#higher bands but the band director made me feel less than because i was in concert band and because i wasn't as good as everyone else. it

[that-was-anticlimactic]

one of the main reasons why sk8 is such a good show (in my opinion) is the characterization of reki.

the fact that reki doesn’t somehow magically get better and surpass everyone, the fact that reki improves but not enough to be the best, the fact that reki gets jealous but not in this complete character-changing way is so important.

i think that’s one of the reasons that i like reki so much.

in media nowadays, the underdog character always becomes amazing, they always win in the end. they have a story similar to reki’s, but it turns out they always just needed a little bit more practice or a different teacher or more self-confidence to become better. there isn’t necessarily anything wrong with that, but it puts this immense pressure on everyone to want to be the best. it makes everyone think that if they can’t win, if they aren’t the best, if they don’t magically improve and become a prodigy, then they’re bad at whatever it is.

but that isn’t the case with reki.

reki tries and he tries and he tries so hard but no matter what he does, everyone else is better and that’s more realistic in a way. he doesn’t magically improve or magically realize that if he does some specific thing then he’ll be better than everyone else, he just isn’t and he becomes okay with that.

as much as everyone wanted reki to win his second beef against ad*m, i’m glad that he didn’t. i would like for him to beat ad*m because ad*m is terrible, but he didn’t because ad*m is genuinely just that good of a skater.

what makes reki losing so important is that even when he loses, he’s proud of himself. he’s happy and he’s okay with second place. what makes it even more important? not one single person in his little found family went “you were so close!” or “you almost had him!” or said anything about him losing because that wasn’t what was important.

here was this seventeen year old kid who they all realized they cared deeply for not because of his ability to skate, but because of his heart. he just basically got tortured while skating, but he finished the race. it didn’t matter to any of them that he lost, they were proud of him because he finished and he was happy. they all knew something was wrong--maybe at this point they know why or maybe reki tells them later--so seeing reki smile and laugh after one of the most purposefully violent beefs ever was more important.

reki is a symbol for being okay with being okay. reki is a symbol for those who aren’t naturally gifted and those who don’t become so much better even after loads of practice.

reki is loved by his friends and he is considered worthy not because his skating ability defined his worth, but because he loves it. that’s something that most of the found family needed to learn, and they learned it from reki.

skating is supposed to be fun--any activity you do is supposed to be fun. it’s really hard to remember that sometimes especially when you’re surrounded by such talented people--especially when you feel left out of left behind because everyone else is becoming better and you simply aren’t no matter how much you try.

reki is a reminder that you don’t have to be the best at what you do. reki teaches us that you don’t have to be really good at an activity to be amazing and that your worth is not defined by your talent.

people don’t often shows these sides of talent and activities. it’s always the underdog becomes amazing or you have to win or you’re a failure or you can become the best by practicing a lot and the thing is? that simply isn’t true. practice helps, sure. reki did improve when he practiced, but not by a whole heck of a lot. he isn’t on cherry’s level or joe’s level or miya’s or shadow’s or langa’s, and that’s okay.

you can still be important and you can still be a main character and you can still do something that brings you joy even if you aren’t amazing at it.

there are many great things about sk8 and many great things about kyan reki, but this has got to be one of my favorite things about them.

#i have a Lot of feelings #i just took a three hour nap because i got. not as much sleep as i should have last night and i felt SO guilty sleeping because i have #homework and i want to write and sometimes i look on tumblr and see everyone posting fics and art and i'm simply. not. #because i have too much homework sometimes or i need to choose sleep over writing (which doesn't happen to often oops) and i feel that fear #of falling behind and i feel like my worth is based on how much i write / how much i post and i know deep down that isn't true because all #that matters is that i enjoy writing and that i have fun and not having as much time doesn't mean i'm automatically worse than all of you #and that's one reason why reki is so special to me because he was that reminder that i needed--especially after my super busy summer when #i truly didn't have time. not to get like sappy in the tags but i've never been the gifted one. no matter what i did i was never great at it #you know? i tried so much when. i was younger and kept getting frustrated because i simply was Not as good as everyone else or not as good #as my sister and my friends. one example specifically is in marching band. i did it fo four years and i was always one of the weaker links. #i wasn't the best at marching and i wasn't the best player--in fact i always struggled to play harder stuff because reading music doesn't #come naturally to me and learning to play an instrument was really hard and everyone in my section was amazing and there was this stigma #about being in concert band and how being in concert band meant you were bad even though it just meant there wasn't enough room in the #higher bands but the band director made me feel less than because i was in concert band and because i wasn't as good as everyone else. it #sucked and sometimes no matter how much i practiced i just couldn't do it and i hated myself for it and i hated myself for not being good #enough at writing to get published in spectrum junior year and i hated myself for not being as smart as my friends and doing worse than them #on everything no matter how hard i tried and i hated myself for not having something i was really good at or better at than my friends #and i still haven't completely gotten over that but wow does reki get me emotionally. wow is reki important to me. he was the character i #needed when i was younger and like gahhhh sorry this is kind of emotional i just like had a dream that made me :/// and it made me think #about this so yeah just this is why reki and sokka are so important to me and this is why i love that reki didn't win a beef #reki is just SUCH an important character in media and he’s written SO WELL #i cannot express how genuinely elated i am to have a lead character who isn’t the best and stays that way and the lesson of the show about #happiness AHHHH IT GETS TO ME IT’S SO GOOD WJSBEKNDND #kyan reki #sk8 #corey rambles:)

[h0neyy-bee]

another day to give the haikyuu characters instruments because I want to

sincerely, a high school senior band kid

part 2: nekoma

[pt. 1: karasuno]

Kuroo: Trombone

mans is long so he needs a long instrument. literally cannot think if any other instrument for this man trust me ive thought way too hard about this but i am not mad cuz trombone is arguably the instrument with the biggest dick energy and i do not take criticism plus i can see him being an absolute god at the trombone like straight up trombone 1 and gets all the solos and is in jazz band and everything holy shit i can also see him doing this with bokuto or forced kenma to do it with him

Kenma: Alto Sax

from experience, the sax section consists of people who try too hard and people who literally dont give a shit and there's no in between. obv the latter is kenma. first of all, he most likely joined band cuz of kuroo and stayed to get that fine arts AND PE credit doesnt want to do actual PE or do any sports to get his credit so he felt like staying in band is more convenient and "less work." secondly, he chose the instrument cuz i feel like he wouldnt like anything that stands out too much (and definitely took full advantage of the neckstrap that comes with it so its not too much weight for him to carry) but kenma is actually surprisingly really good and the director feels like hes too much wasted potential every time kenma turns down a solo opportunity. kuroo also tried to get him to join jazz band with him but he obv turned that down too cuz he felt like the director is gonna "pick on him again"

Lev: Trumpet

ok, i originally had lev written down for bari sax. however, he reminded me too much of this one trumpet player i once knew and i can no longer see him playing anything else. him with his "im gonna be nekoma's ace" attitude gave me an idea that hes one of those people who tells others he got 1st trumpet when in reality all the trumpets have the same part with very tiny sections in their music that have those higher and lower octaves written in HAHAHA he even got assigned to the lower octave but he doesn't wanna admit that LMAOABFJANSK dw i love him tho so this is out of love abfjalk. also this was kinda hard for me to pick cuz he would vibe with both the sax and brass section so it can go either way, but trumpet just slightly made more sense lol

Yamamoto: Trumpet

tanaka in a different font. i feel like there's no need to explain this one

Yaku: Clarinet

again. as a clarinet player, i have no idea how to explain myself one this one LOL something about him radiates clarinet that nobody other than myself and other clarinet players can understand.

Inuoka: Mellophone/French Horn

i love this boy. hes so cute. he was a good tie between trumpet and mellophone. but i leaned more towards mellophone solely because he reminds me of this french horn player who i met 2 years ago i know too many people lmao but honestly same with lev, inuoka works for both mello and trumpet so it can also go either way. i just know hes definitely a high brass player.

Kai: Mellophone/French Horn

another mellophone. again from experience, french horn players are some of my favorite people ever. they are so cute. oml. i never had any problems with any mellophone player in my past 7 years. thats kai. literally unproblematic. unbothered. genuinely talented king.

Fukunaga: Trombone

mans is full of jokes. trombones are some of the goofiest people ever. i can imagine him and kuroo making car noises in the band hall and compete on who can do it the loudest definitely have seen it before

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #kuroo #kenma #kozume kenma #lev #haiba lev #yaku morisuke #yaku #kuroo tetsurou #yamamoto taketora #kai nobuyuki #inuoka sō #fukunaga shōhei #nekoma

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Put Me in a Movie

 Keanu Reeves x Reader

Series Summary  Prologue 

Warning- Slight SMUT/NSFW.

Chapter 1- Lights, Camera, Action! 

2 Months Later, Chicago  “Are you okay?” Keanu asked, breaking Y/n out of her troublesome thoughts, the anxious bobbing of her leg coming to a halt. From his chair in the hair and make-up room, he observed Y/n curiously and worriedly; they had been filming together for a month by then and the two had grown to be friends; she had been easily navigating the differences between filming movies and television shows with the grace of his sage advice and Keanu found that despite her young age, Y/n was easy to talk to and a good listener.

“Yeah!” Her head snapped up, the thin, wispy fake bangs put on by one of the hairdressers nearly fell over her eyes and blended perfectly with her natural hair. Her make-up for the scene had already been done too; a couple bruises and cuts expertly painted on, looking as real as if she’d been in a fight and the costume department had put her in a skin-tight pair of jeans, a grey band tee and a leather jacket. Keanu didn’t want to admit it, the thought in itself should have been a sin, but she looked perfectly enticing. Bringing him back out of his mind, Y/n continued, her voice an octave higher than usual, “I’m fine, why?”

Keanu shrugged, “You just seem nervous,” he commented casually. 

Could he really see right through her like that? After only a couple months of knowing each other? Averting her gaze; it took all of Y/n’s will to not look at Keanu; he looked so astonishingly attractive, even an off brand bomber jacket, with a dirty, white t-shirt and jeans and strategic movie make-up. It had actually been a while since his striking looks had such an effect on her. Y/n had grown comfortably used to his whiskey gaze and raven framed face, but that day was different. That day was supposed to be their first sex scene.

Y/n had only done a few others for the television show that she had not too long ago been wrapped up, but none were with someone so much older. Or with someone she was so attracted to. They had barely even talked about it, and thankfully, it was the one thing that Keanu hadn’t asked to rehearse. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to do it, it was more of a fear of what would happen after. Would one of them get aroused? Would she think about it for months on end? Would he think about it at all?

She and Keanu were friends. She had a boyfriend, sort of, and for some reason the nerves that accompanied the thought of fake sex with Keanu made her feel guilty, like she was cheating somehow. But Y/n didn’t want to be a cheater, she couldn’t be.

Feeling his eyes bare into her, awaiting a response, Y/n finally looked towards Keanu, though she still couldn’t speak, “It’s the sex scene isn’t it?” Of course he knew, why’d he have to be so intuitive? It was both charming and annoying. 

With a heavy sigh, Y/n’s shoulders slumped, “Yeah, it is. It’s just......what if things get weird after?”

Frowning, Keanu slumped further into his chair, “Will it be weird for you?” He titled his head, concern evident, “Does this....make you uncomfortable? Because if it does, I can try to talk to Jackson and-”

“No!” Y/n didn’t want Keanu to think that being in close proximity to him would make her uncomfortable, nor did she want to upset Jackson, “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable as much as it does.....makes me worried,” the words sounded more like a question and Y/n wasn’t even sure if ‘worried’ was the right word.

“Worried?” Keanu mirrored, licking his lips, leaning forward in his chair. Thankfully, the room was empty save for the two of them, because when he propped his arms on his thighs, seemingly closer than he had before, Y/n had to sit up straighter and fight to ignore the twinge that prodded at her center when Keanu’s next words carelessly feel off his lips, accompanied by a devilishly crooked grin, “What, you think I’m going to ruin you for Luke?” Her ‘sort of’ boyfriend. 

Y/n scoffed at Keanu’s confidence, trying to, not even internally, admit that he might every reason to have it. “No,” she huffed, “I meant, what if things get weird between us,” she gestured between them.

Truthfully, Keanu’s cocky humor had been a cover for his own worries; it wasn’t like he wanted to ruin his friendship with Y/n by ‘accidentally’ getting an erection. Hell, seeing her in skin tight jeans alone was doing things to him, especially when he wandered what she’d look like as he peeled- 

Nope.

Clearing his throat, Keanu sat up, getting serious so he’d stop thinking about bad things, “Listen,” he reached over, lightly tapping her knee, “Don’t worry about it. We’re professionals, we’re getting paid to pretend to have sex, people do the real deal all the time for less. Just don’t read too much into anything and we’ll be fine, and if it makes you feel better, just think about Luke the whole time.”

If only it were that easy.

Y/n expertly pretended to perk up, “Yeah, okay. Should be easy. So, who are you gonna think about?” She raised her brows in teasing question. 

“I-”

“Hey,” one of the assistant directors, just a few years older than Y/n walked in, clip board in hand, frazzled and apparently in a hurry, “We’ve been looking for you two everywhere,” the young man breathed, “Jackson’s ready for you on set.”

Keanu sang a praise to the heavens as he walked out of the room behind Y/n; he really didn’t have an answer to her question. At least, he didn’t have an appropriate answer.  It wasn’t like he was some kind of creep; awaiting the infamous sex scene or the chance to see Y/n half naked, he wasn’t a fucking pervert. But he was a man, and he’d be lying to himself, and everyone else if he said he was about to have someone else on his mind while she was on top of him.

But it made him feel disgusting. Like he was violating her. Maybe he should have spoken to Jackson before hand, ask if he’d be willing to using to use a double for the scene instead of Y/n herself. But it was too late, the scene was half hour away from being shot. So, now, all Keanu could do was hope he was professional enough to not let things get away from him, or that he was a really good liar.  

“Why are they really after you?” Ella’s lips quivered as the question left her lips. Her small hand held a wad of gauze to the bullet wound on James’ upper arm. He had taken off his jacket to give her better access and it was taking all of her will to not swoon at the firm swell of his bicep. He was in great shape for a man his age. 

Through gritted teeth, James tried to brush off her question, wincing when Ella moved on to using what was left of the first aid kit to stitch up his wound, “I told you, they want-”

“You told me, and you lied,” licking her lips, Ella sighed, “I want the truth James, this is my life too now.”

Sighing, James hesitated, “There were some sealed files; at first it just looked like intel on some of the bigger mobs, but when I dug deeper, I found out that they weren’t just mobs, or gangs or whatever, they were being run from inside too.” James glanced around the little cabin, as if to ensure that there was no one around, “I don’t think the government knows, because when the board found out that I had it......”

“They came after you,” the wound was small and Ella was finished in no time, giving the area one final cleaning before putting her hands down and removing the blue latex gloves. Surprisingly, he found that he immediately missed her touch. 

Standing, James tried to put some space between them; being that close to her was clouding his judgment, “You shouldn’t have come with me,” he determined. 

Ella stood too rolling her eyes as she stripped off her leather jacket, dumping it on the back of a rickety old dining chair. Like that, James could better appreciate the way her fitted grey t-shirt stretched across her breasts, and when she folded her slender arms, a sliver of her midriff became more exposed, the little silver stud at her navel teasing his wandering eyes.

“Yeah?” Ella scoffed, “Well I’m already here. And if I wasn’t, you’d be dead.”

“Relax,” James huffed, “It was a bullet in my arm.”

“I’m talking about how your idea of getting away would have involved us climbing up the back of alley,” Ella scoffed in annoyance.

“Yeah?” James chuckled humorlessly, “Well with your driving we almost didn’t make it here.”

Emitting another sound of irritation, that time mixed with offence, as she dropped her hands to her sides. When Ella’s hands brushed her sides, some of his drying blood rubbed off on her pants, “God, are you really so self-involved that can’t accept that I did a better job at saving us than you?” Slowly, Ella closed the short distance between them, “You’re such an asshole,” she huffed, ready to brush past him.

James grabbed Ella’s arm though, making her stop in her tracks and stare at how his fingers easily circled her arm. For a minute, he just looked at her peculiarly, “I’m gonna freshen up,” she tried to shake off his grip.

“Look, I’m sorry for being a jerk okay? I’m just used to working alone,” he swallowed tightly, aching to kiss her pink, plump lips. “Are you sure you don’t want me to look at this first?” James’ calloused fingers brushed some hair away from her scalp, his touch sending shivers up her spine. There was a gash at her scalp, nothing that would warrant any real fuss, but James needed an excuse to keep her there.

Sucking in a breath, Ella brought her hand up to her forehead, though, she wasn’t really focused the cut, too busy getting lost in two pools of dark brown, “I......” she swallowed tightly, knowing that he shouldn’t make her feel the was she was. 

The rest of her response was lost when James leaned down, their kiss starting off slow and sensual, though quickly growing heated and passionate. Before long, James’ stocky finger had found the hem of Ella’s t-shirt and he was pulling it over her head, his hands immediately going to grope her surprisingly unrestrained breasts after he’d tossed it to the floor. 

Ella fumbled with the buckled of his belt, moving on to undoing his jeans when it was off. His pants fell to the floor, and James kicked them off along with his shoes. Undoing the buttons of Ella’s jeans, he pulled away, and as much as he’d want to see them being slowly peeled off, his lips feather light on the inside of her thighs, he was in too much of a hurry; shoving them down before sliding his hands to cup her ass. With his lips on hers again, he tugged on her legs, urging her to jump.

Clumsily, he walked backwards stumbling onto the worn sofa that they had left not too long ago. Ella shoved his boxers down, and he did the same with her panties, groaning as she ground on him.

By the time the scene was over, Keanu was a hot mess. From the minute Jackson yelled cut, Y/n all but jumped out of his lap, readily grabbing the robe that one of the assistants offered. “Y/n-”

Keanu had just finished the very last syllable of her name when Y/n was already standing, tying the robe closed, shoving her feet into nearby slippers before starting to scuttle off, “I have to go,” she managed, halfway off the set already, “Talk later, right?”

“Yeah, okay,” Keanu returned, though he had already worked out that Y/n hadn’t heard him, nor did she care to. When Jackson started approaching, Keanu scrambled for one of the set pillows, wincing as he pressed it over his hard on. He was almost completely sure that that was the reason for Y/n rushing out like that, flustered and uncomfortable. He really hadn’t meant for it to happen, but between groping and kneading her breasts and then having her grind on him like that, it was easy to get lost in the moment and let their surroundings melt away. The noises she made, even if they were just for show, weren’t helping either. In fact, they just got Keanu’s mind going; wondering if she was actually that vocal. He them liked loud. 

Shifting when Jackson sat next to him, Keanu willed his body to calm down, to think of anything other than Y/n. Puppies. Sumo wrestlers. Circus clowns. Anything.  “Keanu,” the grayed man slapped his bare shoulder, “That was good stuff, I told you the long shot would be better.”

“You did,” Keanu’s smile was tight and forced as he nodded stiffly. Maybe he should have rushed out like Y/n, then again, it wasn't like he wanted the whole crew knowing about his situation, “Did you get everything you needed?”

“I did,” Jackson chuckled, a new wicked glint now visible beneath the thick lenses of his glasses, “In fact seeing the two of you like that kind of makes me want to add another.” 

What? That was supposed to be the only one!

“Yeah,” he nodded, apparently forgetting that Keanu was still next to him; lost in his ‘artistic vision’, “I’m thinking right before the last confrontation, kind of like one final hurrah.”

Keanu just hummed, not really in agreement. After that performance, Keanu wasn’t even sure if Y/n would look at him again, far less want to be in another intimate scene with him. He’d have to apologize to her before the end of the day. 

Not even noticing that Keanu had yet to give any opinion on the matter, Jackson was already standing again, nudging his shoulder one last time before he, like most of the crew, left, leaving Keanu alone with his thoughts and a, thankfully, deflating crotch. 

From the minute Y/n was back in the security of her trailer, she slammed the door shut, pressing her back against it. Think about Luke. Think about Luke. Think about Luke! The words were a mantra in her racing mind, and up until the minute Keanu had kissed her, his lips so soft and gentle, and heady contrast to the roughness of his beard on her skin, she had been thinking of Luke. But somewhere between work and her overactive imagination, the feeling of eyes on them melted away and by the time she was grinding in his lap, Y/n could feel herself aching to be touched, to be fucked. Not by Luke, he was the last person on her mind, but by Keanu.

Even standing there, Y/n couldn't get Keanu’s touch out of her head; his hands hand been rough on her body, his large palms swallowing up her breasts, his hardening cock under her growing arousal. In her ridiculous fantasies, on her way back to the trailer, Y/n had fooled herself into thinking that it was, by all intents and purposes, her image and body that had gotten Keanu so excited. But she knew better; there was no way that it was her. It wasn’t like she was lacking in self confidence, but his advice to think of someone else had to come from somewhere. Experience perhaps?

The room suddenly felt hot, and stripping herself of the cheep fleece robe, Y/n removed the pesky little stickers that guarded her nipples and hurriedly slipped out of the skin colored panties that she had been wearing her costume underwear.The clip on bangs were the last thing that Y/n took off in the small bathroom, before getting under the spray, not even bothering with hot water. A cold shower, that’s what she needed.

The frosty water hit her skin all at one, nearly shocking the arousal away. Y/n stood under the steady stream for a while, hoping the steamy thoughts of Keanu could somehow be washed away by soap and water. After a while, she leaned on the tiled wall, wondering how much time had passed, thankful that they weren’t carded to shoot anything else until late that night, and even more grateful that it would be more high action and less intimate. 

It was late when Jackson had yelled cut for the final time that night, exasperation tinging his tone And even then, he didn’t let them go, opting to give Y/n and Keanu a half hour lecture on how wooden they were being. Afterwards, he’d sent them out of his trailer like two children; expected to make up after a playground spat. They had even promised that they would. But Y/n and Keanu’s assurances couldn’t be taken for anything more than face value, because, the minute they were out of sight, they immediately went their separate ways.  

Or at least, Y/n went her separate way; scurrying off towards the black, heavily tinted SUV that awaited her at the curb, ready to take her back to the hotel that they cast had been set up in. Keanu didn’t even have the opportunity to offer her as much as a awkward goodbye or an apology for what had happened earlier that day. For a minute, he had debated calling out to her, or hurrying to catch her before she’d gotten in, but Keanu eventually dismissed the idea, not wanting to make Y/n even more uncomfortable. So, instead, he’d decided to talk to her at the next organically available opportunity, hoping it would be soon. 

On her ride back to the hotel, Y/n had contemplated texting Keanu, not wanting him to think that he’d done something wrong, and feeling a little guilty for playing a part in messing up their scenes that night. But instead, she had decided to give Luke a call, hoping to reignite her affections for him before facing Keanu. For a minute, Y/n’s thumb hovered his name in the contact list, wondering if she she actually wanted to talk to him, though, she eventually hit call, putting the phone to her ear.

On the second ring, he answered. He was always quick to pick up the phone. “Y/n,” he greeted cheerily, “Hey, what’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Y/n toyed with a loose thread on her sweater as she faked the excitement in her tone, “How was your day?”

“It was okay, I missed talking to you though,” at that, Y/n rolled her eyes, nearly gagging. She’d never been one for all that mushy stuff, she just couldn’t get it. He had his life. She had hers. They could live separately and still be in a relationship, or whatever she and Luke were in, without the constant contact and gooey romantic stuff. “I’m so glad to hear your voice,” he added when Y/n couldn’t sum up a response. 

Sometimes, Y/n would ask herself what she was doing with Luke. The thought was rare, but if you were dating someone, it shouldn’t come up at all, right? He was older than her, just by a few years at twenty-seven, and they’d met at the Met Gala the year before; he was the son of a designer who was serving on the board and it had been Y/n’s first time at the event. They had gotten to talking shortly after the night, and slowly, they’d entered into something a bit more than platonic. At first, it was nice, or maybe, Y/n thought, she’d just liked the attention he gave her, because months later, they hadn’t gone very far. It wasn’t like Luke hadn’t hinted that he was interested in more though, sometimes he’d talk about doing more ‘couple’ things; going on a vacation together, meeting each other’s parents and using labels. Y/n had persisted that they didn’t need those things to be a ‘real’ couple, but really, it was only because she was scared of more. Or perhaps, she really didn’t want Luke the way she had convinced herself that she did.

Not knowing how to respond, Y/n tried to change the topic, “How’s Paris? I’m sure the the models love you,” she teased. Luke was a photographer, and most recently, he had been recruited by his own mother to shoot her Summer line. 

“It’s great. The models are nice too, I guess,” he didn’t seem particularly interested in talking about them, “The city though, God Y/n, we’ve gotta come back together sometime.”

Like she always did, Y/n tensed up at the thought of planning for the future with him. What was wrong with her? Any other girl would be thrilled to have a man like Luke interested in them; he was smart, funny, attentive and insanely attractive. Y/n always though that her fear of entering something more serious with him might have been easier to accept if he weren’t such a sweetheart. Breaking up with him might have been like kicking a puppy; an unofficial crime. 

“Maybe,” Y/n hoped she didn’t sound too disinterested, “But Walter’s and Joann are already trying to book projects for the rest of the year.”

“I’m sure we’ll find some time,” Luke sounded hopeful and just then, the car came to a halt. Before someone could get the door for her, Y/n was already out, her bag slung on her shoulder. “Are you back at the hotel already?”

“I just got in,” as Y/n walked, she could see people staring, definitely knowing who she was, some probably wanting pictures but not wanting to interrupt her phone call. Out of the corner of her eye, Y/n also spotted Keanu, and she could tell he’d caught a glimpse of her too. Though, he was surrounded by a small group, taking pictures and signing things. 

Not really paying much attention to it, Y/n continued her conversation with Luke, laughing quietly when he told a joke, humming when he said something interesting. 

By the time Y/n was up in her room, tossing her bag to the nearest chair, shrugging off her coat and kicking off her shoes, she was looking for an out of the call. “Hey, babe, I’ve gotta go, I think someone’s at the door.” Breezing through a mushy goodbye and promises to talk soon, Y/n finally hung up, discarding the phone on the sofa before flopping onto it herself. Raising only slightly, she pulled out her hair-tie, letting her luscious locks fall over her shoulders in soft waves. 

Y/n shifted until she was comfortable, or rather, as comfortable as she could be laying on a sofa dressed in jeans and a thick sweater. Her eyes, heavy with tire slipped closed as she eased her head onto the upholstered arm of the chair. Soon enough, her head was lolling to the side, soft breaths even and deep as a light slumber overtook.

Her body fell into the comfort of sleep easily, though, it was jerked out of it just as quickly when someone knocked on her door. With a startle, and somewhat disoriented, Y/n awoke. “Coming!” She managed, stumbling to her feet, running corrective fingers through her hair as she padded over to the door of her suite. 

The brass knob was cool under her touch and when she pulled it open, Y/n really wished that she’d done more than combed her hair with her fingers, “Keanu!”

“Hey,” he half waved awkwardly, “Are you busy?”

“Well, I was asleep, so not really,” pulling the door open some more, she gestured for him to come in.

“Shit!” He mumbled, mirroring her  she ran her own hands through her hair again, “I didn’t even think that you’d be asleep,” his usual confidence was absent and Keanu even seemed a little flustered, “We can talk tomorrow if you’re too tired.”

“No,” Y/n dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand, “It’s fine.” Keanu followed Y/n to the little living room, watching as she moved her bag and phone before gesturing for him to seat. Folding one leg under herself, Y/n sank down next to him, though, she was tucked away in one corner, trying to put enough space between them. “What did you want to talk about?”

“About today,” he sighed, scrubbing his hands over his jean clad thighs, “I-”

“Before you say anything, I think I owe you an apology for just running out like that. And then, you know, acting all weird for the rest of the day. It’s just.....” Y/n searched for the right words. Maybe she should have let Keanu finish instead of cutting him off, at least then she wouldn’t have to scramble for a believable lie. She certainly wasn’t about to tell him that rubbing up on him had left her soaked and touch starved. Stuttering, Y/n eventually offered up the worst lie she’d ever told, “It’s just, I’m not used to that kind of thing.”

Nodding slowly, Keanu forced a smile, not really knowing how to feel about Y/n’s admission. It was her? Was she just lying to make him feel better? Maybe he shouldn’t flatter himself like that. 

“Oh,” he chuckled uncomfortably, “I just thought that I might have made you uncomfortable, with, you know.”

Knitting her brows, Y/n’s sleep-craving mind took a solid minute before understanding what he meant, “Oh!” Her eyes widened as she realized what he was talking about. A distinct heat rushed to her cheeks and Y/n had to push the memory of how he felt under her pooling arousal; once again feeling guilty, that time for thinking that he was undoubtedly bigger than Luke. “No,” she avoided Keanu’s face; embarrassed “Of course not, part of the job right?”

“Right,” Keanu nodded, observing how Y/n was actively avoiding his gaze. He hated that he’d probably made her uncomfortable, and desperately wanting to fix it. Though, he really didn’t know how.

Just as Keanu’s lips quivered to speak though, Y/n seemed to quickly get over it, or at least, managed to pretend that she had, “Are you busy tonight? Do you want to get room service?”

“Sure,” Keanu shrugged. It was something they had grown used to doing since they’d gotten to Chicago, a few nights a week, they’d get together, in either of their rooms, and have dinner together. They’d eat over wine or beer from the stocked ensuite bar, sometimes engaged in conversation, other times while just watching television. “I can order and you can get drinks?”

“Yeah,” Y/n agreed, already standing, “Get me the usual, okay?” Y/n tossed the cordless phone, and he caught it without effort.

“You have three versions of ‘the usual’, which one do you want?” He chuckled, browsing through menu that Y/n had left on the coffee table.

“The ‘chicken fingers and fries’ usual. And get cake too!” Y/n half-yelled from the other room, “Beer or wine?”

“Beer!” Keanu shot back, chuckling at Y/n’s choice of meal, teasing her with a quip along the lines of it being ‘kid food’.

In what felt like no time, their dinner had been delivered and Y/n and Keanu had situated themselves on the sofa, surrounded by food, their drinks on the table. When Keanu stole one of her fries, Y/n scoffed, “How dare you steal my kid food?” She huffed in mock disdain.

“I take that back,” he grinned, nudging her shoulder and swiping another fry off Y/n’s plate, knowing that she really didn’t mind. 

After dinner, and a quiet a few beers later, Y/n and Keanu sat closer than before, a slice of cake between them, each with their own fork. The desert, according to Y/n, tasted like chocolate heaven and Keanu had just smiled lightly at the comment. He’d never been much of a laugh-er, or a smile-er, or someone who wanted to spend his nights in a hotel room sharing triple chocolate cake with someone he’d only known for a handful of months, but with Y/n, he’d found himself doing just that. There was just something about her that made him want to loosen up, let someone in.

Moistening his lips, Keanu took a sip from probably his fourth bottle, regarding Y/n with a soft smile. She looked nice, well, he always thought she looked nice, but that night, something was different. Maybe it was the pale yellow light washing her features, making her long lashes cast shadows high on her cheeks and her eyes seem darker. Or perhaps it was how her hair fell around her face, loose curls framing her make-up free face. It could have simply just been her; Y/n in everything that made her herself. Whatever it was, Keanu perceived it differently that night, in a way that he probably shouldn’t have.

Y/n brought the fork to her lips, a sliver of chocolate cake being popped into her mouth, between her plump lips. He had kissed those lips earlier in the day and it didn’t take much to bring the memory back to the front of his mind. Soft, delicate and oddly sweet. When she dragged the fork out of her mouth, it left behind the tiniest spec of chocolate frosting. “What?” Y/n furrowed her brows, feeling his eyes on her, “I have something on my face don’t I?”

Keanu smiled despite himself. “Actually,” he huffed, pointing the spot on his own face. When Y/n couldn’t seem to get it with her napkin, constantly missing, Keanu leaned over, the rest of his fingers cupping her chin as his thumb grazed the side of Y/n’s lip. Even as he was sure that he’d gotten the frosting, Keanu’s finger didn’t move; he was too distracted by their eyes meeting. Y/n sucked in a breath and the air seemed to push them together. Neither of them could tell who leaned in more, but without them even realizing it, they were only a shared breath away before their lips were locking. The kiss was chaste at first, though, when the tips of Y/n’s fingers went to Keanu’s cheek, his hand slid down to cup her neck and their mouths started moving in unison, slow and tender.

Soft

Delicate

Sweet

Sweeter than before. It was innocent too, devoid of any sexual pretenses. Maybe it was an offence of her youth, but Y/n thought that no kiss had ever felt like that, like it was so right and welcoming. Her hand slid to tangle in his hair, and they scooted on the sofa to get nearer, logic forgone.......

Until their movements made the cutlery clatter loudly.

As if awakening from a daze, Keanu and Y/n sprang apart, suddenly extremely concerned with all matters of keeping their hands to themselves and safe distances. “That was......”

“Yeah...” Keanu seemed just as shocked as Y/n and he desperately tried to avoid her face, knowing that another proper look at her would have him melting again. But he couldn’t do that. She had a boyfriend. Sort of.

Y/n gave her best attempt at a laugh, though it sounded fake and nervous, “We’ve been drinking.”

“Yeah,” Keanu stood, stuffing his hands into his pockets, wanting to leave but not wanting to seem rude.

Y/n stood too, passing her hands through her hair before toying with the sleeves of her mint greet blouse, “And we’re tired, so....”

“We just need to.....” he swallowed thickly, knowing that they were both lying, to each other and themselves. That kiss wasn’t just the effect of tire or drinking. They weren’t even drunk, at most, a little tipsy. That kiss was.....

Keanu didn’t want to think about it.

Thinking about it meant that Y/n would be more than a friend.

And Y/n couldn’t be more than a friend.

“I should go,” he blurted out, already headed for the door.

“Mhm,” Y/n was behind him, though at a safe, friendly, distance away, “Yupp, it’s late. And we have to work tomorrow.”

“We do,” he agreed. When they were at the door, Y/n flipped the turn lock, pulling the door open, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. On set, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Y/n cleared her throat, “Well, goodnight.” Usually, she’d peck his cheek, but given recent events, Y/n didn’t think it was the best idea.

“Goodnight,” Keanu managed as he slipped out. 

The minute he was gone, headed up the hall to his own room, Y/n shut the door, locking it again. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to the surface. Instead of working things out, they’d probably just made them worst and by the time Y/n was dragging herself to bed, she realized that one day had given her two things to feel guilty about. 

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited​  @paanchu786​  @thesadvampire​  @fickensteinn​  @babygirltaina​  @fanficsrusz​  @ladyreapermc​

#keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves fanfic #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #put me in a movie #chapter 1 #ff #fanfic #fanfiction #john wick fanfic #Keanu Reeves Fanfiction

[onestowatch]

Lynn Gunn’s Honest Portrayal of PVRIS’ Past, Present and Future Plus Details on New LP ‘Use Me’ [Q&A]

Did you know that quicksand cannot really sink your entire body? Hollywood renditions of this frightening occurrence showcase “Indiana Jones” type heroes desperately reaching for a branch or a vine to evade being swallowed whole by the muddy foe. In real life, however, quicksand is much denser than the human body–namely your torso and lungs. So, although you may sink to some degree, you’ll only be engulfed to about your torso region. That being said, to escape the hold of this mucky captor, you’re called to utilize, not a vine or a stick, but a natural aspect of yourself–in this case, the buoyancy of your torso and lungs. Doing so allows you to adjust your positioning so that you are on your back and are therefore more easily able to free your legs and eventually, yourself.

During moments of crisis such as this, it is not often that we think to use what comes most natural to us in order to overcome difficulties. However, as PVRIS frontwomxn Lynn Gunn discovered, tuning into your natural inclinations can be exactly what sets you free.

After battling debilitating health issues, anxieties, and multiple album delays, the refreshingly new album Use Me is here, and it has the empowered LGBTQIA+ artist plastered all over it. From the distinctively raw lyrics, impassioned vocals, dexterous commixture of that classic PVRIS Alternative Rock and new-aged Glitch-pop, and even a 070 Shake feature, this new album is taking everything we thought we knew about PVRIS to much higher heights. Use Me serves as the first release since Gunn followed her heart and came forward as the sole architect behind PVRIS back in March. After listening to all 40 emotion-inducing minutes of this cinematic project, it becomes clear that Use Me is so much more than an album, it is an unapologetic reclamation of power.

We were able to speak with Lynn Gunn before the release of the album and gather her perspective on this new era of creativity, utilizing her natural abilities for this new project, and even on supporting social justice causes.

All quicksand jokes aside, sink into this interview with Lynn Gunn below:

Ones to Watch: Although you’ve been making music for quite some time, this new era seems to be of a new bloom, not only for PVRIS, but for you. As you have stated, PVRIS is still very much a collective, but you have decided to shed the skin of “band culture” and from it emerge as the sole vocalist, lyricists, and creative director of PVRIS. How has that transition been on you all? Are people taking to it the way that you imagined?

Lynn Gunn: I didn’t really imagine anyone taking it any way, to be honest, it’s happening regardless of what others want to say or feel about it. It’s felt great personally and as a unit. I’ve seen mostly support but obviously, with anything, there’s always going to be people with the opposite. At the end of the day, this is what this is moving forward and works best for us, I know my truth and what this journey has been and looked like so far. I’ve seen so many insane and comical theories and conspiracies about the transition/negative comments… but ultimately I think anyone who decides to wastes their energy like that might find their life to be much more enjoyable if they channeled that energy back into their own life as there’s clearly a lack/wound somewhere within themselves. If that seems sprinkled with “shade”, it is, but I mean that with the most sincerity as well.

The saying goes “you can never really outrun yourself”, and from White Noise to Use Me, it seems that you’ve left a bit of a breadcrumb-trail leading us to this point. Although PVRIS has primarily been recognized as an Alternative Rock “band”, we can hear tiny glimpses of the sound that best encompasses PVRIS now throughout your entire discography.  Was this glitch-pop, disco-esque sound something you were intentionally experimenting within your previous projects?

To be honest, this is always where I imagined PVRIS’s sound living and the type of production I’d heard PVRIS songs being told through. I think in the past I didn’t fully know how to communicate the little production nuances that would have taken some tracks from point A to B, there was also a fear (that I now regret having) about straying from the “rock” production/experiencing rejection from the “scene” we initially started playing shows and touring in.

For the most part, and I truly mean this, there really isn’t that much of a difference in the instrumentation and sonic choices of this album from the first two, it’s still a very even play of organic instruments and electronic/synths, it’s just being produced through a different lens that’s a bit cleaner, crisper and crunchier in some areas. It’s a new interpretation of the woodwork that’s always been there.

What has kept you motivated to continue creating and sharing your truth with the world?

That’s a great question because I go back and forth with that feeling sometimes… Ultimately seeing comments from fans/listeners and hearing everyone’s stories and ways that they connect to PVRIS’s music is the most motivating thing in the world. I also feel that no matter what type of obstacle course the universe wants to throw me through, I’m always going to be grateful for the bruises/lessons and always going to feel compelled to create and share those truths through music.

I understand you’ve run into a deluge of unfortunate health issues the past few years that have affected you and the band greatly. If you feel comfortable sharing, could you talk a little bit about these illnesses and the ways you have had to overcome the obstacles they brought forth to get you to where you are now?

Totally comfortable sharing! I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease called Ankylosing Spondylitis (AS) about two years ago and then about a year ago was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. AS is an inflammatory disease that mainly attacks the lower back, hips, and ribs, but it can also manifest in a lot of other ways as well such as joint pain, chronic fatigue, and even eye issues. Sometimes when my AS is really bad, I can barely get out of bed or even roll over in bed. Over time, if not treated properly or managed, it can cause your vertebrae to fuse... I’ve heard that’s super rare though. Crohn’s is chronic inflammation in the digestive tract and is a little more embarrassing but pretty self-explanatory haha…

They definitely taught me (and by taught I mean forced me) to take time in caring for myself and caring for my body. Resting properly, staying in shape, eating super healthy, setting boundaries with work, etc. It’s also just made me really appreciative of the moments when my symptoms aren’t as bad/just happy to be alive and not have it worse. I’m determined to manage both diseases holistically and through integrative medicine, so far I’ve seen great progress.

Do you believe these difficulties aided in your journey towards this self-actualization that listeners are able to distinguish in this new era of PVRIS? If so, how/in what way?

Definitely! There are definitely some references to those difficulties in a few of the songs. I think outside of the music, it’s given a lot more self-love, strength, and patience. It’s also just created even more urgency to live my truth and to live it unapologetically in the way that I want, which naturally extends into PVRIS and the art that I want to make.

If you had to use one word to describe each album thus far, what words would you use and why?

White Noise - Freshman - everything was so new and exciting and there was so much eagerness with it, like a freshman walking through a high school for the first time haha.

All We Know of Heaven, All We Need of Hell - Bootcamp (haha) - creating it and touring it were both pretty hard experiences BUT incredibly strengthening.

USE ME - Upgrade - despite all the chaos around this release, this is the freest I’ve felt and the most confident I’ve felt about a PVRIS album.

All the visuals and music video treatments that you have conjured up have a strikingly symbolic and cinematic feel to them. However, the symbolism and tone of the music videos tied to Use Me seem to take on a different nature. Can you talk about this shift in creative expression?

Mostly just working with new collaborators (Yhellow, Katharine White and Griffin Stoddard). I feel a lot less precious about things (to a healthy degree) and much more open to letting others run with the concepts as they wish! So many fun new exciting perspectives have been able to shine through.  

I know you are a film fanatic and dabble in cinematography. Do you have any staple films that influenced the creation of the last five music videos?

The Holy Mountain was a big influence for the “Hallucinations” video, as well as [for] “Old Wounds”. For “Dead Weight”, I was actually inspired by the opening credits to That 70’s Show and Saturday Night Fever haha.

In July, you announced that the album was being pushed back so as to allow the floor for the amplification of Black voices, and to generate events in support of Black Lives Matter. Do you believe artists have a responsibility to take steps such as these to create a better future, regardless of whether or not these issues directly affect them?

Absolutely. We all need to be educating ourselves and actively doing the work to demand and create change towards a future that’s equal and just for Black lives.

Fans have been clinging to the edges of their proverbial seats waiting for Use Me in spite of all of the justifiable album delays. If you could relay one message to all the fans who have been patiently waiting, what would it be?

Please enjoy/connect, be good to each other and please please please vote if you are able!

Who are your Ones to Watch?

DRAMA, Jax Anderson, HDBeenDope, Royal and The Serpent, Nikki Hayes, Kat Cunning and LEXXE!

#PVRIS #Alternative #Pop

[dreamsister81]

In Memoriam: Jeff Buckley By Dennis

It was one of those nights that makes a difference in your life, when you don't give a damn anymore what the rest of the world thinks, as long as they're thinking it about you, and not just the image you project out of fear, or a desire to be liked.

Our subway stop brought us directly beneath the church, St. Ann's of the Holy Trinity. It was hot. I was sweating, and my head pounded, reminding me how much I loved and missed my air conditioner. When we turned the corner, toward the front doors of the church, we were met with a beautiful spring-like breeze, and a small camp of mourners. It looked the way old churches in even older cities are supposed to look; black and imposing against a bright summer sky, making you feel like you owe somebody, somewhere, something . . . maybe praise. Who knows?

We waited and talked amongst ourselves, sharing cookies and memories. We spotted the black shoes, black pants, black belt, shirt, sunglasses, hair and goatee running across the street, toward the church's side entrance, and immediately knew Nathan Larson, of Shudder to Think. He looked less happy than the building crowd, and obviously had greater reason. He was a friend.

When the doors opened, we worked our way into the line of "Jeff Buckley: Eternal Life Mailing List" members, who were unfairly ushered in before those who'd waited longer, but lacked a modem. But we'd waited, and we've loved long enough to mourn, and two among our group of four were list members. So we entered. A disco ball hung from the arched ceiling, and a movie screen showed a still of Jeff beside a mirror. Kazoo's, guitar picks, and programs were handed out at the door. We later learned the guitar picks were the remnants of a cancelled order for the next tour, and the kazoo's . . . well, read on.

We found our seats and upon them fans, like the kind a geisha would use, or perhaps parishioners longing for air conditioning. We waited with the plaintive cries of Reverend Al Green on the sound system to console us. On the stage, sat the urn holding Jeff's ashes, beside his signature Fender Telecaster.

Fr. Lewis Marshall spoke of Jeff, of his love for the church, and the church's love for him. He spoke words of consolation, but he never tried to explain Jeff's death away. He said no belief system he knows of "could make sense of such a senseless" event. He asked that we make the world a better place through the energy and love and creativity that is, not was Jeff Buckley.

"Not all of me is dust, Within my song,

safe from the worm, my spirit will survive."

-Aleksander Pushkin

Jeff's aunt, Peggy Hagberg, was the first of many to tell us about Scotty, and that she'd only ever called him Jeff once. She read a poem she'd written for his 30th birthday, recalling the intrusion he was when born, "that baby my sister was having." But he soon became plaything, then playmate, then friend. She lamented the loss of her special child to the dual person he'd become in manhood and fame. She read from her paper the words "My Scotty . . ." and nodding toward the still on the movie screen, she weeped "that Jeff" and quietly walked away.

His brother Corey Moorehead, and sister Ann-Marie Huck, the children of the stepfather who raised him (Ron Moorehead,) approached the microphone next. Ann-Marie told us about Jeff's life growing up, about his meeting with Tim when he was 8 or 9, about how he never put his guitar down after that meeting. She told us about Tim's overdose, and how it affected "Scotty", and about the time they went to see "Rose", and how upset "Scotty" was when she overdosed . . . they had to leave the theater. She said "Scotty" always held a dark portion of himself away, a part she could never touch. She cried as she spoke to him, saying she hoped he'd finally found peace in his father's arms.

Corey read a poem Jeff had written sometime in the last five years. I believe it was called "Momma dogga". It was a beautifully written, funny poem from a child's perspective, on the love of a dog and a boy, and it lightened the mood. The poem urged us all to learn to live dog-a way. To hear it, you'd really understand.

Michael Tighe and Parker Kindred (guitar and drums from Jeff's band) walked on stage with Nathan Larson (guitar/vocals, of Shudder to Think, Mind Science of the Mind) and Joan Wasser (violin, of the Dambuilders, and Mind Science of the Mind.) They played a beautiful instrumental piece, with breathtaking violin from Jeff's former lover, and deeply emotional playing from his friends. They walked off as silently as they'd walked on.

Michael Tighe was scheduled to speak next, but the church's creative director took his place and told us how much Jeff loved everyone and wanted us all to love him. She spoke of the way he made us all feel we were special because we all had a place in his heart. She read a poem from Lou Reed, as a way to tell us Jeff was our mirror, to remind us how beautiful we really are, when we forget.

There was a presentation from Columbia Records, showing interview segments, and video clips, revealing live footage, and tales of the recording of Grace.

Rebecca Moore, a longtime friend and lover sat at the piano, and admitted she was shaken by the video presentation. She related the tale of Jeff and her cat, how Jeff made it his mission to make this cat love him. She came home one night to find Jeff with his hands around the cat's neck screaming "Love me!" She said that was the way Jeff wanted the world. She performed, and sang a terribly emotional song, and walked off as quietly as all the others.

Jeff's mother followed, and let his cousin, Kelly Hagberg, speak first. She told us about Jeff's sense of humor, and his undying need to create music. He would imitate every character in Saturday Night Fever, do Steve Martin's "Wild and crazy guy" better than Steve Martin, play Nintendo with her little brother, or a song on a Fisher Price guitar. Jeff believed we should make music every chance we got, so we played "You Are My Sunshine" on the kazoo's we were handed at the door. Once for practice, once quietly, and once to blow the roof off.

His mother, Mary Guibert, was amazing; composed and eloquent. She was a natural speaker who drew from us both the sadness and jubilation we'd felt throughout the night. She helped us see the reality in his death that none of us could imagine merely as fans, but she comforted us as well. She loves her son, and she loves us because we do too. Mary told us about the program, that the note from Jeff was one she'd found years ago, that she kept on her bulletin board for inspiration. And she told us about the keys, and the guitar pick strewn about the note. They were the items found in his pockets when his body surfaced, on June 4th.

She urged us to make a Golden Promise.

"A Golden Promise is one that must never be broken. It is made in one's heart to another heart that's just departed this life."

She asked us to "commit 'random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty' ... demonstrate the courage to follow your bliss . . . maybe, just maybe, together we'll be able to repair the damage done to this lowly little world by the untimely passing of this gentle minstrel."

We were shown a full concert from the Metro in Chicago, from 1995; nearly 2 hours long. There were pictures on a wall in the backroom, and a poem by Jeff. Michael Tighe, Parker Kindred, Mary Guibert, and Jeff's siblings mingled in the room, graciously taking time with well-meaning fans.

We left that night, feeling like we had a higher purpose, that things did matter. We left with songs in our hearts, and on our lips. We played our kazoo's on the streets of New York as Mary had asked us too.

Life will not go on as it always had. Life will go on as it always should have.

with love from the delphil

-dennis via mojopin.org

#jeff buckley #23 years ago #mylove #supremebeing #favorite #music #st. anns memorial service

[doraspenlow]

ok it’s clown movie fanfic time

We Go On

(you can read on ao3 here)

It’s been three years now and Derry, Maine is a nice town, anybody will tell you that. There’s been a little boom of people moving in, who knows why– getting away from the city, enjoy the suburbs, commuting in to work. It’s a nice town. The people are nice too. There were some… incidents, quite recently actually, but who wants to talk about that. So some madman who once killed his father busted out and killed some kids. Well, he died. (The cops never found out what happened to Henry Bowers, his skull split open, but they weren’t investigating too hard). So that one poor man got thrown off a bridge. The town had a nice little candlelight vigil. It made the local news, and those boys all went to juvie. Nobody talks about these things anymore. Sometimes it’s as if they’ve forgotten entirely. It’s a nice town. Sure thing.

(The five of them will never, ever go back.)

Bill’s new book is coming out, finally, and the preorder numbers are higher than they’ve ever been. The New York Times gave the ARC the best review they’ve ever bestowed upon him. Something about “fundamental humanity in the face of terror”. Something about “the agonies and joys of growing up and facing your childhood”. They still think the ending is shit. That’s alright. Can’t win ‘em all. Anyways, he doesn’t love the ending either.

He and Audra got divorced– a month after the movie project he’d split from came out. The critics loved the movie. (Loved the ending especially, though it’s not his ending, it’s the work of some guy they yanked out of nowhere to ‘fix things up’). Everybody said the director’s an auteur, Audra’s a genius, that if the academy didn’t hate horror it’d get nominations for sure. All the buzz drove him crazy while he meddled around in his office. He screamed once too often. She left him. It’s probably a good thing– he didn’t know how to cut the chain. Three years later and she’s doing prestige stuff now, she’s engaged to that pretty boy actor boyfriend of hers. He’s happy for her. He really is.

He’s left California for Oregon. It’s cool, northern, but with a touch of that west coast freshness. Everything back east is so old. He doesn’t date, he’s taking time to “work on Bill” as he tells any interviewer who asks. One day he might try again– find some nice woman. A blonde or a brunette. Somebody who doesn’t remind him of anybody.

Richie’s still in LA, and he’s started dating, really dating, for the first time in his life. There were some half hearted attempts at having girlfriends in college, and a few hookups with men here and there, but he’s never done the whole romance thing. He feels awful pathetic, dating for the first time in his life at over forty, but it’s alright. The men he’s gone out with have been very understanding. This latest one’s real nice– a clever, tidy sort of guy, doesn’t care for stand up and had never heard of him before a mutual friend introduced them. They’ve been going for a month maybe. He doesn’t think the guy’ll last, but he’s hopeful someday someone will.

He took a long break, after Derry. An unexpected and abrupt hiatus. There were a few months were he wanted to die, a few months after that where he went to a lot of parties and snorted a lot of coke. That ended, and he started visiting this therapist– some beaky little woman his manager recommended. He still wanted to die a little bit, but he decided it was probably better to live. The tour after that crisis was the “Come Out Comeback Tour”– he wrote some of his own jokes for the first time in a long time. He told funny stories from when he was a kid. It was strange, he reflected, that he had funny stories to tell. Rooting around through his memory was like running his tongue along a line of rotten teeth. It ached, almost unbearably. But there were pleasant moments, and he was glad he hadn’t forgotten them.

“I guess my first real crush was this kid in middle school– he’d been one of my best friends forever, but about seventh grade I started having all of these feelings– and I decided to do something nice for him, something discreet– I was going to give him a popsicle. Like a literal popsicle, you perverts! C’mon! Anyways, at lunch one day I bought a bomb pop, I went to our lunch table and… I chickened out. I stuck the popsicle in my pants pocket, because I was 12 and a fucking idiot, and I went on my merry way. It was only after my next class was over that I realized the popsicle had melted through my jeans. It looked like I pissed my pants. But I pissed my pants for love, and how many seventh graders can say that?”

The divorce was a mess– Bev had expected it to be, but it still made her panicky. She didn’t so much as want to see Tom again, much less have a legal battle. For months, she’d wake up crying, miserable dreams dripping out of her mind like water. She won, in court, testified and showed pictures of bruises and witness reports and described how it was all her work, and wound up getting a restraining order against Tom and full ownership over Rogan and Marsh fashion– now just Beverly Marsh fashion. She thinks about changing the name to something modern, anonymous– but she doesn’t. It’s nice to know she has something hers. That she can be just her, and be alright. “You’ll be nothing without me––” well haha, she is something. She’s Beverly fucking Marsh, and that’s something.

It’s nice to be loved, though. Divorce is as sweet as a summer's day, and remarriage is as sweet as honey. She and Ben got married less than a week after it’s all finalized, in a courthouse, in their everyday clothes, a couple of her friends as witnesses. They bought rings on the way home, simple little bands. They split their time between Chicago and Nebraska– Ben’s used to working remotely, and she doesn’t mind it. He’s started talking about maybe building them a house of their own– she says maybe New Mexico? It’s so warm and dry and safe in New Mexico– and all the artists love Santa Fe.

So maybe they’ll move to New Mexico, or maybe they’ll stay here. It doesn’t really matter where they go. They’ll be together. It feels so good to be loved like a person. It feels so good to know she’s a person. She still has bad dreams, but she has nice ones too. Lovely ones– a boat on the ocean with the sky clear and blue. A litter of puppies she can hold. Her husband kissing her. A group of children, laughing children, playing little kid games. There’s seven of them, the children, all splashing each other in a lake, like they’ve never suffered and they never will. She wants to have children, though she’s getting older now. She wants two or three of them. She likes to think she’d be a good mother.

Ben thinks she’d be a good one too. He adds plans for children’s bedrooms to his favorite piece of mental drawing paper– a building titled “the dream home”. He’s been working on it for a decade– the dream home had a double bedroom before he had anybody to share it with. He was so used to loneliness it took him a while to get used to another person’s rhythms– how she’ll get into bed and just then remember to brush her teeth, hopping back out again, how she sings in the shower and refuses to acknowledge it.

He’d once thought he’d be lonely forever. Now, at 43, he’s trying once more to make friends. He goes to dinner parties and makes meaningful conversation, he takes up fishing with a man from work. You might never love your friends as brilliantly, as totally as you do at 11, but there's a comfort in the easy, mild talks about the weather, about work. He lets himself eat ice cream, now and then, and a social life means less time for working out. Nobody really notices– Bev says he’s still hot. But of course she’d say that, she loves him– And oh, it rushes over him sometimes, she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

He used to write poems, but he hasn’t since college. He feels like he’s getting rusty with words somehow, and he’s always been better with his hands. He’s fixing to unveil this stunner of a municipal building in Chicago– it’s maybe the best thing he’s ever designed. He takes Beverly on a private tour a few days before the ribbon cutting– there’s some last minute things being put together, furniture and lighting, but she still tears up when she looks around. “It’s so lovely,” she says, “this is the most wonderful–” and cuts off, moved. He thinks, looking at the light caught in her hair ‘I’ll build you something even better, darling. I’ll build you a future.”

Mike heads down to Florida, like he used to dream about. On the way there he made a stop in Atlanta to see Patty Uris. She was very polite, pleased to meet one of her dead husband’s old friends– hungry for stories of a childhood he never spoke of. The mirrors were still covered, and she tangled her hands in and out of knots. Mike still felt guilty. He’s been trying to not feel guilty. He told her anecdotes about Stan as a child– he didn’t know him as long as some of the others, but he knew him enough. He knew him when it was important. “Your husband was a brave man.” He told Patty, who closed her eyes. “He was, he really was.”

He contemplated, for a moment, staying in Atlanta– befriending Patty, telling more stories. But he’s a little sick of playing historian, of being a keeper of ghosts. He heads down to Florida. He gets a job in a small town library, makes acquaintances, meets a woman. If he wants, he can go anywhere in the world. The freedom shocks him, the lightness. Anywhere in the world– Rome, Tokyo, Sydney, Helsinki, Cairo. Places where it never rains, places where it rains all the time. He keeps a framed photo of his parents on the counter– his parents as he never knew them– young and just married and laughing to each other. He likes to think they’d be proud of him for leaving. For having the world at his feet.

He has two dogs and a cat, eats vegan, takes up biking. The children at the library call him ‘Mr Mike’ and climb over his arms like a jungle gym. Eventually, his neighbors start calling him Mr Mike too, which is funny. Most people don’t look at him like an intruder, and when they do it’s easier to shake off their stares. His hair starts greying at the temples and he relishes it. He’s made it this far. He hopes to keep making it.

It’s almost always Mike who send the emails, a tradition at this point– “Hey everybody!! Want to meet up? Where, this time? Kansas? Colorado?” And the others will reply– yes-yes-of course-yes-let’s go to Denver-lets get Greek food-I know this really great spot-how about Mexican-July-maybe August?– And he amalgamates their suggestions into plans, sends off the group message, mark his calendar. He sits back and smile, types out “I can’t wait to see you all again”. Presses send.

So it’s been three years now. And here they are, in a Mexican restaurant in Denver (they never get Chinese). They’re chattering about their lives, the five of them– Mike’s girlfriend, Richie’s boyfriend, Bev and Ben’s fertility treatments. Bill’s a little quiet. They look at him. He pulls the new book out of his bag– four copies. They coo dutifully over the cover, flip through the pages. Get to the dedication. Stop. To six that made my lucky seven– Stan, Eddie, Richie, Beverly, Ben, Mike. All my love. The loser’s club rides forever.

“The ending’s still awful.” Bill says, to stop their tears with laughter. They shake their heads and say they’re sure they’ll love it. He thinks they probably won’t– even he thinks the ending isn’t great. He’s bad with endings, he’ll admit that now.

The friends in the book, they all go off. They kill the bad guy, get their tidy endings, resolve their trauma, end up with their sweethearts or happily alone. He wrote it, and yet it still rings half hollow to him. No one can walk off the page happily ever after. They’ll still have nightmares. They’ll ruin relationships, try to pick up the pieces. Things are always going to be difficult. But they’ll keep going. And that’s the other thing he’s always hated about endings– the finality, the never-see-you-again. That’s the worst thing of all. He’s lucky, he thinks as he looks at his laughing friends, his best friends, the loves of his life, he’s lucky that life isn’t a story. That it goes on. That they’ll keep going on.

The loser’s club rides forever.

#it chapter 2 #richie tozier #bill denbrough #reddie #benverly #ben hanscom #beverly marsh #mike hanlon #mine #it fanfiction #my writing #speech #sk tag #it

[iammayradavis-blog]

Metals trader, Gerald Group is leading the way in an industry starting to redress gender balance

According to a 2018 Bloomberg report, ‘Going into the Lion’s Cage, figures show that in the top echelons of leadership at the world’s biggest commodity traders, less than 5% are women. In commodity houses predominantly led by men, and in an industry valued at approximately $2 trillion worldwide, women account for a minority of senior management. An analysis of data for 125 common occupations – conducted by the Institute for Women’s Policy Research in 2018 – showed that the sector where the gender pay gap was the widest was in financial services: commodities, securities and sales agents. For fulltime work in this sector, women can expect to be paid on average 36.1% less than men. 

Since April 2017 in the UK, changes in the Equality Act, require all UK companies employing 250 people or more to report on the gender pay gap, alongside the on-going review of obstacles preventing more women from reaching senior positions in business and FTSE- listed corporate boards. This change in the Equality Act, is not the same as equal pay for equal work but is calculated based on six separate figures that are then averaged out. These include both the mean and median pay gap, the mean and median gender gap for bonus payments, the proportion of men and women who receive bonuses, and the proportion of men and women working in each quartile band. As of 2019, both the mean and median figures across almost every occupation show that women are on average earning less than their male counterparts.

March 8th is International Women’s Day, the date was moved in 1913. It also focuses on helping women gain full and equal participation in global development

In terms of addressing the gender pay gap and the lack of women in senior roles in the commodities industry, some of the biggest names in the sector don’t have a single female employed in a senior executive role. Some companies in the typically male-dominated sector are working to redress the balance and place a higher value on diversity with no gender pay gap; however, many of these companies are overlooked when official figures are released, which tend to focus on the biggest players in the industry. In this respect, it is smaller companies, such as the independently owned Gerald Group, one of the world’s oldest metals merchants, that are leading the way. The commodity trading company has a better gender balance than most trading houses. 

On the other hand, Mercuria Energy Group in Geneva has a third of its top leadership positions filled by women. There are also several females heading up smaller trading merchants, such as Kolmar Group AG and Petraco Oil Co. Mining group Rio Tinto, recently announced the addition of 3 female non-executive board members, the Group had one of the least diverse boardrooms of world’s biggest companies. Last year, BHP promoted three women to its senior executive team as the company looks to rebalance its workforce to be 50% female by 2025. Key recommendation in the Hampton-Alexander Review, which published its first report in 2016 and has published annually thereafter include a 33% target for women on FTSE 350 boards and senior leadership roles, respectively, by the end of 2020.

Research shows that companies can be their best by cultivating a diverse and strong leadership team and workforce. People think differently based on their own personal backgrounds, experiences, culture, education, and they bring different perspectives, thoughts and ideas, which can only be positive. It starts a dialogue for a creative and collaborative process that inevitably has a positive impact on the organisation. Understanding the business culture of the company is important, so is supporting a diversified workforce - this is not necessarily specific to gender but diversity in general.

Companies need to have the right polices and environment in place to support a level playing field and to support women as they navigate work-life balance as well. Gerald’s senior management works together with HR to actively monitor and manage compensation levels to ensure that imbalances don’t exist among staff, because of gender. The Group fosters a merit-based culture, where individuals can achieve great things based on abilities, rather than because of/in spite of their gender and believes in mentoring and nurturing employees to attract, develop and retain diverse skills, whether man or woman. As it aims for equality, it believes it is ‘hedging’ its bets in the right way. Gerald Group’s Chief Operating Officer and member of the Board of Directors, Pat Crepeault has been with the Group for 25 years, “The Group has always invested in me, supported and promoted me. Gerald does not look at gender, they look for people who are going to support the Group, in all of its endeavours and help to achieve its goals.” 

January 2020 saw Gerald Group appoint its third woman, Patricia Nikolopoulos to the Group’s Board, alongside promoting her to Group CFO. Commenting on the appointment Craig Dean, Gerald Group’s CEO, “I am proud that fifty per of executive seats on Gerald’s Board of Directors are represented by women, which I believe is an industry first. Collectively, our seven board members have around 150 years of experience in the global commodities sector, which demonstrates a strong leadership team, and tremendous commitment, perseverance and loyalty to the Group.” 50% of Gerald Group’s trading desks (Copper Concentrates, Iron Ore and Precious Metals) respectively, are led by women, Min Zhang, who has worked at Glencore, Shan Radstone and Zhuoying Jing. Of the current employees, 40% are women, many of whom have worked at the Group for several years. However, figures from Bloomberg research demonstrate that these figures are still the exception rather than a general code of practice.

Women bring more to the trading nature of the industry, with inherent skills such as ‘helicopter vision’ to help tackle the increasing challenges that the industry is seeing in general. The London Metals Exchange (LME) rolled out its “code of conduct” to traders, members and clients for the first time in 2019, to help curb excessive drinking and the negative spotlight on the industry. Part of the problem could be that women are still not made to feel welcome in commodities trading, resulting in a lack of talent entering into the industry. One female oil trader who has worked in the derivatives and physical markets for more than a decade spoke to the Financial Times in 2018 about a conversation she had with another young female graduate. The graduate stated that she had been advised at almost every turn to enter into a more sales-oriented role rather than pursuing a career in trading. That the situation had not changed much in ten years seemed shocking, but it appears that there are still many barriers for women considering entering the commodities trading markets.

Some of the barriers that women come up against are simply preconceived notions about the type of personality required to be a successful trader. Attributes such as logic, aggressiveness, being analytical, book building and taking risks are still seen as positive in terms of hiring traders. However, experienced traders have shown that often, it is not having any one trait or combination of traits that works, but more being able to recognise one’s own strengths and weaknesses and formulate a trading strategy that consistently plays to those strengths. One benefit of the trading pay scheme is that it is mostly performance related. This means that the women who have the tenacity to get and maintain roles within commodities trading, may soon find that their pay is equal to or even greater than that of their male counterparts if their strategies are sound.

Much still needs to be done to equalise the gender balance and the pay gap in reality across all industries, along with the knowledge that that as more women take on senior roles, this can have a positive effect on a business adding billions to national economies. For companies where the cultural shift has largely happened, and there is a top down drive to real equality, change is already happening.

References:

1.      https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2018-03-19/there-are-316-men-leading-top-commodity-houses-and-only-14- women

2.      https://www.theguardian.com/business/2020/feb/21/rio-tinto-appoints-three-women-as-non-executive-directors-mining- gender-diverse-board

3.      https://www.ft.com/content/0ead55ca-1d85-11e9-a46f-08f9738d6b2b

4.      https://www.gerald.com/gerald-group-appoints-patricia-niko

5.     https://www.ft.com/content/62001b10-90de-11e8-9609-3d3b945e78cf

6.      https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/women/gender-pay-gap-equal-pay-women-paid-less-motherhood-a8856121.html

7.      https://iwpr.org/publications/gender-wage-gap-occupation-2018/https://iwpr.org/publications/gender-wage-gap-occupation-2018/

https://ftsewomenleaders.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/11/V3PressReleaseHamptonAlexanderReview2019-FINAL.pdf

[mayradavis-blog]

Metals trader, Gerald Group is leading the way in an industry starting to redress gender balance

1.      https://www.theguardian.com/business/2020/feb/21/rio-tinto-appoints-three-women-as-non-executive-directors-mining- gender-diverse-boardeAccording to a 2018 Bloomberg report, ‘Going into the Lion’s Cage, figures show that in the top echelons of leadership at the world’s biggest commodity traders, less than 5% are women. In commodity houses predominantly led by men, and in an industry valued at approximately $2 trillion worldwide, women account for a minority of senior management. An analysis of data for 125 common occupations – conducted by the Institute for Women’s Policy Research in 2018 – showed that the sector where the gender pay gap was the widest was in financial services: commodities, securities and sales agents. For full- time work in this sector, women can expect to be paid on average 36.1% less than men.

Since April 2017 in the UK, changes in the Equality Act, require all UK companies employing 250 people or more to report on the gender pay gap, alongside the on-going review of obstacles preventing more women from reaching senior positions in business and FTSE- listed corporate boards. This change in the Equality Act, is not the same as equal pay for equal work but is calculated based on six separate figures that are then averaged out. These include both the mean and median pay gap, the mean and median gender gap for bonus payments, the proportion of men and women who receive bonuses, and the proportion of men and women working in each quartile band. As of 2019, both the mean and median figures across almost every occupation show that women are on average earning less than their male counterparts.

In terms of addressing the gender pay gap and the lack of women in senior roles in the commodities industry, some of the biggest names in the sector don’t have a single female employed in a senior executive role. Some companies in the typically male-dominated sector are working to redress the balance and place a higher value on diversity with no gender pay gap; however, many of these companies are overlooked when official figures are released, which tend to focus on the biggest players in the industry. In this respect, it is smaller companies, such as the independently owned Gerald Group, one of the world’s oldest metals merchants, that are leading the way. The commodity trading company has a better gender balance than most trading houses.

On the other hand, Mercuria Energy Group in Geneva has a third of its top leadership positions filled by women. There are also several females heading up smaller trading merchants, such as Kolmar Group AG and Petraco Oil Co. Mining group Rio Tinto, recently announced the addition of 3 female non-executive board members, the Group had one of the least diverse boardrooms of world’s biggest companies. Last year, BHP promoted three women to its senior executive team as the company looks to rebalance its workforce to be 50% female by 2025. Key recommendation in the Hampton-Alexander Review, which published its first report in 2016 and has published annually thereafter include a 33% target for women on FTSE 350 boards and senior leadership roles, respectively, by the end of 2020.

Research shows that companies can be their best by cultivating a diverse and strong leadership team and workforce. People think differently based on their own personal backgrounds, experiences, culture, education, and they bring different perspectives, thoughts and ideas, which can only be positive. It starts a dialogue for a creative and collaborative process that inevitably has a positive impact on the organisation. Understanding the business culture of the company is important, so is supporting a diversified workforce - this is not necessarily specific to gender but diversity in general.

Companies need to have the right polices and environment in place to support a level playing field and to support women as they navigate work-life balance as well. Gerald’s senior management works together with HR to actively monitor and manage compensation levels to ensure that imbalances don’t exist among staff, because of gender. The Group fosters a merit-based culture, where individuals can achieve great things based on abilities, rather than because of/in spite of their gender and believes in mentoring and nurturing employees to attract, develop and retain diverse skills, whether man or woman. As it aims for equality, it believes it is ‘hedging’ its bets in the right way. Gerald Group’s Chief Operating Officer and member of the Board of Directors, Pat Crepeault has been with the Group for 25 years, “The Group has always invested in me, supported and promoted me. Gerald does not look at gender, they look for people who are going to support the Group, in all of its endeavours and help to achieve its goals.” 

January 2020 saw Gerald Group appoint its third woman, Patricia Nikolopoulos to the Group’s Board, alongside promoting her to Group CFO. Commenting on the appointment Craig Dean, Gerald Group’s CEO, “I am proud that fifty per of executive seats on Gerald’s Board of Directors are represented by women, which I believe is an industry first. Collectively, our seven board members have around 150 years of experience in the global commodities sector, which demonstrates a strong leadership team, and tremendous commitment, perseverance and loyalty to the Group.” 50% of Gerald Group’s trading desks (Copper Concentrates, Iron Ore and Precious Metals) respectively, are led by women, Min Zhang, who has worked at Glencore, Shan Radstone and Zhuoying Jing. Of the current employees, 40% are women, many of whom have worked at the Group for several years. However, figures from Bloomberg research demonstrate that these figures are still the exception rather than a general code of practice. 

Women bring more to the trading nature of the industry, with inherent skills such as ‘helicopter vision’ to help tackle the increasing challenges that the industry is seeing in general. The London Metals Exchange (LME) rolled out its “code of conduct” to traders, members and clients for the first time in 2019, to help curb excessive drinking and the negative spotlight on the industry. Part of the problem could be that women are still not made to feel welcome in commodities trading, resulting in a lack of talent entering into the industry. One female oil trader who has worked in the derivatives and physical markets for more than a decade spoke to the Financial Times in 2018 about a conversation she had with another young female graduate. The graduate stated that she had been advised at almost every turn to enter into a more sales-oriented role rather than pursuing a career in trading. That the situation had not changed much in ten years seemed shocking, but it appears that there are still many barriers for women considering entering the commodities trading markets. 

Some of the barriers that women come up against are simply preconceived notions about the type of personality required to be a successful trader. Attributes such as logic, aggressiveness, being analytical, book building and taking risks are still seen as positive in terms of hiring traders. However, experienced traders have shown that often, it is not having any one trait or combination of traits that works, but more being able to recognise one’s own strengths and weaknesses and formulate a trading strategy that consistently plays to those strengths. One benefit of the trading pay scheme is that it is mostly performance related. This means that the women who have the tenacity to get and maintain roles within commodities trading, may soon find that their pay is equal to or even greater than that of their male counterparts if their strategies are sound. 

Much still needs to be done to equalise the gender balance and the pay gap in reality across all industries, along with the knowledge that that as more women take on senior roles, this can have a positive effect on a business adding billions to national economies. For companies where the cultural shift has largely happened, and there is a top down drive to real equality, change is already happening.

References:

1. https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2018-03-19/there-are-316-men-leading-top-commodity-houses-and-only-14- women 2. https://www.theguardian.com/business/2020/feb/21/rio-tinto-appoints-three-women-as-non-executive-directors-mining- gender-diverse-board 3. https://www.ft.com/content/0ead55ca-1d85-11e9-a46f-08f9738d6b2b 4. https://www.gerald.com/gerald-group-appoints-patricia-niko 5. https://www.ft.com/content/62001b10-90de-11e8-9609-3d3b945e78cf 6. https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/women/gender-pay-gap-equal-pay-women-paid-less-motherhood-a8856121.html 7. https://iwpr.org/publications/gender-wage-gap-occupation-2018/https://iwpr.org/publications/gender-wage-gap-occupation-2018/ 8. https://ftsewomenleaders.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/11/V3PressReleaseHamptonAlexanderReview2019-FINAL.pdf

[idkthisisjustforfanfic]

Chapter 13 - Come Sunday

I was in the back of an Uber on my way to the label when it came on the radio. I wasn’t really paying attention--more just mindlessly scrolling on my phone--when I heard words that sounded eerily familiar.

Hearing my songs on the radio wasn’t new--I’d grown used to hearing phrases that once felt intimate get cycled in and out of headphones, radios and stereos alike. But my mouth went a bit dry, though, when I realized that not only was this song mine and mine alone, but it was also on Capital FM.

One Direction had made it big, clearly. Their singles were on the most popular radio stations and played in every mall across the world. But my song, with a different artist, and not written with the help of four or five other people, this felt like a different accomplishment entirely.

I didn’t want to ask the driver to turn it up, so instead, I leaned forward and closed my eyes to listen more closely.

In aIl honesty, I hadn’t paid much attention to all of the meetings I’d had with Julian in the week since I’d been back from the States. I had signed on the dotted line like I always had--I’d get X percent, the label would get a different chunk, and a large piece to the artist(s).

I’d met the two girls, Bella & Rae--as they were calling themselves, and they felt like a good fit. They could produce harmonies that sounded chilling and beautiful at the same time, which definitely sounded better than my double tracks on protools.

But I hadn’t really prepared for the song to do this well. The group was new--they’d done some small tours around the U.K., mostly some songs they’d written and some covers. They were popular on the small club scene, and it almost felt safe to give my first solo song to them.

They weren’t huge--if the song was a flop, if they were a flop, no one would have to know.

Hearing the song I’d written on my couch about Harry over the speakers in my Uber felt as if people would know. Suddenly, what was once a private moment of uncertainty and heartache was suddenly public, accessible, and on the radio.

When the Uber pulled up to the label, I was surprised to see Julian waiting outside. I reached for the backpack I was bringing my computer in and gave him a wave as I climbed out.

“Hi,” I said, offering a smile as he stepped forward on the sidewalk to greet me. People rushed around us--it was a Friday afternoon, and the building we were heading into was sure to be buzzing with weekend-ready people.

“Have you seen the charts?” He asked, turning on his heel to join me as we headed for the door.

“For the song?”

“Yeah--Maggie, it’s number four.”

“Number four?” I asked, my mouth hanging for a second before I picked up my own jaw. It’s not like that song wasn’t any good--I mean, it was a good one. For some reason, though, I hadn’t expected my work to be so well received.

Writing for a big name like One Direction--even when they were getting started--provided a bit of a safety net. We knew they had a fan base. Even if they didn’t last long or if they weren’t a mega-success, there’d be a group of people from the X-Factor crowd that would definitely bring things home.

Bella & Rae--on the other hand--had no platform. They had a following of maybe thirty thousand on social media and most of their distribution before the label was through Soundcloud.

And all of that, more or less, meant that my song was making it, on its own, without the help of a big named star.

“I think it’s gonna be number one, Mags. There’s already been booking requests for Bella & Rae. I think they’re going to get an LP deal. They can’t not.”

Julian and I made our way into the lobby, my head still kind of floating from the news and the energy around us. It was a warm day--warmer for Spring, at least, and I couldn’t help but let my mind drift.

Should I ask Julian why he played the song for Harry? Should I ask him what they said about me? Should I ask him about Harry in general?

“But anyway, I’m meeting you out here because Peter Bouchard wants to meet with you. He really likes the song.”

“Peter Bouchard?” His name was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. I didn’t meet with a lot of higher ups, maybe once in a while I’d deal with Mike--the Creative Director who seemed to have a knack for making me want to quit. That was, at least, until I got fired.

“He’s Mike’s boss.”

“Mike’s boss?”

Julian nodded, holding the elevator door open as we stepped inside. “He’s the one who gets to really make the final call about if the girls get an LP--Mike loves it, he’s totally on board.” The doors shut behind us, the elevator dinged to let us know it would fullfil our request to find the 17th floor.

“So why does he want to meet with me?” I asked, shifting my bag from one shoulder to another, suddenly nervous about the possible conversation. I couldn’t handle getting fired again. Twice in the span of twelve months? I’d be forced to move in with my parents just to deal with the emotional turmoil that would ensue.

“Dunno, Maggie, but Mike made it sound like it was good,” he could see the look on my face--the anxiety and the uncertainty that’d be sure to give me early wrinkles.

I didn’t reply. Instead, we stood in silence until the elevator dinged again, it’s doors opening to revolve a much nicer floor than the one with the writing rooms. We stepped off and I followed Julian down a carpeted hall--glass doors peered inside nice offices with dark wood desks and big apple computers.

He finally stopped in front of a door, turning the handle without warning to greet a man that I certainly recognized. He was old enough to be my father--gray hair on top of his head and a smile that seemed to make me only slightly less terrified.

“Maggie, come in, sit down,” he greeted, motioning to a chair opposite his desk. Julian landed in the one beside me, much more comfortable in Peter Bouchard’s presence than I was.

I slid into the seat, offering a small smile as I took inventory of my surroundings. A framed picture of three women--his wife and two daughters, presumably. A shelf of old vinyl lined the wall behind us--Peter was clad in a golf shirt, much less formal than I’d expect for Mike’s boss.

“We’re really glad that the song is having so much success--have you seen any of the numbers?”

I shook my head, looking over to Julian. I’d never seen any numbers for anything. I handed in my work, signed where I needed to, and got decent paychecks via direct deposit. I knew the percent of each song, each download, each album I’d be entitled to. I knew I signed away the rights to my songs when I started working with the label. They’d never really be mine again.

“Here,” Peter said, turning to his computer to open up the internet browser. He clicked open an email, typed in an address, and then shifted the monitor so Julian and I could see. “This is the live number of downloads from BPI. This is streaming numbers, so spotify, iTunes, the like,” he pointed at the screen, his number gracing over tiny zeros that lined up neatly.

“It’s number two now?” Julian asked, leaning forward to get a better look. “Jesus, Mags, even in the last half hour since I saw it it’s changed.”

I couldn’t help but smile--this felt much more personal than anything I’d written for One Direction or even for Harry. I’d written this song alone, it’d been born in my living room and it didn’t have a big name to ride on the coattails of.

Sure, I’d long been of the mindset that it was the writing skills of me and Chelsea and Kyle that really made the band what it had been. Take five good looking kids, slap them with good clothes and good hair, and sure, you’re bound to have some success. But if the music sucked, if the music was the same old simple pop that we’d poured out for the first album, they wouldn’t have lasted the way they did.

But then again, maybe there was a part of me that wondered if that was really true. Because here, in Peter Bouchard’s office, it felt incredibly reassuring to know that I could write good songs--successful songs, really--that did fine enough on their own without the name of the world’s most popular boy band.

“The reason I wanted to meet with you, Maggie, is because we’re interested in buying a back catalog, if you have one.”

If I had one? Of course I had one--of course I had a book of songs and endless iPhone notes of demos with shitty three part harmony done on Garageband on my Mac until I could get into the studio.

“Oh,” I said, letting his words take a second to settle. It was strange--I would have guessed that he’d want to buy a few more, get a little more information about the genre I typically wrote, hear more of my solo work. Instead, he seemed ready to write me a check. “Really?”

Julian let out a laugh, leaning back in his chair as if he were a proud older brother.

“Yes, really,” Peter nodded. “You did amazing things with One Direction and it was rather stupid of us to let you go in November.”

I bit at my lip, feeling a swell of emotion in my chest. He was right--and not in the sense that I was the most amazing thing they’d ever had or ever would, but he was right in the sense that I had a knack for shaping words into a story that floated above the melody.

“Will you at least consider it? Take a look at what you have--demos, finished products, really, and let me know what you think would be an appropriate fee?”

Oh, right, the money. I looked to Julian quickly. I had no idea what he meant. Me come up with the appropriate fee? Me tell them what I wanted them to pay me for my finished songs? Julian nodded in encouragement, so I spit the words out of my mouth.

“Yeah, sure, absolutely.”

Peter stood from his chair and reached his hand out to shake mine. “We’re thrilled, Maggie, really. Thank you for all of your hard work.”

**

I was sat on my couch, staring at the computer in front of me and the notepad I’d scribbled some numbers on. I had 43 songs that were whole and finished and polished enough to hand over to the label. Out of that number, 25 were actually good enough to be on someone’s album. I didn’t have the slightest clue how to come up with a price for the songs I’d given so much energy. There were the first three songs I’d written when Harry and I started spending time together, one that I wrote when the band broke up, another angry one that had been written sometime after Zayn left.

There were four or five from the summer of 2012 when I briefly dated a boy that Chelsea had introduced me to--stupid and romantic. There were plenty of sad ones--some about being lonely, about being hurt, about making mistakes.

Did I charge a price for each song? Did I add on a percentage I wanted if they got released and distributed on various platforms? I certainly didn’t have the answer, but I was hoping that Harry would. Maybe it was wishful thinking that he’d want to even discuss anything money related, but I figured he at least didn’t want me to get taken advantage of by a big name label.

I typed out a question and erased it three times before finally pressing send.

Do you have a few minutes to talk? The label offered to buy my catalog and I have no clue how to handle the pricing.

I set my phone down on the couch and heated up some food, picking it back up with a bowl of leftover pasta in my hand. Still nothing. I watched an episode of Jane The Virgin and then I finally heard my phone ring.

I pressed the green button and held it up to my ear, trying to calm the heartbeat that was slowly rising in my chest. “Hey,” I said casually, hoping he’d be less boundaried than last time.

“Hi,” his voice was low, I wondered where he was. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” I said quickly, standing from my spot on my couch to move towards the window that overlooked my street.

“So they want to buy your catalog?” He let out a little bit of a laugh, I pulled my head back in offense.

“Are you surprised by that? You sound surprised.”

“M’not surprised, Maggie,” he let out a sigh. “I’m happy for you.”

I cut to the chase, mostly out of fear that going off script would lead to an argument or more chest pain than I was already experiencing. “Well--do you have any idea how I’m supposed to come up with a figure? I mean, Pete Bouchard should know this stuff, right? Shouldn’t they give me a number?”

“You’ve got to up-sell yourself, Maggie. I heard that Paul McCartney sold a catalog once to someone for three or four million.”

“I’m not Paul McCartney,” I reminded him.

“I know--m’saying that you need to not be afraid to ask for what you think it’s worth.”

“I don’t know what it’s worth.”

He let out another sigh, and frankly, I was surprised that he was being as cordial and calm as he was. “How many songs?”

“Forty-three total, out of that, twenty something are decent.”

“M’sure they’re all decent,” he said, I could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“How do I come up with it though? You’re missing my point altogether,” I accused.

He cleared his throat before replying. “Ten thousand each.”

“Ten thousand each?” I asked, unsure of how he’d even gotten that number.

“Yeah--I mean, if any of them are released it’ll be way more than that. You should ask for at least 10% of the final cuts. Albums, music videos, touring, et cetera.”

I let his words sink in for a second as I watched a couple walk hand in hand on the street below. Charlie, who was sat on the window sill, seemed to be peering up at the phone in my hand. Maybe I was crazy, but I swore it’s because he could recognize Harry’s voice.

“So you think I should walk in and ask Peter Bouchard for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” it was more of a statement and less of a question, but he answered me anyway.

“I do.”

“Why ten thousand each?”

He made an unpleasant noise and seemed to draw out my name. “Jesus, Maggie. You asked me to call and I gave you my answer.”

I pulled my head back, turned off by his sudden anger. “I just want to know where you got such a specific number from.”

“My head--I got it from my head.”

I was appreciative of the fact that Harry thought my songs were worth such good money--yet I was fearful that he’d be the only one. Peter Bouchard had no reason to pay me that much as far as I was concerned. Sure, I was in a business where people made a lot of money. In my time with the band I’d made more than the big figure already discussed, but that was over the span of five years.

“Alright, okay. I’ll do ten thousand each.”

“Tell Peter you spoke with me about it,” he said casually, as if that weren’t a big deal.

“What? No, I’m not telling him that.”

“Why not?” He sounded somewhat offended, I could picture the puppy eyes he had on as if I’d said he had a shitty taste in shoes (which he did).

“Because he doesn’t need to know that you and I,” I paused, wondering how on earth to describe what we were and how things were and what this was. “Talk,” I decided.

He let out a sigh, which was followed by an awkward pause as Charlie stretched his back and let out a loud meow.

“Is that Charlie?”

I let out a laugh, looking down at him as he cocked his head to look down at the people passing by. “Who else would it be?”

“How is he?”

I suddenly felt weird. I felt like Harry wasn’t allowed to ask how my cat was if he wouldn’t even have a conversation with me about our fight and our relationship. He didn’t get some type of double standard just because my feline companion had a strange attachment to him.

“He’s fine, but, I should go. I’ve got some stuff to do,” I lied.

“Yeah, okay, of course. Let me know, I guess, how it goes.”

“I will,” I nodded, wondering if he’d answer next time I called.

**

I met with Peter Bouchard on a Wednesday to discuss the financial compensation, which is the technical term he had used to describe it. It was rainy and cold for a Spring day in London, but Julian met me inside with a cup of tea and a smile on his face. It was all the encouragement I needed to walk into Peter’s office with the confidence to ask for enough money to pay for someone’s entire college education and first home in the state of Ohio.

Peter was friendly and excited that I was willing to make the deal, and he didn’t even flinch when I mentioned the number I had in mind. Maybe he was used to dealing with large sums of money, but he certainly played it cool when he took down more information to write up a contract.

So that night, when I was out to dinner with Kyle and Mark to celebrate, I gushed on and on about how I’d actually handled it all by myself (minus the input from Harry). I’d made a business deal, been responsible, and now was getting adequate compensation for something that I’d worked so hard on.

Bella & Rae’s song had been number one for a week straight, I’d already received a paycheck from that, so dinner, tonight, was on me.

“So what will be the next step? Can they sell your songs to anyone?” Kyle asked, picking up his wine glass to watch the legs drip down the side of the glass.

I was appreciative and grateful that kyle was happy for me--not that he wouldn’t be, but I did wonder if he’d feel strange that the label had brought me back and offered this deal. It wasn’t necessarily a stable gig, I certainly wasn’t a staff writer for them, but the money from my catalog would certainly hold me over for a while.

“Anyone signed to the label can record my songs,” I corrected. “Technically they own the rights and the royalties, but Peter said he’d work on a percentage of what I’d get from additional revenue--so tours, albums, stuff like that.”

Mark tilted his head to the side and let out a laugh. “Sweet deal, mate. Depending on how many they use, you’ll make money off of it for a long time.”

I nodded, taking a sip at my own drink. A pang of guilt hit me in the stomach--was I focusing too much on the financial aspect of this, exactly like Harry had accused?

I could understand his fear of me being with him for the wrong reasons, but that didn’t invalidate my need to be financially secure and responsible.

“You’re doing that thing,” Kyle laughed, reaching over to snap his fingers in front of my face. Mark reached for a piece of bruschetta and plopped it into his mouth. “Where you zone out and think about Harry.”

I rolled my eyes, thankful for the noise and the energy in the restaurant. We were only a few blocks from Kyle and Mark’s place--my uber ride home would be a good chance to call my mom.

“I’m not thinking about Harry,” I told them, waving a hand to dismiss his silly allegation.

As if on cue, my phone lit up on the table between us. It was face up, so there was no way to hide the name on the screen as a text message rolled in.

I looked down at it, then back up at them, both of whom were keeping their lips sealed together to avoid a smile. I reached for it before they could say anything, ignoring Kyle’s lazy attempt to small talk about the weather.

We’re having a wrap party for my album on Friday if you want to come.

I didn’t want to sound desperate or too eager, so I thumbed back a response slowly.

What time? I’m meeting with Julian that day.

It was a lie, but I doubted that Julian would out me if Harry ever mentioned it. I looked back up to my dinner dates, who were both munching on another bite of our appetizers.

“Things seem to be a little less hostile,” Kyle said with a smirk, bringing his wine glass up to his lips.

“Nothing’s happening,” I shook my head, still holding my phone in front of me. “He’s literally telling me something about his album. Relax.”

My phone buzzed again.

8pm. Hopefully I’ll see you there.

**

It wasn’t the fact that Chelsea had taken entirely too long to get ready for the party--it was more about the fact that now she was insisting on getting one more glass of champagne before we made our way over to the food.

She’d been in town for two nights so far, and she had me out and about all day doing the things she said she missed most about London (which, mostly, was just shopping at High Street shops). We’d had lunch and tea in the afternoon but that was four whole hours ago, and after trekking all over Mayfair, I was either about to throw up, or pass out. Both of which from lack of sufficient sustenance.

Pair that with the sweating that was occuring due to the proximity to Harry, and I was nothing less of a hot mess.

“There’ll be another waiter in one second,” Chelsea said quietly, completely annoyed by the way I was fanning myself.

“Just meet me over there,” I said, raising my hands in exasperation, stomping away and over towards the delicious table of finely placed miniature meatballs and fruit.

It wasn’t much of a selection, but I was starving and we weren’t likely getting a real meal any time soon--this seemed like more of a cocktail hour type of event.

I hadn’t even said hello to Harry. I saw Jeffrey first when we came in--he gave me a big hug and thanked me for coming. He greeted Chelsea and then brought me over to see Ryan and Tyler. I was grateful that things didn’t feel as weird as I’d expected, but I hadn’t yet seen everyone.

Chelsea, up until momentarily, had fulfilled her obligation of being my date. She stayed by my side and made small talk with people we didn’t know. She was the Queen of Humble Bragging about my catalog being sold to the label, which I think impressed Jeff Bhasker quite a bit.

Now, however, her heart was set on more alcohol and my stomach was set on food.

I forked four mini meatballs onto my plate and had just forked one into my mouth when I turned around and walked into Harry’s back.

“Hi!” I said, covering my mouth with my hand as I tried to swallow quickly. “Sorry--chewing.”

He let out a laugh and didn’t seem as angry as I’d expected. He was fine enough on the phone, but something told me that seeing him in person (without the barrier of technology) would be a whole different ball game.

“It’s good to see you,” he nodded, waiting for me to remove my hand from my mouth before moving in to give me an awkward side hug. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for--” I paused, unsure of how find the right words. “Inviting me?”

“Thanks for writing on the album,” he shrugged slightly, clearly running out of ways to make this as normal as possible.

The truth of the matter was that Harry and I had a lot of unfinished business. There were things that needed to be said and addressed and right now certainly wasn’t the time to do that. Chelsea sauntered up next to us, champagne flute in her hand, and held her glass up to clink against the one in Harry’s hand.

“Cheers, mate, to a great album. Haven’t heard it yet, but if Maggie wrote on it, I’m sure it’ll be fantastic.”

I rolled my eyes--but Harry found her toast amusing. He laughed and nodded in Chelsea’s direction. “She’s a great wingwoman, huh?”

“She’s something,” I tried to act as if I wasn’t completely overstimulated by the alcohol I’d drank, the noise in the restaurant, and the lack of food I’d eaten.

I didn’t have a chance, though, to plan my next move, because Peter Bouchard was suddenly in front of us and reaching an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

“You didn’t tell me just how involved you were on Harry’s album, Maggie,” Peter said, his head tilted in a way that communicated his affection towards the both of us.

I hadn’t told Peter much about Harry’s album or my involvement with it, because, frankly, I didn’t know if Harry would cut out every song I’d written on when I left Jamaica. I kind of imagined that he’d find new songs, suddenly grow to hate the ones I’d been a part of. I hadn’t yet seen the track listing, however--I did my best to keep my distance.

“She was very involved,” Harry said with a nod, his smile somewhat solemn as he looked from Peter to me. “She’s very talented. You’re lucky to work with her.”

I could feel heat rise to my cheeks, feeling extremely uncomfortable with the attention on me at someone else’s album wrap party.

“Well, Harry’s a great guy, Maggie. Really went to bat for you in terms of payment for your catalog.”

The room seemed to freeze and suddenly my feet felt glued to the floor.  “What?”

Harry’s eyes--which had been watching Peter as he spoke--were now as big as silver dollars. His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but couldn’t find the words.

Chelsea took a swig of her champagne and looked on in pure shock.

“He wanted to make sure you got the money you deserved. And the catalog is amazing, really. We’re very excited to see who will be the right fit for each song.”

Peter, whose intentions were pure, didn’t understand that he needed to just stop talking. Harry, whose eyes were still wide and whose lips were still parted, seemed to teeter on his feet.

I looked up at him, thankful that Chelsea had stepped right in front of me to compliment Peter’s choice of suit, and turned to head for the door.

There was no use--for some reason Harry and I would never be on the same page. I was a Monday and he was a Friday. No matter how many times the sun would rise and set, we’d be on opposite ends of the week. We’d be the same number of days apart, the same number of sleeps between us.

Because if he wasn’t mad at me, I was mad at him. If he wanted to be with me, I didn’t want to be with him. And if we were finally brave enough to stop avoiding each other like the plague, something always came in between.

#come sunday #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles story #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fiction #harry styles fic #harry styles blurb

[sweetdreamsjeff]

From the Memorial at St. Ann's

In Memoriam: Jeff Buckley

It was one of those nights that makes a difference in your life, when you don't give a damn anymore what the rest of the world thinks, as long as they're thinking it about you, and not just the image you project out of fear, or a desire to be liked.

Our subway stop brought us directly beneath the church, St. Ann's of the Holy Trinity. It was hot. I was sweating, and my head pounded, reminding me how much I loved and missed my air conditioner. When we turned the corner, toward the front doors of the church, we were met with a beautiful spring-like breeze, and a small camp of mourners. It looked the way old churches in even older cities are supposed to look; black and imposing against a bright summer sky, making you feel like you owe somebody, somewhere, something . . . maybe praise. Who knows?

We waited and talked amongst ourselves, sharing cookies and memories. We spotted the black shoes, black pants, black belt, shirt, sunglasses, hair and goatee running across the street, toward the church's side entrance, and immediately knew Nathan Larson, of Shudder to Think. He looked less happy than the building crowd, and obviously had greater reason. He was a friend.

When the doors opened, we worked our way into the line of "Jeff Buckley: Eternal Life Mailing List" members, who were unfairly ushered in before those who'd waited longer, but lacked a modem. But we'd waited, and we've loved long enough to mourn, and two among our group of four were list members. So we entered. A disco ball hung from the arched ceiling, and a movie screen showed a still of Jeff beside a mirror. Kazoo's, guitar picks, and programs were handed out at the door. We later learned the guitar picks were the remnants of a cancelled order for the next tour, and the kazoo's . . . well, read on.

We found our seats and upon them fans, like the kind a geisha would use, or perhaps parishioners longing for air conditioning. We waited with the plaintive cries of Reverend Al Green on the sound system to console us. On the stage, sat the urn holding Jeff's ashes, beside his signature Fender Telecaster.

Fr. Lewis Marshall spoke of Jeff, of his love for the church, and the church's love for him. He spoke words of consolation, but he never tried to explain Jeff's death away. He said no belief system he knows of "could make sense of such a senseless" event. He asked that we make the world a better place through the energy and love and creativity that is, not was Jeff Buckley.

"Not all of me is dust, Within my song, safe from the worm, my spirit will survive. -Aleksander Pushkin

Jeff's aunt, Peggy Hagberg, was the first of many to tell us about Scotty, and that she'd only ever called him Jeff once. She read a poem she'd written for his 30th birthday, recalling the intrusion he was when born, "that baby my sister was having." But he soon became plaything, then playmate, then friend. She lamented the loss of her special child to the dual person he'd become in manhood and fame. She read from her paper the words "My Scotty . . ." and nodding toward the still on the movie screen, she weeped "that Jeff" and quietly walked away.

His brother Corey Moorehead, and sister Ann-Marie Huck, the children of the stepfather who raised him (Ron Moorehead,) approached the microphone next. Ann-Marie told us about Jeff's life growing up, about his meeting with Tim when he was 8 or 9, about how he never put his guitar down after that meeting. She told us about Tim's overdose, and how it affected "Scotty", and about the time they went to see "Rose", and how upset "Scotty" was when she overdosed . . . they had to leave the theater. She said "Scotty" always held a dark portion of himself away, a part she could never touch. She cried as she spoke to him, saying she hoped he'd finally found peace in his father's arms.

Corey read a poem Jeff had written sometime in the last five years. I believe it was called "Momma dogga". It was a beautifully written, funny poem from a child's perspective, on the love of a dog and a boy, and it lightened the mood. The poem urged us all to learn to live dog-a way. To hear it, you'd really understand.

Michael Tighe and Parker Kindred (guitar and drums from Jeff's band) walked on stage with Nathan Larson (guitar/vocals, of Shudder to Think, Mind Science of the Mind) and Joan Wasser (violin, of the Dambuilders, and Mind Science of the Mind.) They played a beautiful instrumental piece, with breathtaking violin from Jeff's former lover, and deeply emotional playing from his friends. They walked off as silently as they'd walked on.

Michael Tighe was scheduled to speak next, but the church's creative director took his place and told us how much Jeff loved everyone and wanted us all to love him. She spoke of the way he made us all feel we were special because we all had a place in his heart. She read a poem from Lou Reed, as a way to tell us Jeff was our mirror, to remind us how beautiful we really are, when we forget.

There was a presentation from Columbia Records, showing interview segments, and video clips, revealing live footage, and tales of the recording of Grace.

Rebecca Moore, a longtime friend and lover sat at the piano, and admitted she was shaken by the video presentation. She  related the tale of Jeff and her cat, how Jeff made it his mission to make this cat love him. She came home one night to find Jeff with his hands around the cat's neck screaming "Love me!" She said that was the way Jeff wanted the world. She performed, and sang a terribly emotional song, and walked off as quietly as all the others.

Jeff's mother followed, and let his cousin, Kelly Hagberg, speak first. She told us about Jeff's sense of humor, and his undying need to create music. He would imitate every character in Saturday Night Fever, do Steve Martin's "Wild and crazy guy" better than Steve Martin, play Nintendo with her little brother, or a song on a Fisher Price guitar. Jeff believed we should make music every chance we got, so we played "You Are My Sunshine" on the kazoo's we were handed at the door. Once for practice, once quietly, and once to blow the roof off.

His mother, Mary Guibert, was amazing; composed and eloquent. She was a natural speaker who drew from us both the sadness and jubilation we'd felt throughout the night. She helped us see the reality in his death that none of us could imagine merely as fans, but she comforted us as well. She loves her son, and she loves us because we do too. Mary told us about the program, that the note from Jeff was one she'd found years ago, that she kept on her bulletin board for inspiration. And she told us about the keys, and the guitar pick strewn about the note. They were the items found in his pockets when his body surfaced, on June 4th.

She urged us to make a Golden Promise.

"A Golden Promise is one that must never be broken. It is made in one's heart to another heart that's just departed this life."

She asked us to "commit 'random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty' ... demonstrate the courage to follow your bliss . . . maybe, just maybe, together we'll be able to repair the damage done to this lowly little world by the untimely passing of this gentle minstrel."

We were shown a full concert from the Metro in Chicago, from 1995; nearly 2 hours long. There were pictures on a wall in the backroom, and a poem by Jeff. Michael Tighe, Parker Kindred, Mary Guibert, and Jeff's siblings mingled in the room, graciously taking time with well-meaning fans.

We left that night, feeling like we had a higher purpose, that things did matter. We left with songs in our hearts, and on our lips. We played our kazoo's on the streets of New York as Mary had asked us too.

Life will not go on as it always had. Life will go on as it always should have.

with love from the delphi -dennis

#Jeff Buckley #Peyote Internet Theatre #From the Memorial at St. Ann's

[archinamorata-blog]

Skinny Privilege and Intersectionality

TW: Dysphoria, Eating Disorders

Scale of Impact To the phrase, “skinny-shaming is exactly the same as fat-shaming”, I say, “not quite”. To be frank, I’m not going to tell people how to feel. Certainly, on an individual basis, skinny-shaming can be incredibly damaging and lead to dysphoria. However, the difference between the two prejudices is found in scale and systematic reinforcement. Fat-shaming has it, skinny-shaming doesn’t. Society at large still says that thinner is better and thinner is happier. It can trap the “haves” into feeling underwhelmed and the “have-nots” into an inferiority complex (not always -it can be rejected -but frequently enough). The prevalence of size-related eating disorders says enough, all whilst pro-anamia blogs remain rife.

“But curves are in!”

In this time of influencer culture, the women on social media who seem to profit the most from having curves are still quite slim. No, it’s no longer the mainstream cool to be completely flat and “nineties skinny”, but that older beauty standard has not gone, it has been moulded. Science must be passed down by those with power and so the definition of “health” is controllable. This new healthy image is now exclusive to being smaller as well as with curves. It mixes the familiar with the new and so this change has been easier for people to adjust to and aspire towards. I can’t help but observe that the dawn of this new standard occurred at the same time the authenticity of black culture (that has always celebrated larger, curved bodies) became more aggressively appropriated - but more on that later. The easiest way to spot skinny privilege is to look at where the money is. Haute couture models: all still one body type. The Plus Size movement: doing wonders socially (the impact of role models like Ashley Graham, Lizzo, Oyama Botha etc.), but still far less lucrative. I find that their runway shows are still seen as “for the greater good” politics and this undermines the fact that they are naturally very beautiful. Upon sight, the stage design is generally *snob voice* not as extremely elegant because of the smaller budget. If elite models were to personally, outwardly, and more widely support plus size campaigns and individuals, it’s capital would spike, its image would improve, plus size desirability would become more mainstream and less fetishised, elite runways may eventually become more mixed, and skinny rule would dwindle. As thin women, that is their power and that is their privilege.

Chat Shit, Get Surgery

Skinniness is a widespread mentality that, without self-education, we are all complicit in. Its main driving force is its profitability for those already possessing power. Being a healthy-minded skinny woman protects a person from feeling personally targeted by falsely marketed health teas, diets that promise the ‘beach body’ result (I think you can guess what I think about the term). These products are a hint towards the falsehood of neoliberal happiness and corporations benefit from this standard having been so deeply entrenched in people’s minds.

A key example of this involves the recent LulaRoe pyramid scheme lawsuits. LulaRoe is a business model that allows American suburban women to provide their own income by selling clothes online as ‘consultants’. Consultants at the top of the scheme (called ‘Mentors’) are earning up to $30,000 per month. The company primarily earns money, not by customer sales, but by hiring more and more recruits who need to buy $5000-$9000 clothes packages just to start selling. To be honest, the clothes are average at best. So what entices these new recruits? Image. The high earners use their salary to live a lavish lifestyle and post on social media. One of the biggest attractions comes from a group chat called the Tijuana Skinnies. Members are flown out to Mexico to undergo gastric band surgery and come back looking ‘slim and beautiful’. One Mentor tried out a temporary gastric band in America, almost died, and was still encouraged to go through with the real thing in Tijuana. It’s believed that the company directors push this because the surgery they fly the women to gives them commissions for referrals. This is a multi-billion dollar company that profits most from its image. And it’s a skinny one. Obviously, on the flip side a person can just reject fat-shaming and not pay any mind to it. But with messages everywhere that tell you not to, it is not as easy.

“The obesity epidemic shouldn’t be supported and you’re just letting people give themselves excuses.”

I find it quite funny, Susan, how the health and welfare of larger people seems to only be cared about when arguing against the idea that they should even have body confidence in the first place. Comme, do you empathise or not? Body health can’t exist without mental health. To say otherwise is to advocate for dissociation and correct me if otherwise, but that doesn’t sound very caring. The above argument works on the assumption that all those who could possibly be targets of subjective fat-shaming (i.e. everyone who is not obviously skinny)  are obese. This is false equivalence as the number of people in each group is vastly different. It reinforces the idea that slim is the only moral way to exist and that all weight gain is unhealthy. This mentality is what stops people from appreciating themselves and intensifies self-rejection. As a result, a person is less likely to take responsibility and act towards improving their health if they don’t know or even want what’s best for their body in the first place. Working hard and not allowing any feelings of self-worth in the process just sounds like burnout to me - but I’m no expert on this type of experience so any and all opinions are welcome.

Intersectionality

The intersectional aspect of skinny privilege is clearer when you consider how particular groups are viewed, including plus size men, women of colour, disabled people and so forth. The topic I’m most qualified to speak on concerns women of colour.

The ‘angry black girl’ narrative falls more heavily on darker-skinned (the treatment of Michelle Obama, Joanna from The Apprentice, Alexandra Burke, Leslie Simpson, it goes on) and plus size women. Within colourism, privilege exists because Eurocentrism is idealised. White femininity is the set of traditional standards set within that demographic and being skinny is one of them. So, indirectly (heavy emphasis on that one), being skinny may help a person be subconsciously seen as more ‘Eurocentric’ and have an increased likelihood of being heard.

“Privilege is an absence.” - Reni Eddo-Lodge, Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race.

One of the most lucrative exports of the black community is its music. Here, female skinny privilege is harder to spot. If we’re talking uber-popular music, I would say the most successful women in the game are currently Beyoncé, Rihanna, Cardi B and Nicki Minaj.* Indeed, none are that skinny. However, when women are larger, they are made to reach higher standards in order to get the same level of respect as skinny women. I’ve observed that only hourglass/pear plus size figures are universally accepted. You must have a conventionally pretty face. Don’t be loud if you’re not light-skinned, a trait all four of these artists have. As mentioned, this absence of dark skin (and often coupled with straighter hair/wigs) puts them closer to oh so pleasant, placid, harmless Eurocentricity. They can be firm, self-assured, loud and carelessly sensual whilst getting less criticism than dark-skinned women. They have bodies that conform to the standards of both colourism within the black community and Reni Eddo-Lodge’s definition of Whiteness. They are an intersection of preferences within the two mentalities and profit from it. This privilege allows their black identity to remain authentic and something different that non-black people will speculate on, listen to, and enjoy. $$$. Even so, when Nicki Minaj and Cardi B praise fuller figures, it’s often in comparison to skinny women (I remember the amusingly whiny uproar after Nicki’s “Fuck the skinny bitches” line in Anaconda). Even in this community, it’s as if plus size beauty cannot exist alone. It’s often within the context of skinniness and rarely receives full attention outside of being fetishised. Skinny is seen as the obviously beautiful standard that everything else revolves around.

“What can be done?”

I’ll keep it short:

Continue to increase representation in advertisements, television and especially runways.

Reduce demand for unhealthy weight loss products through educating yourself and others and not buying them.

Vocally support plus size movement individuals and encourage equally paid photo shoot and runway contracts. This includes everyone, but especially celebrities with large platforms.

Charity starts at home, so analyse your own body artistically. Temporarily ignore beauty standards whilst doing this and make your own judgements on its different organic shapes. If you can like unconventional shapes in art, why not something as complex as yourself?

#intersectional #poc #blackwomen #appropriation #commodification #plus size movement #ashley graham #skinny #fat #colourism #feminism #CardiB #NickiMinaj #Beyonce #womanism #racism #systematic #lularoe #opinion #skinny-shaming #fat-shaming #thin #anamia #dysphoria #ed #eatingdisorder #health