#a love letter to those who were never right for us but whom we loved anyway

[wen-kexing-apologist]

Parallels in Unknown Episode 9

God I love the physicality in this show.

I will preface by saying once more that Kurt is doing a great job in his role as Yuan, especially lately with all the pushing and prodding Yuan has been doing to Qian, but I once again find myself having to highlight the masterful performance of Chris Chiu.

Wei Qian is a very tense and quiet character in a show that uses voice overs sparingly. This means that Chris has a very difficult job in conveying Qian’s inner monologue through body language alone. Without uttering a word we know what Qian is thinking; what he’s feeling; we understand the depth, the weight of his care for the people he loves.

For Episode 9, I want to talk about parallels. Parallels and how effectively Unknown is able to use them to bring maximum emotional devastation:

gif by @ueasking

We open with a flashback to Lili and Yuan as kids, to Lili trying to get out of going to school because she is worried the world is going to end. We open with a line from Qian:

“Even if the world comes down, I’ll hold it up.” 

Y’all. That line hit me like a 16 wheeler, holy fuck. This is the summary of Qian’s life, of his goals, of his struggle. Qian’s never had the luxury to live in a world that wasn’t falling apart. But he’s spared Yuan and Lili (especially Lili) from the trauma and the abuse and the pain he has suffered. He is already holding everyone’s worlds together, and that line struck me as the deepest and most beautiful profession of love. And of course, because he is acting as a parent to these kids he has to follow it with an empty threat.

The kids head off to school, but before the door closes behind Yuan he turns around, he looks Qian right in the eye and he says

“Ge, if the world comes down, we’ll hold it up together.”

gif by @ueasking

Double homicide. A perfect expression of Yuan’s devotion to Qian, Qian who very rarely experiences reciprocity. Qian spent a large portion of his life being uplifted and supported by the people around him: Le-ge, San Pang and his family, Xiong this is true, but for Qian most of those feel like or literally are debts to be repaid. He said it to Le-ge in this episode “I will pay you back everything I owe”, in Episode 1, Qian tells San Pang he’ll pay him back when San Pang covers his bills, Xiong helped kick start Qian’s career, but he’s in business with Xiong now so Qian’s success is Xiong’s success. Yuan is the only person to whom Qian owes nothing, and Yuan is the only person who is trying to care for him back without being owed.

Because this show has been looping in my head, I’ve been thinking a lot about trauma. The first scene we see of Qian and Yuan together, Yuan holds out a metal pipe in defense and Qian has an immediate flashback to his own childhood and the abuse he had suffered. Qian immediately establishes a connection to Yuan that he never will with Lili because Qian was incredibly successful in shielding Lili from the harshness of the world. We don’t see the trauma Yuan must have experienced as a kid, but we get the snippets, the ties in to Qian’s experiences, the illness, the hunger. Yuan has suffered, and Qian has saved him, and Yuan understands the burden that comes with care. Yuan is devoted to Qian, Yuan does not want Qian to hold everything he’s carrying all by himself.

Yuan has always been like this, and will always be like this for Qian.

Despite the overarching structural problems I had with this episode, I do think there was a strong thematic thread in paralleling space and physical touch all the way through.

The Letter

Qian discovers this letter in a box under Yuan’s bed. 

“In my life, I’ve been driven by a deviant and sharp obsession” 

Qian tenses up, taking in a deep breath, his eyes wandering away from the page. He literally has to mentally prepare himself to continue reading Yuan’s words 

“Looking back, there’s nothing else. But if my life were to cease all of a sudden-” Qian barely moves his head to finish reading, instead just casts his eyes downward.

“-not seeing you one last time would be my greatest regret” 

Qian moves the paper downward, and he looks away. Legitimately, Qian looks at that letter for as short a time as he physically possibly can. 

I’m mentioning the letter because the face that Qian makes when he is reading it is a recurring character throughout this entire episode. Because we see that face again almost immediately when Qian is at H.O.T.. That man is fully dissociating in his meeting, his mind is not at work at all. He is a statue sitting there with exactly the same face he was making when he read the first few words of Yuan’s letter. And it is not until everyone else but San Pang has walked away that he breaks from that thought paralysis and turns to get San Pang’s opinion. Dissatisfied with San Pang’s response and knowing that Yuan was hiding something from him and has not responded to his phone calls, Qian seeks additional answers. 

Rescuing Yuan

In Episode 1, Qian figures out Yuan is in trouble because he gets a phone call from Yuan’s teacher saying that Yuan applied for a leave of absence, he freaks out and goes straight to the pool hall where he barges in yelling and fighting his way to Le’s door. The second he gets in the room, he barrels straight towards Hu and grabs him by the collar. Qian has to be held back by multiple people in order to stop him from laying waste to everyone there, and the second Le-ge tells his people to let Qian go, Qian starts running straight to Le to fight him and has to be held back once more. 

While Qian is being detained, he is looking around wildly, face a perfect picture of rage and desperation. When Yuan is brought out and Qian is released, he runs straight to Yuan and pulls him in to a hug and they start to walk away, arms linked to each other’s backs in support and connection. 

And it sticks as such a vivid memory in my head that I had a visceral reaction to seeing how Qian has changed over time. Because in Episode 9 he knows something is wrong, you can see the worry behind his eyes when he tells San Pang that Yuan hasn’t answered his phone. And San Pang leaves him sitting there, still mulling over everything. When Qian enters the restaurant to talk to Le he appears calm (though there is very clearly a storm brewing inside him), he enters slowly. He is tense, and frustrated, and trying to contain it all. He is trying to keep himself calm. This is a very political conversation. He pours beer for Le-ge, he drinks with him, but you can feel it in the way that Qian sits that his every thought is like a clock just ticking away until something bad happens to Yuan. 

“Le-ge can I ask a favor of you?” 

“What favor?”

“Help me find Yuan,”

“Are you asking me to help you find him or hand him back?” Le asks bemused and we get a jaw twitch from Wei Qian. Qian is seething, but he knows how Le operates and he’s older and wiser now so he can’t just enter the scene beelining towards Le with his fist ready for a face. As a child he was willing to fight Le, as an adult he has recognized Le more as an unfortunate ally who has all the power. Le and Qian roll up to the scene and we get a far more familiar Qian the second he exits the car and starts sprinting towards Yuan and immediately decks Hu right in the face to get him away from Yuan.

Again he tries to fight everyone that comes between them, again he is detained, being held back by multiple people, again Le and Hu fight while Qian is waiting to be released so he can run to Yuan. Again Le puts an ultimatum on their freedom, before it was a boxing match, now it is Russian Roulette.

When they are set free, Qian immediately runs to Yuan and grabs him like he did when they were running away. The way he looks at everyone when he has Yuan in his arms is exactly the same way he looked at everyone when he was reunited with Yuan the first time Yuan was taken from him by the gang. 

It’s all the same, the way they walk out together, the way they are made to pause, the way Qian’s face is snarling when he’s trapped. It’s all there.   

Russian Roulette

Now, we are all about reciprocity here so we get another really tragic parallel between the boxing scene in Episode 1 and the Russian Roulette scene in Episode 9. 

In Episode 1, it is Qian that is made to play Le’s game alone: win three boxing matches, he and Yuan get to leave the gang. But Le doesn’t let Yuan off scot-free here either, forcing him to stand there and watch Qian get beat to shit over and over and over again for Yuan’s sake. And we get Yuan being the one to call out to Qian. 

“Ge, stop fighting, let’s go home!” Yuan yells, and when Qian wins we see Yuan wiping tears away, and then screaming after Qian when his opponent sneaks up behind him. When Qian and Yuan are alone together after the fight, Yuan is crying and when Qian tells him not to cry he says: 

“Sorry. You wouldn’t have been in this fight if it hadn’t been for me,” which in this case is true for reasons outside of Yuan’s control. The things Qian has done for Le are informed by the care he has for Lili and Yuan, but Yuan is not himself the cause of the problem. 

In Episode 9 however….he walks right into the gang as if that is going to do anything, and has to be rescued by Qian. This time, though Yuan does not (or at least has yet to) say it, Qian would not have been in this fight with Hu and the rest of the gangsters if it wasn’t for Yuan. 

Similarly to Episode 1, Le-ge gives an ultimatum to their release, Russian Roulette. Where before we had three boxing matches, now we have three bullet chambers. And Yuan is old enough to protect Qian now, so Yuan volunteers to go first, and we get a role reversal. Before, Yuan had to watch, crying, as Qian fought and bled. Now, Qian is the one sobbing, having to watch Yuan get a gun to the head. Yuan looks at him and mouths “wo ai ni” and Qian immediately closes his eyes because cannot look at Yuan when the trigger is pulled, just as Yuan tried to look away when Qian was getting his skull bashed in in the boxing ring. 

Yuan gets tortured right back though when it is Qian’s turn to have the trigger pulled, all we hear over the background music is this desperate and broken pleading scream from Yuan to let Qian go. When the game is over and Qian is released he runs straight to Yuan and pulls him up stating “Let’s go home, we’re going home,” another direct parallel to Episode 1. 

THE HUG

Alright, my favorite devastating blow of the evening, the hug in Episode 9 and how it parallels the hug in Episode 1. Because there are two levels to this: 

photo of the photobook that @thisonelikesaliens was kind enough to send me. gif by @wanderlust-in-my-soul

The hug that Episode 9 more explicitly parallels, in my mind, is the hug that Qian gives Yuan right when they are reunited. He has that boy tucked in his arms, and is holding the back of Yuan’s head with his hand. It’s a very quick moment, but the intensity of Qian’s motion, the strength of his hug, the emotional core of that hug is evident in just the briefest of seconds and matches the intensity, the strength, and the emotional core of the hug in Episode 9. 

gif by @ueasking

Then you get a secondary parallel with the hug between Qian and Yuan after the boxing match, though it’s not as much of a 1:1 visual as the brief hug above. This is mostly in the changing heights, Yuan and Qian are on relatively the same level here. And you get the hand to the back of the head as a comforting thing which Qian is also doing to Yuan in today’s hug. 

In Episode 9, they are walking back home, it is dark, it is quiet. Qian stops dead in his tracks, the same look on his face as when he read the letter. He turns to face Yuan and clenches his fist because he needs that extra strength, it is taking everything in him to follow through on what comes next and then he just grabs Yuan and pulls him into a hug that parallels the hug they shared when Yuan was younger. Qian hugs Yuan like he is that small, scared boy even though Qian is now so much shorter than Yuan and Yuan is so much braver than he used to be.

gif by @wanderlust-in-my-soul

But unlike the hugs in Episode 1, I don’t think this one is intended to comfort Yuan. I think this time, it is Qian reaching out to Yuan for his own comfort. Because in Episode 1 it is Yuan who cries in to the forehead touch, in Episode 9 it is Qian who burrows his face into Yuan’s neck as hard as he can while his face contorts in sobs. This is not necessarily a parallel, but it is the moment of the episode that ruined my life so I needed to make sure that I took you all down with me with a reminder of this scene and a gif. Oh also, they hug in front of a giant pile of wood like they do with the forehead touch in Episode 1 because they HATE US. 

Fishing Conversation v. Letter Conversation

The two big conversations that Qian and Yuan have this episode are really interesting to me because of how they play with space. When Yuan and Qian are out fishing together, Yuan places himself directly in front of, directly next to Qian for the whole length of the conversation where he asks Qian his feelings. Here they are with allllll this space around them, the water, the earth, the air they can sit wherever, they can stand wherever, they can exist wherever they want and they sit half a breadth apart. 

“Four years ago you turned and left, four years later we’re back here. This is enough.” Yuan states

“Can you stop staring at me then?” Qian asks.

gifs by @ueasking

And that in itself is a parallel to Episode 6 and Yuan begging, pleading, clutching at Qian’s knee for him to look at him. Qian could not look Yuan in the eye from the second Yuan told him he was suffering until the moment he returned home, and now Yuan refuses to break eye contact. (And as an aside, it is a very good indication that Qian is warming up to Yuan’s feelings because he says this in a very light, almost joking way. And he follows it with an empty threat, like the empty threat he gave to Lili when she said she didn’t want to go to school, one that Yuan calls him on immediately.) Yuan moves back to his seat, but even then he does not keep any physical distance from Qian, immediately reaching over to grab Qian’s rod ;-)

At the end of the episode, we get a very differently blocked conversation. It starts with the camera focused on Qian as he ices the back of his head, a place we know has caused him continual problems since the boxing match. Yuan knocks before he enters (which he did for the first time last episode), gives Qian a glass of milk (which they’ve definitely done in this show before), and in response Qian (rightfully imo) yells at Wei Zhiyuan for being dumb, then confronts him with the letter. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Qian asks, and it’s the first time he looks at Yuan in the exchange and Yuan takes it, turns around, and walks away without a word. Yuan puts the letter away and goes to sit on a chair in his room, looking across the hallway at Qian. And this is one of my favorite parallels in the episode, because of what it is doing with distance. 

gif by @ueasking

Earlier in the episode Yuan and Qian were fishing together and engaging in very intense conversation about their feelings and their relationship to one another (or rather, Qian was undergoing an interrogation about his feelings and hearing once more Yuan’s feelings for him). With all that wide open space at the river they were essentially joined at the hip the entire time. But here, when there is another very intense conversation about to happen- one where Yuan is breaking some news to Qian that is almost guaranteed to make him feel all the more guilty for sending Yuan away and going no-contact -there is as much space between them as possible.

So despite the fact that they are in their house, in a much smaller space than the river, despite the fact that they started the conversation in Wei Qian’s room, one of the few places Qian has been vulnerable in front of his family (especially when intoxicated, triggered, or experiencing symptoms of his chronic health condition), one of the few places that Qian has allowed Yuan to be completely carefree, cuddly, and affectionate with him (even sharing a bed), this space Qian has fought tooth and nail to make safe for his family, Yuan does not tarnish it by being in the room with him for the conversation. 

gif by @wanderlust-in-my-soul

No, instead Qian will get this information with as much physical and emotional distance between them as Yuan can muster. 

“...some people started writing their last words” causes Qian to break eye contact with Yuan, but his posture, his breathing, all the rest of his physicality remains the same. Until…

“Everything I own is yours, whether you want it or not,”

That is what breaks Qian. Throughout the conversation as he is hearing about Yuan getting trapped, as he is hearing about Yuan thinking he was going to die, he is stoic, he is stone faced, the most movement you see from him is his eyes looking Yuan up and down in concern and his breath getting slightly quicker with each word, the turn of his head. But here he closes his eyes, he looks down at the ground, he releases his breath. It hits him so hard, the knowledge that he could have sent Yuan away and never seen him again, he sent Yuan away and Yuan could have died, where Qian was not around to protect him. 

It is just such a good mirror to the fishing scene, I love it so much. 

#unknown the series #unknown #taiwanese bl #qian x yuan #unknown bl #unknown episode 9 #unknown meta #unknown analysis #unknown the series meta #unknown the series analysis #wka long post

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Why do you think the epilogue of "Jane Eyre" gives so little attention to Jane's becoming a mother? Just once sentence that doesn't even touch on Jane's feelings about it, only that Rochester regained enough of his sight to be able to see his firstborn son. Why should such an enormous, life-changing aspect of her married years be so deemphasized?

Hi!

If you ask me, I think the very simple answer is that Charlotte Brontë didn't like children. Even Adele herself in the novel is very little more than a plot device to have Jane at Thornfield (this is one of the reasons why the 1996 heavy focus on childhood and the consequences of unhappy childhoods, ending with Jane and Rochester adopting Adele and raising her as their own is both a strong departure from the text but also an interesting commentary on it).

I feel like Elizabeth Gaskell explains it in a way that makes sense in her The Life of Charlotte Brontë:

"...teaching seemed to her at this time, as it does to most women at all times, the only way of earning an independent livelihood. But neither she nor her sisters were naturally fond of children. The hieroglyphics of childhood were an unknown language to them, for they had never been much with those younger than themselves. I am inclined to think, too, that they had not the happy knack of imparting information, which seems to be a separate gift from the faculty of acquiring it; a kind of sympathetic tact, which instinctively perceives the difficulties that impede comprehension in a child’s mind, and that yet are too vague and unformed for it, with its half-developed powers of expression, to explain by words. Consequently, teaching very young children was anything but a “delightful task” to the three Brontë sisters. With older girls, verging on womanhood, they might have done better, especially if these had any desire for improvement. But the education which the village clergyman’s daughters had received, did not as yet qualify them to undertake the charge of advanced pupils."

"No doubt, all who enter upon the career of a governess have to relinquish much; no doubt, it must ever be a life of sacrifice; but to Charlotte Brontë it was a perpetual attempt to force all her faculties into a direction for which the whole of her previous life had unfitted them. Moreover, the little Brontës had been brought up motherless; and from knowing nothing of the gaiety and the sportiveness of childhood—from never having experienced caresses or fond attentions themselves—they were ignorant of the very nature of infancy, or how to call out its engaging qualities. Children were to them the troublesome necessities of humanity; they had never been drawn into contact with them in any other way. Years afterwards, when Miss Brontë came to stay with us, she watched our little girls perpetually; and I could not persuade her that they were only average specimens of well brought up children. She was surprised and touched by any sign of thoughtfulness for others, of kindness to animals, or of unselfishness on their part: and constantly maintained that she was in the right, and I in the wrong, when we differed on the point of their unusual excellence."

From a letter from Charlotte to Gaskell:

"Whenever I see Florence and Julia [two of Gaskell's daughters] again, I shall feel like a fond but bashful suitor, who views at a distance the fair personage to whom, in his clownish awe, he dare not risk a near approach. Such is the clearest idea I can give you of my feeling towards children I like, but to whom I am a stranger;—and to what children am I not a stranger? They seem to me little wonders; their talk, their ways are all matter of half-admiring, half-puzzled speculation."

I wonder how her feelings would or wouldn't have changed, had she survived her pregnancy and gotten a child of her own with the husband she loved.

#ask #princesssarisa #Charlotte Brontë #Jane Eyre #Elizabeth Gaskell #The Life of Charlotte Brontë

[hiddenwritingsintheworld]

Man After Midnight Ch. 10

Rich Mans World Series | Chapter 9| Donations | Thoughts & Feelings

Chris stood by the casket and stared at it, the huge mountain of flowers on top, Tommy would have hated it, he would have killed someone for decking his funeral out in flowers. He wasn’t the flowers and chocolates kinda guy. “How could you be so stupid?” Chris whispered to himself. Heels clicking up the isle of the church made Chris turn around. The slender blonde woman he’d only seen once in his life was storming toward him. “How did this happen?!” she cried out, the small boy, whom she’d tugged down the way with her, stared up at Chris with sad eyes. “He was a father, how am I supposed to raise this kid on my own?!” she hissed at him. “What did you do?? Are you going to find whoever was responsible and take care of it?!” she asked. Chris pulled them into a hug and whispered in her ear. “If you dont shut the fuck up and play the grieving widow part a lot better, I’m gonna take you out next, do you fuckin understand me?” he kissed her cheek and patted the other one. 

“Chris, please, I loved Tommy, what happened?” she cried into her hand. “He was found at a woman's house, love letters surrounding them both, autopsy said he killed himself.” Chris said softly as they moved away from the casket. She bit her lip and opened her purse pulling out a piece of paper. As she unfolded it she spoke softer, “Could this person maybe know more?'' She handed him the photo. “Found that on our security camera, That was taken the night Tommy died. I don't know who was with him, but that image is all I have. I’ll get the video to you this week.” she whispered. 

Chris stared at the image, it was Tommy, walking with someone shorter than him, headed toward his shed. “Do you think…that was the woman he had went to see? Maybe they slept together in the shed? Tommy never let me go in there, I don't know what was in there.” she said softly. “The camera was too far away to pick up the other person's features, but I'm assuming it was a woman with him.” she said quietly. 

The church doors opened, and in walked you with a short, black dress on, black pumps and bright red lipstick. On your right was Brooke and on your left was Maddie. You had a couple of women standing back by the doors, but that’s as far as they entered the church. As you walked down the same aisle you had on your wedding day, you watched as peoples soft voices turned into murmurs as you passed them. Their attention turned toward you three, as Chris watched you. Your relationship had been rocky since he’d confessed his affair with Sharon. He’d written a letter to you that it happened during the two weeks he spent away from you. 

You hated yourself more than anything, you’d trusted him, and he still…..after everything, deep down…just didn’t love you. Not how you loved him at least. You stood at the casket and prayed silently. Brooke and Maddie, doing the same behind you. Once you were finished, you walked over to the women you assumed to belong to Tommy and offered your hands, “I am so deeply sorry for your loss, If there is anything you need, we would be honored to help you.” you spoke quietly as she sniffled and looked over at Chris. 

“That’s what your husband said too, I really appreciate you guys finding out who did this. Tommy loved us…he never would have left his son.” she whispered as you glanced down at the boy. He stared up at you, he looked like a miniature version of Tommy with those bright blue eyes staring up at you. His dark wavy hair combed back neatly. You swallowed and looked back at her. “Let us know if you need anything,” you leaned down and hugged her before ruffling the boy's hair softly and walked away. 

Chris moved in front of Sebastian and Anthony only for you to brush past him toward the back of the church. “Y/N?” you turned and looked at him. “See you at home.” you turned back around and left, people would whisper about the encounter between you and your husband for the next several months. 

Days turned into weeks and you avoided Chris as much as possible. You just couldn’t bring yourself to face him, especially after he wept over Sharon's death. You slept in your office, you tried to keep yourself out of the house as much as possible. Henry, Brooke's older brother, had been nice enough to treat you to dinner one night, simply checking on your well-being since you weren’t on the best terms with Chris at the moment. 

You laughed, told stories, joked around, it had been one of the greatest night’s you’d had in a long long time. You tried to not think about him, but with every joke you’d think to yourself ‘Chris would have loved that,’ or when you’d hear a funny story, you knew Chris would have had an even better one. You were both walking back toward your car when Henry stopped and turned toward you. He went to speak but he sighed, and looked down. You tilted your head while watching him. “What’s up Henry?” you smiled a little. He looked at you before he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours in a chaste kiss. 

You pulled back and stared in bewilderment at him. “I have to go.” you turned and walked the rest of the way to your car the feeling of vomiting in your stomach. Once you got home, you opened the door, stepped out and puked all over the driveway. “Jesus.” you coughed wiping your mouth with your hand before you went inside. 

“About time. We need to talk.” Peggy said, walking up to you as you rolled your eyes. “Listen, I don't feel good, so we can do this another time.” you said heading up the stairs. “The anniversary party is set for one week from today. I’ve got a gown selected for you and you’ll be on your best behavior. No…surprises.” Peggy said with a tight smile at you. You stared at her before holding up your middle finger. “Do go royally fuck yourself.” you said in a fake accent before you walked upstairs. 

As you passed your bedroom door, you saw Chris walking out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist. He looked up, catching your eye. You both stared silently at each other for what felt like forever. “Hi,” he said as he walked over to the bedroom door. You opened your lips, ready to say hi, but instead, vomit came out, covering his chest down to his towel. You instantly covered your mouth as you felt more bile rise up in your throat. 

You shoved past him into the bathroom, kneeling down in front of the toilet, puking your guts up. You felt a hand hold your hair back in a ponytail while the other rubbed soothing circles on your back. “Shhh it’s alright, I got you,” Chris said quietly as you finished. You reached up flushing the toilet before you slowly stood up and brushed your teeth rinsing your mouth out. “I must have eaten something bad. I didn’t mean to puke on you.” you said quietly as he got back in the shower. 

Chris held the shower door open and looked back at you, “Why don’t you join me? We can clean up and I’ll help you get ready for bed. No funny business.” he said looking at you with a soft and sweet look. Maybe it was the exhaustion of sleeping on a hard couch, or maybe it was the food poisoning you were experiencing, but before you could realize what you were doing, you were stripping down, and climbing into a steaming hot shower with him. 

“FUCK!” Chris groaned, arching his back off the floor next to the bed. You can't recall how it happened, but one moment you were agreeing to showering with him, and the next thing you knew, it was 5am, and neither one of you had stopped pleasuring each other. You lifted your mouth off his hard cock gulping down a big breath of air. Chris took the chance to grab your arms and flip you over on your hands and knees, lining up behind you as he gripped your hips and slammed into you. 

You both couldn’t contain yourselves as you moved into different positions around the room. As the sun came up, you were straddling him in one of the chairs that sat across from your bed, riding him as he left marks on your chest. The bedroom door opened, Peggy came in, causing you to glare as you rode him. “Peggy! Jesus fuck get out!” Chris yelled, wrapping his arms around you. You held your head high, grinding your hips down into his. “Chris, we need to talk.” Peggy said, only looking at him. “Get out!” he yelled again. “We’re-” he let out a breath looking up at you as you stared her down, your jaw ticking some, while your nostrils flared. “We’re busy. Leave.” you said with a dark tone in your voice. Peggy looked away before she looked back at Chris who huffed and shielded you as best he could. 

“Christopher….” You glared daggers at her as she glanced at you while saying his name. She looked back at him. “What?” he snapped at her. “Your mother died.” she blurted out. You stopped moving as you looked down at Chris. His face had paled and he blinked. “What?” Peggy looked at you, her eyes holding everything you needed to see. “Bitch.” you mumbled to yourself as you climbed off his lap. “She apparently had a heart attack in the middle of the night last night, she was in Spain visiting your cousins.” You grabbed your robe, throwing it on before walking into the bathroom. 

Chris sat silently, no matter what he said next it didn’t matter. The one person who’d do anything for him was gone. A hand came to rest on his shoulder and he looked up to see Peggy. “Get out.” he growled. “Christopher.” Peggy said softly. “Get out before I throw you out bitch.” your voice startled both of them. “He told you once, and I’ve told you twice. Now. I suggest you listen before I snap that pretty little neck.” you ordered as she nodded and walked out closing the door behind her. 

You looked at Chris as he walked over to the french doors on the balcony to the master bedroom. You stood behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m so sorry.” you whispered against his shoulder blade. “I need you. I can’t go through this without you by my side.” he whispered as tears filled his eyes. You laid your lips against his shoulder blade and whispered. “Anything you need.” 

Tagging:

@mommad @wolfieeebbbyyy @dontbescaredtosingalong @ellen-reincarnated1967 @adriellej @calimoi @coffeebooksandfandom @patzammit @posiemax @fdl305 @auriel187 @ladybug05 @stoneyggirl2 @fallenoutofrose @mrspeacem1nusone @teamfreewill-imagine @inlovewith3

(bringing back my tag list please dont make me regret it <3)

#chris evans imagines #chris evans imagine #chris evans fan fiction #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fanfic #chris evans au #au!Chris evans #mafia!chris evans x reader #chris evans x reader #mafia!au #chris evans x you #chris x reader #chris evans bad boy #chris evans smut #chris evans story #chris evans fluff #chris evans mini series #chris evans headcanon #chris evans angst #chris evans series #enemies to lovers #chris evans stories #rich mans world #man after midnight #mafia trope #mafia trilogy #au!mafia #chris evans character x reader #chris evans characters #mafiatale

[sinisterexaggerator]

Sriluurian, the language of the Weequay "was formed by guttural mumbles and subdued whispers." It also used hieroglyphs as a written form. It is a language used to communicate with people from other tribes, as Weequay from the same clan/tribe could communicate via their pheromones and did not need to use spoken language.

"As a result, speech was only a secondary form of communication for Weequay, and they seldom spoke a whole sentence, resulting in Humans mistakenly believing the species to be unintelligent."

There are only two known Sriluurian words in canon/legends that I can find.

Uurutche'zediev - The name of Temptation Canyon on Sriluur ( a place on their home planet ).

Raquor'daan - Dark wolf ( an animal that lived on Sriluur ).

It sort of reminds me of Huttese.

Now, imagine if you will...

Hondo never shuts up. He's always talking, telling stories, flattering himself, or giving commands. He knows at least four languages, if not more: Sriluurian, Basic, Shyriiwook, and probably Huttese.

Considering his species, this is not natural. Pair this with the fact that Hondo "has a large disconnect with Sriluur culture and religion," and what we get is a black sheep of the family.

This is verrrrrry interesting, because another part of Weequay culture dictates that "as long as the clan survives, a single Weequay is expendable." We know from canon that Hondo was sold to priests of the god Quay by his parents, which means they were most likely hard up for money and needed to support the clan in some way; stealing and swindling people wasn't cutting it.

That, and/or Hondo was considered to be one who is expendable in this scenario, and maybe there was a reason for that.

To me, ( and @allsystemsblue xD ), Hondo is a well-spoken, well-educated man with street smarts on top of book smarts. He may not be Count Dooku, but he is not a dummy by any means. The fact that he can speak that many languages should be proof enough, but he was also an advisor to a Hutt who trusted him with his business dealings, not to mention his successful pirate's horde, and the fact he kidnapped a Sith lord with ease.

Now, imagine him being surrounded by other Weequay whom he cannot identify with. Imagine he often simply speaks his mind instead of talking with his pheromones. Imagine how shunned or ridiculed he must be by the others, them using their guttural, grunting language or not talking at all verbally, and for Hondo to have so much to say, with so many ways in which to say it.

Not only did his mother teach him things, but we can assume he also read a lot of books, and was literate, unlike his brethren. Just look at this letter he wrote himself, for Pete's sake!

I've decided to headcanon that Hondo grew up in Dnalvec. It was "the main port city of Sriluur, which housed three of the four main spaceports on the planet. It was a chaotic frontier environment of drifting star pilots, information merchants, and mercenaries."

By doing this, I imagine Hondo's youth was filled with all sorts of colorful characters, world travelers, and the well-to-do. Teeth says he was a charming young man who people fell in love with left and right. I tend to agree with this.

Maybe this is why he can't shut up now for the life of him; he always has so much to say when no one wanted to listen to him before. Maybe his mother warned him time and time again. Maybe this was one of the reasons she kicked him out of the house on numerous occasions to spend time on the streets before she finally let him back home again.

And even though he loved his mother, deep down he only wanted her to love him back. He holds her in esteem, refusing to think poorly of her, convincing himself she did her best, that she would never truly mean to hurt her child...

But that is where the disconnect comes in. If Weequay's truly are as they are described in canon/legends as "mean-spirited, suspicious, xenophobic, devious, and deceitful," and Hondo is none of those things, or only learns to be so from a necessity to survive, then that means he must have had a very disappointing and frustrating childhood, not to mention the heartbreak he must have felt when he was sold.

Just a thought.

If he ever told me a story, I would be sure to listen.

#Weequay #Hondo Ohnaka #Headcanons #Sriluur #Sriluurian #Star Wars #Star Wars Languages #Clone Wars #fanfiction #backstory #wip #wookieepedia #character analysis

[mako-neexu]

i feel sickkkk i listened to the song so many times i lost track literally crying rn the way Beyond the Gray Sky talks about such simple peaceful and happy times- of the present and the past and then not even half of the song later, it smoothly delves into "goodbyes"

(i think the full hasnt been released internationally yet but i am so. sick and unwell whenever i hear it. what is this? hassan of the cutting onions stop hiding???)

i am just so sad....like the first half talks about eating together at the rooftop and laughing alongside eahc other just gives off the vibe that its all so fun. its all so sweet and amazing to be with you, whom i love. this current moment where we are beneath that blue sky. i and you who exist right at this extremely rare moment where we are together. and with you, i have that strength to head towards tomorrow. like.... this is the "normal life" that fujimaru ritsuka yearns for and is experiencing "in this moment"

ghhh 😭the second phase + 2nd chorus absolutely turned me to dust and tears...

because there are two ways to interpret that one. (for me, at least)

this refers to guda, who has been submerged countless times in those depths of despair but that "unchanging feeling" for their wish is what drives them to stand back up again and again and now, as their Avengers escort them onto that train towards the future, they plead and ask, they look at their very first Avenger with tears at the edges of their eyes and ask, "Please tell me that this journey will still continue." as that was the very last line of the song.

the second half could also be interpreted as a love letter, a farewell of the Avengers- of dantes' POV towards guda because he's said it time and time again!!! that his accomplice is a star and therefore is light -> and before i inevitably lose my "light", i must teach them the meaning of revenge. but that star will never be swallowed up by the darkness, shall never be tempted as the "feelings and thoughts" towards their heartfelt "wish" will remain forever unchanged. So "tell me that this journey will still continue (towards that which you yearn for)." As you, my star, my destiny, my accomplice must reach for that tomorrow you long for. You on this brilliant path must walk forward. And us, your Avengers, shall push your back one last time.

heart hurts i have too many feelings.... i have to go back to interpreation #1 because im still unwell if its a guda POV.....because-

"I know. I know full well there is no such thing as eternity. these times wont last forever but if you're guiding me to board this train towards the future," they bite their lower lip as they tighten their hold on Dantes's gloved hand, as they shakily grip at the steel rail of the train's entrance door and hot tears cascade down their cheeks, they ask, with their voice cracking as they look back at him and their Avengers, these people that they love, pushing their back forward with a happy goodbye because they also loved them in return, and were doing this because they cared about guda so much, they ask with a plea, "At least tell me that this journey will continue."

("Because if this continues, then I'll see you again. I'll be able to see you again for as long as this continues... I'll be able to meet you one way or another- as this is not a final farewell. So please reassure me... that it will continue.")

("But I know there is no such thing as 'forever', but despite that, I still want to hope. I'll wait and hope for as long as I have to just to meet you and see you again. Just tell me, please tell me-")

arghhhhh still, this entire chapter also reminded us of that inevitable final "farewell" on FGO like....there are definitely times i hated this game but i loved it just as much..........

also, the way momoka (singer for this song) sings "even i know there's no such thing as eternity" (to these happy times/joyful memories of being together) just............................ im just so sad.....😭....... the way she conveyed it with such pain with that feeling of "of course- of course, i know that-! but even so. please. please, even so-" in her tone.........like guda's/the avengers' or dantes' feelings are just killing me i can feel myself really die inside from sadness 😭

and the feeling of the song as i mentioned previously is uplifting yet so sad... both the chorus give that feeling of "moving forward" with light and bright steps and it feels happy in the first one but in the last chorus, it felt like a "graduation song" and the overall song's feelings give it a vibe of "wishing 'you' good luck, filled with hope".....

and in the full CM: dantes speaks his famed line of "Attendre et Esperer", an answer to the song which becomes a song where "the Avengers give you one final push"

#fgo #fate grand order

[homomenhommes]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … November 21

1694 – Voltaire, French philosopher, born (d.1778); born François-Marie Arouet, better known by the nom de plume Voltaire, was a French Enlightenment writer, essayist, deist and philosopher known for his wit, philosophical sport, and defense of civil liberties, including freedom of religion and the right to a fair trial. He was an outspoken supporter of social reform despite strict censorship laws and harsh penalties for those who broke them. A satirical polemicist, he frequently made use of his works to criticize Christian dogma and the French institutions of his day.

The name "Voltaire," which he adopted in 1718 not only as a pen name but also in daily use, is an anagram of the Latinized spelling of his surname "Arouet" and the initial letters of the sobriquet "le jeune" ("the younger"): AROVET Le ieune. The name also echoes in reversed order the syllables of a familial château in the Poitou region: "Airvault".

In terms of religious texts, Voltaire was largely of the opinion that the Bible was: 1) an outdated legal and/or moral reference, 2) by and large a metaphor, but one that perhaps taught some good lessons, and 3) a work of Man, not a divine gift. These beliefs did not hinder his religious practice (It is a line from one of his poems that translates "If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him.") though it did gain him somewhat of a bad reputation in the Catholic Church. He is best known today for his novel, Candide.

Voltaire blew hot and cold on the subject of homosexuality. Although he is known to have sampled the delights of same-sex love on one occasion, he nonetheless admonished a friend who wanted to try it a second time, "Once, a philosopher," he proclaimed, "twice, a sodomite!"

He was locked in a love-hate relationship with Frederick the Great, with whom he spent agonizing, ecstatic years. In her biography of Voltaire, Nancy Mitford writes that "nobody who studies the life of Voltaire can doubt that he had homosexual tendencies, and one wonders whether his feelings for the king were not exacerbated by unrequited passion."

Whatever his personal reservations about homosexuality, the famous French writer was forthright in declaring that sodomy, "when not accompanied by violence, should not fall under the sway of criminal law, for it does not violate the rights of any man." We will never know why Voltaire once signed a letter to a male friend, "E vi baccio il catzo," which, politely translated means, "I kiss your rod."

1915 – James Gleeson (d.2008) was one of Australia's foremost artists. He was also a poet, critic, writer and curator. He played a significant role in the Australian art scene, including serving on the board of the National Gallery of Australia.

Gleeson's themes generally delved into the subconscious using literary, mythological or religious subject matter. He was particularly interested in Jung's archetypes of the collective unconscious.

During the 1950s and '60s he moved to a more symbolic perspective, notions of human perfectibility. At this time he increasingly fashioned small psychedelic compositions made using the surrealist technique of decalcomania in the background, to suggest a landscape, and finished by adding a fastidiously painted male nude in the foreground.

"Totems in Arcadia"

Many of his paintings had homoerotic undertones, something which reflected on Gleeson's own homosexuality. The ideas for these compositions also saw Gleeson move into collage with his Locus Solus series, where he produced a substantial body of work by placing dismembered photographs, magazine illustrations, diagrams and lines of visionary poetry against abstract pools of ink.

Since the 1970s Gleeson generally made large scale paintings in keeping with the surrealist Inscape genre. The works outwardly resemble rocky seascapes, although in detail the coastline's geological features are found to be made of giant molluscs and threatening crustaceans. In keeping with the Freudian principles of surrealism these grotesque, nightmarish compositions symbolise the inner workings of the human mind. Called 'Psychoscapes' by the artist. Gleeson's later works incorporate the human form less and less in its entirety, represented in his landscapes by suggestions, an arm, a hand or merely an eye.

Gleeson died in Sydney on 20 October 2008, aged 92, one year after his life partner Frank O'Keefe.

1940 – Keith Prentice (d.1992) was a Dayton, Ohio-born American TV, film and stage actor, whose most famous role was the part of Larry in both the original stage and film versions of The Boys in the Band. Prentice also appeared on the classic TV soap Dark Shadows during the series' final months in 1971. Until just several years ago, his picture was displayed on the Tasters Choice coffee label.

Prentice studied in New York City at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. His stage musical credits include Sail Away, The Sound of Music, Paint Your Wagon, and The King and I. In 1968, he appeared off-Broadway in the non-musical The Boys in the Band, a then controversial play featuring gay characters at a dramatic birthday party - the Summer before the Stonewall gay civil rights riots. He also appeared in the movie version of the play. In 1971 Keith joined the cast of Dark Shadows playing Morgan Collins. Prentice also appeared as Nils Fowler in the 1972 film The Legend of Nigger Charley and had a small role in the 1980 film Cruising which, like Boys in the Band, was directed by William Friedkin.

In 1982 Keith Prentice co-founded Kettering Theatre Under The Stars, and directed summer shows there until the year of his death. He died of AIDS-related cancer on September 27, 1992 in Kettering, Ohio

.

1963 – The playwright, director and founder of Tectonic Theater Project, Moisés Kaufman, was born on this date. He is the author of Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde, 33 Variations and is perhaps best known for writing The Laramie Project with other members of Tectonic Theater Project. He was born and raised in Caracas, Venezuela and moved to New York City in 1987. He made his Broadway directing debut in the 2004 production of I Am My Own Wife by Doug Wright, for which he received a Tony Award nomination for Best Direction of a Play. Mr. Kaufman is a Guggenheim Fellow.

Kaufman is of Romanian and Ukrainian Jewish descent. He described himself in an interview as "I am Venezuelan, I am Jewish, I am gay, I live in New York. I am the sum of all my cultures. I couldn't write anything that didn't incorporate all that I am."

1967 – Amanda Lepore is a transgender American model, singer, and performance artist. A former Club Kid, she has appeared in advertising for numerous companies. Lepore is noted as a regular subject in photographer David LaChapelle's work, serving as his muse, as well as many other photographers, such as Terry Richardson and Ruben van Schalm. She participated in LaChapelle's Artists and Prostitutes 1985–2005 exhibit in New York City, where she "lived" in a voyeuristic life-sized set.

Lepore has released several singles, many written by and/or recorded with Cazwell. In 2011, she released her debut studio album, I...Amanda Lepore, on Peace Bisquit.

Amanda grew up in the Essex County community of Cedar Grove, New Jersey, with one sibling, an older brother. Her father was an Italian-American chemical engineer, and her mother was a German-American housewife. Her mother had schizophrenia and spent much time in mental institutions.

Lepore later wrote that "Ever since I can first remember, I knew I was a girl. I couldn't understand why my parents were dressing me up in boys' clothing. I thought they were insane."

In her early teens, Lepore began making costumes for a transgender friend in exchange for female hormones. Having already grown isolated from her peers and schooling, her parents withdrew her from public school and hired a private tutor. They also took her to a psychologist, who helped her obtain a prescription to begin hormone therapy.

At the age of 17, and through a legal loophole, Lepore married a male bookstore owner. She was granted permission for gender affirmation surgery, which she had at age 19 in Yonkers, New York. Lepore later left her husband. In 1989, she relocated to New York City.

In the early 1990s, Lepore tried to establish herself as a nightlife figure (including being a member of the Club Kids). She supported herself by working in a nail salon, as a dominatrix, and later as a cosmetics salesgirl for Patricia Field. After meeting photographer David LaChapelle one evening while hosting at Bowery Bar, she began collaborating with him.

1981 – Sergeant Charles Cochrane, a 14 year veteran of the NYPD, created shock waves by testifying before a New York City Council hearing in favor of a gay rights bill. Following on the testimony of a Patrolmen's Benevolent Association Vice President who denounced the bill, and declared he didn't know of any homosexual police officers, Cochrane stunned those present by announcing, "I am very proud of being a New York City Police Officer, and I am equally proud of being gay."

Cochrane's public testimony lent significantly toward the official formation of the Gay Officers Action League, Inc., aka G.O.A.L. - NY, which became the first official police fraternal society in the world to represent LGBT professionals within the criminal justice system. Since that time, similar organizations for LGBT Law Enforcement Officers, Criminal Justice professionals as well as Firefighters and EMS personnel have been established around the world.

1983 – Blake McGrath is a Canadian professional dancer, pop singer and choreographer. He was known for being on the first season of So You Think You Can Dance in 2005, and on the MTV reality dance show, DanceLife. He has also developed a solo singing career with a debut album Time to Move in 2010.

McGrath was born in Mississauga, Ontario.

His early television appearances include: Choices of the Heart: The Margaret Sanger Story (1997) playing Stuart Sanger, and the TV show recreation of Goosebumps book "Stay Out of the Basement". He played the brother Casey.

In 2015, McGrath was chosen to perform on Michael Jackson's thirtieth anniversary special. In 2006, he performed alongside Paulina Rubio at the 2004 Latin Grammy Awards. Also in 2006 he had an appearance in the documentary Freestyle (with Brian Friedman). He has appeared in Gap campaigns (with Sarah Jessica Parker), and in advertisements for iPod, Jc Penny (which he also choreographed), and Hummer.

He has danced with stars such as Madonna, Britney Spears, Kylie Minogue, Janet Jackson, Adam Lambert, Ashanti, Destiny's Child, Katy Perry, Craig David, Jewel.

In addition to his appearances on television shows, McGrath has also appeared in the films Butterbox Babies, Life With Mikey, Chicago, and Rent. He was also featured as a dancer in The Suite Life of Zack & Cody in the episode Commercial Breaks. He was a waiter. He studied at both Tiffany Dance Academy in Hamilton Ontario and Joanne Chapman School of Dance in Brampton, Ontario.

He is owner of VIP Dance Events which tours major cities throughout Canada. He also appeared on the magazine cover of Hotshoes and appeared in Dance Spirit Magazine December 2006 issue. Lastly, he appeared on the 9/10/13 episode of Dance Moms as a guest choreographer. He is the lead choreographer for the audition cities and alternating third judge on So You Think You Can Dance Canada.

He is bisexual. "I've been attracted to men and attracted to women," he told Canada's gay mag Fab. "My feelings change all the time. One day I can feel like I'm gay, another day like I'm straight. But I'm not just one or the other, I'm Blake McGrath and I'm attracted to somebody on the inside.

2006 – Israel's Supreme Count recognizes international same-sex marriages.

Today's Gay Wisdom:

Quotes from Voltaire:

A witty saying proves nothing.

All murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.

Anyone who has the power to make you believe absurdities has the power to make you commit injustices.

Anything that is too stupid to be spoken is sung.

Behind every successful man stands a surprised mother-in-law.

Better is the enemy of good.

Common sense is not so common.

Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her: but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game.

Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

whimsicallyenchantedrose

Season 2 Rewatch Drabbles--2x21-2x22 Second Star to the Right ... And Straight on Til Morning

Summary:  A series of 100-500 word drabbles to accompany my    rewatch of season 2 of Once Upon a Time as an attempt to finally jump    start the muse again.  There will be a drabble–either a deleted scene, a    “fix it” fic or a character musing for each episode of the season.  Focus will be on Emma, Henry, the Charmings and Killian–with an emphasis on the very beginnings of Captain Swan’s epic love story, as soon as a certain dashing pirate makes his appearance.  

Word Count: 766 (why did I think I could stick to a word count again?)

@jrob64​  @anmylica​   @booksteaandtoomuchtv

Other Chapters: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (17.5) (18) (19) (20) (22)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hook stood at the wheel of the Jolly Roger looking out at the horizon as he sailed determinedly out of Storybrooke.

They’d all gone mad.  All of them, even Swan.  What manner of fools these heroes were.  Willing to risk all of their lives–the lives of everyone in the town–for the miniscule chance of saving the Evil Queen, of all people.

The Evil Queen whom they should rightly want to see dead for her part in trapping her in this strange little town in the first place.

He’d returned to town with Greg and Tamara, seduced by their vow to help him kill his Crocodile once and for all, but it had been the work of mere moments to realize the pair were blithering idiots, mindless zealots for a cause they didn’t understand at the behest of a master they didn’t even know.

When they’d revealed the full extent of their plan to him–destroying the town and everyone not born in this land, he’d realized he’d been an utter fool to throw in his lot with them.  Aye, their plan would kill the Dark One, but it would also kill everyone else in this town, including him.

Including Swan.  How she’d so thoroughly gotten under his skin, even after she’d betrayed him–twice: once on the beanstalk and then again when she locked him in a broom closet in New York–he didn’t know.  All he knew for sure was that she’d been right.

The two of them understood each other.  There was some manner of tether connecting her to him, one that he hardly had time to ponder with the end of the word staring him in the face.

For a split second he’d actually considered staying the course, letting the failsafe do its job and ridding the world of the Dark One forever.

But then he’d remembered the conversation he’d had with Regina in the mines. Do you ever think this constant pursuit of revenge is the reason we have no one to care for us?

He’d spent centuries hunting his Crocodile, willing to do all manner of dastardly deeds in the furtherance of that goal, but this … this was a step too far.  Hook had never minded committing villainous acts to those who deserved it, those who got in his way, but Greg and Tamara proposed massacring an entire town of innocents.

It was the height of bad form.

And so he’d turned to the heroes, and for a moment he’d thought they’d found a solution to their problems–until Queen Snow had convinced the rest to go along with her hare-brained scheme of tossing the failsafe into a portal.

He’d taken his leave then, ready to wash his hand of the entire town–heroes, villains, all of them.  The only one he could depend on was himself.

As he continued to sail, he looked down at the sparkly magic bean in his hand, and his eye caught the letters he’d carved into the helm on that day so many years ago.

Bae.

He’d let the boy down, serving him up to Pan on a silver platter, as it were.  Of all of his deeds, that was perhaps the one of which he was the most ashamed.  He’d chosen himself over the boy, over his Milah’s son.

And now he was doing the same to Bae’s lad.

Hook closed his eyes as the pain washed over him.  He didn’t want to be that man any more.  He’d made the selfish choice centuries ago, but he needn’t repeat that error.  He blew out a long breath and then pocketed the bean, slowly turning the wheel to head back into port.

This plan was still reckless.  It was still stupid. 

But it was the right thing to do.  He might well perish in a matter of hours, but at least he would die doing the right thing.

He would die a hero.

Notes:  Sorry for the delay!  I got caught up writing birthday fics, and this rewatch drabbles series fell a bit to the wayside.

–As you can see from the title, this particular chapter kind of encompasses both 2x21 and 2x22.  The truth is, there wasn’t much in 2x21 that inspired me, aside from themes I’ve already explored earlier in the series.  In contrast, I really, really wanted to explore things from both Hook’s and Emma’s perspectives in the events of 2x22, so I decided this was the best option.  Combining 2x21 and 2x22 and writing a chapter from each character.  Emma’s reflection should be up (assuming the muse cooperates) tomorrow, and then it’s on to Neverland!

NEXT CHAPTER-->

#once upon a time rewatch drabbles #2x21 second star to the right #2x22 and straight on til morning #hook fic #killian jones

[rad4learning]

“Do I have the right to break the heart of those who have shown me nothing but love and goodness throughout my life and who have surrounded me with such tender care? I would break their hearts if I indulged my desires and did what my whole being yearns for with every heartbeat, with every breath I take.”

“We girls, chained as we still are to the old practices and customs, were only able to benefit slightly from this progress as regards education. It had already been a great offence against the morals and customs of my country for us girls to go out and be educated and therefore we had to go out of our house every day to attend school. You see, the adat of our country strongly forbids young girls to go outside their home. We were not allowed to go anywhere else – and the only educational institution with which our little town is blessed is just an ordinary public elementary school for Europeans. In my twelfth year, I was ordered to stay home – I had to enter the ‘box’. I was locked up in the house, totally isolated from the outside world. I could not return to this world unless I was beside my husband, a complete stranger, whom our parents had chosen for us and to whom we can be married off literally without our knowledge. European friends – I only learned this much later – had already tried everything they possibly could to change my parents’ views, to change what for this young and life-loving child was such a cruel decision; but they could achieve nothing. My parents were immovable: I entered my prison. For four long years I lived behind four thick walls without ever seeing anything of the outside world. How I survived that period I do not know – I only know that it was terrible.”

“But I am not satisfied, not at all. I want to go further, much further still. No – attending festivities or frivolities were not what I had yearned for, had never been why I had longed for freedom. I longed to be free to be able to be independent – to be able to make myself independent, not to have to be dependent on anyone, to … never to have to marry.

But we must marry, must, must. Not to marry is the greatest crime a Muslim woman can commit, it is the greatest scandal that could befall a Native girl and her family.

And marriage here … oh, ‘wretched’ is too feeble a word to describe it! How could it be otherwise if the laws have been made in such as way as to totally favour the man and ignore the woman? If both the law and conventional wisdom favour the man – allow the man to do everything, everything?”

“There is one evil here much worse than alcohol! It is opium. Oh! The misery which that disgusting substance has brought to my country, to my people, is beyond words. Opium is the plague of Java. Yes, opium is much worse than the plague. The plague does not last forever; sooner or later it subsides but the evil caused by opium is increasing rapidly, is spreading more and more and will not ever disappear simply because it is protected by the Government!”

Excerpts from R.A Kartini’s first letter to the Dutch feminist Stella Zeehandelar, 25 May 1899 as translated to English (from Dutch) in Kartini the Complete Writings 1884-1904 by Joost Coté

#kartini #I intend to comment on this later #book quote

[acknowledgetheabsurd]

I have just reread your last two letters and I have a curious impression. When I realize that you live somewhere, that you get up, that you change, that you lie down, that you talk, that you get angry, that you laugh somewhere far from me, surrounded by living beings - well, more or less -, when I learn that Robert [Jaussaud], whom I know, Michel, Janine [Gallimard] come and go around you and that you attend a lot of small daily events, I am astonished and there is something in me that refuses to admit it.

The house, the landscape that surrounds you are for me part of a dream that is reduced to a few words and a postcard; it is not very real. The presence of F[rancine] does not seem very plausible to me either; it is part of the mists that always blur a part of a being; it presents itself to me as a ghost of the past that makes you someone I can never know entirely, someone distinct from me that I can never possess completely - but this image remains vague, a little abstract; it is your unknown. Mixed with him, you disappear for me, from this world leaving me only the memory of the one I knew and which has no relation with the other. If you were dead, it would be the same in a way, and it hurts me in a way too.

However, I understand; but when the image of a being existing for me comes to mingle with you in my reveries and when I suddenly realize that this is true, that Robert [Jaussaud] or Michel [Gallimard] can, if they want to, take your hand right now, then I don't even feel pain anymore. I don't understand anymore, and yet for days and days it goes on. How strange and funny! Michel or Janine can put their arms around your neck, look as long as they want at the turned-up corners of your lips and make for an irreplaceable time a whole existence around you that will be taken away from me forever. It's enough to make you laugh, admit it!

And to think that we will not stop here, and that led by life, we will still disdain - for a trip, for a vacation, for a movie - days and days to come. Ah, that's clever! No, my darling, my love; I don't remember the trucks at the aubede Senlis - I only remember thinking... once, I think... being awakened by the storm and quickly falling back to sleep in a warmth that I now miss to the point of pain - I also remember the bottles of Vichy in the evening, the wait for the waiter who didn't come, I remember how little by little, during those days, I became acquainted with you, with an intimate you, trembling and warm, I remember being aware of a frightening danger and I remember the last bursts of my egoism, until then quite firm, and my abandonment, my acceptance, my consent. Ah, yes, I remember. And I dream, I dream. Constantly.

And I build and I arrange, and that collapses and I start again. Over and over again. Tonight, during the intermission, we got serious. We talked about the children we might have. I tried to be biased, to run away, but Jean and Michel kept drawing me a picture of my daughter, because they had decided that I would have a daughter... with a pointed chin and almond-shaped eyes. Smart guys! Something deep inside me capsized and I dreamed, I dreamed, I dreamed. Alas! Too old now to have children and then could I and would I know how to be a mother? Forgive me, darling. Because there is a land that is forbidden to us, we never dream and this evening I am tired of a life that only ends in the night; I want future projects, of I don't know what.

Don't worry; it lasts the time of a letter; then everything fades away and it's only a matter of starting again.  Perhaps it would be better not to write these desires or these states of mind; perhaps it would give them a consistency that they don't have - and that's why I hate letters in general - but, you know, and I do too, it does me good. I'm going to sleep, my love - I'm going to cook my cold a little. See you tomorrow, my darling; see you tomorrow, my beautiful face, sleep, sleep well; love me. Love me again. Courage. I kiss you with all my soul.

Maria Casarès to Albert Camus, Correspondance, February 6, 1950 [#175]

#albert camus #camus #absurd #absurdism #maria casares #correspondance #love letters #love #dream #lips #warmth #desire #soul #landscape #memory #pain #existence #initmate #acceptance #consent #children #courage #future

[slowtides]

A small break from my hiatus to reflect on today, the anniversary of my mother's death, an anniversary that I know in the future I will share with people half a world away (living right beside me in my heart and breath). I think about this grief that has never left me, this shadow that is sometimes long and sometimes short, this weight that moves between my heart, my shoulders, my eyes, my hands.

This grief is a being that I have been able to hold and create space for in my life--I have been able to process my mother's death and think deeply on what it means. I have been able to miss her and imagine a world without her. It feels strange to know this is a gift, but I have long known it to be true that the way I carry my grief is perhaps not a luxury but is an easement that not every person receives.

Having known death, having seen someone die before my eyes, having felt the warmth of my mother's hands fade beneath my touch, having smelled the sourness of her body, having sifted through the ashes of her flesh with my fingers before tossing them back to the earth, changes my attitude toward the dehumanization of the dead. I cannot wish the loss of a loved one on anyone, and I find it difficult to stomach those who minimize that loss or justify it because of ideology or make it somehow abstract without name.

There is nothing abstract to me about death. When my mother died, some of the first people to reach out to me were E, M, and C, my Palestinian friends from school who are most dear to me. They wrote me a letter and sent me gifts in the absence of their presence: a scarf with blue and white flowers, a candle, and Ocean Vuong's book. These are friends I have held and who have held me, whom I think of with every moment and every breath. And I think of my dear friend A, whose friend is still missing, who was the first to tell me, may my mother's memory be a blessing. Every time I think of my mother, I think of my friends who love me, my friends whom I love. Every thought is a prayer. The day after my mother's death, H told me that although he did not know my mother, he knew her love through the love I hold for him, and she knew his through the love he holds for me, that we are points of connection where our love transforms us to our beloveds. In this way, to be loved is a responsibility we share so that our love might transmit understanding and compassion to another.

I don't reflect in this way to center myself or navel gaze toward my own grief. I reflect as a means of remembrance for my mother whose compassion guides my own, whose sense of justice guides my own, whose death reminds me of the ways our world forsakes us and our friends stand beside us. I would speak to my friends a half a world away and tell them from my heart that I am with them every moment, that grief without hope feels like despair, and that grief with hope feels like courage.

#tw descriptions of death #tw death of a parent

[scotianostra]

Agnes Maclehose was born on April *17th 1759 in Glasgow.

*Dates are all over the place here, it's either 16th, 17th of April right up to 26th

Not a name many of you will be familiar with, but Agnes, known as Nancy, is the subject of one of Robert Burns' best known songs, Ae Fond Kiss. Agnes was born 26th April 1758 in Glasgow. She grew up to be a very articulate, well-educated and beautiful woman. She married at eighteen, but the marriage was an unhappy one and she separated from her husband in 1780.

Agnes met Robert Burns several years later at a party in Edinburgh – they were immediately taken with each other, and she wrote to him to invite him to tea at her home. Although an accident prevented this from happening, there began a long series of love letters and love poetry sent between the two. They used the pseudonyms ‘Clarinda’ and ‘Sylvander’. Despite the intensity of their correspondence, it is widely-thought that their affair was unconsummated. As Agnes was an incredibly pious woman and, although separated, still married, this makes sense.

In 1791 Agnes sailed for Jamaica to attempt to reconcile with her husband – however, he had started a family with another woman, so she returned to Scotland after only a few months. She met Robert for the last time in December of that year. For the rest of her life Agnes took great care of her letters from Robert, and after his death she even negotiated to have the letters she had sent to him returned to her.

In 1821 Agnes had tea with Jean Armour in Edinburgh. The two women, who could have been viewed as rivals of sorts, got on well and talked at length about their families, as well as their shared regard for Robert Burns. Agnes died twenty years later, at the age of eighty-three, on 23rd October 1841.

I've visited her grave often in Canongate Kirkyard, it is part of the Craig family plot, Craig being her maiden name. There is also a tea room named "Clarinda" after her a little further down Canongate.

The second verse of Ae Fond Kiss is below, the last two lines are on my Mu's grave...........m

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,

Naething could resist my Nancy

:But to see her was to love her;

Love but her, and love for ever.

Had we never lov'd sae kindly,

Had we never lov'd sae blindly,

Never met-or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

He also wrote this poem for her, this was in one of the letters and it included a gift of two wine glasses for her.

To Clarinda

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, And Queen of Poetesses; Clarinda, take this little boon, This humble pair of glasses:

And fill them up with generous juice, As generous as your mind; And pledge them to the generous toast, "The whole of human kind!"

"To those who love us!" second fill; But not to those whom we love; Lest we love those who love not us- A third-"To thee and me, Love!"

Pics are of Agnes, Clarinda’s House In Edinburgh, By John Le Conte.TIF and her grave.

#scotland #scottish #glasgow #glaswegian #edinburgh #ae fond kiss #robert burns #clarinda #canongate #history #poetry

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #67

A dear friend of mine stayed the night last night, partially in an effort to find reprieve from the stressors in their life. They came and existed in our space in the way that felt most natural to them, without feeling pressured to be a particular way or do any particular thing, and it was beautiful.

The next morning, which was today, we played a little DDR (I didn't think to take a video for you; I'm sorry) and generally just… existed in a very chill sort of way. It's as though they are less a "guest" and more as though my house is also their house. I couldn't be more grateful for the fact that this is the dynamic that we have with this friend.

Later in the day, another friend and her son came over to visit. This is the same friend to whom I gave the bowl I repaired. She brought lots of tasty snacks for us to enjoy, and we had a lot of very lively conversation.

You know, admittedly, it's hard for me when people bring food to my space to share; I'm used to being the one who provides, not being the one that others provide for, haha. But that's all right; it is good to sit with this kind of discomfort until I become accustomed to the notion that I'm allowed to receive the same kind of care that I try to give to others. This time, I tried not to apologize and I tried to accept the gesture without trying to "make it even" somehow. And this time, I was successful. Though I must admit, I did have to stifle a small, guilt-induced panic when she began doing the dishes in my sink!!! Hahahaha!

But you know? I sat with it and I dealt with it. Because all of the old conditioning that tells me that "I am a bad person for accepting this kind of care and help" is false. I am not supposed to give and give and give until I am empty. I am supposed to receive, too. I think on all of the people who taught me that receiving love and kindness from others without feeling guilty is selfish of me.

When I think about it, I'm vaguely aware that they resented their responsibility to give to me (in the case of parents, things like time, attention, and basic needs) not because there was anything inherently wrong or bad about me or my wishes and needs, but because they themselves were running on empty all the time, thanks to their life circumstances, the choices that led them to those circumstances, all the generational trauma that they were carrying around and all the unreasonable expectations of themselves that they were trying to fulfill from the conditioning that was ground into them as children, which is the cause of it all.

…I wish I knew then all the things that I know now. So many things were put on my shoulders that weren't mine to carry, and I simply bore it without a second thought, because I had no other basis of comparison to tell me that none of it was normal. And so when they told me that I am bad and that carrying it all is my responsibility (presumably in order to make up for the notion that I am bad), I believed them. I know now that this sort of thing isn't true, but even still, it's sometimes hard for me to disbelieve it.

…But that's what practice is for, right? We can challenge the beliefs that tell us we're no good, and we can put better ones in their place! Here's how I've been taught to do it:

First, you have to identify the emotion that is troubling you. You can use an emotion wheel if you struggle with alexithymia; they're super duper handy like that.

Next, you have to examine the beliefs you carry that are driving the emotions. That's because our emotions don't come from nowhere; often, they show up as a result of our beliefs backing us up into a scary corner. So stop, take a moment, and try to figure out what they are. Often, such beliefs are unreasonable. Things that begin with "something must", "something should", "something never", or "something always" is a good place to look for unreasonable beliefs. In my case today, the guilt I felt was driven by a belief that goes, "I shouldn't be accepting all this effort from my friend; I don't deserve it."

Next, you have to stop and ask yourself how the unreasonable belief kept you safe in the past. And this can be anything. In my case, often in the past, if I accepted effort or kindness from my caregivers, often enough they'd lord it over me later, using it as a tool to guilt me into doing something I don't wanna do, or use the fact that I accepted their favor as proof that I'm selfish if they get angry at me about something later. Otherwise, they'd give something to me only begrudgingly, only to resent me for it later, and resentment led to a lot of verbal punishments in those days. So the best way to keep myself safe at the time was to refuse most anything that was done on my behalf on the basis that "I didn't deserve it." Agreeing with my caregivers that I did not deserve their time or care was important in those days, because to disagree with them about anything was to invite verbal, relational, or physical violence upon myself. As you can see, this part that examines how the belief used to serve you can get complicated and messy pretty quickly, so it might be a good idea to do it with a friend in order to keep yourself stable.

The next thing to do is to examine whether or not the belief is still keeping you safe. If it is, then by all means do continue to run with it, but try to see if you can modify it just a little in order to make it a bit more merciful towards yourself. But if not, you can then decide to change the belief to something that is better reflective of your current circumstances. I am no longer around people who are going to weaponize the kindness that they give to me at a later point (and even if I was around such people, I have boundary skills now, so their efforts would be moot in any case), and so all this belief does is stand between me and allowing myself to receive care from others. It also, very inconveniently, denies the people who care about me an opportunity to feel good about doing something kind for a person who is good to them. And that's no good.

The final step is to change the belief. But you can't go crazy with this; a brain won't be able to accept something that is wildly different from what it's used to. So I can't shift the new belief to something crazy and extravagant like, "I deserve all the kindness all the time from all the people." Instead, you have to try something more moderate, like, "I am just as deserving of kindness as any other human being, and I can accept the effort made by others if it's made in good intentions." And sometimes it can take a long time to fully shift to the new belief; that's okay. It just takes practice, and it just takes choosing it even when it feels scary to do. So, from shifting to the new belief, instead of feeling guilt, instead I felt a little nervousness. But a little nervousness is manageable! Easy peasy! Barely even an inconvenience! 😜

This process is called REBT, and it has helped me to break down a lot of my conditioning so that I can choose better patterns of beliefs and behavior. It's amazing stuff.

So, having done this, I was able to make myself a plate or two out of all the wholesome foods my friend brought. And it looked like this:

I also made us some tea. I loved the way the cream looked in the mason jar this time as I poured it into the tea! Check it out:

You know what, Sephiroth? You can do any of this, too. You can accept kindness from others. You can work on changing your beliefs, even if you were violently conditioned into believing some really awful stuff. You can have good tea and good snacks and lively conversation with other people. Because you can believe that you're good enough as you are. You can believe that you belong. And given that you're way smarter and way more mentally flexible than I could ever hope to be (unless, of course, the developers are lying about you being the strongest ever?), you have the capacity to do this even better than I can.

If a silly derpasaurus like me can recover, then anyone can. And that includes you. So please try. Please. You'd have so many people willing to hold your hand and walk you through the process, no matter how difficult it gets. I'm one of them.

You are loved because I love you in the same way that anyone loves their friends. Please be aware that lots of other people love you, too. So make good choices. Don't disappear. Don't put yourself in a position where there's no choice but to stop you from hurting others. Because make no mistake, if you continue to make bad choices that hurt others, you WILL be stopped. So please… choose healing and recovery instead. Because otherwise…

This is who they are. This is who they'll be. And if you think you can stop them, then you need to think again. Because they are amazing. If they fall, they'll get back up again. And they won't let you hurt your planet, and they won't let you hurt your friends.

…And, as much as I love you, if I was capable of standing at their side to stop you from doing stupid things just because you'd rather break everything than be brave enough sit down with your pain, I would. I'd do everything in my power to find some way to restrain you instead of destroy you, but still, I would be trying to stop you. Because breaking everything isn't going to give you the peace and safety you think it will. Believe me, I've tried, albeit in much smaller ways; it only makes things worse.

Nothing is ever broken beyond repair, and that includes you. There are people in this world who love you enough to call you out on your nonsense, come what may. I'm one of them. You're not alone. So come on; it's time for you to do something else, because this destructive path ain't gonna do it for ya.

I'll write again soon. Please stay safe.

Your friend, Lumine

#sephiroth #ThankYouFFVIIDevs #ThankYouFF7Devs #ThankYouSephiroth #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy vii crisis core #final fantasy 7 crisis core #final fantasy crisis core #ffvii crisis core #ff7 crisis core #crisis core #ff7r #final fantasy vii remake #final fantasy 7 remake #ffvii remake #ff7 remake #final fantasy vii rebirth #final fantasy 7 rebirth #ffvii rebirth #ff7 rebirth #final fantasy 7 ever crisis #ffvii ever crisis #ff7 ever crisis #ffvii first soldier #changing beliefs #REBT #wholesome

[frecklystars]

Hey there! I hope it's okay to ask but just so I'm clear: you would be uncomfortable interacting with anybody else who selfships with Ryan's characters since you do with a lot of them? Been wanting to talk with you but I selfship with a few and don't want to make you uncomfortable at all!

Hi, thank you so much for asking! 💕

Interacting with people I have ALWAYS been fine with! I would never block somebody just for sharing F/Os and I've been that way for years. I share a lot of F/Os with people that I consider my very best friends, we just don't gush to each other about the shared F/Os - or there's people I am fine sharing with, it just depends on who they are and who the F/O is.

I am totally fine with other Ryan character self shippers interacting with me (I encourage it actually!) I am just not comfortable sharing a few Ryan F/Os, meaning I feel uncomfortable if someone reblogs a post of mine and gushes in the tags or something -- like for a real life example, if I wrote a personal post that said "in my story I give Ken my own IRL bracelet that belongs to me with a blue letter 'K' charm attached to it as a confession of love and in return he gives me his silver horseshoe chain necklace" and if someone reblogs it saying "me too I do the exact same thing with the exact same bracelet!" that makes me uncomfortable bc that's a personal thing I wrote, that's a part of my personal story with Ken that I came up with. Other people wanting to exchange accessories with him is fine, if they wanna do the same thing that's fine, I just don't want them to say on my own posts that they're doing the *exact* same thing I'm doing down to every detail, if that makes sense

Or worse, I've also had the experience where I've drawn myself kissing Driver and people reblog it tagging "oh that's ME and Driver because that girl in the pic looks like me :)" or "I'm self projecting over that OC" etc tags such as that. Or people in the past have literally traced my self ship art and replaced my self insert with theirs and reposted it. It's stuff like that that makes me uncomfortable, somebody taking one of my own posts and basically saying "I am making this Thing somebody worked on into My Thing Now."

People openly gushing about my main F/Os on my own personal posts (the ones I tag "love notes") is the thing that makes me uncomfortable, people adding their ship tags onto my personal posts of our shared F/O is what makes me uncomfortable, and it's this.... idk if it's an unspoken rule in the self ship community but it is somewhat of a rule that we always have to check with each other if people are fine with that (and I really really really appreciate you checking with me!!!) some people are fine with it and some people are not, some people say it depends on the F/O. I recently had a bad experience where I shared F/Os with someone I was very close to, those F/Os were my special interest for 3 years, and that person actively used those F/Os against me and made me feel unsafe IRL for several months, stalking where I work and threatening to hurt themselves unless if I catered to them, etc. Now I have trauma with those F/Os we shared and they became c-ptsd triggers; saying they used to be the most important characters I ever had is an understatement, and it suuucks because now I'm sooo overly cautious with whom I share F/Os with, and I didn't used to care. Self shipping with Ryan's characters is the first time in over a year that I've felt (relatively) safe self shipping again, and I just can't afford to lose them when they're all I've got, so I have to be careful not to associate them with others right now. Maybe in the future when I'm a bit more healed, I'll be okay with it, but for now I definitely have to be careful just for my own mental health, and I appreciate everyone who's been respecting that 💙💙💙

Interacting is no problem at all. Like my posts, reblog my posts, tell me how hot you think Ken is, tell me what you think Sierra Six would do on a date night, I LOVE talking with you guys PLEASE keep sending me messages/dms/asks!! It's really just like... I don't want someone to gush on my personal posts just like I wouldn't gush on theirs, if that makes sense, like I will stay here in my corner making my Barbie dolls smooch each other and hopefully other people will return the same courtesy haha. I hope this made sense, I haven't slept very much so I'm a lil scatterbrained

#anonymous #asks

[herbirdglitter]

All right buckle up. I’ve got some hot gossip from a person you don’t know about people you also don’t know. I will do my best to provide context but I am just bursting to tell my siblings about this but my brother is borrowing my phone so I can’t. So I’m telling you instead. My godmother came up for a visit and she brought the tea.

Here’s what’s up. Our old church, which had been turned into a cult by a man we’ll call Father Pervert, has recently turned over a new leaf. Father Pervert had been caught exchanging spicy emails, pics, videos, etc. with a married woman in the congregation. Caught, that is by her husband. Now, this is an Eastern Orthodox church, so priests are allowed to marry if they marry before becoming a priest, so he was also cheating on his wife, whom he married when she was 17 and he was 25. Yup. 

Anyway, a full investigation was launched, the police were informed (because no one needs a repeat of the catholic pedophile thing), and there was a letter sent out with an email address to encourage other people to come forward with information about him. GUYS. 

It turns out, there was not one incident, but three over a course of about twenty to thirty years. He has a disturbingly high salary for a priest, he pretends not to have a phone so that people can’t reach him at home, and he also covered up the fact that there was a convicted pedophile living right next to the church school. I could go on. 

So there’s a hearing, he’s suspended from duty, and most people don’t really know what’s going on. Until recently, everyone thought he was the bees knees. They’d go to him about everything, finances, medical problems, whether to use birth control, you name it. People are still intentionally not finding out what it is he did wrong because they don’t want to. The whole situation was very unhealthy, and he didn’t like people who asked too many questions, or authority figures the people liked a lot. He was scared of losing power, so slowly he began driving people out. 

People were mysteriously leaving after confrontations with him, but never because of that, no. It was always a job offer that they just couldn’t turn down, or moving to be with family, or the “haha i’m so pious but really i’m trying to escape” move to live near a monastery tactic. See, people still had connections, family, friends, back in that church that they wanted to be able to come back to. If you spoke out against Father Pervert in any way, you were labeled as a troublemaker, a fallen sinner, etc. You get the picture. 

Well, and this is where it get’s good, one of those authority figures that Father Pervert had managed get removed was a delightful man that we shall call Father Cool Guy. Yes, Father. He was a priest, and it was he who was chosen to replace Father Pervert as the primary priest of the church. 

I cannot stress how much of a delight this man is. He’s kind, he’s funny, he is  generous with his time, he is so loving, he is everything that a priest should be, and that is coming from a queer atheist. 

All this we already knew, as this was a whole thing that had played out over the course of this last year, and here’s where we get to the tea my godmother brought. She’d stopped going to this church quite a while ago as she was “troublemaker” (read authority figure with differing opinions) but she came back a couple of times recently to see the new priest. 

APPARENTLY, Father Cool Guy delivered the least subtle, most fantastically pointed sermon in human history, with thinly veiled lessons about humility, and not putting people up on pedestals and then proceeded to ask her afterwards if she thought anyone got it. 

THEN the other time she went, the poor wife of Father Pervert, the one who’d married him when she was seventeen, got up and delivered a speech about how thankful she was for the time they’d had in the community etc.. A speech which was long, and at times clearly showed that she still had some hope of working things out. Which is so sad because she’s married to a narcissist with horrible power issues and it’s tragic and I hope she gets help. I realize that doesn’t sound like much after the wild ride of the premise but we’re getting the info in little increments instead of all at once so it’s big to us.  

So that was that tea, but the other thing was that my godmother is in her 60s with a long dead husband and has just had her “oh crap I’m asexual” moment, which is iconic, because she {intentionally} lives in a tent on huge property with all her kids and her grand kids and hasn’t tried to date or anything once since her husband died. So, I, her 19-year-old asexual godchild, ended up explaining a bunch of things to her and I think I got her sold on the idea of labels. Then I accidentally outed her trans godson to her (I REALLY THOUGHT SHE KNEW) which turned out fine because she was perfectly supportive, but now I have to break that to him and I feel like shit but I think it’ll be fine. Help.  

So that was my day

#tea #asexual #how does one tag this

[lesbian-archives]

Women, Lesbians and Prostitution: A Workingclass Dyke Speaks Out Against Buying Women for Sex*

By Toby Summer**

(As published in Lesbian Culture Anthology, edited by Julia Penelope and Susan Wolfe, Crossing Press, 1993. Originally published in Lesbian Ethics, 1987.)

*I am thankful that Lesbian Ethics exists; without it, no one could hear my written voice over the roar of the Man’s lies. I am also deeply grateful to those women who make my life possible in an impossible world. I thank you for your guidance, insight, truth-saying, assistance, criticism, patience, love and support. Without you, my courage would have failed me here.

**Toby Summer is not my real name. I do not use my real name because I don’t want to be exposed to the sexual humiliation that goes with having been abused as a prostitute. It never ends. No one who knows who I am is authorized to “come out” for me; if, when, where, how, to whom, and for what purpose I do choose to identify myself, it is my choice. It is the only control that I have that leaves me any human dignity.

Dedication

To the woman in my life who knows most what this has cost the both of us.

Introduction

Shining bright red, a miniature box of wooden matches sits next to my flat blue cigarette package. I bought the cigarettes, but some man forgot the matches when he left. The matchbox is embossed with gold, two circles. Inside the smaller circle, an owl sits on the stump of a redwood tree. On the left of the owl, there is a stick-figure drawing of a whole living redwood. On the right, child-like squiggles represent flying birds. Between the two circles, bold capital letters name the institution issuing the matchbox: BOHEMIAN CLUB. It is world famous; infamous, more accurately. War lords of this outlaw nation belong to this exclusive club, this men-only club.

While week-ending with a friend on the Russian River, I once penetrated the Bohemian Club’s summer encampment’s security. We strolled right through the center of camp. Structurally it looked like Girl Scout camp, but felt different. Bohemians don’t allow girls.

This club may soon have to hire women as workers because they lost a case in court for sex discrimination in employment. If and when they do, it won’t be the first time they’ve paid money to women, just the first time for non-sexual work.

I draw the above frame around the subject that I want to address to my community. This frame of men with absolute power and women with so little starkly shows that men make the rules and women do what we’re told to do. This is a system that uses class and race to divide women from each other, but it is based on sex discrimination. Prostitution and pornography are graphic practices of female sexual slavery within this system; the major difference between the two practices is that in pornography there is a permanent record of the woman’s abuse that can be sold again and again.

I do not deny that women are hungry for freedom and equality; I am such a woman. I do not deny that women make hard “choices,” nor do I deny that women find many ways to resist male supremacy. I have made such choices and continue to devise ways to resist, too. I simply underline the obvious: women do not rule. We have not consented to this system; our consent is not necessary or required. Men set the standards and women either go along and get along or try to think of ways to resist without getting killed. We get killed either way.

I. Connections

In Sex Work: Writings by Women in the Sex Industry, a newly released book by Cleis Press edited by Frederique Delacoste and Priscilla Alexander (1), the Bohemian Club is mentioned by name in at least two prostitutes’ stories. The first woman stiffly walks us through the staging area of her experience as though it were a grade B movie set. She doesn’t say how she feels. Her description struck me as perfunctory and disconnected. Scarlot Harlot’s profile of the Bohemian is one of her eleven submissions to Sex Work; her style is much more personal and engaging. She also admits that she’d make more money in a massage parlor than working the river’s rich trade. To understand the amounts involved, we have to move to another story in Sex Work, called “In the Massage Parlor.” It gets specific: $10 for a “tip,” or a $15 blowjob that deflates into a $5 “tip.” The massage parlor worker also reveals how she feels about the actual “work” that she does: “When they [the johns] touch my breasts, I tell myself they’re not really touching me…[a]nd sometimes I wonder how I can let the men do that. I wonder what is left for me. I wonder where I am.” (p. 63)

In Sex Work, Joan Nestle has contributed a piece entitled “Lesbians and Prostitutes: A Historical Sisterhood.” She says, “Besides recognizing the history of prostitutes as a valuable source for lesbian history, another connection that emerges is the lesbian customer [sic] and protector of prostitutes” (p. 238). She illustrates this with “the wonderful and moving story” of Jeanne Bonnet who is a transvestite and a john, who winds up “decid[ing] to enlist some of the women she visited [sic] in her all-women’s gang” (p. 239). Blanche Buneau, won away from her pimp by Bonnet, is shot and killed by him in their bedroom. The year is 1876. Nestle adds later, “Lesbians have and still do turn to prostitutes for sexual comfort [sic] as well as work as prostitutes themselves” (p. 249). Nestle attempts to draw connections between prostitutes and lesbians, but she has no radical analysis of the condition of women, lesbians or prostitutes.

There are connections between lesbians and prostitutes. I know because I am one. A lesbian. An ex-prostitute. I have lived the connection. I still live daily with the results. I have been a lesbian for about thirty years. Coming out as butch (transvestite actually) as a young teenager in the late ‘50s meant that I couldn’t finish school, couldn’t get a regular job, couldn’t rent a place to live after home became unbearable. The irony of loving women—which created a situation for me (actually created by an ageist, classist and sexist society whereby the alternative to jail and the street was the street, jail and fucking men for a meal, small change, and a temporary bed)—is only surpassed by the damage. Consider the fact that I learned what sexuality meant from johns and pimps before I could find out what it might mean with the girl I loved. This lesson is not erasable. My body remembers all of it. It seems that bodies learn—in the body, physically—how sex is to be felt, not just done or gone through. I submit to my readers that it was not a good thing for this girl-child, this young lesbian to do with her bright-fired self.

II. The Man’s Lie: Strategy and Damage

The removing of oneself from one’s body is a strategy for immediate survival; many prostitutes acknowledge this. This numbing—whether done like other torture victims do it or done with drugs and alcohol—is flight from that which is intolerable. Numbing mechanisms become reflex quickly. Reversing the process, later or in other circumstances, is difficult. It is my belief that such numbing in sexual assault situations sets women up for tolerating abuse, especially prostitution and sado-masochism.

Although I used this strategy as often as not, I also used a more damaging one at the same time. Today, I call this second strategy the Man’s lie, but then I called it pro-sex (2) and my choice.

The Man’s lie is still passing as truth not only from the Man but also through the lips of women, who—like I did—believe the lie. I mean, when Scarlot Harlot quotes her friend, Priscilla Alexander, as saying, “The right to be a prostitute is as important as the right not to be one. It is the right to set the terms of one’s own sexuality…[my emphasis]” (Sex Work, p. 61), what I hear is that someone thinks that prostitution has something to do with women owning our own bodies—somehow—while at the same time selling the very same bodies to men who hate women, whores (3) and lesbians and who do not make any excuses for their hatred.

This mind-fuck is very familiar to me; I thought for the longest time that I had invented it. I double-fucked myself for years before coming face-to-face with the truth of how male supremacist sexuality got to me. Not just remembering, but feeling; not just looking at all of it momentarily, but living it; not just opened up, but analyzed from a radical feminist politic for what it is and does. I have not always been a feminist, but I have always wanted to be free and female.

What I did in my mind did have something to do with freedom when I spoke the Man’s lie silently to myself about prostitution. I felt closer to freedom when I told myself that I chose what happened (even the rapes), that I felt OK about what was done to my body (even against my will), that the sex in the room had something to do with me and my sexuality (even though when she was in the room, too—my lover—the only thing I tried to do was keep him interested in me so he wouldn’t fuck her…some butch role), that the nausea-alienation-bruises-humiliation-STDs (sexually transmitted diseases)-poverty-abortion all were somehow fixable with what amounts to an EST positive attitude.

Oppressed people develop a sixth sense with which we anticipate the next move of our enemy in order to try to be successfully out of the way or in the most acceptable pose. The EST positive attitude served that purpose, as well as twisting my own mind; that is, the Man’s lie not only took the truth away from me, but it also served the Man by allowing him to point to me and say, “See. She loves it. She chose it. She’s even a lesbian…they all want it. Women are whores by nature.”

This strategic lie attempted to turn my degradation into something else, something more human, something that was not force and coercion. Poverty and oppression against women and lesbians certainly qualify as force and coercion, even if the barrel of the gun is behind the curtain of sex. What was accomplished with this lie was not a changed reality but merely a renaming of reality for something other than what it was. Reality did not change until I changed it, personally, for me; I got a different “job.” I wasn’t successful the first or second times. Even after I got out, I took my EST positive attitude with me when I went. What it didn’t explain was why I’d rather work in a hot commercial laundry for $1.00 per hour than fuck another man. The Man’s lie should have been exposed at that point, but it wasn’t. I hid behind the fact that I was a lesbian; that is, I told myself that I just didn’t want to fuck men. There was no understanding that there was something wrong with what happened to me as a woman. That lie stayed coiled like a viper for many years, waiting.

The lies that I’ve lived with, trying to make prostitution into anything other than what it is, are why I’m writing this paper; them and the damage. I did not want to do this paper. I hate every minute that I have been forced to spend on it. Like every fuck. Confronting how I’ve been hurt is the hardest thing that I’ve had to do in my life. A hard life, if I may say so. It is humiliating to acknowledge victimization. It is really quite simple; if you lose, you don’t win. One cannot be hurt and not be a victim to the perpetrator, and to all those who come after to watch the show. To avoid further abuse by the sexual practice of humiliation, I claimed the intolerable as my own, because being a victim was and still is intolerable. What I am doing in this paper is the intolerable. I want you to know that. I’m doing it because I can’t stand it that lesbians are buying women for sex and calling it progress, freedom, our sexuality, lesbian politics. I cannot stand the pretense of regard towards the women bought. Buying a human being is not regard. It is another lie. Prostitution is not freedom, not just another job. It is the abuse of women. It is sexual slavery. Period.

I want to say one thing about “healing.” For me, it is a fact that so-called healing is an empty and desperate gesture towards that which we do not have: freedom to be equal, creative and as safe as men are safe. I know that some damage is permanent; that is one of the reasons to stop what happens to women. Among other damages, what has outraged me most deeply is the damage done to my sexuality; it is the one thing that I had thought that I had saved (4) out of that disgusting abuse. Somehow, I despair of any hope to undo this damage. (5)

I wonder to myself what it means that so many women lovers have told me that our love-making was “the best it’s ever been” when what I held in my body was this incredible abuse. Once a whore, always a whore? I mean, how could they not feel what was going on? Was I that good of a performer? I’m not talking about faking orgasm either. I’m taking about how orgasm felt. How the sexuality itself felt. Fucking my way to heaven with thousands of orgasms and many truly loved partners did not “heal” the abuse. It may actually have deepened the learned sexual dynamic; it certainly caused confusion between this dynamic and any regard and respect we enjoyed with each other.

While I may not believe in “healing,” I do believe in change.

III. Sexuality Inequality

Dominance and submission is the basic dynamic of sexuality; regard for an equal is not sexy. Hierarchy is sexy. Power is sexy. Vulnerability is sexy. Humiliation is a sexual practice. It is humiliating to be a second-class citizen; that’s why men keep women second class. Men as a class devised male supremacy because men—but not only men—find it exciting to use force and coercion. “The good news is it isn’t biological.”(6) This dynamic is best expressed through prostitution; ruling class men buying women to feel their power manifested. Workingclass men, middle-class men, men of all races and ages, disabled men and gay men are also to be counted as johns when I start counting. Name your category and I’ll tell you what he looked like. It is felt in bodies as sexual, this expression of power. (It is a sexual rush to just contemplate it; ever watch some up-scale man thumb through a Vogue magazine? He consumes it like other men do actual pornography. Watch the body language. Whores are good at noticing men’s body language. I watch them, openly. It disturbs them to be watched.)

I know that some gay men do not flinch from fucking women or lesbians. My own experience stands: some of my johns were gay men who just thought I was a young teenage boy turning tricks for spending money (blowjobs reveal nothing in terms of biology and I consistently passed for a straight boy when I chose to), but some of them knew I was a lesbian and thought it cute to buy a gay “sister.” Someone once asked me why it was that gay men seemed to have a stake in female prostitution; I think I know. Our gay brothers directly profit from keeping all women down and prostitution is central to keeping women down as a class; gay men sometimes use women that way, too.

Without dominance and submission sexual boredom sets in. My guess about why many lesbian couples who stay together over time seem to coast to a dead stop sexually-or at least turn to on a slow bell—is that familiarity breeds a working knowledge of the other person, while commonality creates a rough-cut version of respect. That is, the more we like each other and the more actual respect we have, the less dominance and submission is left, and therefore sexual feelings are not aroused as easily. Even built-in hierarchies like class, race, age, disability sometimes soften over time. Heterosexual hierarchy is much less likely to soften because male and female are terms defined by the dynamic of dominance and submission; it is categorically defined as sexual hierarchy where other hierarchies are not seen immediately as necessarily sexual. (They are, but it requires some analysis to get there from here, e.g., pornography shows us that Black women are used in specific ways to make their skin into a sexual organ to be then violated like genitals. We do find much visible bruising on Black women’s bodies in pornography.)

I want to ask my community, when we have sexual feelings, what are we feeling? Is it the pleasure and danger, perhaps? Have we eroticized our own destruction, as in the Story of O by Pauline Reage? Do we, like O (stands for “nothing”), murder ourself? I wonder what there is left for me. I wonder where I am. Or, do we, like Pat Califia, San Francisco’s picture perfect “lesbian” sadist (who left town after allegedly carving an unwanted swastika into a workingclass dyke’s body [I know the Jewish nurse who had to clean the wound], and who “…couldn’t figure out how to reach orgasm with a [woman] lover”) turn 180 degrees from ‘sexual dysfunction’ into a sadist who would rather fuck a hot male masochist than a vanilla lesbian?(7)

It seems to me that what might have been Califia’s original problem is simply that two women—without more—don’t generate enough dominance and submission for her arousal; the sexual dynamic of hierarchy was missing. I think that perhaps more women than Califia might feel this way. Maybe sado-masochism has been the key to inventing arousal, so that orgasm is possible for some lesbians. I know that butch-femme roles work that way even when mixed-and-matched (kiki in ‘50s language). I know that many, if not all, of my women lovers were aroused by what they perceived to be my butch ways. The difference between Califia and myself is only a matter of degree, not content. Sexual hierarchy is sexy. This is why I think that many lesbians have embraced sado-masochism and other trappings of male supremacist sexuality such as pornography, prostitution, strip shows, etc., as a “newly found, previously denied, to-be-explored” sexuality that we need to adopt, adapt, whitewash, and call our own. (I also think that some lesbians learned “their” sado-masochism directly from gay men, as well as from prostitutes, ex-prostitutes, and pornography.)

Prostitutes have been known to express our utter contempt for the johns that use us, but usually only to each other. We do not correct the power imbalance when we do this, although it does feel briefly better to vent the outrage and disgust. This is one way to acknowledge abuse of our bodies while attempting to block the fact that we are second class citizens being used for what women are: sex. The bravado about having power over men because men buy us is simply bullshit. “When those who dominate you get you to take the initiative in your own human destruction, you have lost more than any oppressed people yet has ever gotten back.”(8)

The prostitute who performs as a female sadist, a dominatrix, does not reverse the dynamic of dominance and submission. It may be true that she has “complete power” (Sex Work, p. 51) over the male masochist’s body for those moments that she is paid to do what she is told to do by him; but I think that is a matter of this man wanting to violate the social taboo (9) against men giving up male power. It is also true that the power of male supremacy is so great that a man can feel very safe even while he chooses to toy with “submission” momentarily. Let me suggest to you that if the dominatrix used that “power” that she has during this singular moment in history—in the way that men use their power over women—she’d be either in jail or dead. It is phony power.

While men eroticize the “exchange” of money for sex (arousing in and of itself because it actualizes and symbolizes the woman’s subordination), the female sadist may eroticize her perception of “power.” This is learning sexual hierarchy from the dominant’s point of view. However, individual perceptions do not alter social structures. It is conceivable—even likely—that some women have adopted this point of view as their “own.” This is possible because dominance and submission is learned behavior. If and when some women learn to eroticize dominance in its complete manifestation, what we will have will be biologically female people who are socially men. That is, it is possible that such a woman could eroticize the murder—sexual murder—of men. Picture a female Green River Murderer who murders men. For sex. There can be no subordination of anybody without the ever-present threat of murder to give the threat life. Liberal men who promote sexuality-at-any-cost for “women, too” probably have not thought about this possibility. Even if they have, what it would mean—socially—would not be what it means for a man to do it to a woman while male supremacy remains intact. Biological hopscotch cannot alter the system. Social transformation to female supremacy would have to occur before it would mean the same thing that it means now.

Personally, I think that it’s not what I have in mind when I think of freedom.

IV. About Class Solidarity

I have watched with some interest an element of organized prostitution women adopt language from the organized labor movement. They argue that prostitution is just another job, albeit a relatively high paying one. They call pimps “managers” and johns “customers.” They say that what is wrong with the “business” is that it is illegal, or, as in the case of Nevada, that the State controls prostitution. They claim that what is needed is a union to bargain for wages (already high, they say), hours (already good, they say), and working conditions. If wages and hours are already good, the issue must be working conditions. These same women argue that what is better about prostitution than other jobs for women is that prostitutes have “control” over what they do, what they “choose” to do. They don’t explain why prostitutes can’t control pimps and johns who hurt them right now. They slide past hard issues and blame them on the illegal nature of prostitution.

The fact that prostitution is illegal does not explain why men sexually murder women and children for sex. The fact that police do not seem to care about dead prostitutes, or other dead women either, does not explain why men do it. The fact that some police officers are corrupt and brutal when they harass and arrest women for prostitution is a secondary issue.

It is not that I think that prostitutes should be arrested; I do not. My solution would be to make buying women illegal, as well as all third-party involvement, but to “allow women to sell their bodies” without legal penalty. This would put real power into the hands of prostitutes; they could overlook the crime committed against them by the john if he abided by their agreement, e.g., paid them, did not otherwise abuse them. This suggestion is not a solution to prostitution; it is a transitional band-aid.

None of this addresses the system which requires male sexual access to women and children at all times. The analysis exhibited in the “business-as-usual” presentation of prostitution is one that does not in any way challenge the harm of prostitution itself. If workingclass people had no analysis of capitalism, then what we would have is what this element of organized prostitution has: no structural challenge to the status quo. Men must have this sexual access to women and children. (Why?) Fringe benefits like workers’ compensation, demands for no more arrests, or somehow resisting torture and murder are OK as far as they go, but they do not challenge the system of male supremacy of which prostitution is the ultimate systematic expression. Trying to make an inhumane system more humane with reformatory adjustments is like spitting in the ocean: I’m not against it, but it doesn’t do much.

Finally I want to say that—as an ex-prostitute, a workingclass woman, a radical labor organizer—I have to wonder if the women who are using the language of organized labor are seriously trying to make common cause with working people. I wonder about this because of the contempt that is frequently expressed for other women who work at low-paying, low-status jobs everyday, who do it all their lives, who frequently challenge their wages, hours and working conditions (including sexual harassment). For example, in Sex Work, Scarlot Harlot says, “Ex-prostitutes are out of touch with the true glories of the trade. Plus, they were never very good at it. That’s why they’re ex-prostitutes” (p. 123). (However, she also said on the TV show “People Are Talking,” KPIX, San Francisco, July 2, 1987, that she didn’t want to be doing this for money but couldn’t make as much money otherwise. She was the only woman on the show who still did prostitution; no one asked her why she didn’t want to do it.) In Sex Work “Aline” says, “I much preferred exhibiting myself, flirting, showing off my body than working at some shit-job cleaning someone else’s toilet for poverty level income” (pp. 131-2). (However, on the next page she finds her “work” intolerable and says it’s “time to clean toilets.”) Prostitutes, ex-prostitutes, and “feminists” cannot succeed in making common cause by ridiculing other women who are struggling to get by without fucking men.

V. Sisterhood: Just Another Brotherhood?

Now what about lesbians buying women, prostitutes, other lesbians? For sex. Like men. It isn’t news. (10)

Lesbian pimps have always been around. Lesbian prostitutes have always been around. Lesbian johns have always been around. I’ve known some of them. What has not been challenged is the harm done to those women who are positioned to be bought and sold. It is the failure of “feminism” to leave the structure of male supremacy intact while women pry their way into it. It is outrageous to me that women attorneys, who call themselves feminists, who don’t have to sell themselves to men for $15.00 a blowjob, say, “I think that prostitution is an excellent way to earn a living” (Flo Kennedy, attorney, activist, TV interviewer, MS Magazine, July 1987, p. 18). Kennedy is just the most recent example. Attorney Nan Hunter, who wrote the FACT brief against the Dworkin-MacKinnon anti-pornography civil rights ordinance, said in it, “A range of feminist imagination and expression in the realm of sexuality has barely begun to find voice. Women need the freedom and socially recognized space to appropriate for themselves the robustness of what traditionally has been male language ” [my emphasis].

Never mind the other women, who are not attorneys, who are crushed by the weight of the pornographers, pimps and johns. I want to know why anyone thinks they have a right to buy a woman for sex.

The connections between pornographers and women who call themselves feminists have always fascinated me. For example, we find Susie Bright, editor of On Our Backs (lesbian pornography) in such publications as Penthouse’s Forum, and Hustler. See “Confessions of a Teenage Lesbian” by Susie Bright, “a real live dyke,” in Hustler, March 1986. I found in Sex Work another such connection. Debi Sundahl, also known as “Fanny Fatale,” a stripper, says that the first place she worked was called the Lusty Lady Theater and that the owners of this place “…were involved in founding…the Institute for Advanced Study of Human Sexuality in San Francisco” (p. 176). Sundahl takes credit for “…start[ing] the first women-only strip show at a lesbian bar in San Francisco” (p. 177), for publishing the first issue of On Our Backs, “a lesbian sexual entertainment magazine,” and for making “adult or x-rated videos for lesbians under the name Fatale” (p. 178). It is also interesting to me that Phyllis Lyon (of Del Martin/Phyllis Lyon fame) is the Registrar for this Institute; she is also a FACT member.

I can’t say I have a lot of hope for change. I can’t say I’ve noticed much difference between the heterosexual community, the gay male community, and lesbians, except that women as a class do not have power as men do. But I have noticed that some women are aspiring to join the Bohemian Club. Similarly, in San Francisco there has been a hoopla around the 87th U.S. Open Golf Championship hosted at the S.F. Olympic Club’s lakeside golf course (one of several men-only clubs; it has 7000 members). Seems like the city leases 17 acres of land to them and that it is unseemly for a city run by a woman mayor, a woman president of the board of supervisors, and a woman city attorney, to contribute to the success of the club’s discriminatory policy. News, it is: The city may not renew the lease unless the exclusionary policy changes (S.F. Chronicle, June 23, 1987).

Some women seem to think that if they can do what men do then “we” will be equal. The question to be asked is, if women get to do what men get to do, and one of the things men get to do is buy women, who is going to be left for anyone to buy? Some women want to rule, and have the privileges, too. Some lesbians buy women for sex like the Bohemian Club members do, already.

#text #feminism #lesbian #lesbianism #antiprostitution #misogyny #male violence #80s

[gripes-withthesun]

Back when we were in lockdown and the university experience was fully online, I made a friend through fanfic whom I talked with purely through our emails. I always got excited about receiving those emails, like opening up a letter from across the ocean and reading about five different things we were talking about. I kept thinking about that distance, from my friends, my teachers, my peers. I kept thinking about how important emails became to me, the last bastion of human connection, be it to organise classes or online events or talk with a friend. So, here's to emails. It has been many many years, but I am still fascinated by them and I love them dearly

[text:

Correspondence

- Hritvika Lakhera

Are we still penpals? We correspond through e-mails.

Keyboard pals?

No, that has not caught on,

But it makes me see a future

Where penpals no longer implies handwritten letters,

The pen as obsolete

As rocks on a cave wall,

And kids will ask

"Why is it called a 'penpal'?"

And learn the transference of semantics,

Of connotative meaning from one signified to another,

And I wonder if they will think of us then,

To whom this meaning is so so close,

Right in our grasps.

I have a stack of my parents' letters,

And they reek of bonds maintained over oceans,

And every time I type out a reply to you, by Hell below,

I catch a whiff of that same tenderness.

I haven't met my teachers yet,

But we correspond daily -

Are they too my penpals? No perhaps not,

Not anymore than I am a penpal

To the municipal sending me bills.

My mother would send a card sometimes

In the envelope of her letters,

And I hear of those who pressed flowers,

Sent trinkets like these to their lovers,

All in their mail,

Or photographs of family

To soldiers far away.

It must have felt the same, I think,

As what I feel when I attach a picture,

A link, A poem,

An essay to you,

Excited to offer more than words,

Knowing it will never be enough,

Not quite,

That quiet

Desperation

Of not being enough,

With words,

Without words,

Without you.]

#words #poems #poetry #w #writeblr #writblr #queer poetry