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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 4 years

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Is It Really THAT Bad?

I’m going to warn you all now. This one is going to get a bit angry at the end. Normally I would try and remain as professional as possible, but in this case, I don’t feel like I would be able to.

Batman & Robin is a film that has lived in infamy since its release in 1997. Upon release, it was critically reviled, and this hatred of the film continued long into the modern day, where it frequently tops “worst films of all time lists” to the point where it actually is listed on the Wikipedia page for “List of films considered the worst.” It was nominated for at least 11 Razzies but only won a single one, and it went on to be a frequent punching bag on the {REDACTED] Critic’s web show, where he would get irrationally angry at the mere mention of the Bat Credit Card. In contemporary reviews, Mick LaSalle of The San Francisco Chronicle stated “"George Clooney is the big zero of the film, and should go down in history as the George Lazenby of the series,” which is less of a criticism and more of a compliment, if I’m being totally honest.

Most of the stars would take a negative stance towards it as well, with legend stating that if you tell George Clooney that you saw the film in theaters, he will refund you for your ticket out of his own pocket. Chris O’Donnell likewise is not particularly fond of the film, stating "It just felt like everything got a little soft the second time. On Batman Forever, I felt like I was making a movie. The second time, I felt like I was making a kid's toy commercial." And, perhaps most depressingly, Joel Schumacher himself was apparently very apologetic for the film, though this may or may not have come about because of years and years of vitriol being directed at him for making this film.

In the wake of Mr. Schumacher’s passing, I decided to re-watch the film, as I am famously rather fond of it, and I am going to tell you all why the answer to the question “Is it really THAT bad?” is a loud, resounding, NO.

THE GOOD

There’s honestly quite a lot to like here, more than you might think. I think first and foremost what you need to understand going in is that this is a silly, cartoonish take on the Burton style, blending the silliness and camp of the West series with the drama and aesthetics of the Burton films, all while adding some over-the-top, colorful flair. John Glover, who appears in the film as a cartoonish mad scientist, even has gone on record as saying "Joel would sit on a crane with a megaphone and yell before each take, 'Remember, everyone, this is a cartoon'. It was hard to act because that kind of set the tone for the film”… the last sentence makes the statement very baffling, but at least even the actors were aware of what they were doing. If this doesn’t sound appealing, well, the opening is sure to warn you off, as it is a suiting up montage with various shots of the firm butts, large codpieces, and stiff batnipples of the Dynamic Duo. The movie is very upfront about what you’re in for.

On the subject of the infamous batnipples, Schumacher stated "I had no idea that putting nipples on the Batsuit and Robin suit were going to spark international headlines. The bodies of the suits come from Ancient Greek statues, which display perfect bodies. They are anatomically correct." It seems a very odd choice, but it’s pretty clear that he meant it as an amusing little design choice and nothing more. Of course, this hasn’t stopped everyone and their mother from spewing homophobic comments about how he was purposefully making the film gayer, even from star George Clooney, who has said that he played Batman as a gay man and was told by Schumacher Batman is gay. It’s so disgusting that people did and continue to do this, because honestly, the costumes are fine, and even if they are meant to be fanservice… so what? O’Donell and Clooney’s asses look nice, as does Alicia Silverstone’s when she dons a suit. The fact hers is just as form-fitting as the other two really shows that the whole idea Schumacher did it because he was gay is ridiculous; the man was very egalitarian about the fanservice in the movie.

Whatever else Clooney says, he does a pretty great job as Batman and Bruce Wayne. His speech at the end of the film where he talks to Mr. Freeze and reminds him that he is a good man and offers to help him is honestly one of the few moments in any Batman film where Batman actually feels like the one from the animated series, a man who fights crime but also wants to help the people he’s trying to stop. Clooney just has a very natural charisma that lends himself to playing a hero, and while there are a few awkward moments in the performance, he captures the fun and charm a more lighthearted Batman should. Michael Gough’s last turn as Alfred is also surprisingly poignant, and a lot of mileage is gotten out of his genuinely tearjerking subplot.

Of course, the very best part of the film is the villains. Uma Thurman is clearly having a ball as Poison Ivy, and she gets to have a ludicrous amount of costumes as well as numerous moments of fanservice. She also has the power to turn every man around her into a simp, which is absolutely amazing and leads to quite a few scenes of Batman and Robin slapping each other over her. But f course, there’s really no doubt that the best part of the film is Mr. Freeze. He’s a combination of the sillier Mr. Freeze from the West days and the more modern take of the character most are familiar with, the tragic anti-villain who wants to save his wife; such a character would take a talented man capable of comedy and drama in equal measure. And who better than Arnold Schwarzenegger? Joel Schumacher wanted a man who looked like he was chiseled from a glacier, and Arnold certainly fits that description. He spends the movie juggling some of the most corny puns you can imagine and a lot of truly powerful, understated drama, and it really does work. You honestly get the sense that Arnold really gets Mr. Freeze and what makes him a great character. Also, that suit he has is amazing.

As a final note: the Bat Credit Card is absolutely not stupid. Linkara has defended it in the past, giving reasons why and how it could actually work, but really, all that needs to be said is… is this any more ridiculous than Shark Repellent Bat Spray?

THE BAD

So don’t get the wrong idea here; this film is far from perfect. As is the case with any comedy, the humor can be hit or miss; not all of the puns land, not all of the jokes are great. You’re never going to get a perfect comedy no matter how hard you try, and this is no exception.

As for performances, I think O’Donnell’s Robin and Silverstone’s Batgirl are a bit wonky. O'Donnell has long been a source of derision for his whining, and while I think the hate is a bit overblown, he does spend a ludicrous amount of time in this film being snippy, miserable, and arrogant. I think he actually fights with Batman more than any of the villains! Still, his performance isn’t horrible, he just gets a bit too whiny at a few points.

Silverstone is a bit of a bigger problem, but she’s not quite as bad as even I remembered. She’s pretty much Batgirl in name only, since she’s related to Alfred in this, but she’s mostly okay. The issue really is that her arc in the film is relatively bland and feels a bit shoehorned, which comes to a head where she fights Poison Ivy in a designated catfight, obviously because they didn’t want Batman to punch a woman in the face I guess. There’s just one issue with that:

On the subject of Ivy, while she definitely does have plant powers here, they’re strangely underplayed. She rarely uses them even when it would probably be beneficial, instead relying on Bane to do most of the fighting for her. Ah, Bane… Bane is one of the few things about this film I can’t really muster up any sort of defense for. While his creation scene is rather cool, it doesn’t lead to much of interest, as this version of Bane is pretty much a mindless supersoldier lackey who serves Poison Ivy. Now, this was still relatively early in Bane’s existence, as he had only debuted in 1993 and was really most famous for his signature “breaking the Bat” move, but it still is baffling why, with that famous thing fresh in everyone’s minds, that they would just choose to go and basically make Bane into Evil Diet Captain America. Surely they could have either saved him for a sequel or utilized him in a way more befitting of the character? I think this Bane is kind of responsible for the negative perception of Bane as this big, dumb bruiser, something that works like The Dark Knight Rises and Arkham Origins have thankfully gone a long way to rectifying. Bane is at his best when he’s a cunning genius bruiser; here, he’s nothing but a glorified prop.

Is It Really THAT Bad?

The answer is no. No it isn’t. AT ALL.

I’ve always felt this film came out at the wrong time. It was towards the end of the 90s, during the Dark Age of Comics when everything was dark, gritty, and edgy. The world didn’t want a movie like this back then; they wanted stuff like Blade, who would come in shortly after this film and show us how to make that aesthetic work. I guess in terms of Batman they wanted something more like Dawn of Justice, which really speaks volumes to how awful the 90s were for superheroes.

Look, I’m not trying to convince anyone this is the greatest Batman film ever. Even I don’t think that; Batman Returns, The Dark Knight, and Under the Red Hood are all much better films. But is this really the worst Batman film now that we have the deeply misogynistic and disgusting The Killing Joke and the relentlessly bleak and unpleasant Batman v Superman? Hell, it’s not even worse than Batman Forever! At least the Batman in this film has some kind of emotional range beyond “plank of wood!” And even calling it the worst sequel ever is just… so baffling. Again, this is definitely better than Batman Forever, lack of Jim Carrey notwithstanding. And can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that this is worse than any of the Terminator sequels after the second film? Worse than Iron Man 2 or Thor: The Dark World? The almost half dozen Alvin and the Chipmunk sequels? This is only the worst sequel or even a bad sequel if it is the only sequel you’ve ever seen in your life.

A lot of the hate for it from back in the day carries a strong undercurrent of homophobia. Much like the infamous backlash against disco, it’s seriously uncomfortable, and it definitely is cruel how accusatory people were towards Schumacher’s intentions for the suits of the heroes in the film. The fact that even the two main stars have gotten in on it is a bit disgusting, though O’Donnell questioning why there needed to be a codpiece is certainly less offensive than George Clooney saying he played Batman as a gay man for… whatever reason. Was he implying that Batman being gay made the movie worse? I’m not sure what he’s on about there. Even The New Batman Adventures made a cruel dig at the film; notice the sign and the effeminate-looking boy. You could only get homophobia this good in the 90s!

The hatred of this film is absolutely overblown. It’s so ridiculous. #70 on the bottom rated movies of IMDB? #1 on the 50 worst films of all time list from Empire? Doug Walker’s personal punching bag whenever he needs to talk about a bad sequel, to the point where he literally said no one wanted a comedic take on Batman in his worst sequels video? Come the fuck on.

Joel Schumacher may or may not have ended up hating this film, but he certainly was made to feel like shit for making it… and it is honest to god not that bad! But he was just absolutely eviscerated, to the point where this was a fucking headline when he died:

Literally fuck all of these people. Fuck io9 for their insensitive headline. Fuck Empire for rating this as the worst film ever. Fuck Doug Walker for his constant bashing and his shitty old “chimp out over the Bat Credit Card” gag. Double fuck Mick LaSalle for shitting on George Clooney’s performance while also trying to say George Lazenby’s Bond was bad. In fact, fuck George Clooney for his weird idea that playing Batman as gay is a bad thing (sorry George, but I can’t defend this). Fuck the Razzies. Yes, it was nominated, but I just feel it’s always a good time to say “Fuck the Razzies.”

I will never say you have to love or even like this film, but the sheer amount of vitriol and hatred for it is absolutely beyond me. At worst, this film is just a bit too goofy, and at best, it is a fun tribute to the campy days when Batman just couldn’t get rid of a bomb. I didn’t take off my score this time. I’m proud to say I gave this an 8/10, personally. If I’m being honest, a 6.6 – 6.9 is more appropriate, because it does have quite a few issues, but god, this film is not bad at all. It’s silly, goofy, campy, and fun… but bad? Not by any stretch of my imagination. And fuck the critics for convincing an entire generation that this is Batman at his worst, when we have Batman fucking slaughtering his ways through criminals and fucking Barbara Gordon on rooftops these days. I will always take stupid ice puns over misery, murder and creepy intergenerational sex, thank you very much.

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I hope you can rest easy, Mr. Schumacher. Maybe you didn’t love your film in the end but, wherever you are, I hope you know I loved it.

#Is it really that bad?#IIRTB #Review #movie review #batman & robin #joel schumacher #George Clooney #Batman #Uma Thurman #arnold schwarzenegger #Poison Ivy #Mr. Freeze #superhero movie

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laffiteslanding · 4 years

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Today in Movies that Need Theme Park Adaptations: Little Shop of Horrors (1986)

There are certain movies that just scream out for theme park adaptations. Jurassic Park. Jaws. Avatar, apparently. To this esteemed company, I humbly submit Little Shop of Horrors.

Revisiting this movie, I honestly can’t believe that no one has ever attempted to adapt it to theme parks, even if only as a stage show. Even at a glance, it has a lot going for it:

A killer Menken/Ashman score (that directly preceded their work on The Little Mermaid no less!)

A theatrical design/aesthetic that could be adapted to theme parks super easily

A memorable location in the form of the shop, which actually attracts tourists in the film, giving guests a convenient reason to be there

Great creature design and puppetry effects that could be incredibly realized through animatronics

Merchandising potential. Especially with the original ending factored in

Also in the original (cut) ending, some fantastical potential dark ride environments

Posters that write themselves: “See Audrey II!”

Finally, a delightfully twisted sense of humor

I can imagine nothing happened with the property because it was released

A) by Warner Bros.

B) in the 80s, when Disney alternatives weren’t super into the theme park game and Universal wasn’t licensing other studio’s IP

C) regional parks weren’t big on licensing properties either - and still aren’t, mostly, with the exception of cartoons and superheroes.

Furthermore, the film was a only a modest box office success at the time, though it has since grown into a cult classic that has spawned countless high school and professional theater productions. Little Shop is more well-known (and relevant!) now than it’s ever been, which makes 2020 the perfect time to adapt it!

So, How Would It Work?

Glad you asked! Little Shop could go in a few different directions, but in this case the most obvious answer seems to be the best one: we’ll make it into a shop! Not just any shop, mind you. No, this is going to be a full-on experience, like shopping in Diagon Alley but even more immersive. Here’s a quick rundown:

Leading up to the shop/in the area are posters that have a handcrafted quality to them and display sayings like “See Audrey II!”, or “Mr. Mushnik’s This Way!” There can also be graffiti on the walls cheekily referencing “Big Green Mother From Outer Space,” or bemoaning a terrible dentist appointment. There are also a number of missing persons flyers, and a few small vines may be creeping out of the shop entrance.

Once we get to the entrance, it’ll be an approximation of the small store front windows, though with a few changes for practicality. We’ll expand the space a bit beyond the tiny confines shown in the film to allow for better guest flow - perhaps Mr. Mushnik expanded a bit after his recent windfall. Not too much bigger, though. It is a “Little Shop” after all.

After heading through the facade, guests will be greeting with a room equally reminiscent of Ollivander’s and Disney’s Enchanted Tiki Room. The room is quaint, but not quite claustrophic. The ceiling may be raised to add some necessary breathing (and show) room. Houseplants and flowers line the walls, as does a host of purchasable goods - more on that later. Apart from the increased stock, the shop appears to be relatively normal, albeit with the tiny exception of a massive AUDREY II animatronic/puppet situated along the far wall.

The trick here is that this is two attractions in one - a shop and a show, kind of like Sonny Eclipse but way more involved. Even better - there’s no real barriers between the two. Ideally, there’s no fencing or barriers in the middle of the shop, though Audrey II has one or two handlers that keep everyone at bay. It seems Mr. Mushnik has taken on some extra staff to help with his booming business.

Audrey II, unsurprisingly, is the star of the show. There’s a considerable amount of movement in the animatronic, and though it slows down occasionally, it never stops completely. Most of the time, Audrey II will function as a sort of puppet, making snide, guest-specific commentary that is improvised by a hidden controller, similar to Turtle Talk or Islands of Adventure’s Magic Fountain. Movements will be synchronized so that it seems it’s actually making such comments in real time. Every 15 minutes (or three times an hour), however, Audrey II gets hungry. Like, really hungry...

So hungry, in fact, that it will burst into song! As the gigantic plant begins to sing one of a few songs from the film (”Feed Me” or “Mean Green Mother From Outer Space” are prime picks, and can alternate), the room around us comes to life. Vines begin to snake down from above and clusters of singing buds emerge from hidden cracks in the walls and ceiling. There may even be a sort of rumble effect to accompany these changes as the vines make the building supports groan in protest.

As the song reaches it’s climax, an unlucky “shopper” (read: cast member) ventures too close to the plant by mistake. Despite their screams, Audrey II swoops down and gobbles them up, closing its mouth around them but leaving their legs flailing for all to see before they, too, finally disappear. In reality, this effect could be accomplished in a number of ways - a more conservative approach would be that the lights go down for a moment as the song ends and suddenly we see (animatronic) legs flailing in Audrey’s mouth. The “shopper” is never actually eaten. Alternately, the mouth is fitted to actually fit a cast member inside, much like it is in stage productions. The “eaten” cast member can then slide out the back of the puppet through to a room on the other side of the wall. The latter would be preferable, as it could be quite an effect.

Afterwards, the shop suddenly returns to normal. All is as it was, and the shop’s staff encourage you to shop to your heart’s content. If anyone has any concerns, the staff cheerfully inform them not to worry - there’s no danger now that Audrey II has been fed! Besides, Mr. Mushnik has informed them they have to meet their quota.

While that concludes the “show” portion of the attraction, there’s still the “shop” aspect to explore. There is some merchandise available in the store, though it also spills out into the street outside to provide more space for the show. Make no mistake - this little shop isn’t going to be a t-shirt/bag/ears extravaganza. The merchandise here is intended to be an extension of the show in a way that is, I think, somewhat unique to Little Shop. That is to say, all of the merchandise available at the shop revolves around Audrey II and its cuttings. Animatronic toys, Audrey bud bouquets, and even seed packets are available. If there’s one rule in play here, it’s that the items available for purchase must be some form of the plant (Note that this playfully mirrors the alternate ending of the 1986 film).

The reason of this is simple, and its the same reason the two parts of this attraction are intended to coexist in the same space: theme. Both the film and the play focus on the morality of desire, and the film goes a bit further, touching on the dangers of consumerism. The act of purchasing something from the shop, especially after seeing a full grown version of the thing you’re purchasing eat a man alive, becomes an inherently thematic and even moralistic act. It may make the purchaser feel uncomfortable, yes, but there’s a thrill to the act now, as if you’re doing something dangerous. Even those who purchase nothing will likely feel some sort of reaction, perhaps even a positive one. Either way, the shop’s merchandise now serves as part of the experience, rather than being a separate (albeit adjacent) one, and now serves to enhance the immersion further. That’s why the whole thing is the attraction, rather than just the show element. It’s a cohesive thematic experience, but only if all of the elements work together.

Details, Details

A few more tidbits to really flesh out the experience:

Various animatronic buds are scattered throughout the store’s merchandise shelves to add to the ambiance (and provide great stereo sound quality!)

If Audrey II ever needs to go into B-mode/goes down, a secondary show can involve the staff bringing a dentist in examine to examine the plant’s teeth. Hilarity ensues.

Instrumental versions of the musical soundtrack play over the radio in the background when Audrey is not singing. Radio announcers are soundalikes for the “Greek chorus” girls, and there’s at least one advertisement for an eye doctor that will help you “suddenly see more.”

And that about wraps it up! Got a different idea for an adaptation? Would you have done something differently? Let me know!

#little shop of horrors #armchair imagineering #disney #universal #theme parks #adaptation #musical #shopping #shows #attractions

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rosesisupposes · 5 years

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Every Tainted Soul

Part 4 of Another Goddamn Hero Story

read on ao3

Chapter Pairings: Platonic Analogical, Platonic Royality, Pre-Romantic Prinxiety,

Chapter Warnings: Descriptions of violence/fighting, forced asphyxiation, threats

Word Count: 3,404

Taglist: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @bewarethegrammarpolice @nightmarebeforevirgil @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby @sparkly-rainbow-salt @astral-eclipse @thelowlysatsuma @monsterinatophat @turtally-pawsome @um-yes-hi-hello @idkaurl

Chapter Notes: So, it’s been a minute since the last update, and several ideas for this AU have shifted, particularly in regards to endgame relationships. But I’m still very excited for future reveals and fully intend to finish this story.

~~~~~~~~~

There were some upsides to having a partner whose power was super speed. He and Logan always made it to Virgil’s favorite diner before it closed, they almost never had a non-speedster villain or criminal escape them, and racing him was actually a fun challenge.

The biggest downside, however, was Logan’s astounding lack of patience with any form of waiting. Unfortunately for them both, staking out the mysterious villains involved quite a lot of waiting.

The terrain was familiar, at least. The Harmony City Enhanced Ability Regulation and Training School was where Logan and Virgil had met almost 10 years ago. Better known as HEARTS or “the super school,” the building was an institution dedicated to helping young people learn how to understand, use, and control the abilities they were born with or acquired. But some students were younger than others. Logan, of course, had been enrolled the minute his powers manifested at seven years old. But Virgil hadn’t been enrolled until he was fifteen because that’s when his moms had finally heard of it. Well, that, and the other reason.

Logan was sitting on the low entrance wall, bouncing his leg in boredom. Virgil lounged on top of the roof, in theory keeping a lookout, but in practice he was just picking up tiny pebbles to toss at his best friend to see if the jittery leg was moving so fast that projectiles went through it. It was these small expressions of his friend’s ability that fascinated Virgil. His own powers didn’t do anything small, unless you counted floating in midair or lifting cars with ease “small.”

Another pebble fell through the vibrating leg. Without looking up, Logan said, “Virgil, I’m still aware of that, even if I can’t feel it.”

“Yeah, but it’s funny.”

“Regardless of your entertainment value, I’d rather you-”

“Heads up!” Virgil interrupted, leaping to standing. He pointed towards the city, where two forms were flying across the bay towards the island. “We’ll hide and watch?”

“I’ll take the first two floors, you take roof down to three,” Logan said, speeding into the building.

Virgil ducked behind a vent on the roof to watch the approach of the two forms. From the footage they’d been shown, he was confident that these were indeed the Crimson Marauder and Gale Force, the scourges of Harmony City, responsible for untold numbers of crimes and attacks. So why were they flying in loop-de-loops around each other as they approached?

Keeping his head low, Virgil watched as Gale Force spun around his companion once more then dropped to the ground. Good, Logan would be covering the ground floor and would be ready to counter his plans below. Crimson Marauder floated up to the roof, however, and Virgil tensed, not wanting to attack until he knew what they were up to.

It didn’t take long to find out. The villain pushed back his red-and-black cape with a flourish and started creating constructs on the roof in front of him. He seemed strangely at ease, which confused Virgil. Had the villains somehow discovered that there was an excursion that had emptied out the school for the day? Pushing aside distraction, Virgil narrowed his eyes at the items the villain was assembling. He recognized the components of a bomb when he saw one. He leapt out of his hiding place to land directly in front of where the villain continued to combine his glowing red constructs.

“Stop right there.”

Roman looked up, blinking from the rays of the setting sun. Outlined in light stood a dark-clad hero glaring down at him. His eyes met cold hazel eyes surrounded by a mask and he froze in place. His eyes roved down to muscled shoulders over even more muscled arms, to a trim waist and sharply defined V that was visible even through the man’s costume.

Oh fuck me, Roman thought as his mouth went dry, this one’s hot.

“Did you hear me? Stop and back away from the bomb,” the hero said sharply. Roman lifted his hands, keeping them visible as he smiled.

“I’ll stop, but clearly there’s more than one bomb here.”

The tall hero looked at the villain sharply. “What do you mean? How many have you planted? Does your partner have more?”

“Nope,” Roman replied with a grin. “It’s your butt. Your butt is the bomb.”

The hero rolled his eyes. “And yet my ass has no intention of blowing up a school anytime soon. Break down the constructs now, and no one gets hurt.”

Roman pouted. “But it took so much practice to get them right, Mr. Tall, Dark, & Stormy. Aren’t you impressed?”

“Not in the slightest, Red Light District.” The hero took a step closer, ready to grab the villain if he tried to flee. “I know you can make them disappear. Get on it.”

Roman gasped in indignation at the nickname. “Excuse you, that’s Red Hard Light District to you.”

“Oh I bet you are,” the hero replied with a smirk, advancing ever closer. Virgil as a civilian was never able to flirt, but when he was in character as Reflex, most of his shyness melted away. If he was able to use flirtation instead of violence to capture this villain, all the better. And it appeared to be working. The construct-dynamite was fading away the closer Virgil got, and the villain’s eyes were huge underneath his mask. He was pretty sure he’d even heard the other man gulp audibly. This was going to be easy, for once.

That was when he heard the thwump of compressed air and felt the entire building shake. The sound had come from the lower floors. Where Logan was. Fuck.

Roman used the hero’s momentary distraction to jump off the roof and fly to meet his partner. His descent was immediately halted as he was jerked to a halt by his cape. He twisted to look up at Reflex leaning over the side of the roof, casually holding him back against all Roman’s effort to get away.

“Going so soon? I thought we had something special here, Marauder.”

“Sadly, I’m already committed to another,” Roman replied loftily. “You heroes think you can just flutter an eyelash and turn any poor man’s heart, but you won’t defeat me with your muscled wiles.”

Virgil shrugged. “Guess I won’t, then.” He tugged at the fabric and pulled Roman back onto the roof easily. He proceeded to tie the villain to a radiator using his own cape, ignoring the offended squawks. “Looks like all I needed was just the muscles.”

Roman scowled, and wiggled his hand just enough to make a construct of a rope that snaked out to knock the hero off the roof. Virgil saw it coming and faked a yawn as he stepped into mid-air to dodge it, then tightened the knot. Flicking the bound villain a lazy two-fingered salute, he jumped into the air to fly down to the site of the earlier explosion.

~~~~~~~~~

Logan wasn’t able to see the villains’ approach from where he was tensed inside the school building. The long hallways may as well have been tailored to his power, though. Unfettered, he could easily speed from entrance to entrance, and classrooms offered convenient hiding spots. He listened hard, adjusting his goggles as he picked up on sounds of the front doors opening and wind rushing in. He frowned as he realized that he didn’t hear any footsteps. Both villains could fly, but why take such precaution unless they knew they were expected?

He risked a peek out of the classroom and immediately spotted Gale Force floating his way down the hall, carrying some sort of red device. Unfortunately, the villain noticed Logan at the same moment.

“Well hey there! You must be the welcoming committee!”

Logan stepped out into the hallway, standing directly in Gale Force’s path. “You’re mistaken. I’m a superhero, here to prevent you from any plots you may have for this school.”

“Don’t you mean mist-taken?” The villain said with a chuckle, cooling the air around him into a tiny cloud of moisture.

Logan groaned internally. Not only was Gale Force an unknown quantity who flouted the norms of supers by not wearing a mask, he was a punster too?

“What is that device you’re carrying? What are your intentions here?” he asked, voice clipped.

“Oh, nothing you need to worry about!” the freckled villain said brightly. “Just gonna blow this super-school Sky High!”

Logan froze, his brain still catching up with the reality of the villain’s words. The stark dichotomy of the threat to blow up the school with the happy tone and more goddamn puns. The universe just had to curse him with a villain whose sense of humor was identical to his father’s, didn’t it.

“Um, you - you know I’m going to have to stop you, right?” Logan said, scrambling to regain his mental footing. “You can’t destroy this school. Too many children and young adults rely on it. It’s too important to the city.”

The villain’s smiling face darkened for such a brief moment Logan thought he’d imagined it. But when he spoke again, there was a new heat to his sunny tone, and Logan knew something he’d said had hit a nerve.

“I’m really sorry there, kiddo, but I’m gonna have to do this anyway. Sometimes life can be a little messy and complicated! Don’t you worry about it,” he finished with a huge grin. The winds around him picked up as he flew down the hall towards the basement stairs.

With a thought, Logan was speeding down the hall to grab the device, whatever it was, out of the villain’s hands. In a blur, he snagged it and passed the air manipulator completely. He stopped and turned to face his opponent, braced and tensed to move or dodge.

Gale Force still faced Logan’s original location with his back to the hero. He’d flinched as the device was snatched out of his hands but still stared into empty space.

“...a speedster, huh?” he said softly. “How… convenient that must be.”

Logan had to strain to hear the villain’s mutters, but something in the air had shifted. He could practically feel waves of chill emanating from the villain’s form. The back of his neck prickled with unplaced discomfort as he waited for his opponent’s next move.

It came without warning. One minute Gale Force was staring away, seemingly glued to the spot, and the next he had spun to face Logan and a funnel of wind was screeching towards him. Logan zipped to the side, only barely dodging despite his inhuman speed. The full force of the air thudded into the wall, and Logan could feel the whole building shake. He raced to pass the villain again, hoping to get out of his wind range, or at least frustrate it. He felt the cutting wind following just on his heels as he evaded another attack.

“Look at you,” Gale Force commented cheerily. His smile was stretched tight across his face, baring his teeth in a decidedly un-friendly way. “Running like the wind.”

Logan’s attention was caught by the pun and held for just a moment against an opponent where ‘just a moment’ made all the difference. His focus wavered, and the villain’s wind caught him. The funnel twisted around him, pinning his arms to his sides and trapping him in place. Harsh air spun around his face and body. If he hadn’t had his goggles, his eyes would have been tearing up. As it was, he found it harder and harder to breath as the force of the wind slowly cut off the air from entering his lungs.

“Hey there, Vectorious. Looks like you might need a Doctor,” the villain said happily. Logan struggled to free himself, but the edges of his vision were starting to go black. He needed to focus to run, but he couldn’t focus. He couldn’t breathe.

A purple-and-white blur appeared in the air as Virgil sped through the door to collide with Gale Force, knocking him out of midair. At the moment of impact, the air trapping Logan lost its strength, and he fell to his knees, gasping. His first thought was the explosive that he’d grabbed from the villain. Luckily, it was near him. As oxygen brought back his normal thought processes, he disassembled the construct bomb in a blur. Threat destroyed, he looked for his partner. Virgil and Gale Force had apparently busted straight through a wall, as Logan could hear the sounds of blows being exchanged through the hole in the brick wall.

He ran outside after them to see Virgil standing on the roof, in between Gale Force and the Crimson Marauder. The latter was bound by his own cape. Logan snorted. This was why he thought the costume accoutrements were so impractical, and kept urging Virgil to do away with his.

“Hey, let my partner go!” Gale Force shouted.

“He’s under arrest for the attempted sabotage of a school,” Virgil replied coolly. “And you are, too. Stand down, or the drama queen here gets hurt.”

The bound villain scowled. “Just like a hero, isn’t he, Pat?”

“Just like.”

“You should be very offended on my behalf and do something about it.”

Virgil had just a moment to dodge as Gale Force barrelled towards him, heating the air around him as he went. His breezes untangled the Marauder’s cape as he flew over. Freed, both villains wheeled into the sky.

Virgil almost chased them, but caught sight of Logan still standing shakily on the ground. He flew down.

“You okay, Lo?”

“I’m… a little out of breath still. Thank you for your timing - I was starting to lose feeling.”

Virgil hugged the man tightly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner. But I’m glad you’re okay.”

Logan hugged back. Physical affection wasn’t his strong suit, but with Virgil it was always okay.

“Can you believe Gale Force? No mask, and the Marauder is just tossing his name around. Pat or something?” Virgil asked as they parted.

“Yeah. He’s a cold one for all the smiles and jokes. Quite unsettling.” Checking the sun’s position, Logan offered, “I think it’s time we fill the Mayor in on what we’ve learned about our city’s newest supervillains. Maybe he’ll have some more research for us, as well.”

Virgil nodded and tapped his watch to let City Hall know they were on their way, and sent a call for repairs of the school. “Are you okay to run, Lo? Or do you need a lift?”

Logan grimaced. “You know I hate being carried but… I am still a bit unsteady. I won’t be able to cross the water in my present state.”

Virgil turned and kneeled, letting Logan throw his arms around his neck and loop his legs around his waist. With his friend riding piggyback, Virgil leapt into the air and flew over the harbor towards the mainland.

~~~~~~~~~

Joan and Talyn were already waiting for the heroes when Virgil flew in the office window. Both looked concerned as Virgil gently deposited Logan on a chair.

“Fuck, is he okay?” the mayor asked.

Logan nodded. “I will be. We finally encountered Gale Force and the Crimson Marauder. Gale Force is… powerful. The incident you mentioned from last week, with the sidekick Emerald Prodigy, was clearly not an anomaly. While I’m recovering now, if Virgil’s timing had been just a bit slower, I might have had lasting side effects from the air deprivation.”

Talyn, their hair a bright orange today, frowned and tapped a pen against their mouth. “Did you speak with either of them? Any idea of motivation?”

“Gale Force uses an unsettling number of puns and then went into fight mode very easily,” Logan began.

A page from Joan’s executive assistant interrupted them all.

“Swallowtail to see you, Mayor Stokes!”

“Send him in!” Joan said through the intercom. The door opened to reveal a short black man who grinned as he saw the mayor’s company.

“Terrence!” Virgil cried happily, crossing the room in three long strides to greet his fellow hero. He swept him up in a huge bear hug that lifted the much-shorter man completely off the ground.

Logan hung back, though he had a matching smile. Terrence had graduated HEARTS in the same year, and they’d been good friends despite their three-year age difference. Terrence had also been one of the first other heroes to become friends with Virgil when he’d enrolled at the school, and they remained close.

“What brings you in today?” Talyn asked as Virgil deposited Terrence back on his feet.

“Research! I heard you two tangled with the new team today,” Terrence replied. “As the resident villain enthusiast, I gotta know more. And maybe I can help with some background for next time.”

Virgil nodded. “So the biggest thing we learned is that Gale Force can go stone-cold in a second, and his name is ‘Pat.’ I also learned that the Marauder is uh. Super gay.”

“V, you do know that probably means he’s regular gay, right?” Logan asked, rolling his eyes. “You tend to have that effect on everyone who’s attracted to men.”

Virgil scratched his neck. “Oh. I do?”

Joan cut in, also rolling his eyes. “Super strength, super flight, and super oblivious. Yes, Virge. I’ve had to remind the building staff not to ask out any of our supers five times more since you officially joined.”

“Anyway,” Talyn started, glaring at their partner.

“Anygay,” Joan whispered.

“This is just more information to add to what we already know about the Marauder and his past. We even knew his name is Roman, though the family name remains a mystery.”

Virgil frowned. “How do we know anything about him? He’s never been arrested, has he?”

“No,” Terrence replied. “But he was initially a hero.”

“Yes. He was a hero. And he chose to become a villain,” Logan said, disdain dripping from his words. “He was called the Scarlet Prince, before. And then he decided to blame the whole city for one unfortunate accident.”

“He was a sidekick, and his hero was killed in action. After that, he disappeared until he re-emerged as the Crimson Marauder,” Terrence explained.

“Ah. But that could be understandable, right? Losing someone you care about can… change you,” Virgil said.

“Doesn’t change what’s right, though,” Logan replied tightly.

Virgil reached out and laid a gentle hand on Logan’s shoulder, a silent offer of comfort. The speedster almost shook him off, but after a moment let the tension ebb.

“As the villains were escaping, they were making particular digs at us as heroes,” Virgil told the others. “I think it’s safe to say that they aren’t in it to target civilians. Between that and their attack on HEARTS on a day when no one was in the building, I think they’re doing this for, I don’t know. Symbolism, maybe? Or to attack active heroes particularly.”

Joan nodded. “And you got that impression from Gale Force, too?”

“Yes, approximately. Though he may bear more animosity towards the city itself, it’s still not directed towards the citizens as a whole,” Logan said.

“In good news, we’ve gotten better at identifying uses of their powers,” Talyn told them. “Unless you say otherwise, we’re going to keep you two as the primary call for them.”

“That is satisfactory,” Logan said. “I believe I’ve devised a way to avoid the attack that caught me this time.”

“Virge, did they see all your powers?” Joan asked. The tall hero shook his head. “Then there’s still an upper hand. I hope you can catch them soon.”

~~~~~~~~~

D.R.E.A.M. Index #337261

Classification: A.3.i [Tertiary Tier Hero, Legacy]

Name: Swallowtail

Status: ACTIVE

Civilian Name: [CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET] Terrence Williams, Jr.

Affiliation: Hero

/////////H.A.T.C.H. Status: Specific Calls and Blackout Only

Partners/Sidekicks: N/A

Primary Foes: N/A

Powers: Shape-shifting: size reduction and addition; Tech-assisted flight;

Costume: Bodysuit in bright florals; yellow, black, and white jet pack painted with namesake butterfly wings

Age: 25

Height: 5’3”

Pronouns: He/His

H.E.A.R.T.S. Class of ‘11

Note: Unconfirmed relation to members of DI#Z-3286 - Fang Patrol, but confirmed hero and son of supers; Classmate and fellow scientist to DI#337255 - Dr. Vectorious; A less active hero, primary role as research/support to S.E.A.M. Stokes and Mayor Stokes;

~~~~~~~~~

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mayuzumi-yukino · 5 years

Text

LITTLE CHARACTER THINGS

just a fun little character game. fill in the below categories with 3-5 things that your character can be identified by. repost & tag away !

TAGGED BY: @aragakisan, on technicality. TAGGING: Whomever reads it, presumably!

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS:

Concern; often worry for the disenfranchised.

Rationality and reason.

Anger; bull-headed and stubborn.

Humor, often sardonic with a touch of observational wit.

Protectiveness. Yukino is defined if nothing else by her compulsive need to keep those around her safe.

GREETINGS:

"Hey!” Familiarity, often spoken loudly and accompanied by a wide grin.

A smile, tender and crinkling on strong features. Those she’s closest to get to see the softest sides of her.

“What’s up?” Casual and intrigued, a means to strike up a conversation and show interest in the other party.

COLORS:

Slate gray. The color of her St. Hermelin uniform and the color of her favorite hat and armored coat -- Yukino isn’t much of one for fashion, and utility often comes before style. The color of metal, iron resolves and unbreakable walls.

Orange. The color is warm and welcoming, reflected often in the forms of both her Personae and portraying the fire in her spirit. Open arms and the rising sun on the horizon.

Brown. Dark like her eyes, lighter like the coffee complexion of her skin. Earthy and rugged, not unlike her own rough disposition, and far from flashy as it gets. It’s a humble, unassuming tone.

Mustard yellow. Yukino’s lack of fashion sense reflects the most firmly in her gaudy yellow jeans, hugging her muscled legs more tightly than they should.

Crimson. A hue often associated with anger and malign -- her temper is short and her vengeance is quick, just as easy to smile and open her arms for an embrace as she is to scowl and swing her fists.

SCENTS:

Smoke. Compulsive need to be a good role model be damned, Yukino smokes and the stench clings to her clothing like a bad reputation. As much as she tries to keep her habit a secret, the scent is damning as catching her in the act.

Chemicals. When not out documenting the world around her, Yukino often retreats into the darkroom to develop her film. The stench of Kodak D-76 is burned into her nostrils by now.

Snow on grass and concrete. Wispy nights on the streets of Mikage-cho with only the flame of a cigarette lighter to warm her; the hours spent under St Hermelin’s occupation of frost and ice.

Blood. Others’ blood on her knuckles or on the ends of her knives, her own blood dripping down her chin and running down her throat from a broken nose.

Burnt ozone. Yukino’s Personae specialize in the power of nuclear fusion, and as such any time they make themselves known the very atmosphere around her is sure to burn.

CLOTHING:

An armored jacket, grey with prominent shoulder blades. Ever since Yukino got jumped by who she thought were her best friends she’s always come prepared, and the armor helps to accentuate her bulky frame. It sends a message: not to be fucked with.

A black turtleneck tank top; sleeveless and cut off above her abdomen. Odd a choice of garment as it is, it’s a matter of vanity: it shows off her musculature, Yukino’s physique something she’s grown quite proud of.

A grey beanie, branded Ostrich with the appropriate brand insignia above it. Yukino is rarely seen without this on account of her mess of hair: without it it’d be all over the place and in her face, black curls snugly restrained under the cover of her favorite hat.

Yellow jeans, with a black stripe down either outside seam. Tacky, garish and questionable, it says all you need to know about Yukino’s fashion sense.

OBJECTS:

Four throwing knives, finish tarnished and blades nicked from constant use and frequent throws. She’s owned these knives since high school, and they’re one of the last remaining relics of her Yanki years. They’re never far from reach, Yukino constantly paranoid that she’ll encounter a situation where she needs to use them.

A vintage analog camera. This is Yukino’s prized possession: it was passed down to her from her mentor and idol Shunsuke Fuuji upon his tragic death. The stories this camera could tell, the things its lens has seen are unspeakable; Yukino can only hope to one day be of worthy skill and passion to be able to use it.

Yukino’s scrapbook, filled to the brim with memories of the past and present, with room to grow for the future. Yukino began taking pictures compulsively in high school as an extracurricular credit, and she’s made a habit of tucking away her memories in the old, worn-out scrapbook for safekeeping. She’s always made a habit of remembering where she’s came from and where she’s going, and the scrapbook reflects that.

A set of bisonskin drums, a relic from the St. Hermelin incident. The rhythms played upon these drums are what first enabled her to awaken to Durga, her true self and Ultimate Persona -- she swears that the resonance of the drum heads are identical to that of her own heartbeat.

A letter from Mrs. Saeko, written as congratulations when she finally graduated from St. Hermelin. Mrs. Saeko is... important to Yukino, to say the least, and beyond this sentimental reasoning it’s a source of pride that Yukino was recognized for her strive and success.

VICES & BAD HABITS:

Reacting with anger and hostility at the first sign of strife. Yukino’s old habits as a yanki die hard, and she’s unable to escape the frustration and violent thoughts her former life of crime was born of. Like her compatriot Tatsuya, she prefers to speak with her fists before asking questions.

Cigarettes. No good street gangster is without her smokes, and Yukino fit the image perfectly. When she left that life behind, this is one vice she was unable to shake: the comfort of nicotine often provides her a much-needed dulling of the edge her nerves right on, a moment of calm in overflowing rage.

Unshakable insecurity and uncertainty. While comfortable and confident enough in her own skin, traumas and internalized negativity often rears its ugly head. Yukino has a chip on her shoulder regarding her homosexuality and is pensively self-conscious of her sapphic preferences, and questions whether or not she has a future at all in any of her passions.

Yukino can often come across as patronizing or overbearing when her “big sister” instincts come into play, self-righteously believing she knows what’s best for all those around her. Even if her intentions are pure and benevolent, she can often stick her nose in business that isn’t her own and find herself in over her head.

Misanthropy and vengeful, spiteful envy. Yukino subconciously hates those who has what she wants but can’t have, as she considers them reminders of her failures. She secretly yearns for the demise of those who have it better off than she does, and takes a secret joy in seeing others knocked down a peg.

BODY LANGUAGE:

Confident, self-assured posture. The woman stands fairly tall for her gender and age, augmented by a prideful swagger in her step and a dense musculature.

One hand often clutching her camera, the other usually planted firmly upon a hip. Gotta be prepared in case you get a great shot at a moment’s notice...!

Observant, analytical eyes. Yukino isn’t the most book-smart in the world, but her street smarts have taught her how to read a room and get a grasp on what any given opposing party might be up to.

Frequent head-and-neck gestures, more animated with tilts and turns of her head than anywhere else. Her black curls often wave and follow her head as she speaks and reacts.

Strong, almost exaggerated facial expressions and bodily gestures. Yukino’s smiles are warm and wide, her scowls are full of raw malign and hatred, her laughs are loud and from the belly, and her sadness is raw and from the heart. Her arms and body often contort and move errantly as if at the whim of her emotions.

AESTHETIC:

Utilitarian - Yukino is more liable to favor the practical and reliable over the frivolous. Hand tools, simple leather jackets, function over form.

Inner city streets. They’re like home to Yukino -- they’re where she spent her youth, and where she often spends her young adulthood as a photographer.

Sapphism. She’s gay, folks, and it’s a pretty big part of her identity and vested interest -- more butch-leaning with a stated interest in more traditionally feminine women.

Magazines, photo albums, art installations. Inspiration for her half-hearted passion, constant fuel to get better and do better.

Family structures and dynamics. For one reason or another Yukino often finds herself in found families and alternate group situations, and usually takes a socially dominant role with that in mind be it a “big sis” or a matronly figure.

SONGS:

A Perfect Circle - ...keeping me from killing you // and from pulling you down with me // in here, i can almost hear you scream // give me one more medicated peaceful moment // because i don’t want to feel this overwhelming hostility

Smashing Pumpkins - what moon songs do you sing your babies? // what sunshine do you bring? // who belongs? who decides what’s crazy? // who rights wrongs where others cling? // i’ll sing for you // if you want me to // i’ll give for you // it’s a chance i’ll have to take, it’s a chance i’ll have to break // i go along just because I’m lazy // i go along to be with you // [...] // i’ll hear your song // if you want me to // i’ll sing along // [...] // i’m in love with you

Bjork - i follow with my eyes ‘til they crash // imagine what my body would sound like // slamming against those rocks // and when it lands, will my eyes be closed? // i go through all this // before you wake up // so i can feel happier // to be safe again with you

Pianos Become The Teeth - because i say it all // when i say nothing at all // so let’s say nothing some more

Touche Amore: i swear there’s nothing innocent in these eyes // because i’ve seen dead friends // and i’ve seen murder // and i’ve done things i wish i hadn’t done // but that’s not to say i’m not afraid // of long nights dwelling on past mistakes // because with life moving as fast as it does // i’ll still have stories to fucking tell

#ooc #about yukino #headcanons

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mayuzumi-yukinoo · 5 years

Text

LITTLE CHARACTER THINGS

just a fun little character game. fill in the below categories with 3-5 things that your character can be identified by. repost & tag away !

TAGGED BY: @aragakisan, on technicality. TAGGING: Whomever reads it, presumably!

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS:

Concern; often worry for the disenfranchised.

Rationality and reason.

Anger; bull-headed and stubborn.

Humor, often sardonic with a touch of observational wit.

Protectiveness. Yukino is defined if nothing else by her compulsive need to keep those around her safe.

GREETINGS:

"Hey!” Familiarity, often spoken loudly and accompanied by a wide grin.

A smile, tender and crinkling on strong features. Those she’s closest to get to see the softest sides of her.

“What’s up?” Casual and intrigued, a means to strike up a conversation and show interest in the other party.

COLORS:

Orange. The color is warm and welcoming, reflected often in the forms of both her Personae and portraying the fire in her spirit. Open arms and the rising sun on the horizon.

Brown. Dark like her eyes, lighter like the coffee complexion of her skin. Earthy and rugged, not unlike her own rough disposition, and far from flashy as it gets. It’s a humble, unassuming tone.

Mustard yellow. Yukino’s lack of fashion sense reflects the most firmly in her gaudy yellow jeans, hugging her muscled legs more tightly than they should.

Crimson. A hue often associated with anger and malign -- her temper is short and her vengeance is quick, just as easy to smile and open her arms for an embrace as she is to scowl and swing her fists.

SCENTS:

Chemicals. When not out documenting the world around her, Yukino often retreats into the darkroom to develop her film. The stench of Kodak D-76 is burned into her nostrils by now.

Snow on grass and concrete. Wispy nights on the streets of Mikage-cho with only the flame of a cigarette lighter to warm her; the hours spent under St Hermelin’s occupation of frost and ice.

Blood. Others’ blood on her knuckles or on the ends of her knives, her own blood dripping down her chin and running down her throat from a broken nose.

Burnt ozone. Yukino’s Personae specialize in the power of nuclear fusion, and as such any time they make themselves known the very atmosphere around her is sure to burn.

CLOTHING:

Yellow jeans, with a black stripe down either outside seam. Tacky, garish and questionable, it says all you need to know about Yukino’s fashion sense.

OBJECTS:

VICES & BAD HABITS:

BODY LANGUAGE:

Confident, self-assured posture. The woman stands fairly tall for her gender and age, augmented by a prideful swagger in her step and a dense musculature.

One hand often clutching her camera, the other usually planted firmly upon a hip. Gotta be prepared in case you get a great shot at a moment’s notice...!

Observant, analytical eyes. Yukino isn’t the most book-smart in the world, but her street smarts have taught her how to read a room and get a grasp on what any given opposing party might be up to.

Frequent head-and-neck gestures, more animated with tilts and turns of her head than anywhere else. Her black curls often wave and follow her head as she speaks and reacts.

AESTHETIC:

Utilitarian - Yukino is more liable to favor the practical and reliable over the frivolous. Hand tools, simple leather jackets, function over form.

Inner city streets. They’re like home to Yukino -- they’re where she spent her youth, and where she often spends her young adulthood as a photographer.

Sapphism. She’s gay, folks, and it’s a pretty big part of her identity and vested interest -- more butch-leaning with a stated interest in more traditionally feminine women.

Magazines, photo albums, art installations. Inspiration for her half-hearted passion, constant fuel to get better and do better.

SONGS:

Pianos Become The Teeth - because i say it all // when i say nothing at all // so let’s say nothing some more

#about yukino #ooc #headcanons

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theepitomeofsimplicite · 6 years

Text

Dear New York City,

You are incredible! I love your busy streets and young energetic crowd. You are simply vibrant of life just how I had imagined you (from the movies, Sex & the City shows, and the songs about you)! So many reasons to have a crush on you so where shall I start?

Butcher’s Daughter

Driving through Chinatown

Ok, here are some of my first impressions of you, NYC:

It is said of you that you are the entire world into one city. Could it be real? You have a platter full of food options! As you are being the hub of internationals and a known place for storied history, you satisfy anyone’s taste bud, I can’t make up my mind. How can I decide between a casual French bistro (Bagatelle, 1 Little West 12th St.), delicious house-made Italian pasta (La Sirena, 88 9th Ave.), Exotic Moroccan (Cafe Mogador, 101 Saint Marks Pl #1), spicy Korean (Kori Tribeca, 253 Church St.), fun cocktails and Mexican food (La Palapa, 77 St Marks Pl.), Barcelona-style tapas (Toro, 85 10th Ave.), German’s pretzels and beer (The Standard Biergarten, 848 Washington St. just outside of the Standard High Line Hotel and I’ll tell more later), Green Juice (Yep that’s also food trust me!) and far more as if I was in the mood for a health conscious Californian style (not just green juice) there is Dime (49 Canal St.). And let’s not omit American sandwiches (Tiny’s & the Bar Upstairs, 135 W Broadway), and comfort food made of shakes, fries and burgers (Bill’s Bar & Burgers, 16 W 51st St.). There is also the Michelin starred Chef Gunter Seeger at Gunter Seerger NY (641 Hudson St.) and for the gluten free folks there is Friedman’s Lunch (75 9th Ave. at the Chelsea Market which I’ll speak more about in this post). Alas, due to my devoted ramen international tour mission, my friend and I set our minds towards Ippudo Ramen (65 Fourth Ave.) as soon as we set our feet on you.

Ippudo NYC

Ippudo Tonkotsu Ramen

Shook off the night away at Le Bain (848 Washington St.), the penthouse club and roof top bar with an outstanding sweeping city and river view located at the Standard High Line hotel. You blew us away! The vibe was electric between the sparkly giant disco ball, the Afro kinetics music, the sweaty dance moves, with the sticky cranberry vodka on my hand. I’ll remember this moment for a while 🙂 Not to mention our pre-game with gin-based drinks at this speakeasy bar Bathtub Gin that is disguised with a front panel as a regular coffee shop. How dare you tricked us!! Fortunately a friendly local had mercy and pointed the place out to us. Piouf don’t you know I have the fear of missing out syndromes!!

Le Bain with a sweeping view of the river and the city

Some cool walls at the Standard High Line

Bathtub Gin is behind the facade of this coffee shop

The Maritime Hotel (363 W 16th St.) is one of your best places to spend the night in my opinion; friendly, quirky (how I personally like it) and cozy. Located right in the center of the Meatpacking District. This 24-hour neighborhood is found on the far west side of Manhattan and is bordered by Chelsea to the north and the West Village towards downtown. It’s a formidable plant for fashion and graphic designers, architects, artists, restaurateurs, stylists and even corporate headquarters. I enjoyed staying at this hotel in that unique style, it has a nautical-themed landmark with the signature view porthole windows and how I love the white and blue tiles at the restaurant bar and the outdoor terraces seemed just perfect for spring time. In the morning a modest continental breakfast was served at the hotel restaurant so I grabbed myself a quick bite of the bagel with some flavorful orange spread, a mini pain au chocolat, a hard boiled egg, a cup of black coffee and a fresh squeeze glass of OJ. I love the serene atmosphere there with plenty of sun rays through the large windows illuminating the brass surfaced pending lamps.

The Maritime Hotel Restaurant

Ice Wine from Montreal

My Instragram (non worthy) messy bed at the Maritime Hotel

The view port over Manhattan from the Maritime Hotel

Map printed furniture at the Maritime Hotel

Petit dej at the Maritime Hotel Restaurant

You are so walkable in lower Manhattan and it was a great way to see your beauty (your wall graffitis, your modern architectures, your red bricked walls, your apartment stair cases, your lively people, and your multi-culture). But if I didn’t care for strolling around in the cold, then there was the world known yellow cab which was very affordable too! Besides the hotel’s cool white-tiled exterior, I can find within a short walking distance anything ranging from roof top night clubs around the corner, espresso bars, bakeries, as well as street food stands (one in the front of the hotel), yummy late night pizzas (Brunetti Pizza, 626 Hudson St.) (especially required after too much drinks at 4 am), and have I already mentioned great restaurants and bars?!

Cool wall art

Greenwich Village street crossing

The signature NYC staircases

And more wall graffitis

Chelsea Market and the well known yellow cab

The Chelsea Market (75 9th Ave.) to me is where anything can happen and is only a block away from the hotel. You are spontaneous like that! If I ever get too lazy to walk out there into town and/or there is a snow storm alert coming, this covered venue is very special! One is expected to find anything ranging from espresso bar, pastries and freshly baked bread. A crave for fresh oysters there is The Lobster Place!! There, it’s a retail fish market with omakase sushi bar but also a raw bar where people can order and eat at the counter nearby the living seashells. There is even a German wurst place!! There are plenty of cool shops for gifts giving. I love this market!

Chelsea Market

Seafood Bar

Oyster Platter

The Lobster Place

Sight seeing to me is so boring but we strolled around town and set our sight towards The Flatiron Building then marched towards the Empire State Building. I got remotely distracted by the Museum of Sex and ought to call out Grant on this! Our last Vegas trip during thanksgiving holiday failed on us in finding adult shows for some sort of sex Ed haha I’ll skip the details there 😉 but anyone can read this post here! The Empire State Building was incredibly crowded (uncool!!) so we evidently ditched the queue and headed out towards the world known Times Square. Bright lights, giant billboards and honking everywhere! It was to say the least chaotic. Gotta get away now! Who really hangs out in Times Square aside from catching a Broadway show or… yeah tourists!!

The Flatiron Building

The Empire State Building

The chaotic Times Square

The Museum of Sex, was it really a distraction?! or an attraction? Can you tell me 😉

If anyone needed a breath of fresh air when the concrete walk way and the stinging sound of sirens and honking felt suffocating and exhausting, there is fun and relaxation in strolling in your parks. Aside from the obvious green area of Central Park, I loved the Brooklyn Bridge Park where my friend and I got to have a humble picnic; with the magical view over Manhattan in the dark contrast of what you do best which is to gleam lights and inspire us with your beauty. We hopped on a yellow cab and asked to go to Pier 11. I had the idea of getting on a ferry to have a good gaze at the scintillant Brooklyn Bridge by the night. My friend and I cheered with red wine in plastic cups (lack of sophistication here, not me!) set ourselves up on a butt- frozen stairwell of the Brooklyn Bridge Park. We had some crackers dipped in olive paste and some (unidentifiable) cheese. Despite the blazing cold where my fingers and toes stopped responding to my commands, I very much enjoyed taking you in for a brief and calm sudden moment.

View of the Brooklyn Bridge on the Jumbo Ferry

Sweeping view of lower Manhattan from the Brooklyn Bridge Park

A view of the Brooklyn Bridge from the Pier 11

After filling our stomach at Mr. Tuka Ramen (170 Allen St.), we needed to walk it off a bit right so we headed towards world renown Comedy Cellar to test your sense of humor. Are you that funny? Unfortunately you are ever so crowded so we again ditched the queue and got some late drinks at the hotel. I served my friend some of the ice wine I got from my trip to Montreal the weekend before. It was so sweet but so tasty.

Mr. Tuka Ramen

Tonkotsu Ramen

More sight seeing followed on our last day photographing the one World Trade Center and the memorial site, stopped by Wall Street to find the Charging Bull and the Fearless Girl. Finally walked towards the Battery Park to have a peak at the Statue of Liberty from a far distance. But on our way to Sunday Brunch, not Egg Shop,151 Elizabeth St.), not the Butcher’s Daughter (19 Kenmare St.) (the queue estimated to be 1 hour waiting time so no thanks!!) got a green juice (must have Matcha Fizz made of matcha, fresh lime, honey and rosemary ) at the Cafe Integral (149 Elizabeth St.) and amazing classic Persian food instead (Ravagh Persian Grill, 125 1st Ave.). On our way there, I got to see life through Greenwich village. Kids playing at the playground and youngsters shooting hoops. And other people brunching too. The Persian grill was phenomenal! I’d recommend to anyone! And finally time was up!

Greenwich Village strolling

Life in Greenwich Village

The Egg Shop for Brunch

Awkward me as a tourist

A ride towards the World Trade Center

Cafe Integral Matcha Fitz Juice

Classic Persian Food

Until next time darling, we’ll have another date! I promise 😉

New York City Dear New York City, You are incredible! I love your busy streets and young energetic crowd. You are simply vibrant of life just how I had imagined you (from the movies, Sex & the City shows, and the songs about you)!

#City Guide #Life #Lifestyle Blog #Lower Manhattan #Manhattan #New York #New York City #NYC #NYC City Guide #Travel

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shimmershaewrites · 6 years

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Waltzing's for Dreamers, Chapter 5 (a Walking Dead story, Caryl AU).

Title: Waltzing's for Dreamers

Rating: I'm going to go with PG-13 again.

Warnings: Adult language. Allusions to past abuse.

Characters/Pairings: Carol/Daryl, Andrea Harrison, Michonne, Lori Grimes, mentions of Carol/Ed, mentions of Sophia Peletier.

Waltzing’s for Dreamers

How it all really began. The next evening after the night before. More simply, two days after they said their drunken ‘I do’s.’

“All I’m saying,” Andrea says, holding up a hand to stave off Carol’s sputtering attempts at protest, “is that staying married to Mr. Arm Porn here—even if it’s only for a few months—might have its merits.”

“Mr. Arm Porn, Andrea?” Michonne smirks over the lip of her cocktail, not even bothering to hide her amusement in the least when her dark eyes flit over to Daryl, who’s remained largely silent since the initial round of formal introductions. “Really? I’m pretty sure he said his name was Daryl.” She outright laughs, full and unashamed, when the man in question tucks his hands beneath his armpits, putting those impressive biceps of his on further display, and regards Andrea with a glint of humor in his cool blue eyes. She watches as he gently nudges her frazzled friend with his elbow and gives her a tiny, half smile before gruffly muttering a statement that wins her over completely and melts more than a few of Lori’s reservations, she can tell.

“Can see why you might think of killin’ her. Pretty free with her opinions, ain’t she?”

Carol bites her lip for a moment before smiling sheepishly at him. “All of them are.” She gets a little lost in his eyes. The crinkles at the corners of them that are revealed to her when that boyish smile of his widens just a fraction. The mole at the corner of his mouth. She’s fairly certain her lips have made love to that tiny imperfection, even if the details are fuzzy, and her skin still feels the phantom tingle of his scruff all over parts of her that have never been properly appreciated. Memory or imagination, either way the realization makes her flush, and she rubs a restless hand over her nape. Lifts her heavy curls from her neck and lets them fall loosely over her shoulder, averts her gaze and studies the napkin beneath her untouched drink. She doesn’t look up again until she realizes Lori’s speaking. She’s defending their sisterhood in the simplest of terms, voicing their common concern for each other, and any residual annoyance Carol feels melts away with her words.

“We want only the best for Carol because we love her.”

“Can respect that,” Daryl gruffly acknowledges.

Andrea lifts a cool, appraising brow at the comment. “I’m sensing a but.”

“Because there is one,” he responds. “Where was all that love and concern a couple nights ago? Hmm? You don’t know me from the serial killer living down the street.”

Lori frowns. “What serial killer?”

“The hypothetical one,” Michonne explains.

“Are you a serial killer?” Andrea questions bluntly. “Mr. Arm Porn,” she adds belatedly with a wry smirk.

“Andrea!” Carol hisses.

“He says we don’t know him,” Andrea shrugs nonchalantly. “We don’t. I’m just asking the questions any reasonably concerned and loving friend would.”

“No,” Michonne says. “You’re blowing smoke up his ass.”

“I would have put it more politely,” Lori joins in, “but yeah. You are.”

“More politely?” Andrea scoffs. “Are you being for real?”

“They always like this?” Daryl mutters as Andrea and Lori lose themselves in an exchange of words of a more colorful nature and Michonne plays the part of long-suffering referee.

Laughing softly, Carol doesn’t even try to sugarcoat it. “Worse.”

“Your ex sounds like a real asshole.”

She sighs and her nails press crescents into her palms because talking about Ed, even the tiniest mention of him, makes her nerves rattle and her heart threaten to take flight. Every time she thinks about what could have been, how much worse the physical abuse could have escalated past what the verbal already was had she not escaped when she had, she gets a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and Andrea bringing him up like they were discussing something as frivolous as the weather or what show the four of them were going to see their last night in Vegas before going home, well. It’s stirred up a whole hornets’ nest of emotions Carol would really rather keep under wraps, but the ugly truth has already been let out of the gate so to speak. “Asshole is too kind a word,” she finally murmurs.

“Asshole really is too kind of a word,” Lori agrees, abandoning her discussion with Andrea to stress to Daryl just how much of a dirtbag Ed Peletier really is.

“Add a mother,” Michonne interjects.

“And a fucker,” Andrea scowls blackly.

“In front of it,” Lori picks up the thread effortlessly, “and it still would be too kind of a word.”

Daryl whistles through his teeth and picks up the drink he’d all but drained within five minutes of his arrival and subsequent unwilling inspection and interrogation, rattles the melting ice cubes left behind as he makes a visible effort to keep his reaction low-key.

Still, a muttered curse escapes him and his rough hand hovers hesitantly over hers then dwarfs it, works her fingers free of their fretful work and squeezes in gentle reassurance. “If he manages to get custody of Sophia…” Her voice quavers at the very thought and Michonne stretches her arm across the table to rest a soothing hand on her forearm, Lori and Andrea quick to follow her example. “If he does…”

“He ain’t gonna.”

“If he does, though,” Carol swallows hard over the knot of emotion that’s made its unannounced visit in the well of her throat. She feels foolish, allowing this stranger such a naked glimpse of the demons that plague her, but something deep inside her recognizes his understanding for what it is: firsthand experience with the darkest parts of so-called love. “You don’t know me. You have no stake in what happens to me or my little girl. Why are you even entertaining Andrea’s ridiculous idea? Why are you offering…”

“To help you?” Daryl finishes.

“Why are you offering to help me?”

“Maybe I ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”

“Maybe you’re more than a piece of arm candy is more like it,” Michonne smiles.

“Maybe,” Lori muses.

“Arm Porn. Not candy,” Andrea makes the distinction with a feigned sigh. “Believe it or not, there’s a difference.”

He withdraws his hand and curls his fingers back around his glass, holds on to it like it’s some sort of tether to a fast-fading reality as he clears his throat and addresses the woman that had planted the very first seed without looking up from its murky contents. “These merits. Tell me more about ‘em.”

Andrea all too eagerly complies. “Well, the court system operates under this antiquated notion that…”

Her reasonable mind won’t admit it for many years yet, but that moment? Is the moment Carol’s heart started the slow slide into love for one Daryl Dixon.

#The Walking Dead #Caryl fanfiction #Caryl #Carol x Daryl #stuff that I write #Waltzing's for Dreamers #aka What Happens in Vegas stays in Vegas fic #Andrea Harrison #Michonne #Lori Grimes #mentions of Carol/Ed #mentions of Sophia Peletier #adult language #allusions to past abuse

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krisrampersad · 6 years

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The Funeral Scores, musical and otherwise of Sir Vidia S. Naipaul. A final farewell with a fanfare of Naipaulian-flavoured fictive irony

‘No other papers carried the news.’

It is almost like poetic prophesy, that this line, written about the funeral of his classic small island anti-hero, Mr Biswas, of the classic A House for Mr Biswas published in 1961, could also read as ironic truth of Sir Vidia Naipaul’s own funeral. The funeral of the 2001 Nobel Laureate, Sir Vidia S. Naipaul (Aug 17 1932 to August 11 2018) took place on Wednesday August 22, 2018, in a largely unnoted ceremony, noted by this blog, Demokrissy in understanding of the value of chronicling as the world he left torn asunder more on the demerits of the man than on the merits of his writings.

‘No other papers,’ it seems, ‘carried the news’ of his funeral, except one far-off Indian newspaper which tells of a reportedly private invitation-only ceremony in London, although there have been a continuous outpouring of tributes and assessments of his life and works since the announcement of his death on August 11, 2018, six days short of his 86th birthday. In these parts, media houses wait with accustomed unbated breath to receive news from the once-Empire to feed it into news feeds.

A Year of LiTTributes to the Laureate. Be a part of our Reading Revolution

Long set to rest have been the ‘amazing scenes’ of national reporting meant to excite the imagination that hallmarked the journalistic tradition captured by his father Seepersad Naipaul (1906 to 1953) chronicles of Gurudeva, that echo through scenes of Sir Vidia’s biographical epic, A House of Mr Biswas, in ways that are yet to be fully articulated. It found interpretation in Sir Vidia’s own grandiose brand of journalism-hardly-disguised-as-fiction that I have set in the contexts of its century-plus years of gestation from the soils of his birth in Finding a Place and which matured in his literary canon of 33 books. That style became the antidote to otherliterary legacies including what is known in literary circles as magic realism, a genre developed by his near-contemporaries as Gabriel Garcia Marquez (March 1927 – 17 April 2014) and Salman Rushdie (June 19, 1947-). Rushdie, incidentally, who has been centerstage of one of the media-driven literary-feuds, tweeted on news of Naipaul’s death, ‘We disagreed all our lives about politics, about literature, and I feel as sad as if I just los a beloved older brother. RIP Vidia #VS Naipaul.’ Needless to say, his brief tribute was received with a battery of insults.

A crosssection of writingabout Sir Vidia S Naipauln the world of the writer

The description of Sir Vidia’s funeral, to which his immediate family in Trinidad and Tobago is said to have not been privy, indeed conjures up an ‘amazing scene’. Oh how I would have loved to read of it from the pen of Sir Vidia himself, or his journalist father: of a handful of some 100 from the US and UK identified as friends, literary associates including his agent Andrew Wylie and ‘a few close relatives including Lady Nadira,’ wife of Sir Vidia.

Instead, the report of what unfolded is laid out by a reporter that could almost be molded on the erstwhile ‘NightWatchman’ of what remains to me one of Naipaul’s most humorous pieces of dry comic satire, except that, unlike that ‘Nightwatchman,’ the reporter fills in sparseness of detail with some commentary jabs that have the effect of skimming stones on water. From the snipet, the gathering and events in the idyllc garden crematorium at London’s Kensal Green, reeks of Naipaulian comic irony. Naipaul, if he instructed this final farewell, couldn’t have set a better stage for his send off.

The Indian-born reporter singles out among the guests, Alexander Waugh, gradnson of author Evelyn Waugh, and Sonny Mehta, publishing mogul and editor-in-chief of the Random House imprint Alfred A Knopf for more than quarter a century. With the select guests, they reportedly listened to few lines from the Bhagavat Gita, part of the epic Mahabharata snuck in by his friend of some twenty years, Geordie Greig, who is soon to take over the editorship of the Daily Mail, reputedly Britain’s second largest tabloid. While there was no indication what those lines from the Gita might have been, I would hazard a guess that it is likely be classic instruction of Krishna to Arjuna on the nature of the soul, immutable, unchanging and indestructible while we change bodies as we change worn out clothes (Gita, Chap 2).

Greig had also been at Sir Vidia’s deathbed at his home, reporting, “He drifted off and it was peaceful and very, very sad but what a life, what an achievement, what a legacy…” He sent him off with a reading of a poem, Crossing the Bar, “which had great resonance and meaning to him and I just turned on my phone and found it and we read it.” It seems too apt choice to be a random selection and was perhaps requested by Naipaul himself, I discerned, in the same way he must have planted the notion of picong in Patrick French’s biography as a clue to deciphering the misunderstanding that has shrouded reception of his work. Crossing the Bar by Britain’s poet laureate of the Victorian age, Alfred Lord Tennyson, is an elegy on the soul’s return to its beginnings, When that which drew from out the boundless deep/Turns again home.

Sunset and evening star

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Crossing the Bar

In the rustic serenity of the Kendal Green Cemetery, the mourners were also treated to a reading from Naipaul’s 1987 book, The Enigma of Arrival. As the exact passage was not identified, I searched my memory of the book, thinking of the final chapter, The Ceremony of Farewell, where he identified, “it was only out of this new awareness of death that I began at last to write. Death was a motif…” If it was, how ironic that would be, given the absence of his sisters at his funeral, as that chapter also details the traditional Hindu funeral with all its ritualistic oddities, described through his experience of his return to Trinidad for the funeral of his youngest sister who had died of a brain haemorrage!

Perhaps, the reading was from the Enigma’s first chapter, Jack’s Garden with its pathos in his speculation of death with its echoes of the philosophy of the lines from the Bhagavad Gita: of inevitability: ‘people die, people grow old, people change houses;’ and of immortality, discerned in walking through Stonehenge that fed, ‘my sense of antiquity, my feeling for the age of the earth, and the oldness of man’s possession of it,’ or of his reflection on his own life:

That idea of ruin, of dereliction, of out-of-placeness, was something I felt about myself, attached to myself,: a man from another hemisphere, another background, coming to rest in middle life in the cottage of a half neglected estate….

Those lines remind me of his antithesis to that haunting philosophy articulated in A Bend In the River (1979). It gave Patrick French the title of his 2008 authorised biography of Naipaul, ‘the world is what it is, men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it.’ It was his early realization, penned in the passionate – yes passion is an adjective that can be attributed to Naipaul – pronouncement on the life of his father in A House for Mr Biswas,

How terrible it would have been…to die…to have lived without even attempting to lay claim to one’s portion of the earth; to have lived and died as one had been born, unnecessary and unaccommodated.

To me, reflected in this funeral to the end, the ultimate Naipaulian irony has been in how Naipaul created and sustained his own myth of himself. Knowing the world for what it is, he baited it, gleefully ruffled feathers, choocking fire, as would have been the expression in his birth community, the family, the community, the society and the country that gave his imagination flight. He laid out his truths, personal truths that became universal truths, knowing the world would instead largely go after the coochoor. Seeking artistic truth as he was, by resurrecting his own demons, tapping into his self-hatred so succinctly that language and metaphor and literary masking were as potent as the characters he created; that others saw themselves mirrored therein, and many, unable to bear its starkness, could only reflect the self-hate. Nobel Laureate, Derek Walcott, poet and dramatist, often presented, like Rushdie, as justification for hating Naipaul, mused that Naipaul is “our finest writer of the English sentence.” See Link Nobel Tears for and Of a Nobel Bard

The processes, the tradition, the society, the global events and movements that set the stage for all of this is, whether we want to accept that with pride or heap on scorn, are embedded in my home soil, the truth that I had set out to unearth and is among the myths I believe I was able to somewhat explode in some of the published in Finding a Place which stimulated his interest, voiced as containing ‘things about my father that I did not know.’ But Finding a Place and the skeletons it resurrects as I hope the illustrated graphic edition will make clearer, was not, and never, solely about VS Naipaul, although it has been one of the elements that other critics have isolated to help them in their process of understanding, if not unravelling the enigma of Naipaul. It is about conscience creation, of society-making, the minute in the contexts of larger world; the piecing together of disparate elements, of social, cultural, economic, political fragments that shaped themselves into processes that made little villages and towns and a society and culture and beliefs and practices and women, and men like Naipaul. It defined the place to which he would return again and again and again to fed his creative genius, and that, whether he was writing about India or Africa or the Islamic Front or the American South. So what was seen as an omission in his Nobel remarks, was no less than a deliberate act of chooking fire. But we have always been a society and a people who celebrate the inebriety that rhetoric masking and illusion affords, weaving it into our lifestyles that to attempt to tear it off would be like pulling off bits of our flesh, and sense of being.

Even the attempts to hold up the antithesis of that, the celebration of self, as LiTTscapes does, without glossing over but placing in context the nihilism, the violence and criminality that are entrenched in the raison d etre of the place, meets with the same blinders.

Despite the outward rhetoric, as noted above, there was no sparing the ritualism of death as a final rite at the funeral of this so-called agnostic (another myth I have explored and exploded), as he is set to sea on the British greens. Apart from the disguised ritual of last rites, there was no small measure of sentimentality, too, and I am tempted to speculate that that too was by choice. Though Sir Vidia has so often been painted as impatient of the sentimental, but which my account of our encounter, and from some of the testimonies of other encounters I have read by others in tribute on his death, suggest otherwise.

The funeral service reportedly heard two pieces of music: The quintessential sentimental last wish made popular by Doris Day, Dream A Little Dream of Me sounds incongruous and like a jarring note of the portrait that has emerged of Naipaul’s way in the world, or is it? The reporter now folded into the comic irony of the event conveys becomes part of the heightened Naipaulian ironic humour, quoting the concluding whimsical notes of the song, Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you/Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you/But in your dreams whatever they be/Dream a little dream of me. To unravel that enigma one may need to go beyond the lyric.

youtube

The other musical rendition was The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughan Williams. I link a rendition by the London Philharmonic here (The musical score by Williams is still not public-domain material in some jurisdictions.) This is a musical interpretation of the George Meredith 1881 paean/lyrical poem. It is easy to see why this choice, as much of what is said of the sound of the skylark which the poem engages, He drops the silver chain of sound/Of many links without a break, could be said of Naipaul’s art, technique and aspirations and achievements as a writer as well: Where ripple ripple overcurls/And eddy into eddy whirls;/A press of hurried notes that run/So fleet they scarce are more than one:

(See image this page, the scores on Naipaul )

THE LARK ASCENDING

By George Meredith

He rises and begins to round,

He drops the silver chain of sound

Of many links without a break,

In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,

All intervolved and spreading wide,

Like water-dimples down a tide

Where ripple ripple overcurls

And eddy into eddy whirls;

A press of hurried notes that run

So fleet they scarce are more than one,

Yet changeingly the trills repeat

And linger ringing while they fleet,

Sweet to the quick o' the ear, and dear

To her beyond the handmaid ear,

Who sits beside our inner springs,

Too often dry for this he brings,

Which seems the very jet of earth

At sight of sun, her music's mirth,

As up he wings the spiral stair,

A song of light, and pierces air

With fountain ardour, fountain play,

To reach the shining tops of day,

And drink in everything discerned

An ecstasy to music turned,

Impelled by what his happy bill

Disperses; drinking, showering still,

Unthinking save that he may give

His voice the outlet, there to live

Renewed in endless notes of glee,

So thirsty of his voice is he,

For all to hear and all to know

That he is joy, awake, aglow,

The tumult of the heart to hear

Through pureness filtered crystal-clear,

And know the pleasure sprinkled bright

By simple singing of delight,

Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained,

Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustained

Without a break, without a fall,

Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,

Perennial, quavering up the chord

Like myriad dews of sunny sward

That trembling into fulness shine,

And sparkle dropping argentine;

Such wooing as the ear receives

From zephyr caught in choric leaves

Of aspens when their chattering net

Is flushed to white with shivers wet;

And such the water-spirit's chime

On mountain heights in morning's prime,

Too freshly sweet to seem excess,

Too animate to need a stress;

But wider over many heads

The starry voice ascending spreads,

Awakening, as it waxes thin,

The best in us to him akin;

And every face to watch him raised,

Puts on the light of children praised,

So rich our human pleasure ripes

When sweetness on sincereness pipes,

Though nought be promised from the seas,

But only a soft-ruffling breeze

Sweep glittering on a still content,

Serenity in ravishment.

For singing till his heaven fills,

'Tis love of earth that he instils,

And ever winging up and up,

Our valley is his golden cup,

And he the wine which overflows

To lift us with him as he goes:

The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine

He is, the hills, the human line,

The meadows green, the fallows brown,

The dreams of labour in the town;

He sings the sap, the quickened veins,

The wedding song of sun and rains

He is, the dance of children, thanks

Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,

And eye of violets while they breathe;

All these the circling song will wreathe,

And you shall hear the herb and tree,

The better heart of men shall see,

Shall feel celestially, as long

As you crave nothing save the song.

Was never voice of ours could say

youtube

Our inmost in the sweetest way,

Like yonder voice aloft, and link

All hearers in the song they drink:

Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,

Our passion is too full in flood,

We want the key of his wild note

Of truthful in a tuneful throat,

The song seraphically free

Of taint of personality,

So pure that it salutes the suns

The voice of one for millions,

In whom the millions rejoice

For giving their one spirit voice.

Yet men have we, whom we revere,

Now names, and men still housing here,

Whose lives, by many a battle-dint

Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint,

Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet

For song our highest heaven to greet:

Whom heavenly singing gives us new,

Enspheres them brilliant in our blue,

From firmest base to farthest leap,

Because their love of Earth is deep,

And they are warriors in accord

With life to serve and pass reward,

So touching purest and so heard

In the brain's reflex of yon bird:

Wherefore their soul in me, or mine,

Through self-forgetfulness divine,

In them, that song aloft maintains,

To fill the sky and thrill the plains

With showerings drawn from human stores,

As he to silence nearer soars,

Extends the world at wings and dome,

More spacious making more our home,

Till lost on his aerial rings

In light, and then the fancy sings.

A LiTTribute to the Republic. Dr Kris Rampersad with First Lady

If he was returned to the place where his umbilical cord was buried – as would have been perhaps the wishes of his blood family here, who complained of being in the dark about his funeral arrangements - a traditional funeral in his home island would have been something of what he described of the last rites of his sister contained in The Enigma of Arrival. The alternative, more traditional version of that that is the described funeral of Mr Biswas’ ill-fated father, Raghu, whose death by drowning was owed to actions of his cursed son, ‘six-fingered, and born in the wrong way,’ and destined to ‘eat up his own mother and father,’ testimony to the cruel pronouncements of fate which are assigned to being born in inauspicious circumstances. To a grieving family reflecting on a brother that time and circumstance might have estranged, the similarities may not be immediately evident.

Had he died in and or was to be sent off in his birth island, Sir Vidia might have been dressed in his ‘finest dhoti, jacket and turban’ even - his description of Raghu’s attire. As I have argued, Naipaul’s absorption of his ritualistic upbringing, is reflected and nuanced subtly in the texture of his work, disguised and masked by the rhetoric, when the rhetoric itself is embedded in the ritualism and traditions, but that has been given less than superficial attention and largely, it seems, only when it could feed the fury and the furore about his histrionic rejections.

Much of that became clear when I considered his work in the contexts of the literary and oral traditions and the socio-cultural and political milieu from which he emerged when even those were still only in embryonic form in the island of his birth. The umbilical link, ritualistically distended in his attempts to distance himself from connections, from sentimentality, were never altogether severed, and are in fact, I believe, smack core and centre to the man and his writings.

That he has so often duped many into accepting otherwise was only part of his very successful mythmaking, using truth to turn it on itself, and so too remodel himself in the image of the mythical self to which he aspired. That he himself understood that in all its irony, I believe, prompted his acknowledgement of the value of Finding A Place to himself, as it unearthed and exposed some truths, one of which he identified as in its ‘ discovering much more about (my) father than I knew.’ But that in itself is only a part truth. While that is the value he identified in it, it is a value that is true of the entire society on which that study focused. It might have been about the traditional base of his father but only because it was about the ancestral people as Finding A Place was not a book about him, Naipaul, nor about his father, Seepersad, but about the social, political and cultural processes that shape the writer, the journalist, the thinkers of our place and time.

In his movements forward, the pull of India, Africa, the American South, the Islamic journeys, every turn to the North, South, East and West, and every way in the world, were all the pull and tug of the umbilical cord buried in the village upbringing in a small island for which there is ample evidence.

That the world has bought hook, line and sinker, the myth of the man, created by himself, is the final irony, the mock chuckle, the picong pelted up from his grave, the last laugh of a world that didn’t quite get that the joke’s on us.

Now past the sound and the fury that he has stirred in whirling whillying winds in more than two thirds of a century of poking public conscience, the closed funeral, in some respects may seem a disservice to the man who had been trying to flee the ignominy of his birth, and for the most part succeeded. Like the lark, Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,,/Our passion is too full in flood,/We want the key of his wild note/Of truthful in a tuneful throat,/The song seraphically free/Of taint of personality,

Having claimed his portion of the earth, now cros’t the bar and Put out to sea, drawn from out the boundless deep, Sir Vidia S. Naipaul Turns again home.

PostNote: These scores from Sir Vidia S. Naipaul’s funeral would unfold through various forms as we explore the global connections in this declared Year of LiTTributes to the LaureaTTes. Join, collaborate, partner, subscribe and stay tuned. Next, an extract from my upcoming autobiography, Life! HoleHeartedly!

“I first met VS Naipaul when I was just about four years old, though I didn’t know I had. My sister brought him home to me, though she didn’t know she did…”

Dr Kris Rampersad is a researcher, wrter and promoter of interculturality, literacy, and literary, author and other creative endeavours. See more

Ask about how you can partner and collaborate in our Year of LiTTributes tot he Laureate or other stimulating creative endeavour and about LiTtours, LiTTeas, LiTTevents, LiTTributes and LiTTscapes.

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My Collision with Stephen Hawkins: https://goo.gl/Fx47Ak

Reflections on the Death of Nobel Laureate Sir Vidia Naipaul see link https://goo.gl/7eBP5a

Authors Tete-aTete Dr Kris Rampersad and Sir VS Naipaul https://goo.gl/gU11Jv

Noble Tears of a Nobel Bard Death of Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott https://goo.gl/WXbMpv

Sportscapes Cricket Games We Play LiTTours: https://goo.gl/ENum7X

TheMagic and Realism of gabrial Garcia Marquez RIP https://goo.gl/s7y2oc

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readbookywooks · 7 years

Text

The Key To The Garden

Two days after this, when Mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and called to Martha.

"Look at the moor! Look at the moor!"

The rainstorm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind. The wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. Never, never had Mary dreamed of a sky so blue. In India skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray.

"Aye," said Martha with a cheerful grin. "Th' storm's over for a bit. It does like this at this time o' th' year. It goes off in a night like it was pretendin' it had never been here an' never meant to come again. That's because th' springtime's on its way. It's a long way off yet, but it's comin'."

"I thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England," Mary said.

"Eh! no!" said Martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes. "Nowt o' th' soart!"

"What does that mean?" asked Mary seriously. In India the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when Martha used words she did not know.

Martha laughed as she had done the first morning.

"There now," she said. "I've talked broad Yorkshire again like Mrs. Medlock said I mustn't. `Nowt o' th' soart' means `nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long to say it. Yorkshire's th' sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. I told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. Just you wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th' broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. You'll want to get out on it as sunrise an' live out on it all day like Dickon does." "Could I ever get there?" asked Mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue. It was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color.

"I don't know," answered Martha. "Tha's never used tha' legs since tha' was born, it seems to me. Tha' couldn't walk five mile. It's five mile to our cottage."

"I should like to see your cottage."

Martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again. She was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it. It looked just a trifle like little Susan Ann's when she wanted something very much.

"I'll ask my mother about it," she said. "She's one o' them that nearly always sees a way to do things. It's my day out today an' I'm goin' home. Eh! I am glad. Mrs. Medlock thinks a lot o' mother. Perhaps she could talk to her."

"I like your mother," said Mary.

"I should think tha' did," agreed Martha, polishing away.

"I've never seen her," said Mary.

"No, tha' hasn't," replied Martha.

She sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively.

"Well, she's that sensible an' hard workin' an' goodnatured an' clean that no one could help likin' her whether they'd seen her or not. When I'm goin' home to her on my day out I just jump for joy when I'm crossin' the moor."

"I like Dickon," added Mary. "And I've never seen him."

"Well," said Martha stoutly, "I've told thee that th' very birds likes him an' th' rabbits an' wild sheep an' ponies, an' th' foxes themselves. I wonder," staring at her reflectively, "what Dickon would think of thee?"

"He wouldn't like me," said Mary in her stiff, cold little way. "No one does."

Martha looked reflective again.

"How does tha' like thysel'?" she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know.

Mary hesitated a moment and thought it over.

"Not at all--really," she answered. "But I never thought of that before."

Martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.

"Mother said that to me once," she said. "She was at her wash- tub an' I was in a bad temper an' talkin' ill of folk, an' she turns round on me an' says: `Tha' young vixen, tha'! There tha' stands sayin' tha' doesn't like this one an' tha' doesn't like that one. How does tha' like thysel'?' It made me laugh an' it brought me to my senses in a minute."

She went away in high spirits as soon as she had given Mary her breakfast. She was going to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage, and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly.

Mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. She went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. She counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. The sunshine made the whole place look different. The high, deep, blue sky arched over Misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. She went into the first kitchen-garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. The change in the weather seemed to have done him good. He spoke to her of his own accord. "Springtime's comin,'" he said. "Cannot tha' smell it?"

Mary sniffed and thought she could.

"I smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said.

"That's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "It's in a good humor makin' ready to grow things. It's glad when plantin' time comes. It's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. In th' flower gardens out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. Th' sun's warmin' 'em. You'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit."

"What will they be?" asked Mary.

"Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?"

"No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India," said Mary. "And I think things grow up in a night."

"These won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em."

"I am going to," answered Mary.

Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question.

"Do you think he remembers me?" she said.

"Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no need to try to hide anything from him."

"Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" Mary inquired.

"What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again.

"The one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer? Are there ever any roses?"

"Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin. "He's the only one as knows. No one else has seen inside it for ten year'."

Ten years was a long time, Mary thought. She had been born ten years ago.

She walked away, slowly thinking. She had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and Dickon and Martha's mother. She was beginning to like Martha, too. That seemed a good many people to like--when you were not used to liking. She thought of the robin as one of the people. She went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through Ben Weatherstaff's robin.

She heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. But she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little.

"You do remember me!" she cried out. "You do! You are prettier than anything else in the world!"

She chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. It was as if he were talking. His red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be. Mistress Mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds.

Oh! to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that! He knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him in the least tiniest way. He knew it because he was a real person--only nicer than any other person in the world. She was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe.

The flower-bed was not quite bare. It was bare of flowers because the perennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the bed, and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth. He stopped on it to look for a worm. The earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole.

Mary looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as she looked she saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil. It was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up. It was more than a ring, however; it was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time.

Mistress Mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from her finger.

"Perhaps it has been buried for ten years," she said in a whisper. "Perhaps it is the key to the garden!"

#SecretGarden

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