. Club Rosebud was a members only club that served the elite; politicians, CEOs, oyabun of the upper crust yakuza families, military leaders and the like. As long as they paid their dues, respected the ladies and didn’t become too disrespectful or belligerent, they would always be welcomed back with open arms. The building itself was discreet; a Vishkar commissioned project, sleek and modern with solid black privacy glass covering the outside. Ayane had balked at the thought of subscribing to the neon signs that often decorated the hostess and nightclubs in the area, instead vying for a hologram that projected the name in stylish cursive and katakana,  hard light roses and petals constantly falling down and onto the sidewalk. It was chic yet discreet, beautiful and classy; the exact image mamasan wanted to convey and what kept their clients both happy and impressed.

 Club Rosebud location was a calculated decision on Ayane’s part, a street that existed an arms length away from the hustle and bustle of downtown, yet close to several embassies and five star hotels. The street was fairly calm; wide sidewalks leading to high-end cafes and bistros and a small two-lane road that had a small side lane that cars could take directly to the front of Rosebud. A side street led to a private entrance for those that required it, although it was most often used by the women that worked there as a quicker way to the back. This is where you often entered the club and where you were headed that morning.

 Lifting your wrist to the panel next to the door, you hummed idly as you waited for your credentials to be verified, the small security pad turning blue before the door slid open smoothly. You barely paid any mind to the environment around you as you moved through the warmly lit hall, continuing the softly hummed song as you made a beeline towards the back. The art deco theme left the place brightly colored and yet tied together with dark walls or decor, seating plush and comfortable and inviting. A long bar was attached to a door that led to the kitchen, the different bottles of high-shelf liquor on the wall looking like twinkling gems. There were private rooms, of course, with varying themes; Japanese-style tea rooms, traditional conference rooms, hell, there was even a small private theater. Anything the clients needed, Ayane wanted to be able to provide.

 You carried on past them, walking through a door that was affectionately marked ‘Roses’ Only’, signifying an employee only area. A little ways down was another door that led to the dressing rooms; a pastel explosion of a room that was fitted with a dozen pearlescent white vanities, soft lighting and two dozen or so rolling racks filled to the brim with clothing from designer clothing from all over the world. Tucking your purse underneath your personal space, you sighed as you sank into the soft pink skirted vanity chair, stretching before crossing your legs.

 ‘Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster’- Sun Tzu.

 The quote from the great Chinese philosopher sat permanently affixed to the mirror of your vanity, a silent reminder of your life’s philosophy. You jokingly would tell the other girls you worked with that you were preparing for a battle; dressing yourselves in fine silks and chiffons like they were armor, your warpaint high-end cosmetics, your simplistically intricate hairstyles your helmet. The war ground is one that you had fought proudly on for years and would continue to do so for however long your spirit compelled you to, the battle of courtesans and their wealthy, upper class clientele.

 Your battle hardened statements were all in jest, of course, but you enjoyed the playful distance it allowed you to practice whenever you entered the club. You were skilled at your job and you knew what was both wanted and demanded of you. An amicable warmth, lively conversation, class and professionality, charm and attractiveness all wrapped into a package with a pretty little bow. You were fortunate. Within the walls of the club and the mouths of patrons and advertisers, you were sought after not only for your beauty and charisma but your intellect as well, known for being demurely scintillating. For now, however, you worked on accentuating the beauty that was seen before the brain, primping in front of the vanity in the changing room.

 You kept your vanity clean and tidy, makeup neatly stored away and sorted in a deep blue makeup case, your hard light styling multi-tool laid across the top of it. Assorted hairsprays, perfumes, brushes, accessories and jewelry were scattered, albeit tidily across the back of your small table. A place for everything and everything in its place. Your fingers moved over your items in a practiced manner, humming softly to yourself as you considered the look you were trying to go for this afternoon.  Bold, glittering neon matte lips had become popular recently, appearing on magazines and in talk shows but you felt that it was much too flashy, at least for the client mamasan had assigned you. Your look had to be perfect, demure and respectful, enticing and seductive. Chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek, you visualized several looks before opening your eyes and looking at your reflection. You had an idea.

 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

 Hanzo rolled his shoulders as the hovercar came to a stop, eyes glancing up at the building, barely suppressing the groan that tumbled from his lips. Hanzo could feel anger begin to lap at his insides like fire, doing nothing to hide his agitated expression from his brother. Hanzo made a soft dismissive ‘tch’ in the back of his throat as he stared at the name, ‘Club Rosebud’, the fluttering flower petals aesthetically pleasing and yet...irritating.  

 “A hostess club”, Hanzo deadpanned, shooting his younger brother a scathing look. The frown on Hanzo’s lips only grew deeper as Genji returned the look with a shit-eating grin, clapping his hand down on his older brother’s shoulder and shaking. “This is the last time I trust you with picking the venue Genji.”

 “Relax aniki”, Genji says, his tone much too lackadaisical for Hanzo’s taste, purposefully sliding directly next to the man despite the car’s roomy interior. Genji wrapped his arms around Hanzo’s shoulder, the older pushing against the younger, drawing laughter from the man. “Rosebud is one of the classiest joints in all of Japan! I promise, aniki, even Prime Minister Sakamoto goes here!”

 That earned a small upward quirk of the eyebrow from Hanzo, skeptical yet easing the shoving match he and his brother were locked in.

 “I don’t think you would know ‘high class’ if it bit you on the ass”, Hanzo stated matter-of-factly, finally managing to untangle himself from Genji’s hold. Hanzo’s hands immediately began straightening the tailored black suit he wore, readjusting the deep blue button up with an agitated precision. He shot another glare his brother’s way, only earning yet another wide grin. “What exactly was wrong with Suzume?”

 “No offense but during the daytime that place is boring”, Genji said bluntly, nose wrinkling up at the thought of returning to the empty, musicless, patron-less club in the daytime. “It doesn’t create a ‘welcoming’ environment! We want to make our ‘partners’ feel welcome, Hanzo! Not bore them to death in an empty night club. Plus the girls here are gorgeous and they are very generous with alcohol. You know how that loosens lips, right? Plus today is only a trial run aniki! No pressure!”

 Genji wiggled his brows conspiratorily, a knowing smirk on his lips as he gently nudged Hanzo with his elbow. Hanzo gave a grunt, an unspoken, if temporary, concession that he would try this for the time being, twisting his body towards the door as their Omnic chalet opened the door. At the very least, if the location was subpar, Genji had actually come prepared for the meeting. The 25-year old had actually worn one of his nicer suits, albeit was a crisp snow white in color. The inner button up was a forest green, his cufflinks golden dragons with emerald eyes, much like Hanzo’s own white gold and sapphire ones. His younger brother had even managed to dye his garish lime green hair back to black, just solidifying how serious he was about assisting Hanzo with this transaction. Although the elder sibling had no doubts that his brother would soon dye it again when things were set in stone with the Americans.

 From birth, both brothers had been molded, trained to take over the Shimada-gumi, one of the strongest and largest Yakuza factions in the Tokyo area. The older the heir and the younger his right hand man, each imbued with their own skills. Hanzo was the tactician, blessed with a naturally analytical mind with a scathing wrath that could, and would, crush anyone that dare to buck against their Shimada reign. He was protective of what was his; his family, his assets, his livelihood. Genji was the amiable social butterfly, a man able to read the room and the people around them, able to draw people to him with his innate charm. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t a naive playboy, his ability to disarm people allowing him to gather his fill of information before flashing even a modicum of his true nature. Both had extensive training in both hand to hand combat and various weapons; pistols, assault rifles, swords, bows. Name it and it had been in their hands. And while their father, Sojiro, still handled a bulk of the responsibilities, he trusted his two sons with managing new business deals in his stead.

 Giving one last vexed grunt, Hanzo turned towards the door as Yosuke, their Omnic chalet pulled the door open. Hanzo stepped out into the subtle warmth of the spring morning, straightening up and rolling his shoulder before stepping to the side to allow his brother room to move out as well. Genji practically jumped out of the car, arms raised high as he waved at the elderly woman who was walking towards the two of them, both waving enthusiastically before each approached the other with open arms. She was short, definitely no taller than five feet tall, dressed in hōmongi-style black kimono, soft pink and creamy yellow primroses and tea roses stretching from her feet to her back then over her left shoulder and to the edge of both sleeves. As Genji spun her around, Hanzo caught sight of the simple graying bun she wore, adorned by a fresh pink-red rose pinned in her hair.

 Setting her down, Genji and her continued to talk animatedly as Hanzo observed, taking in the yellow obi with the intricately tied knot. An obvious refined taste was felt in the clothing, but her nature only helped to solidify her classiness. Her gaze was affectionate yet sharp, focused on Genji yet not missing anything happening around her. She wore very traditional clothing and yet her mannerisms were nothing if contemporary; hands on hips, grabbing Genji’s chin and pinching his cheeks. However when her gaze twisted to Hanzo, the playful chiding in her tone gave way to a warm professionality.

 “Shimada-san”, she said, stepping away from Genji and giving a respectful bow that Hanzo returned with one of his own. Straightening up, a small sage smile settled onto her lips as she returned Hanzo’s once over before giving a quiet chuckle. “Your brother has told me much about you. My name is Ayane Takahashi. Let me assure you that we, at Club Rosebud, are both honored to be at your service and understanding of your need for discretion. Genji has enlightened me on the company you are expecting and I do believe I have the perfect accommodations for your needs, Shimada-san.”

 Hanzo gave a short half nod, disguising the look of skepticism with a small bow to the elderly woman. Her eyes twinkled as she returned the bow, turning on the heel of her foot and beginning to move smoothly towards the building. Hanzo kept himself a few paces back, Genji walking backwards between the both of them, a Cheshire grin on his face. As Ayane approached the front doors, two well dressed men, obvious bodyguards, pushed the doors open from the inside.

 As soon as he stepped foot within a door they were greeted by a comfortably sophisticated ambiance; lighting warm but frosted, casting a well lit yet relaxed vibe. The soft scent of perfume hung in the air, constant yet not overpowering; base notes of vanilla, musk and amber were accompanied by notes of citrus and stone fruits. Plush fauteuil armchairs in colors of pink and key lime and powder blue and creamy peach were spaced around the room, some near wrap around black hard light tables, others stand alones with small cherry wood coffee tables placed in front of them. To the left of the room was a long bar counter, black marble with glittering gold flakes locked under a highly shined surface, ambient lighting shining beneath top shelf liquor and fine crystal glasses. The floor was hardlight as well, sturdy and slip resistance, twinkling lights following the steps of the three of them as Ayane came to a stop in the center of the room.

 “This”, Ayane started, sweeping her arm left to right across the room. “Is our general sitting room and bar. This is where most of our one on one meetings between our ladies and their patrons, although small private rooms are readily available if requested. Our bar is one of the, if not the best, stocked bar in the area. However, if you do have a particular brand which isn’t located here, we will be more than happy to order it for you. We also have a fully stocked kitchen and chef on call, so if you have any requests for your guests or if you’re anything like your brother, we can supply almost any sustenance you’d like.”

 There was a satisfied smile on her lips as she casted a brief glance over here shoulder, able easily read the subtle impressed look that rested on the elder Shimada’s face. Hanzo had seen some of the clubs that Genji frequented and this definitely differed from the playboy’s normal. Hanzo had half expected a gaudy interior, fraught with the acrid smell of cheap liquor and perfume, cigarette smoke clinging to everything. This was actually...nice. More than nice if he was being honest. Genji smiled, breaching the gap between his brother and him and clapping a hand down on his shoulder.

 “Nice isn't it aniki”, Genji practically sang, the smug smile on his face only growing as Hanzo rolled his eyes yet didn’t push him away. That was as good as an admission as he was going to get from the hardass.

 “Security seems lax”, Hanzo stated, more to his brother than Ayane as if to pull some of the wind from his presumptuous sails. Ayane turned completely with that, her grin slick and filled mirth.

 “Oh Shimada-san we take security very seriously here”, Ayane said stated warmly, reaching into her sleeve and pulling out a tablet from a hidden pocket. “We value privacy here and you cannot uphold privacy without superb security, right? Every single guest, employee and Rosebud members are authenticated into our systems. If you are not in our system, you do not get in. If by some chance, let’s say, some paparazzo snuck in here we have automated security systems that not only notify our security team but short circuits any electronics they have on their person. If they happen to fight back, well, we do have other means as well.”

 Hanzo hummed softly before looking at the woman and giving a small smirk at the dangerous glint in her eye. Well, it appeared that this place could be...acceptable.

 “Shall we continue”, Ayane asked with a soft chuckle and a graceful turn back around. She didn’t wait for their acknowledgement, steps picking back up as she led them down a warmly lit hallway. “The conference room your brother requested is one of our mid-sized rooms, more than enough space to accommodate up to twenty people if need be. Light refreshments and drinks will of course be provided within the fees for the room, as well as the services of my girls. Now you both are in for a treat. I have picked two of my loveliest, most charming girls to attend to both of you personally. It always looks nice to have a pretty lady on your arm, especially with those Americans doesn’t it? Oh and Genji, do watch out. She is not happy with you.”

 Ayane waved her hand over a small console built into the wall, the screen coming to life as her credentials were instantly accepted.

 “These doors are secured as well”, she stated simply as the console turned green and the doors began to slide open. “Just as an added measure of privacy. Ah, Aiko, Hitomi, come and introduce yourselves!”

 Ayane stepped to the side as the doors to the roo fully opened, allowing the two Shimadas to enter before her. Hanzo hummed in approval as he looked around the room. Two bright, avant garde chandeliers hung over a mahogany conference table; glasses, holopads and bottles of premium spring water sitting in front of each plush, leather upholstered chair. A small bar was tucked into the corner, a small holopad denoting an automated bartending system. Across from the table was a large screen, obviously for projecting any presentations, pictures or videos to anyone who hooked up to their system. What set the room apart, however, was the sitting area that had been included. A large, cream wrap around couch sat spaced apart from the conference table, fluffy pillows and throws of various shades of orange adorning the piece of furniture. Two women were just beginning to turn as Hanzo’s eyes finished assessing the room, his focus now on them.

 “Genji-kun”, the shorter of the two squeaked out, a playful, scolding look on her features as she stormed over to the younger Shimada. The woman was petite but the heels she wore placed her just under Genji’s nose. She was dressed in a glittering blue lace bodycon dress, her light brown hair styled in loose waves around her shoulders. Her hands rested on her hips, her frown faltering as Genji grinned back at her, bottom lip quivering as she tried to keep her expression downturn. “Where have you been mister?”

 “Ai-chan”, Genji exclaimed, taking a half step back so he could give the young woman an exaggerated look up and down. Aiko rolled her eyes at him before cocking her hip to the side and continuing to stare him down, any real malice in her actions lacking. “You are looking as beautiful as ever. Did you do something with your hair? It accentuates your cheekbones!”

 Aiko’s face lit up, her hand moving to wrap around a lock of her hair before moving to her cheek, the hard look on her face melting away as she dissolved into a fit of giggles.

 “You’re lucky flattery works every time”, she stated simply before throwing her arms open and laughing as Genji’s arms wrapped around her in an affectionate huge. The two began talking back and forth rapidly, the increasing volume and pitch of their voice making him cringe.

 “So excitable. I’m envious, I wish I had an iota of that much energy. Although, I highly doubt I’d get half as loud…”

 Hanzo’s gaze snapped to the left, eyes dancing over the woman he could only assume was the ‘Hitomi’ Ayane had mentioned. She wore an ombre strapless chiffon dress; the bodice fitted and white, the color gradient slowly trickling downward until it was a warm orange marmalade color around her feet. Her exact shoewear wasn’t clear but she stood right at Hanzo’s chin,dark eyes glancing up at him as she addressed him. A rose gold bracelet with pink and white diamond hung loosely around her wrist, shifting with the subtle movements of her hands as she commented on the pair in front of the two of them.

 Her dark hair was half up and half down, loosely pulled back with a twist and secured by a pink crystal hair comb, the shape a large sakura blossom flanked by smaller closed buds. Her makeup was simple yet elegant; a soft pink glow across the cheeks, lips glossed with copper and bronze eyelids, mascara and eyeliner tight. Confidence poured off of her in waves as she stood next to the man, the smile on her lips demure and inviting, eyes respectful yet curious. The eldest brother was intrigued. While attractive people were not a rarity to either brother, he couldn’t help the way his heart picked up as he looked her up and down. Hanzo hid the gulp that unconsciously wanted to follow as he stared, his eyes locking onto hers before snapping to her hand as she extended to him.

 “Oh where are my manners”, you asked softly, head tilting to the side as you admonished yourself. “My name is Hitomi. It is nice to make your acquaintance, Shimada-san.”

 Hanzo lightly grabbed your hand in his, feeling a rush of lightning arc through his system at the physical contact. This was new. Lifting your hand to his lips, he pressed a chaste kiss against the back of it before looking down at you with the slightest ghost of a smile on his lips.

 “The pleasure is all mine.”

#Overwatch #Hanzo #Hanzo Shimada #Overwatch headcanons #overwatch headcanon #overwatch request #overwatch requests #overwatch drabble #overwatch story #hanzo x reader #yakuza!hanzo

[mhboroson]

“World Without Ghosts”

(An essay by Chinese sociologist Fei Xiaotong, written around 1943 or 44)

Accepting an invitation from the University of Chicago, I went there to work on my book “Earthbound China.” After I arrived, a secretary showed me to room 502 on the fifth floor of the Social Sciences Building and asked politely if it would do for an office. When I noticed the name “Robert Park” in the brass card-holder on the door, the alert secretary hurried to say, “I was waiting until you decided before putting your name up.”

“Don’t change the name. I like that one,” I told her. But she could hardly have understood why.

Robert Park had been my teacher. He came to Yenching University [in Peking in 1932] when I was an undergraduate there. Though I was just an ignorant student, I absolutely worshipped him—except for the old man’s perverse insistence on teach­ing at 7 a.m. and never missing a class or even coming late, which meant I had to skip breakfast to get there on time. For better or worse, his course determined the direc­tion my life has taken in the ten-odd years since, and to him should go the credit or the blame. The founding father of the Chicago school of sociology, he maintained that sociology should take as its subject understanding human nature. Perhaps I liked him because he wanted me to read novels and not sociology textbooks. More than reading novels, he urged going and personally experiencing different kinds of life. Ten years later I still follow this teaching. On this trip to the United States, I had hoped to go hear his classes again. But I was busy with other things, and it was half a year before I got to Chicago, and the old professor had already gone south to escape the Chicago cold. And so it happened that I was put in his office.

This arrangement, whether accidental or not, was full of meaning for me. I had been an unremarkable student in Professor Park’s class, a matter for some regret, and ten years later, though still without achievements, I remained eager for a word of praise from the teacher. I was secretly happy that, sitting in the chair he had used, I would surely absorb something of his spirit, and hoped to write a book that would compensate for my earlier failure to be worthy of the pains he had taken in rising so early all those mornings to teach us. There is here a sort of historical causal connection: because of a past memory the present takes on a significance greater than anything in the current situation. My strong desire to have the name left on the door arose out of a need for concrete, living, moving history. I felt that if the nameplate, the old books lining the walls, even the air in the room were not disturbed, then, surrounded by this lingering past, perhaps in a few months I would see a draft of “Earthbound China” on the table. But if these were disturbed, all might be lost.

This, in fact, is the “tradition” of which I have written in an earlier article. Tradi­tion need not be an obstacle to innovation. True, it has its bad side. When old peo­ple, with the various privileges and respect that have been accorded them in the past, prevent any change in the status quo, that is a bad aspect of tradition. But it is also undeniable that everything new is born out of that which is old. These ties of kinship should not be obliterated, and recognizing them gives to the connection between old and new the significance of succession and continuity. If we can develop this kind of feeling for history, I believe the world and mankind will be richer. When we go on a trip into the country, we can enjoy the scenery merely as a present phe­nomenon; if we have left there earlier memories worth recalling, this can bring on a pleasant nostalgia; and if this is a historical site, our feelings arc further enriched because of what others did there. People do not live only in the here and now; life is not just a string of moments. We need history, for it is a wellspring of inspiration. When we take tradition in this way, that is another aspect of it.

Sometimes I think the world is very strange. We in the Orient accept tradition, but what we seize on is its bad side. The West seems to want to disregard it, with the result that the good side is lost too.

Of course, it is not entirely true that Westerners purposely disregard tradition. For the most part, they all know much more about the history of their own coun­try than I do. Every child who goes to New York has to go gaze at the huge Statue of Liberty and then on the way back visit the church that George Washington fre­quented. In Washington, D.C., there are the hundred-foot-tall Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and now the Jefferson Memorial. Buildings just a few hundred years old are preserved as historical monuments. On a personal level, Americans keep diaries and write autobiographies. I have elsewhere described how on Thanksgiving the year before last my host brought out a big pile of his fathers diaries. At Professor Redficlds house, Mrs. Park especially wanted me to see the pictures of Redfield ancestors in a corner of the living room. On Professor Ogburns staircase wall were neatly lined up generation after generation of ances­tor portraits. Perhaps because at a dinner party I had once expressed the view that Americans lack any feeling for history, all the friends I came into contact with were particularly anxious to correct my misapprehension by showing me their concern for their ancestors. All this is true, but still I feel their regard for tradition is to a greater or lesser extent conscious, intellectual, and artificial. It is not the same as ours. The reason I feel this way is that I have found Americans do not have ghosts.

When tradition is concrete, when it is a part of life, sacred, something to be feared and loved, then it takes the form of ghosts. This is equivalent to the state­ment by Durkheim that God is the representation of social cohesion. As I write this, I feel in my heart that Chinese culture in its essence is rather beautiful. To be able to live in a world that has ghosts is fortunate. Here let me relate some personal experiences.

When I was a boy, because the family was in decline ... we lived in a big old building of which at least half was closed off awaiting uncles who seldom came home, and in another part of which were dark rooms that had never seen sun­light. ... In these dark and desolate rooms, there were more places for ghosts than for people This environment was already sufficiently frightening, but in addi­tion not a day passed when people did not talk of ghosts to scare or amuse us children I am not exaggerating when I say that to a child like me brought up in a small town, people and ghosts were equally concrete and real....

Because I grew up half in a world of ghosts, I was particularly interested in them. Gradually my fear changed to curiosity and then to attraction, to the point that I even feel a little sorry for people raised in a world without ghosts. The thing that felt most strange to me during almost a year of living in America was that no one told me any stories of ghosts. I do not want to overpraise such a world, but I will admit that children who grow up in it are more comfortable than we and do not have to live with fear in their hearts all day long. But perhaps there is a heavy price for this, a price I would be unwilling to pay.

The beginning of my gradual change in attitude toward ghosts occurred the year my grandmother died. One day not long after her death, I was sitting in the front room looking toward her bedroom. It was almost noon. Normally at that time Grandmother would go to the kitchen to see how the lunch preparations were coming along, soon after which lunch would be served. This had been a familiar sight for me, and after her death the everyday pattern was not changed. Not a table or chair or bed or mat was moved. Every day close to noon I would feel hungry. To my subconscious mind the scene was not complete without Grand­mothers regular daily routine, and so that day I seemed to see her image come out of her bedroom once more and go into the kitchen.

If it was a ghost I saw, it was the first one in my life. At the time I felt nothing unusual, for the scene was so familiar and right. Only a little later when I remem­bered that Grandmother was dead did I feel upset—not frightened, but sad the way one feels at a loss that should not have occurred. I also seemed to realize that a beautiful scene, once it had existed, would always be. The present loss was just a matter of separation in time, and this separation I felt could be overcome. An inex­tinguishable revelation had struck; the universe showed a different structure. In this structure our lives do not just pass through time in such a way that a moment in time or a station in life once past is lost. Life in its creativity changes the absolute nature of time: it makes past into present—no, it melds past, present, and future into one inextinguishable, multilayered scene, a three-dimensional body. This is what ghosts are, and not only did I not fear them, I even began to yearn for them.

I cannot get used to people today who know only the present moment. To take this moment as [the sum of] existence is a delusion. Our every act contains within it all the accumulated history from the beginning of the universe right down to the present, and this every act will determine the destiny of endless future generations. If the present moment, fragmentary, abstract, false, is taken for life, this life will necessarily be shallow and base and even empty—since the moment cannot last, one might as well indulge oneself and revel, for when the instant is gone what is left?

American children hear no stories about ghosts. They spend a dime at the “drugstore” to buy a “Superman” comic book. This “Superman” is an all-knowing, resourceful, omnipotent hero who can overcome any difficulty. Let us leave aside the question of what kind of children this teaching produces; the point worth not­ing here is that Superman is not a ghost. Superman represents actual capabilities or future potential, while ghosts symbolize belief in and reverence for the accumu­lated past. As much as old Mrs. Park, trying to lessen the distance between East and West, might lead me over to the corner of the living room to look at faded photographs, it was the Redfields little boy who showed me the heart of American culture, and it lay in Superman, not ghosts.

How could ghosts gain a foothold in American cities? People move about like the tide, unable to form permanent ties with places, to say nothing of other people. I have written elsewhere of the gap between generations. It is an objective social fact that when children grow up they no longer need parental protection, and the reflection of this in the family is childrens demand for independence. Once when I was chatting at a friends house, his daughter sat with us chain-smoking. The father happened to remark that it was senseless to smoke like that, but she paid no heed and afterwards told me that she was eighteen, it was none of the old mans business, smoking was her own affair. Eighteen is an important age for a girl; after that her parents need not support her, but neither can they tell her what to do.

I also know an old professor whose son teaches in the same university as he but lives apart from him—which might be all right, but he seldom even visits. During the war they could not get a maid and it made my heart sick to see the professors wife, old and doddering, serving a guest coffee with shaking hands.

When I was staying at the Harvard Faculty Club, I noticed sitting at the same table every morning a white-haired old gentleman who lived upstairs and who from his looks was not long for this world. Whenever I saw him I felt outraged. He must have been a famous professor who had educated countless people and worked hard for society. Now old and failing, cast out of the world into this building, with­out relatives even to care for him much less give him pleasure, he might as well have been dead. One day he said softly to the waitress, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it down the stairs tomorrow.” Afterwards I asked her where his home was, but she did not know the answer and only shook her head. In America, when children grow up they have their own homes, where their parents are mere guests.

Outside the family there is certainly much social intercourse, but dealings with people are always in terms of appointments. On my office desk is an appointment calendar marked in fifteen-minute intervals with a space for a persons name beside each. Apart from business there are various kinds of gatherings, but if you go to one you will find it is no more than social pleasantries: a few words with this person, a few words with that one—it is hard even to remember their names. I cannot say all Americans pass their lives like this. But I once asked a fairly close acquaintance how many friends he had whom he could drop in on at any time without a previous engagement. Counting on his fingers, he did not fill one hand. In fact, unless they have business or an engagement they spend most of their time at home, where they don’t much like to be disturbed by guests. At any rate, friends warned me not to go barging in on people all the time.

With interpersonal ties like these, naturally they seldom see ghosts after death. Moreover their movements are so easy and they have contacts with so many peo­ple, that there seldom comes about the kind of relationship I had with my grand­mother, living interdependently for a long time, repeating the same scenes, so that these scenes came to seem an inalterable natural order. Always being on the move dilutes the ties between people and dissolves the ghosts.

As to attachments to places, that is another thing that made me uncomfortable in America. Not the beds and mattresses, for I believe there are none more com­fortable than those of the Americans, but the constant moving around that year was the cause of my discomfort. I visited many places, but when I think of them now it seems I went nowhere, for I felt no particular attachment to any place as all were alike, differing only a little in the height of the buildings. The cities are all more or less the same, at least for a traveler: you get off the train and your bags are taken by a black man who everywhere wears the same type of cap (you may not encounter this kind of man, but you will not encounter any other); you take a similar taxi to a similar hotel—no matter what hotel, if you have stayed anywhere once, you will not feel it unfamiliar. The hotel rooms are all comparable, some big­ger and some smaller, but none lacking a bathroom, a cold-water tap, a Simmons mattress, and nice stationery and envelopes. Since it is the same everywhere, you can never take away a particular impression from any hotel.

Hotels are not exceptions; it is basically the same with homes in American cit­ies. Moving house is no more difficult than changing hotels; a phone call is all it takes. Move here, move there—the houses are about the same. In New York I thought of renting a house and visited ten possibilities in succession. In the end I said to the friend who was accompanying me, “Why bother to see each one? Why not draw straws?” Moving here and there dilutes peoples ties with houses.

Whenever I return to my native place, I go to see the house I lived in as a child. I have lots of questions about the tung tree and the loquat tree; the tung tree still has my name carved on it. In London, where people do not move so frequently, I still remember where I lived on Lower Station Road and Ridge Avenue [?]; while I was in the United States I heard that the old buildings there had been bombed, and it made me feel bad for several days. In America, at least for me, no house has yet produced such a feeling.

I cannot get used to the way lights illuminate all the parts of a room either. Liv­ing in such rooms gives you a false sense of confidence that this is all of the world, that there is no more to reality than what appears clearly and brightly before your eyes. I feel the attitude of Westerners toward the unknown is very different from that of Orientals. They think of the unknown as static, waiting for people to mine it like an ore—not only not frightening, but a resource for improving life in the future. They are very self-assured. We Orientals feel some measure of reverence for the unknown; our reverence for fate makes us content with our lot, makes us aware of human limitations, and keeps our eyes fixed on the humanly attainable. I cannot assert that this attitude is ultimately due to the form of the houses we live in as children, but I believe that my own early feelings of uncertainty toward the big kitchen and the back garden and my fright toward the closed-off rooms have still not dissipated, but only expanded into my view of the universe. If many people in traditional China had similar experiences, then these experiences may have deter­mined the basic structure of our traditional attitudes toward people and things.

In a world without ghosts, life is free and easy. American eyes can gaze straight ahead. But still I think they lack something and I do not envy their lives.

 M. H. Boroson here. I don’t agree with everything in this piece, but I find it fascinating. I used a passage from it at the opening of The Girl with Ghost Eyes, and I wanted to share the rest of Dr. Fei’s brilliant essay.

#sociology #China #Chinese #America #Superman #Ghosts #Tradition #Superstition #M. H. Boroson #the girl with ghost eyes

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Love through a lens: how Ingrid Bergman took the world’s breath away

From marital scandals to on-screen magnetism, a documentary about Ingrid Bergman salutes an actor who consistently defied expectations

Nearly 20 years ago, I went to stay with my husband in a house owned by the family of Roberto Rossellini, the great neorealist Italian film director. We spent our days as you do when you find yourself in an idyllic hideaway in the Italian sunshine: reading; lying by the pool; watching the light through the trees. And I thought about Ingrid Bergman, who must have visited this secluded villa at a time when her life was in free fall.

Its hard now to imagine the kind of scandal Bergman caused when she became pregnant with Rossellinis child, while still married to her first husband Petter Lindstrm. She wasnt just a wife, she was a mother, and had left her daughter Pia behind when she went off to Italy to work with Rossellini. The outrage was scalding. Bergman news jolts Hollywood like an A Bomb screeched one newspaper headline, neatly combining two of the most important news items of 1949.

In the US, religious groups began a campaign to ban her films on the grounds that they glorified adultery. In Italy, she and Rossellini were followed everywhere by paparazzi, their companions for the rest of their tumultuous life together.

I was a danger for American womanhood, she told an interviewer, years later. Even my voice over the radio was supposed to be dangerous. Of course I was hurt, but I didnt think that what I had done was so much other peoples business … If you dont like the performance, you can walk out, but to criticise peoples private life, I thought was wrong.

That defiant statement of intent is quoted in Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words, a new documentary film directed by Stig Bjrkman that tells the story of one of Hollywoods most enduring stars. It draws on her diaries, letters and interviews, interspersed with home movies, and glimpses of the actor in all her screen glory, from her Swedish debut in 1935 to her Hollywood heyday in the 1940s to her final roles nearly 40 years later. It is a revealing insight into a woman who consistently defied expectations.

Watch the official trailer for Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words

In her first American screen test, in bleached-out colour and silence, with no makeup as the clapper board proclaims, she shines. It is as if she is in possession of a secret and that knowledge illuminates her from the inside, as she glances directly at the camera, or smiles with a warmth that could thaw a Swedish winter. Its a sign of all that is to come. If you think of Bergman on screen, in Casablanca, Notorious or Gaslight, it is that radiance that first comes to mind.

In part this was a simple matter of her beauty. Daniel Selznick, son of the powerful David O who first swept Bergman away to Hollywood, told her biographer Charlotte Chandler: There is no one I have ever met, of any age, of any generation, that took ones breath away at every meeting the way she did. The complexion, the lips, the cheeks, the ears, the nose, the eyes, the body of a goddess. And she was just completely unselfconscious. Gregory Peck, her co-star in Hitchocks Spellbound, suggested that she was even more beautiful away from the studio cameras a judgment vindicated by the home movie footage that shows her relaxed with family and friends.

But there is some other mysterious force at work. From the very first, she was confident in front of a camera, and it is Pia Lindstrm the daughter she abandoned when she ran off with Rossellini who offers a psychological explanation for her mothers dazzling impact on screen. Bergmans mother had died when she was two, so she was brought up by her father, a photographer, whom she adored, until he too died when she was 13.

Love would come right through that lens, suggests Lindstrm. She was looking through that lens and she is looking at her dear dead father, and she would flirt and play with him and pose with him. She was completely comfortable with the camera and knew how to pose.

Bergman herself was aware of her gift. She was a poor little orphan girl, lonely and bereft, yet filming made her feel alive. Theres a photograph of her going to her first ever job as an extra that is notable not only for her staggering loveliness, but for the sheer vitality of her pose as she peers along the line of waiting hopefuls, looking outwards and forwards. I love the freedom I feel in front of the camera, she said.

Photograph: Soda Pictures

But she was a dab hand behind a camera, too, inheriting from her father a desire to record the world and the people around her. She filmed her honeymoon with Petter, and when she left him suddenly she wrote saying she didnt want many of the treasures she had left behind. The only problem will be our 16mm film. Maybe you will lend it to me so I can see what I looked like in my youth.

That desire to preserve each aspect of her life in photographs and footage has left Bjrkman a wealth of material on which to draw; in this private footage you see her falling in love with Rossellini, stroking his head tenderly as they talk; you watch the three children they had together grow up; you see their fear as their parents marriage falls apart. Later, you watch the sadness cross Bergmans face as she climbs into an ambulance when her daughter Isabella is diagnosed with scoliosis.

But just as revealing are the letters and diaries that Bergman also preserved, rich in self-knowledge and the honest confrontation of the contradictions in her character. Writing to a friend, when she is enjoying the first flush of success in her Hollywood career, she describes her panic at not working for four months which is two months too long. She is at home with Petter and Pia, but confesses: Only half of me is alive. The other half is packed away in a suitcase suffocating. What should I do?

She has an affair with Robert Capa, the war photographer, and her free spirit soars. She tries to be a good wife and to knit at home, but the siren call of something different propels her onwards. With Rossellini, it is his work she falls in love with first; she admires Rome, Open City and writes him a bold proposal. If you ever need a Swedish actor who speaks very good English and a little German, who can make herself understood in French and can only say ti amo in Italian, then Ill come and make a film with you.

Years later she explains his appeal more fully. It was a combination of passion that I fell in love with a man who was so different from any other man I had ever known, and it was my boredom in Hollywood I wanted to do something that they didnt expect me to do. When her relationship with Rossellini broke down, and she began to think about returning to Hollywood, she was still determined to do the kind of films I feel comfortable with. Success mattered greatly to Bergman, but not at any price.

At the same time, as the film makes clear, though her children mattered to her intensely, she was prepared to leave them to pursue her career. Her priorities were not those expected. If you took acting away from me I would stop breathing, she said. She admitted she had missed a lot, by leaving not just one child but her second set of children to be brought up mainly by others. I do regret it, but I dont think they suffered, she said.

That complexity the authentic voice of a woman who knew her own fallibility, of someone who loved and lost but never complained makes Bergman, who died of cancer, aged 67, in 1982, a peculiarly admirable Hollywood star. She was a pioneer before her time; protected and constrained by her loveliness, she voyaged ever onwards, brave and strong.

There is a rose named after her, which I have in my garden. It is deep red, lightly perfumed and almost too perfect in shape and form. It blooms for a very long time, lingering long after other flowers shed their petals. There could not be a better tribute to an actor who is always worth remembering.

Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words is at the BFI Southbank, London SE1, from 12 August and then at selected cinemas. At the BFI, the film will be accompanied by a mini season, Ingrid Bergman on Screen. bfi.org.uk

Read more: www.theguardian.com

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Love through a lens: how Ingrid Bergman took the world’s breath away

From marriage scandals to on-screen magnetism, a documentary about Ingrid Bergman salutes an actor who systematically eluded expectations

Nearly 20 years ago, I went to stay with my husband in a house owned by the family of Roberto Rossellini, the great neorealist Italian film director. We spent our epoches as you do when you find yourself in an idyllic hideout in the Italian sunshine: say; lying by the reserve; watching the ignite through the trees. And I thought about Ingrid Bergman, who must have visited this secluded villa at a time when her life was in free fall.

Its hard now to envisage the kind of scandal Bergman stimulated when she became pregnant with Rossellinis child, while still married to her first spouse Petter Lindstrm. She wasnt precisely a partner, she was a father, and had left her daughter Pia behind when she went off to Italy to work with Rossellini. The resentment was scalding. Bergman news jolts Hollywood like an A Bomb bellowed one newspaper headline, neatly compounding two of the most important news item of 1949.

In the US, religion groups inaugurated a campaign to prohibit her movies on the grounds that they glorified adultery. In Italy, she and Rossellini were followed everywhere by paparazzi, their friends for the rest of their stormy life together.

I was a danger for American femininity, she told an interviewer, year later. Even my voice over the radio was supposed to be dangerous. Of route I was hurt, but I didnt think that what I had done was so much other peoples business … If you dont like the implementation of its, you can walk out, but to criticise families private life, I thought was wrong.

That defiant statement of intent is quoted in Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words , a new documentary film directed against Stig Bjrkman that tells the story of one of Hollywoods most enduring hotshots. It sucks on her diaries, characters and interrogations, interspersed with residence movies, and glimpses of the actor in all her screen magnificence, from her Swedish entry in 1935 to her Hollywood heyday in the 1940 s to her final capacities practically 40 years later. It is a uncovering insight into the status of women who consistently defied expectations.

Watch government officials trailer for Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words

In her first American screen research, in bleached-out emblazon and stillnes, with no makeup as the clapper card proclaims, she gleams. It is as if she is in wealth of trade secrets and that knowledge illuminates her from within, as she gazes instantly at the camera, or smiles with a warmth who are able to thaw a Swedish winter. Its a signaling of all that is to come. If you think of Bergman on screen, in Casablanca , Notorious or Gaslight , it is that radiance that first comes to mind.

In part this was a simple matter of her grace. Daniel Selznick, son of the potent David O who first cleaned Bergman away to Hollywood, informed her biographer Charlotte Chandler: There is no one I have ever assembled, of any age, of any generation, that took ones breath away at every convene the behavior she did. The hue, the cheeks, the buttock, the ears, the snout, the eyes, their own bodies of a goddess. And she was just wholly unselfconscious. Gregory Peck, her co-star in Hitchocks Spellbound , suggested that she was even more beautiful away from the studio cameras a judgment vindicated by the dwelling movie footage that demonstrates her relaxed with family and friends.

But there is some other mysterious coerce at work. From the very first, she was confident in front of a camera, “and its” Pia Lindstrm the daughter she vacated when she ran off with Rossellini who offers a psychological reason for her mothers dazzling impact on screen. Bergmans mother had died when she was two, so she used brought up by her parent, a photographer, whom she adored, until he very died when she was 13.

Love would come right through that lens, proposes Lindstrm. She was looking through that lens and she is looking at her dear dead leader, and she would flirt and play with him and constitute with him. She was completely cozy with the camera and knew how to pose.

Bergman herself was aware of her endowment. She was a poverty-stricken little orphan girlfriend, lonely and bereft, yet filming constructed her feeling alive. Theres a photograph of her going to her first ever task as an additional that is notable is not simply for her astounding loveliness, but for the sheer sparkle of her pose as she peers along the line of waiting wannabe, ogling outwards and forwards. I desire the freedom of the media I experience in front of the camera, she said.

Photograph: Soda Pictures

But she was a dab hand behind a camera, extremely, inheriting from her parent a desire to record the world and the person or persons around her. She filmed her honeymoon with Petter, and when she left him abruptly she wrote pronouncing she didnt crave many of the riches she had left behind. The only question will be our 16 mm film. Maybe you are able to lend it to me so I can see what I looked like in my youth.

That desire to preserve each aspect of her life in photographs and footage has left Bjrkman a fortune of substance on which to draw; in this private footage you determine her fallen in love with Rossellini, stroking his head tenderly as they speak; you watch the three children they had together grow up; you learn their horror as their parents marriage falls apart. Later, you watch the sadness cross Bergmans face as she clambers into an ambulance when her daughter Isabella is diagnosed with scoliosis.

But just as uncovering are the words and journals that Bergman also continued, rich in self-knowledge and the honest struggle of the contradictions in her character. Writing to a pal, when she is enjoying the first even of success in her Hollywood career, she describes her panic at not working for 4 months which is two months too long. She is at home with Petter and Pia, but profess: Merely half of me is alive. The other half is packed away in a suitcase suffocating. What should I do?

She has an affair with Robert Capa, the crusade photographer, and her free spirit soars. She tries to be a good wife and to knit at home, but the siren call of something different propels her onwards. With Rossellini, it is his wield she falls in love with first; she admires Rome, Open City and writes him a bold proposal. If “youve been” need a Swedish actor who expresses very good English and a bit German, who can stimulate herself understood in French and is simply say ti amo in Italian, then Ill come and make a cinema with you.

Years later she shows his appeal more fully. It was a combination of passion that I fell in love with a guy who was so different from any other man I had ever known, and it was my apathy in Hollywood I wanted to do something that they didnt expect me to do. When her relationship with Rossellini broke down, and she began to think about returning to Hollywood, she was still had decided to do the kind of movies I detect comfy with. Success mattered immensely to Bergman, but not at any price.

At the same time, as the movie made very clear, though her children mattered to her intensely, she was prepared to leave them to seek her profession. Her priorities were not those expected. If you took behaving away from me I would stop breathing, she remarked. She acknowledged she had missed a lot, by leaving not just one child but her second situate of children to be brought up principally by others. I do regret it, but I dont believe that they tolerated, she said.

That complexity the authentic expression of a woman who knew her own fallibility, of someone who loved and lost but never complained moves Bergman, who died of cancer, aged 67, in 1982, a peculiarly admirable Hollywood star. She was a pioneer before her hour; protected and constrained by her loveliness, she voyaged ever onwards, brave and strong.

There is a rose reputation after her, which I have in my garden. It is deep red, lightly perfumed and nearly too perfect in shape and formation. It blooms for a very long time, remaining long after other flowers molted their petals. There could not get a better tribute to an actor who is always worth remembering.

Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words is at the BFI Southbank, London SE1, from 12 August and then at selected cinemas. At the BFI, the cinema will be accompanied by a mini season, Ingrid Bergman on Screen . bfi.org.uk

Read more: www.theguardian.com

The post Love through a lens: how Ingrid Bergman took the world’s breath away appeared first on vitalmindandbody.com.

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