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lustbile · 3 years

Text

The Journal

TenxReader

Word Count: 7.3k+

Summary/Warnings: Smut with plot, semi public, a lot of biting, mentions of supernatural and just general weirdness, and small amount of blood play

Apart of the Club X series: Masterlist (can be read alone or within the series, but unlike others it might just be the slightest amount confusing)

“So that’s what you’re into now,” your best friend’s voice is bored and distant, her task of wiping down the bar that stretched out in front of her taking a majority of her attention away from the babbling you’ve tried to subject her to since you entered the empty restaurant only about 20 minutes before, “weird demon sex clubs?”

—

“Ah ah, I never said they were demons,” you correct quickly, the thought of defending yourself never crossing your mind as you petulantly slap your hands against the polished wood, “I just said it was…. weird.”

“Weird is an understatement,” she scoffs quietly as she turns to dip her dirtied rag back into the bleach water and ring it out, “I mean look, I’ve always been supportive in the witchy stuff you’ve been into but this…. is a bit much.”

“I don’t see how this is any different than any other thing I’ve read into.”

“Oh you don’t see?” you finally manage to pull her attention towards you as she harshly slaps the rag back onto the wood with a stern glare pulled on her pretty features, “you’re talking about vulnerability and abandoned warehouses and public sex. That last one is definitely new.”

You fully expected this type of response, only hoping she’d be busy enough that you would dodge the motherly scolding she liked to give you when you pitched your schemes to her with your eyes wild and wide, but nevertheless, she was completely right.

It came from an old book, tattered and torn from being flipped through one too many times, that you found at your favorite antique store. The store itself was already notorious with your tight inner circle of friends as the creepy shop that was corrupting your brain, a constant taunt being that the little old woman that ran it was the actual devil and she was just waiting for the right time to jump you and eat you whole, but this did nothing to stop you from visiting at least once a week.

But the book, it was different from any other you had found. It was completely handwritten, including amazingly done sketches in a deep unfading ink, and spoke of outlandish things.

Some were easily brushed off, like a murder that happened in the 50’s that was known to stay in the mouths of the older folks, both to them and the book it was widely believed to be the doing of some long tongued and wild eyed creature, until a local sweet old man admitted on his deathbed that it was instead his one crime of passion.

He had been a young soldier that snuck into his lover’s room one night, and upon learning that she was to marry a nice lawyer the day after he was meant to deploy, his mind went blank and his hands were carving out her heart. He luckily escaped any questioning after being shipped off, and once he returned home he captured the heart of a pretty young girl and lived out a long life sitting on top of a horrid truth.

So yeah, stories of those sorts, having been solved in your lifetime, meant very little to you, but the one you were going on about now, meant the world.

The writing looked like it had been put down by a panicked chicken rather than the woman who’s name was written neatly in the front. It lived in some of the pages towards the back of the small book and spoke of a dark club. Club X.

She went on and on about stumbling across the club purely by accident, and meeting another woman with glittering eyes. Graphic details of being taken in the middle of the dance floor with a million eyes looking but not fully seeing her as she fell apart against a dancing and eager tongue made your heart thump lodged in your throat. But the more and more she visited the club, the more incoherent her words became, but towards the end the writing had become stained and obscured by a deep brown stain, before it stopped altogether.

Thankfully, the details of where the building was was completely visible regardless of being the thoughts of a mad woman, and with a lot of thinking and staring at the town map, you’ve come to believe that you knew exactly where the mysterious club stood.

Only a street down from the restaurant you sit in now.

“Listen, I know it sounds ridiculous, and it probably is, but what’s the problem with just going to check right?” you scramble to pull the delicate book from the bag that sits in the stool beside you as your friend moves closer and closer to where you sit, laying it flat to show her the page you’ve had bookmarked since you read it, “and look at the name she puts, I think it’s the man who ran it and it’s a long shot, but maybe he’s still alive, or if not maybe some family is! Right here, Asm-“

“Don’t say it again,” she’s quick to interrupt, sliding her free hand to hover above the page you’ve glued your eyes to, “I don’t wanna hear any old man names, especially that one it gives me the ick.”

“It’s just a name,” murmur to yourself, but move to put the book away regardless, “but anyways, I have something that most people who were going to the club didn’t, knowledge of what exactly I’m walking into. I can just go and look around, worst things worst its still a freaky sex club and I just go home, but I’m willing to bet this lady was just off the shits and its just an empty building with some funky vintage beer bottles that you can add to your collection.”

You feel like you’ve won an award you weren’t even trying to compete for when she finally breaks out into a soft smile. The huff that leaves her chest is endeared, and you swear your heart began to vibrate when she reached to run a gentle thumb across the swell from your cheekbone.

“Fine, do what you want, but if the bottle isn’t completely intact when you find it I don’t want it.”

“So you’re not coming with me?” your head tilts to the side in confusion as with things of this nature in the past, she’s always followed along to ensure that you didn’t do anything to stupid. You never felt like the company was fully necessary, but it was appreciated regardless.

“Baby, as much as I’ve enjoyed your info dumping you’ve done tonight, the other person that was meant to clean with me had to leave early with a stomach bug so I’m busy pulling a clean up job that’s truly a job for about five people. But you seem to really believe in this little adventure of yours,” she leaves the rag in a damp mass next to the stack of dirty glasses beside you to take your hands in her’s, her slightly wrinkled fingers are still warm and the way they lace with yours makes you feel like nothing in the world could hurt you, “besides, you’re as smart as a whip and I know you have me on speed dial. I trust you.”

——

You no longer love the feeling of being trusted.

When your friend had given you the heartfelt speech only a little over half an hour ago, you felt like you had been put on a nice pedestal before she handed you a cookie with a pat on the head.

Now the “cookie” had turned to rot in your belly and you were faced with your own perfectly dreamed up reality.

It was already late by the time you had walked into the restaurant your friend works at, the sun already setting and the last few customers gathering their things and paying the bills, so once you got her stamp of approval and we’re heading out the door, the only light left was a bright and full moon, and flickering street lights.

You took your time walking in the direction that your book and personal sleuthing had pointed you in, the closer and closer you got to the one warehouse in town that seemed to never be bought back from the city, the knots in your belly pulled tighter and tighter.

But regardless of the almost painful twist in your gut, you surprisingly almost missed the building in its entirety.

It was as if your entire being blocked out the thumping bass that shook the sidewalk and the blinding red light that spilled from beneath the entrance and out the fractured windows. Your brain trying to force itself from entering the building you spent so many weeks trying to locate.

But the way your heart thuds in your chest when you stand in front of the entrance is something you couldn't even pretend you didn’t feel.

Your tongue digs into the side of your jaw, and you're confused at the feeling of warm tears burning at your waterlines. It’s exactly the way the owner of the journal described it in her manic writings, weirdly exact considering the other stories that surrounded it that dated it back far before you were even born.

You want to go in, the shaking steps your legs take is evident to that, but the tense muscles of your shoulders and stomach makes you hesitate and even grumble out into the air.

You almost jump out of your skin when you hear a shuffling to your side, your throat tensing when you look over, and are put slightly at ease when you see two men who you assume are acting as some type of security. You almost expect them to look up and ask you for some type of ID when you’re being very weird and blatant about your presence, but they seem too preoccupied with the dim screens of their phones and the way they lean forward at different times as if they’re waiting for someone.

Your hands are shaking slightly as they scramble down to grab for your bag, desperately looking for something to occupy you to walk by them without being even more weird, and when your fingers wrap around the flaking leather that binds the book, you grab it like a lifeline.

Your fingers flip through the pages with perfect muscle memory as you trip up the few steps that lead to the door, the tabs you carefully placed on the first page mentioning the club not even necessary with the way you could find the page even in your sleep.

You subconsciously hold your breath when you walk past the two men, almost as if the book is instead something wildly illegal and you're trying to sneak past your parents, and your washed with a temporary wave of relief when you pass through the doors without even a glance from the two.

Though the relief is stolen from your bones the second your feet touch the floor of the club.

It’s as if you’ve entered a place you’ve known your whole life, and from the amazing descriptions from the woman in the past, its not a completely surprising feeling.

But another part of you feels like this is the first time you’ve seen human beings in the flesh.

You can't help but to feel like you must look like an absolute nerd as you pull the book up to your face as you start to survey the club, but thankfully the book told at least one truth, and many of the club goers are too busy grouping and grinding against one another to even acknowledge your existence.

More truths come to light as you flick your eyes between the pages and the walls.

The bar is still tucked in the same far corner as she described, the flittering red and blue lights making it feel like a beacon of calm regardless of it being surrounded by drunken forms and its intimidatingly pretty bartender.

The dj is just a stoic and unimpressed looking as the one from so many years ago as he subconsciously bobs to the beat that he creates as he messes with the nobs and switches in front of him. He’s actually so similar, you wonder if you were right and the owner did have family floating around, and maybe the dj is one of them.

You stumble further into the room as you pick out small details she wrote about so lovingly. Your legs carry you to the back of the building as you smile at the sight of the wine stain the writer claimed to have created when her lover shocked her with a playful bite to the neck.

You almost feel like the universe is gifting you everything you could have possibly asked for when you see the loose board that she said a friend of hers would always trip over, and electricity zips up your spine in excitement when you spots the large painting that still hangs over the booth she claimed as her favorite, and she meticulously sketched out next to a paragraph about what she thought the artist was feeling.

All these things though, lead to the things that make your jaw hang slightly open.

The large balcony above you is larger than you ever imagined. The hundreds of bright red carnations she loved to sketch drip from the golden bars like water, and the black velvet curtains that hang over the room it leads to look heavy enough that they suffocate someone if they fell.

She seemed so intensely in love with the place you stand in, and the woman she met there, and those emotions were more than evident from the way the recreated the energy of the club with her words and art. Which only tips you towards the part that caught your attention perhaps the most.

It was exactly where it was meant to be. Just below the balcony that hangs high on the wall, gaping wide and dark like the mouth of a hungry monster coaxing you to enter its throat. The only issue that you can see being the hanging rope that blocks you from entering, but with only shining bright clasps holding it onto hooks on the walls, you don’t think you're above sneaking past it with little guilt.

The hall was the one thing that taunted you the most about the story the woman spun in the little worn book. The empty and dark vass space being something that coaxed her as well, but unfortunately for you, and maybe her as well, the parts of her journal that began the tale of her passing the temping rope, was the exact spot that was stained with bleeding ink and a suspicious brown color.

You survey the space around you, looking for anyone that could possibly be a worker or just a stickler for the rules, but seeing as everyone in your range of vision was attached by the mouth on someone’s neck or sloppy lips, you figured you were in the clear.

You drop the book gently back into your bag before you step slowly forward. Your heart feels like a wild animal trying to break out of the cavity of your chest, and it feels like your intestines have been successfully replaced with writhing worms that are desperately trying to reach your gut. You feel heat traveling up your chest and neck, and as you get within a few feet of what feels like the end of your life, your body begins to shake.

If you had the ability, you would have screamed, and if you had the strength, you would have fought back. But right when you're about to reach the threshold of the hall, and right when you feel like your legs are about to collapse from underneath you, strong fingers clasp over your trembling mouth, and an arm wraps tightly around your waist.

You’re turned faster than you can blink, the sudden motion making your brain swirl in your skull and making you go lightheaded and dizzy. And while keeping their hand clasped tightly over your mouth, the person that cages you in slams your back into the cold wall and knocks the air from your lungs.

The eyes that meet you are cat-like and dancing wildly, the grin the man you're faced with now smiles at you wickedly, and when your hands dart up until your nails dig harshly into the skin of his forearms, his smile only widens.

“Now,” he starts, the remains of a chuckle shaking his chest and his words slightly, “what exactly are you up to?”

You wait for a moment for him to release you from his hold, and when after a minute or so he still hasn’t budged, all you can offer in response is an annoyed arched brow.

“What?” he has the audacity to ask with taunting sincerity, “you thought you were smart enough to go wandering around, so you should be smart enough to figure out a way to talk around my hand right?”

It’s with immense irritation that you realize the two possibilities you’re faced with.

From the book you know about the weird concept of soul mates or whatever they were meant to be. The woman and the mysterious dancing girl she met so many years ago, and similar stories from the friends she met during her many visits to the club who had almost identical tales that she had to recount.

So with that information you know the possibility of this grinning man being your person is high, but your person or not, he was lighting a fire in your chest regardless.

You don’t think or even weigh the negatives before you send him a hard glare, and you show very little hesitation when you push forward to sink your teeth into the first finger you can catch.

His yelp is covered by the blaring music, but you hear it loud and clear before he reaches his free hand up to pinch at the bridge of your nose to pull you off like a rabid kitten.

“You know what I’m up to,” you huff petulantly as you lean back into the wall with your arms folding over your chest, “or at least I’d assume you’d be smart enough to use your context clues right?”

His lip curls when he glances back up to you as he pets at his now bruising finger, but even with the thin veil of irritation on his pretty features, you can tell he enjoys the sarcastic tone you’ve adopted.

“Yeah you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he bites back as he steps closer, crowding your personal space and pushing his chest tightly against yours, “you’re lucky I’m who caught you and not boss man.”

“Boss man?” you ask, trying not to show you excitement over him spilling the treasured information about the club that you want so desperately.

He doesn’t answer you verbally, and the sly wink he throws at you shocks you more than you would like to admit, but when he tilts his head back quickly you don’t hesitate to follow his line of sight to the edge of the balcony.

If it weren’t for the thin wires of light that create hatching over his eyes and mouth, you probably would have missed the masked figure that leers at you from over the railing. His hands and shoulders are covered by the masses of flowers, and the hollow black where he hides his eyes stares down at you two with a look that you assume is annoyance and possible curiosity.

The moment you two look up, the figure jerks back. Your eyes flick quickly between him and the man in front of you, and from the bratty grin he wears as he looks up, you feel as if the masked man didn’t have any intention at being caught.

You get lost slightly in staring at the man pressed against you, his teeth that look sharper in the red lighting and his eyes twinkle in mischief, and even with the obnoxious start to your interaction, you’d be lying to say you don’t find him beautiful.

It takes you a second to regain your senses, tearing your eyes away from the fascinating side profile of the man, but when you glance back up to the balcony, the mask man has retreated back.

“He doesn’t like much when we take people back there before they’re ready,” he attempts at an explanation as he turns back to you, and seems unfazed when he misses the mark and just confuses you further, “he let the two goons outside have a little exception, but that's because they don’t know how to go easy y‘know.”

“No,” you shake your head at him with a quiet scoff, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you know more than you think,” his voice drops as he speaks now, and as he speaks he reaches out his hand to hold himself propped against the wall next to your head while his other hand moves to run gently up the side of your neck, “I mean, you know who I am at least right?”

“I have an idea,” you admit with a huff, but you also admit to yourself that this probably means you won't be getting into the hall. You do mentally jot that down as a loss, but decide to take the man pressed against you as a win and you reach to grab at his shirt in retaliation, “but you could at least give me a name to work with.”

“Hm, I didn’t expect you to be one for such formalities,” his head tilts in amusement at his own words, and the action nudges the tip of his nose into yours and makes your heart flutter up into your throat, “but you might as well know the name of the man you’ll be destined to fall in love with.”

You roll your eyes hard enough for them to start to ache, and he quietly laughs and moves to press his nose into the soft flesh of your cheek as he feeds off your annoyance.

“Ten,” he answers quietly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he moves to whisper the syllable in your ear, and you never thought that with just one word he’d have a shiver rushing up your spine.

You respond quietly with your name, but the word comes out strained and rushed when he begins to nibble on the lobe of your ear and pushes his knee harshly between your thighs.

Both your hands now hold tightly onto the sides of his shirt, and when his lips move to trail against the side of your neck that isn't enveloped by his hand, you tug roughly at the fabric and your back arches slightly away from the wall.

His tongue is hot when he lays it flat on the center of your throat, and when he swipes it up until it flicks against the end of your chin, you can't help but cringe slightly at the feeling regardless of the way it makes heat pool in between your thighs.

The wicked grin on his face never falters, it only grows wider and more hungry when your eyes meet again, and with his staring so deep that you fear he may be collecting every ounce of your soul, you two have a silent agreement on the unnatural waves of electricity that connect you.

When his lips finally land on yours, it's the roughest and clumsiest kiss you’ve experienced. Both of you fight each other with hungry and eager tongues and the way your teeth gently knock together has your skull rattling in a way that, if you weren’t so hell bent of devouring each other whole, you’d probably have to take a breather.

Your hands reluctantly release the wrinkled fabric of his shirt, and in a desperate attempt to stay occupied, they shoot up the tangle tightly into his hair. You admit, you probably tug harsher on the strands than you probably should, but the groans he pours into your mouth, and the way his hips rock roughly into yours, has you tugging again and again.

He presses you further and further into the wall, and without thinking your hips begin to kick and tilt down until you're grinding harshly and sloppily against his tense thigh.

You let out a quiet whine that's muffled and garbled by his moving at the feeling of him pressing his thumb gently into the dip beneath your jaw, and pressing into your jugular. The sound is followed almost immediately by a small yelp when he latches his teeth to your bottom lip and gives you a stinging bite.

You’re frustrated almost immediately with the lack of friction you can feel from the layers of clothing between you, and now the slight shooting pain from the tensing skin between his teeth, you can feel the impatience in your belly crawling up and invading your chest and throat.

He’s quick to pull away when you retaliate with your own nipping bite to his top lip, your teeth still sinking down when he does and making his sting probably just as much as yours. And when he eyes you as his eyelids droop down into an accusatory squint, you assume he’s not used to getting a taste of his own medicine.

He mutters something to himself about your feistiness, and a sly comment about how he shouldn’t be surprised as he was expecting to get a handful, but he gives you no time to make a snide comment or even question about any of the words, before his fingers are closing firmly but loosely around your neck.

He keeps you rooted in the spot that you stand, the only change in your posture he allows is pulling you slightly away from the wall, just wide enough for him to slink behind you and tug you roughly back into his chest.

“You like poking around into business that isn’t yours?” he asks rhetorically as his free hand reaches around your shoulder to push past the neckline of your shirt, and right as he pressed down the center of your chest and his fingers brush the bottom of your rib cage, his fingers curl and he starts to drag his blunt nails up your sternum as he continues, “need to know and see every single little thing right? So… what’s the harm of being on the other side of it for once?”

“What are you on about?” you as sharply as you try to turn your face towards him the best you can, but his hand tilts under the bottom of your chin until your head is forced to lean on his shoulder and he’s nothing but thrilled at the way it makes you struggle.

“To be seen, or not?” he presses his lips back against the shell of your ear, and the way he whispers roughly makes you shiver again as your thighs press tightly together, “you know what I mean, and you know the answer I want, but its all up to you in the end.”

The electric and slightly humiliating buzz of being seen in a mass of bodies committing the same sins as you was something the woman in the book went on about frequently. She mentioned that there were a few times where she and her lover snuck off to get alone time of course, but the almost blinding pleasure that came from being worshiped by not only one person, but the eyes of an entire room, was addictive. And you wanted just a taste.

You grumble in response, the idea of admitting to the already confident man that you did indeed wanted the same amount of attention as he did made your chest burn even more than it already was, and you’d rather take your chance with his terrifying looking boss than to give him the satisfaction of your verbal confession.

He seems unaffected by your nonverbal confirmation, the way you press into him as his hand wraps around your waist again and creeps down to the button of your shorts, and your own hand grabbing onto the sleeve of his rolled up long sleeve shirt to guide him to undo the clasp or just dip below the waistband, is enough of an answer for him to know.

He chooses to pop the button, and once he has the zipper pulled down enough that he can work with, he begins to shove the worn denim down your hips along with your underwear until they are wrapped around your knees and he can push his fingers roughly between your thighs.

You try to clear the fog that he creates in your mind from his teasing fingers long enough to reach your free hand back to give the same treatment to the dark jeans that wrap tightly around his hips and thighs in a way that had you mentally drooling from the moment you got to get a full look at him, after he ambushed you of course.

You’re not sure how he undid your shorts so quickly without being able to see, but as you fumble and scratch your nails against the sensitive skin of his hip, you give yourself the benefit of the doubt seeing as your trying to work while his middle and ring fingers tease over your entrance and the heel of his hand presses clumsily into your neglected clit.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t give you any benefit of the doubt. He at least has the decency to press his lips across your cheekbone and temple to muffle his quiet laughs, but to make your task even more difficult, his fingers shallowly curl up into you just enough to make you twist and curl.

Once the button of his jeans finally releases, you instinctively let out a huff and sink your shoulders back into his chest as you reach past the fabric to wrap your hand around his stiff length and pull it from the confines until you can press it against his lower belly. And you get just one tally on your side of the boards you’ve created in your mind when his amused laughs devolves into pleased grunts and tilting hips.

“Please,” you start quietly, trying to rock more against the parts of his hand that press against you while running your palm up and down the length of him and smearing him with his own pre come, “I can tell you’re just as impatient as me.”

He swears in your ear, using his hold on you with both hands to shift your hips up and pull you closer before he clears his throat to speak, “well could you imagine, looks like we are a match made in heaven.”

“More like hell,” you retaliate, digging the heel of your own palm into the skin just below the tip of him to egg him on even further, “but either way, that's the point isn't it?”

“I should have expected you to be just a little bit of a smart ass,” he mutters a half hearted complaint, but he only contradicts his own words when he pushes your hips away enough for you to guide him between your thighs and to glide against the arousal that spilled from your body and his hands spread messy along any available inch of skin.

He thrusts smoothly against your back a few times, bringing his arm down to guide him towards your entrance painfully slow, but when you let out a gravely moan of his name, he cant deny himself for any longer, and he’s sinking into you until your eyes start to gently flutter.

Once he’s seated inside you, his hand tenses slightly tighter around your neck, and when you both start pushing towards each other to meet in the middle of your thrusts, his other hand takes the opportunity to map any inch of you he can reach.

He gropes almost painfully at your chest, traveling over your stomach and up your shirt to dig his fingers into your skin until you swear he’s tattooed his finger prints onto you, all while nipping and lapping at the skin of your jaw and neck.

No one immediately in front of you is watching, they’re all in their own worlds of flesh and saliva, but you can still feel eyes of someone on you. His first and foremost as they burn holes into the side of your skull and glance to watch where you push back against him desperately, but there’s another feeling you get of being seen and studied thats so intense that you’re a little shocked when you chance a glance up and see that whoever the masked person was from earlier wasn’t there at all.

So no, you have no idea who, or what is watching you right now, but you can feel the unusual heat it stirs in you as your body flutters around him as he fucks you sloppily. You feel a deeper relation to the woman that owned the book that still rests in the bag that feel unceremoniously from your shoulder when he first put his hands on you, and you hope that maybe you’ll eventually slip into the life of bliss that she meticulously wrote about and possibly learn what happened that demolished the stories that lived in the back of the journal.

You could feel the pleasure crawling up your spine like a monster out creature, your panting breaths tipping the man that works you over off to this even though you’re sure he was already aware before you were, and you think your legs are back to the edge of collapsing when his creeping fingers dance along the expanse of your stomach to find their place back between your thighs.

Your back stiffens at the first touch of his rolling finger on your clit, and your head tilts even farther back onto his shoulder than he already had it. He doesn’t seem interested in coaxing you to your finish slowly, at a pace that would have mercy on your melting mind and shaking form, but he instead abuses your clit until your whimpering out and stumbling and stepping slightly on his toes.

You feel like you’re waiting out the suspense of a horror film that’s score is too obvious to the incoming jump scare. You tilt your neck in a way that seems normal to him, but in reality your trying to feel the many rings that decorate his fingers with the delicate skin of your throat to test if any of them could possibly be sharp enough to cut you and draw blood. You know what blood means to him, and you know it's something he’ll have to do soon if he truly can feel how close you are to the edge.

You feel like you’re floundering a bit, confused from the possible deviation from the story you’ve committed to memory. Was there any chance in this world that this wasn’t your person?

You push this thought away as soon as your panicked mind can construct it though, because there’s no way the spell that it feels has been placed on you would be there if that was the truth, and your body is heated almost like a furnace, but you suddenly love the idea of being burned by him.

You pull in a gasping breath of air that pierces through the music and grunting that rattles in your ears, the taste of your orgasms dancing on the back of your tongue and your back arching so harshly you fear that one of your muscles might seize up and cramp. And right when you feel his hips start to stutter in tandem with yours, and when you’re only seconds from blabbering out mixed syllables that you could only hope would come out as a coherent question, you feel it.

His teeth latch onto you again, his canines not sharp enough to make a clean cut as they dig into the muscle of your shoulder, but his determination is strong enough.

It burns painfully, and makes hot tears well up in your eyes, but almost embarrassingly, is the exact thing that pushes you scrambling over the edge.

You feel like it hurts to breathe, your lungs so focused on letting out puffs of air and broken moans that they can't seem to remember how to bring oxygen in, and your eyes roll for a completely new reason for the man and much more painfully.

It’s when you feel him start to suck the rushing blood from your newly christened wound that you also feel the rumble of his groans against your skin and feel him start to come inside of you. His fist tightens again around your neck as he pushes aftershocks through your nerves with his own orgasm, and with flying hands you grab at both of his wrists, not to ask in any way for him to ease up, but from a sudden wash and need to hold onto him possibly until you die.

He lets you collapse to the floor once he pulls out, but he follows your sinking form and sits alongside you and partially underneath you as you both try to catch your breath.

The club scene in front of you is now blurs of flashing lights and abstract writhing forms, and if it wasn’t for the zaps of energy you feel from every brush of his finger tips, your brain would probably be too muddled to register him fixing both your clothes and his.

You become just slightly more aware when he shifts your body against him enough to grab at the strap of your bag with the heel of his shoe, and you try to sit up faster than necessary and give yourself a small head rush when he pulls it to himself and flips it open.

“You seemed a little weirdly unaffected by the whole,” he flails his hands in front of you for a second as he speaks, and your lagging mind takes a second to catch up with his attempts at implication, “not the fucking part clearly,” he teases, “but the leading up to it. The meeting part and all.”

“I know what this place is,” you admit, and if your legs had gained just a bit more strength you probably would have stood and requested a glass of water just from how gravely your voice had become, “I knew I was probably going to run into you.”

“But you weren’t looking for me,” he tries, and fails, at hiding the slight edge of offense his voice shows, “if you knew I was here why didn’t you look for me?”

“I didn’t worry about it,” you say, warming up a bit again in the fear that it may have come off slightly rude, “or, like, I mean I knew you’d be able to find me easier than I could find you. I was more interested in finding answers.”

“Answers to what? You said you knew this place, or at least what it is?”

“Well I only know the basics,” you shift in his hold, knocking his hands away as they sift through your bag, and grabbing blindly until you can pull out the book, “I found this journal and it-“

“A journal?” he asks in a volume that could have been obnoxiously loud if it weren’t for the thumping bass that shook the floor beneath you, and pulls the small book from your hands.

“It was written by a woman who came here a long time ago,” you explain, deciding to not take offense to his rough and grabbing hands, “I found it and tracked the club down, I needed to see if it was real.”

“Oh it's real alright,” he laughs as he starts to flip through the pages, stopping for a moment to smile at a simple sketch she had done of a cat that she said lived in the back alley, “hey wait I think I know this name, and these people.”

“What are you on about?” you ask with a scoff as you tug the book from his grubby fingers, “you can’t possibly know these people, this was written in like the fifties. Stop pulling my leg.”

“Oh I see,” he smacks your thigh playfully as he leans over your shoulder to glance at the first page that mentioned anything about the date, the ink clear enough to read 1953 in the swirling handwriting, “you think you know everything.”

“I do know everything, fuck you,” you glare playfully at him over your shoulder, “or I would know, if you’d let me go into that weirdo hall.”

“No hall, for now at least,” he sighs, the gears in his head turning as he thinks of the next thing to say, “but you know, time doesn’t exist the same way here, the woman who wrote this probably didn’t know that at the time, so I’m not surprised you don’t either.”

“What do you mean time doesn’t exist?” you look at him as if he’s grown a second head, but do you really have the nerve to question him like that? Considering that entire concept of the club you are very aware of its existence now, a time situation shouldn’t be the most shocking should it?

“Well, it's hard to explai-“

“Then don’t explain it,” you almost jump fully out of his lap at the deep voice that rattles above you, and both him and you look up at the figure that looms over you now.

The man is tall, his black hoodie looking weird in contrast to the clothes of the other club goers, and with a squinting observation and a familiar and annoyed sigh from the man seated behind you, you realize you’re being stared down by the mysterious entity that is the DJ, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket in annoyance.

“Huh?” Ten lets out more in the form of a noise than a word, as his arms wind tightly around your form.

“I said don’t explain shit,” the man begins to tap his foot in irritation as he speaks, and you wonder if he’s aware that he’s in rhythm with the song that surrounds you, “you need to chill out with the loose tongue, its bad enough we have the big mouths outside.”

“I wasn’t gonna go that far,” Ten sounds reminiscent of a scolded toddler, and considering the man is hindering you from getting information that you wanted so badly, you can feel yourself mirroring the pout he wears, “I know what I’m doing alright man? Why are you over here anyways, shouldn’t you be at your little booth minding your business.”

“No one minds their business over at that booth, and you should know that better than anyone pervert,” the words are sharp, but the curl to his lips and the underlying playfulness to his tone tells you the likeliness of them being friends is high, “anyways, I know we don’t follow any regulations or anything here, but I’m still gonna take a fuckin’ break or two.”

“Well breaks over,” Ten reaches out a hand to playfully swat the man away, “I didn’t wait this long for you to just interrupt my bonding time with my person alright?”

“Alright, alright,” he finally starts to shuffle away, throwing one last comment about Ten being bitter his person showed up first over his shoulder with a grin.

“What a loser,” Ten starts, looking at you playfully and rolling his eyes, “too bad he’s like my best friend or whatever.”

“You seem to have a lot of fun around here don’t you?” you take a shot at voicing your observations, your heart fluttering in a completely new way at the warm smile he shoots you.

“Just wait a see, my love. Just wait and see.”

#nct smut #ten smut #chittaphon smut #nct imagine #nct series #nct fic #ten imagines #ten oneshot #nct oneshot #kpop smut #wayv smut #wayv imagine #wayv oneshot

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daughterofhel · 3 years

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My icon died last night.

The little black and white cat, Auk (or-ick). A silly name from a badly remembered name from my childhood.

He was pretty much deaf; car got him.

I haven’t seen him since I left Texas, as I moved for a year to VA before finally moving to be with my wife in Vento. One of my guy friends family took him in on their ranch.

It was fitting; I did get Auk from a ranch. He was used to it, loved it even. And this was without the competition of an unhealthy amount of breeding stays like the ones I grabbed him and Ivy up from. I could only take two, my friend the same.

Funny. I had originally gone there to see the birth of a colt only to leave with a cat. Return the next day and get one more, a friend for my tiny runt of a thing.

And who should but all demand it be him to leave with me but Auk? The friendliest of cats that I’ve ever had the pleasure to be around. He also thwarted my attempts at having two girl cats. He was insistent to leave with me and you don’t argue when you’re chosen you know?

I won’t detail the tears following or the rough road and chaos that went on, but many double shifts back to back to back endlessly, a medicated clumsy grandmother with rapidly failing health, and complex roommate situations, I just wasn’t able to provide the needed time and care for my cats.

I cried the entire 45 minute drive to my buddys property when he said he could take them in. I had to pull over twice. They also cried the entire time, being afraid of the car, which made it harder. My buddy, He was the same guy who rescued a big pup clearly abandoned some years back. I had helped train him to not jump on people and other stuff. His folks also owned a longhorn ranch, lots and lots of space.

Those cats deserved better and this was a familiar element, now neutered, vaccinated, and with no stray competition and the dog was so careful. But god. I never wanted to say goodbye to my cats. It didn’t matter though, what I wanted; they needed care and time I wasn’t able to keep providing.

So I dropped them off. As expected, Ivy kept close but never got too close to the family. She simply doesn’t trust; I’ve no idea why such a little thing bonded instantly with me and remained quite the fixed cuddle bug. But she had. I felt worse about it with her than Auk if I’m to be honest.

Auk loved attention. Loved fetch. Belly rubs. This cat was a classic dog and a huge whore for attention. XD He essentially made himself at home and lavished any and all attention, to which my buddies mother instantly fell for this fuzzy dorks charms. He has been well cared for.

I know younger me could’ve and should’ve done better when I got these cats. Mind you, I’ve been gone for over 10 years now, so it has been quite some time. I’m doing what I wish I could have done for my cats then with the two rescues we got last year here.

I was young and working so many hours for nearly no profit after stuff was paid, even living at home and with roommates. I couldn’t afford the extra vet fees I needed or the fanciest of foods or any of that. I loved them, and I felt them being with me instead of the half starving state they were in from constantly competing with so many other cats, was still a better option for them. I still was at least able to do some of the important visits for them.

I cleared their fleas and earmites. I never did get rid of Ivys worms, though I desperately tried. I tried so many ways to get this pill into that cat. Even crushed into wet food. Friends helping to wrap and hold her to make her swallow. All the tricks we found, failed. She just. She wouldn’t take it. And I didn’t have the cash to go every single day and time she needed a dose to a pet clinic. I had checked more than once. It was so much money.

Older, better situated now.. I’ve been able to do right by the cats, Nyx and Tivali, that I have now.

We even saved Nyx’s eye. We have a system to give her her seizure medicine every 12 hours. They’re both fully up to date with their shots and are fixed. Ears totally clean. Monthly newly added anti flea tick collars.

The best food we can reasonably find at the local pet shop; their pelts are beautiful, soft, shiny, and they never smell.

We’ve even found a biodegradable corn based litter we can flush which has been the greatest find.

We get semi regular check ups on our girls and they’re doing just fine now. I’m still proud about saving Nyx’s eye. It was a tedious ordeal. 3-4 times a day we had to clean and medicate a cats eye. We got good at it even if she wasn’t fond of it. Thankfully the vitamins they required were like treats. Even the antibiotics from the colds they had from the shelter.

I miss Auk. And Ivy. And I wish I could’ve not only given them the life I’ve given my current cats now, (I’ve constructed basket beds, hammocks, a whole canopy jungle gym and rope bridge to boot for them with my wife!), but I wish I could have been the one to have them in my life still. I know it was not possible. It wouldn’t have been possible.

But I think of them. A lot. And I knew it was inevitable. Auk would’ve been well over 13 or so years by now. A little old but could’ve lived longer yet for sure. My buddy didn’t mention he has gone deaf. Of course he rarely goes home himself; I don’t blame him. Life’s complicated.

I have mourned these two cats multiple times now. So I’m not thrown into tears upon this news, I’ve cried plenty over the years already. But I’m still sad to hear that fuzzy delight has passed on. I won’t ask, but I hope, and believe, the accident was a quick end for such a friendly guy.

I’ll mourn him eventually in full. I know I will. But considering this is the fourth major bad news I’ve gotten in less than a month and most of it a week, I thought to write about it. If only to keep sane.

May I not receive the same news of my grandmother or my sister who both remain in the hospital.

And god. May my mother stop forcing me to recall and talk about our shared trauma under my father and just keep me up to date on my families health. I don’t want to be crushed under this suffocating vice on my neck that makes me hesitate to call and see my family. I know she needs to vent. And god. I try to let her. I do. I try to be kind; she needs it.

But it isn’t the time and place when I’m trying to figure out if my grandmother is dying or getting better. I shouldn’t have to receive that confirmation, be granted a brief video called hello and check in, with the price of an hour long dredge through a past I personally have gone to two different types of therapy through to try and cope with. Which, only to some degree, have helped.

One of the last longer calls we had she all but said she hoped her theories on my father possible molesting me were true, so, you know, that would be one more trauma we had in common. She went on and on, even trying to provide loose evidence to her theory. Troubling sentences I would say in my rare visits. Etc. She just. Wouldn’t. Stop. And that was after an hour of recalling how terrible her life was with my father and the abuse, the screaming, the terror, the hiding, the injuries, all of it. As if I wasn’t left to live my life with this very man she said her three years with ruined her more than all her past shit combined.

She assured me she was a good mother who tried. And honestly. No. But I do believe she tried. But she was already weak emotionally and mentally and my father wrecked what was left. She left me sometimes for a couple days lock in that house when I was in diapers. You don’t forget that shit. I’m still scared of the dark. I can’t reason with myself on it. But being mad about all of it doesn’t change anything and would hurt a woman already broken. Why would I do that.

Still. It bothers me. So fucking much. But she’s such a fragile person in a fragile emotional state with everything else on top. She’s been heavily depressed for many many years and it’s a bunch of other stuff that spirals and honestly, at this point, she’s toxic even to herself. I’ve tried working on it with her but it matters not if she’s not willing to work on it too. I don’t know my mother besides her many traumas. We’ve been separated and estranged for most of my life. Unless I was physically able to actually be there and provide a use.

But that’s par for the course; no one will have you around if you’re unable to provide something for it. My wife’s the first person who genuinely seems to enjoy having me around just because and wants nothing more. I do stuff of course; but with her I am not afraid a slip up could mean everything it taken away and lost. I can forget the dishes once or had a bad mental health day and stay in bed without it having catastrophic consequences. She’s such a wonderful kind woman; I cannot help stressing over how to repay her.

I try and I’ve expressed my distraught on the topic and though she always seems baffled and confused about my insistence that I should be doing far more, that lass doesn’t agree at all. It’s her parents home so I am not able to freely run the house as I would on our own, as I’m able and have in many places, so I’m often less useful with the restrictions. She’s also use to the flow and swing of things and has things half done before it’s being asked.

Our own place will make life smoother and calmer for both of us; most importantly her. I’ve watched this family, sweet, but absolutely tone deaf to how many and often their demands are tossed to her. All the other kids moved out with partners. Hell, the oldest s child basically lives here. Our own hurdle with raising a kid who we don’t have the final say on any single thing. His grandparents are enablers cuz they don’t want to hear any loud noises, no matter what. And that causes strain when the kid can and does get anything and everything as long as he kicks up a fit. And he sure as hell does. There are days it’s so bad my wife’s in tears. And that pisses me off. The kids a good person, but the fact no one will actually parent and draw definite lines and be firm with No’s can also make him horrible too.

I’ve to deal with the chess match that is my father. I often call him my own personal Devil. He kind of is. But one I’m familiar enough with at this point in my life. I know where and when to cut my losses, where to step around, when I need to swallow my pride or the easily seen through lies, and nod my head. If he was all terrible, I could have cut him from my life. But no one ever really is. And I do know I owe it to the man; he has helped tremendously in my life as much as he’s been a big problem of it. I know his biggest fear is to be alone and forgotten. I wouldn’t do that, not even to the devil.

I need some bland news. Not thrilling. Not depressing. Just some ‘hey that happened’ ‘oh cool.’ Kind of news. Just a small reprieve.

Im. Scared. Of what’s next.

I. Know that things are teetering dangerously into a very very tragic terrible story on my mothers end. I know her husbands already super suicidal. My half brothers severely autistic, non verbal, among a few other things and will require his whole life to have someone be there for him. He’s not stupid, and I hate when people treat him as so, but he is absolutely unable to care for himself. He doesn’t have the right motorskills even, though we’ve gone to many different places to try and help him find ways to do actions in his own way that still get the same result. I admire how he’s such a positive little man, generally not just happy, but delighted. I aspire to look at the world like he does. He reminds me to try. I do love that about him.

He is, however, a Big boy, 15 now, and growing. He’s also very strong now. My mother is getting to an age where his, as well call em happy slaps, are really hurting her. He is generally good about slapping your hands and not your back if you provide them. But when he is upset he is a shover; one bad fall could really cause a lot of chaos for my mother with her health. The husband spends most of his time locked in his room.

My half sister is epileptic. They have done tests for years and can’t figure out all her triggers or the whys. They just sometimes stop for a long time then suddenly happen. She’s 16, turning 17 soon. And I don’t even know if she’s going to be, since my mother won’t let me know. And there are large gaps from my sister being on tech due to concerns of what triggered her seizure this time so she’s often removed from electronic devices for a time.

When I had turned 21, my mother and her husband tried to have me sign a paper to become legal guardian of my half siblings, should something happen to them, so the kids didn’t get separated.

At that time, I was still taking care of my fathers mother along with working at a shit job, and had a house full of temporary roommates who I had offered rooms to as a sort of safe house for them. I have a knack for finding people from broken homes, what can I say? With the house my father and I built, we had space, so I used it. I was able to help the girls get out of toxic places, get on their feet, and move on. Not all of them always. But it did generally work out. One has a boyfriend who was growing worse to her on top of getting more and more into hard drugs while also she dealing with an abusive aunt who got worse once her mother died of cancer. So she was stuck with the terrible boyfriend. I had her stay with me as soon as I heard.

Another was complicated, but generally revolved around the alcoholic mother and the many, shady, men in and out of the house. The dangers of that alone were.. problematic without the friend also being suicidal and not taken seriously. I’ve stayed many times with her to just hang out, clean, cook, or even read a book cuz she just wanted to hear someone talking and such. You know? Until eventually I had her move in with me too.

Another’s mothers died of a cancer and dad an alcoholic; not abusive, he just became childlike and super forgetful. To a hurtful degree in his totally dependent state, whenever he was home. Plus their whole little trailer smelled of piss. And her boyfriend (they’re married with kids and happy now) was in jail. He had a bad past but had cleaned up his act quite well, but. Well that’s complicated. We all know that the police don’t squint at details of any issue if the accused has a problematic past.

I had two different girls with trouble at home who were being used by their family to constantly work, clean, and pay for everything.

I had an ex and her girlfriend with problematic homophobic parents who were terrible and semi violent so I had them stay with us so they could be together somewhere safer.

I did not. At all. Have the assured means to also be a parent of ten children with very different needs nor any medical benefits to help out with.

I also knew, that, with how my mothers husband was, if he had some guarantees for his children’s safety, he would likely end his life if he could. He’s been so close so many times. If signed this paper, he would have the last big most important concern that’s kept him from.. I just. I didn’t want him to do it. I selfishly didn’t want to be responsible for my siblings that would take away any bit of time I had for myself away. If anything happened, I would not abandon and forget my siblings. That’s absurd. But my mother implied heavily she wanted to be sure of that. And thus this paper.

I was struggling to find aid for college so I could go to school (never got to, by the way. Minus two classes in total. Aced them both, but it doesn’t matter. Credits in the wind). I was already dealing with my grandmother. The girls I chose to help. My shit job. My fathers temper and his horrible horrible ‘on again off again’ girlfriend. The chaos that alone committed.

I was busy providing a safe space in my home and making sure it stayed that way for the rare times trouble makers made the mistake of stepping up to my door to try and harass my girls.

I often worked 10 days in a row before a day off. Many of those days often had double shifts which were 16 hours. Sometimes I got an hour nap on the double shifts.

I just couldn’t do it.

And now. I remember something that came to mind back then that comes back to mind now. My moms husband adores my grandma. She’s been better to him than his own mother. She’s dying. He’s not taking it well and his mental health has always been pretty low and in the last couple years, already dangerously rock bottom. I’ll admit, same.

His daughter is now in the hospital. My brother is smart but there are some things we can’t really explain for him to get. He understands something is wrong but not sure what and it upsets him. He doesn’t like change and gets super fussy for it. Which can be taxing and hours and days and weeks of it. Grandmas been in the hospital for a couple more or more now. She coded a few days ago but they got her back.

If grandma dies. If something happens to my sister…

God. I don’t see that man sticking around.

And with my mom isolated. A lot of it her doing with her own family but also a good part of it being dumb petty bs of other folks that have no reason to behave like that (a whole drama I don’t have the energy to keep up with..). I just.

I see it as a domino effect of terrible terrible events I don’t want to write.

My mothers side im not very close to. I don’t blame my cousins, we were kids ajd our meetings were brief as they were. But the adults kept their distance with me. No one expected me to survive and decided it was easier to not get attached. To not get involved with me, and by extension, the devil himself, my father. So I never got the chance to know that family. Even when I tried.

So the only family I do have some ties to ajd know, is in a hospital bed, or on my dads side, and they’re dying to. And I get it… that at a certain age in life, many of the people around you start to. It’s just life. Ajd it sucks. And I miss having a best friend. I miss having friends who just seem to like to have me around. Want to have me around.

And I wonder if the friends I thought I made with my roommates were just because I provided something for them. Sure we laughed a lot, we cried over shared traumas, celebrated holidays together so as to not be alone.

But not a one speaks to me now. And hey. That’s also life. But it makes me feel pretty shitty; every where I look in the past, I can’t see any relationship, family, partner, friendship, that ever had me around unless I was providing services they wanted and needed. And I don’t mean the natural give and take.

I’m aware that I’m not the friend folks have around. I’m a fun distraction at best and have been told and reminded as such. I feel like shit cuz my wife’s wonderful and the best person in my life, and yet I still mourn having close friends to hang with. I miss gaming together the most. Or the bullshitting. Sharing food.

I’m not a nice person. I’m working on it. I am. I’ve also, for years, been working on my own personal problems so as to not bring them into even conversations. I don’t know what I am doing wrong but I just.. can’t seem to keep anyone around. And frankly.

I find myself crying about it a lot with no idea what to do.

And. I’m burnt out.

I don’t want to make friends anymore. And yet I still crave it. Which sucks. I can’t stop seeming to want that. And I keep trying. And trying.

I’m trying to accept and be happy with any bit of time I get from the few friends who talk to me. I try to take my chances where I can to hang out (online, as they’re all distance by now), cuz I know it’s a short window and I’ll be lucky to get a next time in the near future.

Online is harder to provide a use, and once the ‘honeymoon phase’ of the friendship winds down, some drop off the map entirely. A few abruptly. And I just. That’s fucked me ho a ton. I can’t even express how many hours I stay sitting. Thinking. Unable to understand what I am not doing or what I am.

It’s a pity party. I know. But it’s fine. I’m still the only one at it and though I’m quite forward even with nerves eating away at me, I still just don’t know how to keep anyone in my life.

It’s taken almost 6 years for me to relax enough to believe my wife will, in fact, stick around.

But at this point in time, I’ve realized, on a note I just keep getting really sad over, that the bits of friendship I’ll get to experience with people, will be brief, snippets, and frankly, only if I am providing something they’re not getting.

I’m essentially the magazine next to the toilet when you have a bad bad stomach bug and your phones dead.

Man’s that’s.. probably my own doing. I know I’m a lot of woe is me in here. And it’s a post talking to me, so I’m indulging in it. I absolutely can’t out loud or in life. I’m working on just.. trying to feel instead of ignoring it. Per my therapists suggestions. So I feel fucking overwhelmed, sad, and alone. Isolated. Heavily.

Ignorance is bliss for real. I wish I wasn’t so aware that I was the friend you go to when all options are down and you’re bored. When you are in a bind and need a safe spot (I don’t mind that one but it does suck that it’s the only time some folks pop back in or up). That if I’m not working then no one even has a small little want to just say hi. I wish I had people who just wanted to say hi because they just.. missed me? I gues?

I wish I knew how to be better as a person and a friend. I thought I was making strides on that. I really had. And yet.

Here I am. Just.

Bitching to the void. Becuase my wife doesn’t need me to add more to her life with her father (finally back from the hospital after surgery) and his health concerned along with everyone else’s and the own sets of ordeals here. I don’t need her to fret over me.

She’s needed distraction and I’ve left her alone for a couple weeks now to her drawing. Probably one of the best things I did do for her was clean up a space for a literal drawing room for her. She’s happier for it. People compliment her art and she rather enjoys the well deserved attention.

I personally would love to have her around more. But I’m having a lot of bad shit days. Weeks at this point. And I’m using my energy to be useful in setting the table or doing the dishes, the cats, playing with the nephew, etc.

All I want to do is sleep.

Frankly. I’m tired of waking up.

But for her. I will.

#void screaming #ignore

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popculture-etc · 3 years

Text

Kenny Rogers, Adam Schlesinger,...coping with 2020

Worst year ever although there were some good.

It’s too early yet for me to do a quick look back on what 2020 is like here as we’re only going to be in the first of December tomorrow (it’s Nov 30 here) but I just have to as two losses this year broke me. Kind of, well, especially the second one.

You see, before East Asian pop, Jpop and Kpop, Western pop culture was my thing. It still is and this pandemic has made me go back to that recently starting with...the Beach Boys (their westcoast sound caught me, hook, line, and sinker and I wasn’t very fond of the Beatles to begin with...to be completely honest) I’m currently chillin’ to right now, as I write this post. I’m really weak to the westcoast sound. Beach sound/s in general, rather. I’m a big fan of the beach where nature goes, for one. Since some time, a few years ago, deep chill and tropical house music has been my go-to when I want to chill or calm myself down after an outburst of sorts and I put them on when I just feel meh, especially on Fridays. When I dream of being by the sea, the beach or in some island on my own. I live in a country with a lot of beaches and the Visayas here is basically island region Philippines, lol. Like most people, I listen to music according to mood just like the way I dress according to mood. And...it’s no wonder, really that I’m so into the Beach Boys now. RIP the Beatles. My dad played some songs of theirs on the guitar or so but the hold they have on me waned later on and I just think now how overrated they were back then. They did have good songs but when talking of good music, as in really good that it retains the same sound style or so, it’s the Beach Boys for me. Brian Wilson is the man despite his issues and personal struggles.

Anyway, we’re going quickly off tangent. I’ll save the Beach Boys fangirling for another day. lol.

I grew up with western pop culture rife all around me thanks to my American, cowboy country and folk music listening dad, my Carpenters-loving mom and then, college-aged aunts who’d made me see the Titanic film more than my fingers could count---the third is clearly an exaggeration but well...some of it is true and they were why I got into American films like Pretty Woman (we have this in good ol’ VHS in our family home, my grandparents’ in Jasaan), Mannequin, Ghost etc. in the late 80s, coming into the early 90s. So, tired of all the kdrama and uninteresting kvariety shows on tvn and the rebranded local channel, Kapamilya (long story for what we formerly know as ABS-CBN, the nation’s a mess right now and our gov’t’s just...ick!), I’d retreated to my cave and got into old tv shows I’d watched as a kid instead like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed and it’s been, well, moving on from there. I’m checking out Twin Peaks later. I’ve been watching old Hollywood films too. Some revisits on this include: Casablanca, Gone With The Wind, and especially A Streetcar Named Desire will always and forever be my favorite. Very young and cute and good looking Marlon Brando, ugh. I have some others in the stash which include Bonnie and Clyde I’ll be getting into much, much later, maybe over the weekends and holidays. In sum, I have a long history with western pop culture, especially America’s, more than I have with Japan’s and South Korea’s. The latter being very, very recent so it doesn’t really compare as much.

Let’s get right down to it...

So 2020 had us lose Kenny Rogers to natural causes on March 20 in a hospice and after, Adam Schlesinger to COVID 19 complications on April 1. I know the latter as the songwriter of The Wonders’ That Thing You Do from the film sharing the same song title. I know Kenny Rogers well because my dad listens to him over and over in the car. In pretty much the same way, I know the words to Islands in the Stream by heart and I accept and revere it as one of the best, if not THE BEST country-pop duet songs of all time between Kenny and Dolly Parton...as far as country and pop music in the US of A’re concerned, of course. Miley and Shawn Mendez’s cover of it I’d seen recently was alright but nothing still beats the OG one, as always. With music, it’s just, really always the case.

Kenny departing from us March this year was alright. He was well cared for in a hospice and at the right age too, to leave us and this mess of a world behind for the afterlife. Sounds grim but not really. Heh. He died of natural causes so we know he was at peace and accepted then that his time has come. Fans and long-time listeners of his should also be at peace with this knowledge. I don’t consider myself a fan but since he’s been around so much because my dad plays his songs in the car often, I’m the same. I’ve accepted his passing away early this year. He’s lived his life well and given us good music to listen to should we like to remember him and his works and celebrate his life and legacy doing so.

Schlesinger’s case was way worse because, well, COVID 19. And it’s well...I guess we all saw it coming, me included, that I’d just learned, watching the one of many national English news on ANC that ‘pandemic’ is the word of the year according to Merriam-Webster. Timely, huh? Yep. Predictable, really. Sarcasm noted here.

So if someone ever asks what 2020 was about, we only have to say that according to Merriam-Webster, it’s the global (COVID 19) pandemic. Short, not-so-sweet, succinct, and grim. Yep.

This one, Schlesinger’s case, is something I still find difficult to accept. He was only 52 years old! He was at the prime of his life and had some projects still he was working on at the time of his passing so WHY?! I suppose that’s all of us who followed him and his extensive work on tv, film, the stage and his own band, Fountains of Wayne when we heard news he’s passed away due to COVID 19 complications. It’s definitely me now though I learned of it late. Heh.

To cope with the sadness of losing Schlesinger, gone too soon at 52 years old and with an impressive Hollywood tv, stage, film resume to his name since and his own band’s, Fountains of Wayne (FoW) really good discography, by the way, I’ve been listening to FoW’s Welcome Interstate Managers---all of the contents of said album/record---and That Thing You Do’s OST with the Beach Boys’ Sounds of Summer Best of in between. My favorite song on Welcome Interstate Managers is the sarcastic take on real life as an everyday worker in sales, Bright Future in Sales. As much as I like chill sounds where music goes, I like me some music with lyrics jolting us back to grim reality in much the same way I like films (indies, mostly, or lesser known short and full-length ones) that tackle social issues not frequently discussed in public or so but we are aware are there, still plaguing much of today’s society. I live for cynical, satirical, ironic, and even hyperbolic stuff about real life actually. It may be why I’m so entrenched and attached to the era where we all hated ourselves---the 90s. Although one would say much of that sentiment or feeling did carry itself to the 2000s, though. I don’t know about you, but until now, I still hate or have heavy dislike for myself and everything else around me, especially our gov’t or current admin here in the Philippines, and people in general so I don’t think it ever really goes away. And going off tangent again for the nth time today.

Anyway, my 1996 was That Thing You Do on HBO in our household...on and off along with other 90s films like The Craft, Clueless, Jawbreakers (I think this still plays in Cinemax from time to time) so of course losing Schlesinger also was...rather, is hard. He’s done so much and he was supposed to be working on more and he’s left such a deep mark here for us, avid fans of American pop culture...I suppose, even the casual ones. Aside from his That Thing You Do, I’d also seen Josie and the Pussycats at some point. I don’t remember when, where...though I did watch some episodes of the cartoon on Cartoon Network (CN) so of course, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the film of it as well. He worked on a track or some tracks there, too.

2020 sucks. COVID 19 sucks. This global pandemic sucks. But at least there’re films, tv shows, music, stage musical plays turned movies (Jonathan Larson’s Tick, Tick...Boom! is coming to us soon with Andrew Garfield in the lead---I’m wary of Garfield being a forgettable actor since The Amazing Spider Man because Dane Dehaan was what made that for me, to be quite honest so I’m not so sure of him being Jon here and as a self-respecting Larson fan since Rent, I’d rather they casted Neil Patrick Harris/NPH since he was in the London stage for this way back anyway...) to keep us entertained and fine until then. What would it take for ‘rona, and I’m not talking about the American Corona beer here that’s really popular in the west coast, to go away? I, like the rest of you in self isolation or quarantine, tend to think so but I don’t think we’ll have any answer to that until the vaccines are well underway by spring next year. Or at least, that’s what health authorities and scientists tell us anyway. I get reminded of it often in the news and I only tune in to that once in a while now because even that, following that daily, breaks my mental faculties down due to stress and pressure and all and I can’t have that when I still have so much, at the back of my mind, to do.

But anyway, time to conclude this one with one of my favorite The Wonders songs, All My Only Dreams just to end on a good note, better than the last paragraph’s ending at least and to remember Schlesinger as well that we’d lost this year along with plenty others we’d met in passing who’ve also left this world especially due to COVID 19 complications. I know we know a lot of those. For me, it’s a distant relative or family member I’d known since young but don’t have particular fluffy bunny feelings for because of some things that happened between the guy and me growing up in the NCR/Caloocan City to be exact. There’s also my good friend and former co-worker’s only remaining parent, her dad and a few more, I’m sure. So I hope 2021 would be better but I doubt it...very much. It’s still looking pretty dim, grim and bleak from here, where I’m currently standing in 2020.

Before we really end though, COVID 19 is definitely not a hoax. It hasn’t been since the first cases started in Wuhan, China. It’s just, only been getting worse and still continue to claim lives and spread to more people even those at home. So as someone who comes from a household of mostly medical workers or health care workers here, we should really be very careful about and around it. Let’s take the necessary health protocols seriously like wearing a mask out and maybe the face shield too and always keeping the sanitizers, alcohols in our bags among others---hygiene and sanitation, disinfection. It may come off really anal of me and I am not anal (I don’t like people with Type A personalities in the first place, lol...I’m just a very cautious Virgo, really, and a Type X---mix of Type C and D personalities) but seriously, SERIOUSLY, I can’t stress this enough, COVID 19, the virus SARS-COV2, that causes it is real. Very real and once it’s in your system, it can go the fatal, deadly way or just the mild and you’ll recover later anyway way. It’s not picking which people should die next and which should not, really. It’s really just there making a mess of things that are already messy since the beginning. My point being, it’s just better if we don’t spread it or are careful enough not to contract it with following health protocols set by health experts, scientists to help us get by this...pandemic.

Well here’s to 2020 being over soon and 2021 creeping in on us soon enough.

P.S.

Billie Armstrong of Greenday upped a cover of That Thing You Do as a tribute to Adam and the youtube live of the Wonders coming together again to pay tribute to and celebrate Adam’s life may still be up on the ‘tube. I have yet to see the latter but enjoyed the former. They are just so...sweet and precious. Ugh. Adam Schlesinger, gone too soon indeed. :(

PPS

Another songwriter/contributor in the TTYD OST passed away last year, too. Rick Elias. Cause of death is brain cancer. I had a friend from college, young and so full of life and dreams, who passed away due to the same thing so I’m kind of aware how this goes. Ugh. Cancer sucks. All of these are just so...sad. Depressing, actually.

youtube

#Adam Schlesinger #Kenny Rogers #american pop culture #USA #United States of America #That Thing You Do #Fountains of Wayne #music #entertainment #Hollywood #loss #COVID 19 #2020 #2020 is the worst year ever #what's next 2021?#A year in music #a year in american pop culture #a year in american rock and roll and pop music

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songofproserpine · 6 years

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Mass Effect, mental illness, and healing.

I’m replaying the Shepard trilogy, and this has been bouncing around my thoughts lately.

So in Mass Effect 2, Miranda says that part of The Lazarus Project was the very specific order of recreating Shepard exactly as they were, no exceptions. This includes their personality, their memories, etc. Ignoring questions like ‘how do you reconstruct someone’s mental structure, store it in a computer, and then transfer it to a mind you hope to make sentient,’ this leads me to the more interesting question of (1) does future technology and medical science in the Mass Effect universe have the ability to map brain chemistry to the point of knowing how one’s individual mind functions; and (2) what does this mean for mental illnesses?

While it’s highly unlikely that Shepard could have served if they had a serious mental illness prior to their service, it’s all but flat out said in the opening lines of Mass Effect 1 that Shepard has serious emotional scars. I.E., Shepard at the very least had a PTSD diagnosis depending on what military background you chose for them. And while PTSD is treatable through medication and therapy, it doesn’t seem to have barred Shepard from continuing their service in the Alliance. If anything, Shepard only advanced further, becoming the Normandy’s commander and eventual commanding officer once Anderson stepped down.

I will allow Bioware some dramatic license for this story, and Shepard is also constantly considered a person with “a remarkably strong will,” which means they can endure pain and hardships beyond what most would find tolerable. But just because someone has a “strong will” doesn’t mean they aren’t affected by pain and trauma--they could just keep it all inside and suffer quietly, which Shepard seems to do.

Much like a post I made about Fallout 4 and Nick Valentine’s human form (and how the pre-Institute MIT folks mapped out his brain prior to his death, and simply used that data to make synth Nick’s mind), what we have here is yet another case of someone being created (or resurrected) with a mental map that included mental illness... and that mental illness being programmed in. It wasn’t removed. It wasn’t treated as a flaw to eliminate. It was an integral part of that person’s mind and identity.

With Shepard, this is likely because of Miranda’s orders: Shepard had to be the exact same, no exceptions. But with Nick Valentine, I consider this especially brutal and unfair, because synth Nick wanted so very much to put human Nick’s memories and ghosts to rest. He wanted to build a life and live that life separate from the man he was built from. And this choice of his, while noble and fully valid, was made all the more difficult for him to do because of human Nick’s PTSD and survivor’s guilt being transferred over.

Make no mistake: I’m not saying The Lazarus Project should have eliminated any/all of Shepard’s lingering mental trauma, nor am I saying the Institute should have done something different (it’s very likely that they couldn’t, or just didn’t think it would matter). I myself have been diagnosed with PTSD--that’s why I’m so fascinated by the presence (or lack thereof) of mental illnesses in the video games I play, which are largely RPGs in scenarios where mental health and treatment are either nonexistent (Dragon Age, Elder Scrolls, Soulsborne), or very seldom remarked upon (Mass Effect, Fallout) unless it’s for a specific quest. What I am saying is that I wonder what this says to us who have mental illnesses, no matter what they are, and how we can use this narrative choice in video games as a way to change our perspective about these illnesses and the part they play in our identities?

My psychiatrist and I have weekly therapy sessions as part of my Dialectical Behavior Therapy. Very recently, we ended a session with a question that we’ll explore in later sessions: is it possible to practice acceptance and active healing at the same time? Acceptance in this scenario means acknowledging that while my situation and illnesses are not fair, that’s also what they are. I do not like that my life is so brutally sidetracked far too often by symptoms of my illnesses, or by the very existence of the illness itself. But that’s my life.

I wasted an entire decade of my life (all of my 20s) mourning and hating and being brutally ashamed that this was my lot in life, that it wasn’t fair, that I couldn’t be expected to endure all that my illnesses demanded of me on top of the normal things life asks of us all--but none of that thinking got me anywhere. It didn’t make me feel stronger, it didn’t encourage me, it didn’t offer answers or hope or anything useful in the slightest. If anything, it made me worse, to the point where my body was then literally wasting away and destroying itself because of my anxiety by the time I was 29. But I digress.

Back to the question and, eventually, Mass Effect and Commander Shepard. Acceptance of mental illnesses and living with them simply means you look your life square in the face and you accept it--you don’t judge it, you don’t question it, you don’t wonder how it could have been different. It’s not different. It’s your life--period. And it’s yours. That alone should make you want to cherish it. It might be hard, it might be frightening, it might be lonely and all other kinds of things--but it’s yours. No one else’s. And your life, and most especially your illnesses, needs your love.

We care for wounds without questioning why they dare hurt in the first place. We just tend to what hurts and wait until it heals. Why should we do any less to ourselves and our illnesses? That’s acceptance.

The second part--active healing--is trickier, and slower, and far more intricate a process than acceptance. It also requires you return to step one (acceptance) almost every single day. Or, if you’re like me, and have a mood disorder, every hour of every day, for the rest of your life--period. But all active healing really is, in the end, is looking at why acceptance was so hard for you and filling that in with love and care.

Active healing means you tend to your wounds. You get out of bed. You brush your teeth. You shower. You make food. You do chores. You go for a walk. You take your medication. You call your doctor if you feel like you need help outside of your appointments. You remove habits that no longer serve you in healthy, useful ways. You indulge in things you like to comfort yourself when you’re feeling down. You realize that you might need more time to do things, but that extra time doesn’t diminish the importance of what you do. You’re healing. You’re on the mend. You will always be recovering and repairing. This doesn’t have to be shameful or exhausting (even though it can be--but then you start back from acceptance and slowly work yourself back up). It just is.

Which, finally, returns me to Mass Effect 2, The Lazarus Project, and a resurrected Commander Shepard who has their military background include a deep emotional scar added into the mix of the very current emotional scar of having died in space. Jacob tells you that you were “just meat and tubes” the first time he saw you. You weren’t a corpse--you were pieces of a corpse. And you were remade from every atom--including your illnesses. Including your wounds, private hurts that only you ever felt or knew about.

How would this make you feel?

How would you feel about this life, this second pass through the universe, this mulligan on oblivion that pulled you back to this ol’ mortal coil? Angry, undoubtedly. It’s why renegade Shepard in Mass Effect 2 is something of a raging vicious psychopath--but I can’t quite blame them. not really.

Remember the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer? When Buffy finally lets slip that she wasn’t in hell, suffering--she was in some kind of heaven? She was happy. She was at peace. And her friend dragged her soul back to its body, forcing her to dig her own way out of her grave, back to life, before she suffocated and died once again. She got her life back, but was never asked if she wanted it back.

That’s Commander Shepard in Mass Effect 2. That’s baseline commander shepard in Mass Effect 2.

Now imagine a mentally ill Shepard having to bear this burden. I’m not questioning whether or not Shepard could endure it (you’ve probably played the trilogy--you know the answer to that question). I’m simply asking you to imagine it. Imagine a marine of whom the galaxy, the entire galaxy, demanded everything. Every thankless task, every brutal mission, every hard choice, every life-altering, life-threatening, life-shortening thing possible under every sun. Imagine a marine lying in a pool of their own blood being told, “it didn’t work,” and their response is, “what do you need me to do?”

What do you need me to do? That, my friends, is the central question of acceptance and active healing. What do you need me to do? Ask your illnesses this when times are tough, or even when times are good. What do you need me to do? Maybe your brain wants to trick you every now and then. Slips in an invasive thought, or a self-destructive demand. Maybe it tries to sell you on a suspicion, building up to full-scale paranoia. These are not things you should feed into; they aren’t actions you should take. More pain will not serve you. Hurting yourself in any way is not the answer to an already existing pain.

Acceptance. Active healing. What do you need me to do? Assess your damage, know that pain will always be integral to your existence, but is by no means the only thing that defines it, and figure out how to respond to it.

Instead of looking at your traumas, your symptoms, your triggers, your anythings as flaws, as failures, as setbacks, as things to hate and be ashamed of, look at it as a part of you in need of care, and ask, What do you need me to do?

And remember this last piece of advice: be kind. Because even after destruction, Commander Shepard took just one more breath--one more small gasp of life. And sometimes that’s all you can ask of yourself: just one more breath. And then another. And another. This is probably the hardest lesson anyone with an illness will ever have to learn: you are healing. You will always be healing. You will always have to take just one more breath. Because that’s what you need to do for you. No one else.

So breathe.

#mass effect #mental illness #borderline personality disorder #ptsd #nick valentine #fallout 4

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movienotesbyzawmer · 4 years

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Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones

December 9: Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones

(previous notes: Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace)

Source: Blu-ray release, the box set with all six Lucas-era movies (2D)

I feel like in recent years I've seen a lot of rhetoric claiming that this is the worst of all the Star Wars movies. But I've always felt like the prequels improve as they go, at least a little. Like, Hayden Christiensen might not be especially good, but he's an improvement on Jake Lloyd. Is there less of the childish stuff in this movie? Let's press play and find out.

Opening crawl is first mention of Count Dooku; seems like the previous stuff was resolved and a new story is beginning. Maybe that's why it's common for people to recommend skipping Episode I, like it's not actually necessary.

We also at this point in the natural chronology don't know anything about clones. Just the title here.

Another decoy-Amidala, but this one gets blowed up right away. And that's Rose Byrne, right?

0:07:30 - Obi-wan does a "oh… oh yes…. Mm mm mm mm mm mm" thing which is stupid and I don't like it.

Wait, no Rose Byrne is a silent handmaiden lady I guess. Unless they're clonesies. Are they clonesies?

Hey, a glimpse of Coruscant's colorful nightlife scene! Or at least some commercial advertisements. Feels like we don't see much of the lives of regular folk of Coruscant much.

Super pretty imagery of this city at night with its traffic and lights and I know I say that every time but it's great.

0:14:30 - Obi-wan shooting himself through a hole in the window in pursuit of that flying robot villain is exciting! And then he just hangs onto it, and then the sniper snipes him off it and he just falls and falls! This is a good action scene.

Then later, Anakin just jumps and falls and falls on purpose like and it's fun to watch.

0:20:00 - Does the sniper have a weird disguise that goes away when she turns her head? Is that what I saw?

"This weapon is your life" says Ewan McGregor doing his best impression of Alec Guinness. I think it was supposed to be funny. And I think it succeeds. Helps to remember that EG's natural accent is Scottish. And you know what? Maybe a little bit ago when I didn't like EG's hammy delivery, I should respect that he's embracing the need for him to embody a young version of Alec Guiness's character, figuring out what that would look like while honoring the director's vision.

They're in a nightclub, and I think there's some genuinely imaginative vision around what people are doing in there.

Ooh! The sniper got sniped by someone else, and the shot of that second sniper zipping away on a jetpack is I like it.

Senator Amidala gives Jar Jar the important job of substitute senator while she goes and hides. Yeah right. Not very credible.

Now Anakin is venting to Amidala in a way that shows how cocky he is. He does the flirtation stuff so that we'll think he's sexy like Han Solo, but also visibly flawed with impatience. Meh. Okay.

Whoa, Rose Byrne just did some acting! She spontaneously shed a tear in a way that looked authentic! Acting… in a Star Wars prequel!

0:31:50 - A greasy spoon diner! I don't remember this. Obi Wan is doing some intel gathering and George Lucas decided to go all in on having this be a 50's-style neon urban railcar slop counter!

The romance. Anakin and Amidala. GL is also going all in on the overtness of that plot. Maybe it's fine? Anakin seems like a horny and awkward teen with a huge crush on someone out of his league but he's going for it anyway. Maybe we'll be convinced that she'd succumb to his charms?

0:39:00 - We're back on Naboo… this scene is oddly non-CGI-looking. Did they film this in a real place with that actual architecture?

The tension they're setting up between Anakin and Amidala is moving in a direction of NOT growing fonder of each other. She looks irritated, and rightly so. This is a move that experienced romance plot makers make, but will GL pull it off?

Meanwhile Obi-Wan is doing spycraft, going to the clone planet place and pretending he's the one who ordered the whatever. "That's why I'm here!" Kinda funny.

0:44:45 - Okay, another A&A scene. He has that line about sand getting everywhere. She looks really damn fly. They kiss a bit and then she changes her mind. See, this is a weak link in the romance plot. We don't buy it. She's not such a sucker that she'd want to kiss him now. She didn't go, "oh he was so charming when he talked about where sand goes that now I'm not only less annoyed by his churlishness but I'm actually turned on". Or did she.

There's something about Obi-Wan's intel gathering, realizing that this huge army of clones is being put together, that's very James Bond-y. I mean that in a good way.

Naboo countryside is hella pretty.

Oh ick. A very very stupid romance scene just happened. See, Anakin fell off a blob creature and it looked like he was hurt! This worried Amidala! She ran to him but it turned out he was okay! They laughed and laughed at this merry misunderstanding and rolled around together! Oh merry! And…. SCENE.

Now Obi-Wan and Jango Fett are having a fight on a platform place and it's pretty exciting and still kind of like a Bond movie. Even more so because of "gadgets" like the devices on JF's outfit. And a dippy little "this is not good" comment from Obi-Wan that would fit in okay coming out of 007.

A&A go to Tatooine and talk to the salvage dealer who used to own Anakin. I like where that CGI character visibly starts to recognize the grown-up Anakin.

Obi-Wan followed JF & Son to a pretty red planet with an asteroid field and it's fucking beautiful and they do this wicked sound effect with bombs and it looks and sounds mother fucking amazing. Seriously god damn. The SOUND.

1:11:40 - They're at what will be the moisture farm of Luke, et al. "I'm Owen Lars and this is my GIRLFRIEND Beru." See, because this is BEFORE they're married. She's JUST his GIRLFRIEND.

1:14:20 - Okay, they just did a weird thing where A&A have an exchange, then hug. But the camera just shows their SHADOWS. And Anakin's shadow looks like he maybe kind of has some semblance of a VADER HELMET. I'm not even that convinced that that's what they were going for. If it actually conveyed that, it'd be cooler. As is, it's a little awkward. But I wouldn't discourage a director from going for this kind of thing.

Anakin found the Tusken Raider camp where they'd brought his mom and he found her just in time for her to die. Like she was just hanging on long enough for him to witness her death. Melodramatic. Then he goes and slaughters everyone… this turns out to be important because it's the catalyst for him turning dark, but it's sort of a weak explanation for something so important.

So HC just did a rage monologue about how he killed everyone, and okay it's not good, but I really don't think it's HC that isn't good. I think he did his very best with really dumb writing.

1:34:30 - Ooh, we're back in that neat senate hall. Jar Jar was suckered into proposing that Palpatine be given special powers, and it's super easy and it just works, and the Jedi are like "oh, hm, bummer". I'm just not impressed with the story.

A&A have arrived on Geonosis and it's quickly quite actiony and rather like a video game where they have to fight robots and hop on platforms at just the right time. I dig it.

It's a little odd now… so I already forgot how A&A got captured in the video game factory place, but they're quickly hustled to an execution arena to be munched to death by monsters before a delighted audience. With Obi-Wan. Just a little odd, but now it's pretty fun action.

Oh yeah, Mace Windu cut Jango Fett's right head off! Forgot that. Another case of an interesting villain ending disappointingly. Except that it's important because his "son" witnesses it and looks vengeance-y.

1:56:40 - Yoda heroically shows up to save the good guys with a force of soldiers that look kind of like Stormtroopers. Those are clones, right? I guess so, but the movie didn't quite ensure we know that. I mean, if they're going to treat the audience like children with their jokes, maybe they could extend that same expectation to plot explanations.

Okay, so now they're in a much bigger battle. I like the flying thing that delivers a walking tank thing! Lots of exciting things to look at. It's not that clear which side is which, not by looking at the battle, but maybe that doesn’t matter too much.

They shoot down a globe-shaped ship as it's taking off and it's pretty. So is lots of this battle stuff.

How does Anakin have a lightsaber now? His was broken earlier. I'm probably not the first to ask that. I probably overlooked the explanation. Seems like they trimmed stuff out of this part of the movie to improve the pacing.

2:07:50 - This is the part that worked well enough that it's probably the main factor in holding this movie's reputation above that of Episode I: the light saber duel with Yoda! Those of us who had played the Dark Forces PC games were already familiar with how it would look to see a Yoda-type wailing on someone with a light saber, but it was a pleasant surprise for many, and it definitely worked.

Then Dooku escapes on a ship that does a really sweet-looking panel-unfurling thing. Love it. And then he goes to Coruscant. Very visibly. Which is for me to love some more.

The movie ends right after that, with Yoda observing that it's dumb to think of this as a victory because now the Clone War has started. Then we get suitably disturbing imagery of the Clone Army being imposing with, significantly, the Imperial March in the background. It's okay. Then a shot of A&A getting hitched. With, a little less significantly, the new tragic-love theme in the background which John Williams was probably pretty pleased with. And over. Okay.

Yeah, better than Episode I. Less childish. Although it's harder to point to a climax, it somehow seems less anti-climactic than Ep1. No less impressive visually, but with new locales compared with the first one. And it's true that you can get all the information you need by starting here instead of with the first one.

(next: Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith)

#star wars #episode 2 #attack of the clones

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vickyvicarious · 7 years

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max and the way after midnight visitor (bmw 1)

So last weekend I decided to check back in on Paranatural for the first time in years... such a good move. Still my favorite by far. And hey, I’m apparently back just in time for bullymagnet week, which wasn’t even a thing before. My timezones may be a little off, not quite sure, but this is for day one - night.

Max wakes up at 4:17 AM to the familiar sound of ol’ Hissin’ Pete freaking out. He groans, rolling over to put a pillow on top of his head, only to bolt upright when he rolls right onto his fractured arm.

“FLIPPIN’ HECK,” he screams through gritted teeth, curling over it.

“Mister Max! Are you okay?” PJ inquires, looming out of the darkness with a nightmare grin. Max means that literally. He’s had nightmares about that grin.

It does look a little more nervous than usual this time, though. He squints, honestly just to get a better look in the darkness, but PJ immediately quails before his face, admitting, “I’m sorryyyy, it was me that got Hissin’ Pete going but I only did it because a weird kid on your roof threatened to punch Lefty!”

“…What,” Max starts, only to be interrupted by none other than Johnny Jhonny swinging in through his window roaring a battlecry. PJ squeaks and vanishes through the floor. Hissin’ Pete hisses louder, before PJ reaches an arm up through the floor and yanks him away too.

“IS THAT BLOB ON YOU AGAIN MAX I SWEAR I’LL PUNCH IT REEEEEEAL GOOD BOI,” Johnny – threatens? Promises? …Consoles?

“Guess my clock’s three minutes slow,” Max mutters to himself, too worn out at this point to even bother with being shocked. Honestly, Johnny swinging through his window at four in the morning threatening to punch stuff is perfectly in character. The real question is how he even knows where Max lives.

“How do you even know where I live?” Max asks. Johnny blinks, and stops punching at the air in favor of approaching the bed to look down at him.

“Yeah so after hitball this girl comes up all wantin’ me to break in and steal your secrets or whatever so she can double-blackmail ya. Said she’d pay me with three stars. So I said sure an’ she showed me your ack-e-dem-ick files, son.” Johnny grins, bright and manic even in the darkness. “You got an A in three classes last year? NERRRRD.”

There’s only one girl who would ever offer to pay the school bully to break into his house and steal double-blackmail on him in the dead of night when he’s just been injured. Suzy, you monster.

“Oh yeah, I’m real lame. I can do basic math and everything: breaking in plus stealing plus phone call to the cops equals juvie.” Max whips out his cell phone with, dare he say, a good bit of flair. It’s totally a bluff, and honestly a pretty weak retort regardless, but he’s not at the top of his game tonight, okay. Spectral hitball really takes it outta a guy.

“Oi oi oi, gimme that,” Johnny hisses though, and leaps on the bed to snatch the phone out of Max’s hand and hurl it across the room. It crashes into the wall with an audible CRACK.

Max stares in utter disbelief.

“WHAT WAS THAT FOR,” he yells indignantly, attempting to sit up further.

Johnny smacks a hand across his mouth, shoving him all the way back down into his pillow with embarrassing ease.

“SHHHHH,” he shushes, extremely loudly. “Don’t wanna wake yer folks, man.”

“Muh dah whlld mmfp frh uh nuhclr uhfalt,” Max complains through the fingers over his face.

“Don’t believe ya,” Johnny grins (of course he would speak perfect muffled-ese), and then just sits down so he’s straddling Max’s stomach, making it a little hard to breathe and also bringing back war flashbacks to their fight in the hallway a few days ago. His other hand swings down to hold Johnny’s right arm down as well with, again, embarrassing ease. “Anyway, you were gonna sell me out to the swine. Backstabber.”

Fed up with not being able to retort (finally, his brain’s kicking back into gear, and he’s got a real good one about bacon up a plan), Max licks Johnny’s hand.

Far from being phased, Johnny just leans in closer, grins the kind of grin that should come with its own tire-screech soundtrack, and licks the back of his own hand.

“WH TH FLPP,” Max protests, because what. Johnny’s nose was almost touching his, their eyes were meeting, for a moment he honestly just can’t breathe because what was that?!

“Little spittle never scared m-e…” Johnny brags, losing steam about halfway through and just staring at Max with wide eyes. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but his cheeks look red. Could he really… be realizing what a dumbass he’s being?

“Uh here talk,” Johnny yelps, sitting up and yanking his hand back like it’s been burned. He’s even flapping it in the air, there’s spit flying off, it’s just. It’s gross.

“It’s kinda hard to stab someone in the back when they broke into your house to steal from you, dude,” Max says, choosing to just let that whole licking thing go. Never mention it again. “Also, that makes two of my most treasured belongings you’ve stolen and destroyed forever.”

“I. Uh. Sh-shut up, you’re too beholden to the Man! I just saved you from yourself!”

“What does that even mean?”

“I dunno. Stephen always says it and sounds mega turbo cool though. Don’t get all beholden to the Man, man. ‘S bad for the liver.”

Max is sleep-deprived, his arm aches, he’s pretty sure there’s some spit on his face, plus Johnny is sitting on his gut telling him not to trust the government – he just. He can’t help it.

At first it’s just a huff. And then… really, it stays just a huff, because Johnny’s heavy and it hurts to breathe too much, but he’s grinning and laugh-huffing and up above him Johnny’s eyes get really wide and that makes Max laugh even more.

“K-kid, stop. Stoppit,” Johnny protests weakly. His mouth is moving kinda slow and his face looks all red again, and Max physically couldn’t stop if you paid him three Starchman stars, oh geez.

Then Johnny smacks him swiftly (yet somehow gently?) in the face.

“I SAID STOP, BOYO,” he roars. “D-don’t you be mirthin’ at me!”

“I’ll mirth wherever I please,” Max scowls. A bit of a grin’s still fighting its way out of his mouth, though. “It’s my bedroom.”

“I – I am gonna lick your face next time,” Johnny threatens. “Right all up on your forehead. Don’t test me.”

“…Well, I believe that,” Max concludes after a disturbed moment. “Fine. I’ll be mad at you again, happy?”

“NO.”

“Well then whaddaya want?! I don’t just keep blackmail lying around my room, okay?” (Max is very pointedly not thinking about the open drawer full of days-of-the-week underwear his dad bought to torture him but which he actually wears sometimes because Laundry Days suck and yet are still too far and few between. At least he wears them on the wrong days, but still.)

“Huh?” Johnny blinks down at him in complete bafflement for a minute, before his expression clears. “Psht, nah man, you think I care about that? I just wanted to know where ya rest yer noggin.”

“…so you don’t want to blackmail me for Suzy?”

“Why would I do that when I can just punch you in your face if I feel like it?” Johnny asks, with apparently genuine interest in the answer.

“I – I guess no reason,” Max admits, torn between basking in someone not trying to blackmail him, or sweating at the implication Johnny’s about to punch him in his face.

“Nah man, I’m just here to sign your cast,” Johnny continues nonchalantly, reaching into a pocket and emerging with a full rainbow of sharpies splayed between his fingers. “Gotta come quick. Early squirrel gets the birdseed, an’ all.”

“I. What – why?”

“Cuz.”

There’s really no arguing with that kind of logic.

“Okay, fine, I guess,” Max agrees, and shoves at Johnny with his good arm until the guy’s scooched off him enough that he can sit up and grab his lamp. It turns on with a cheery, ‘I’ll brighten up your day!’ and reveals Johnny’s eyes gleaming at his arm with a disturbing amount of focus.

“………this snow’s already trode on, yo,” he mutters with clear disappointment.

Max peers down at his arm. On it is a love heart with a doodle of his dad’s face inside, and the word lame from Zoey.

“Yeah, my family are pretty, uh, squirrely,” he agrees. “Feel free to cover them up. Especially the heart one. Please cover up the heart one.”

Somewhat cheered by this, Johnny whistles. Twirling the sharpies between his fingers, he bites at a sparkly orange one to yank the cap off with his teeth.

“Yer about to see a master at work, so listen close,” he says nonsensically, then goes to town.

Max wakes up in the morning to sunlight in his eyes, Johnny’s feet on his neck, and his dad beaming down at him from the doorway.

“Aww, sonbeam, you don’t have to sneak your friends over for sleepovers,” he coos.

“Rghrrmffo ‘way,” Max retorts, wittily.

He squirms loose from the death-cuddle Johnny has on his ankles after about seven minutes of mortal combat, then climbs over the bully and leaves the room to get dressed, all without interrupting Johnny’s snores once. In the bathroom, Max does his business, gets dressed, brushes his teeth and his hair and basically just avoids looking at his arm a lot until PJ peers over his shoulder like a total creep and makes excited noises.

“That looks s-so cool, Maxeus!” he exclaims, so fired up that he appears to be testing out weird nicknames and everything. Lefty, rising through the sink, gives a thumbs up.

Finally he looks down at his cast. Max slowly smiles.

“Yeah,” he says, looking at the brightly colored picture of him and Johnny riding on the back of what he assumes is a Burnhound, since it’s on fire and appears to be eating some kind of electric lizard. Johnny’s name is in big, bold letters above this, along with the letters MVP, but there’s also a bunch of random doodles too, of fists and explosions and a can of soup and his baseball hat, and even something that kinda looks like a doctopus if he squints a little to the left. Johnny has also, for no apparent reason, drawn himself with his gang of friends on the back of Max’s cast, in what looks like one of their friendship fusion moves.

The art is not great. The colors are garish. There’s basically no space left on the cast for anyone else to write anything, unless their handwriting is really tiny, and Max had been kinda planning on letting Isaac sign it first to show they were still cool, if he asked. That’s sort of a pointless idea now.

Still…

“Yeah, it’s pretty neat,” Max agrees with PJ, before filling a glass of cold water to go throw at Johnny’s face. He tries to contain his smile at the way the guy leaps into instant murderous alertness, but he can’t completely stop it and, weirdly enough, Johnny stops choking blankets to grin back at him once he notices.

“Not bad,” Max admits, lifting his cast.

“Yer welcome, birdseed,” Johnny replies, before climbing back out the window and vanishing into the woods instead of staying for cereal like a normal person.

#paranatural #bullymagnet week #bullymagnet #my fic #fingers crossed my johnny voice is okay #i've written for day 2 as well already and have a plan for 3 and maaaaybe 4 #the rest get tricky because so far they're all sorta connected and that gets harder in aus #i'll have to think if i can swing it #and i mean hopefully i'll get that far i have a bad track record with this stuff #but there's so little out there i wanna do my part #they're so cute #sorry i'm a major tag rambler

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brokenmusicboxwolfe · 7 years

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I saw:

Wonder Woman- I admit I was almost nervous about seeing this film.

Wonder Woman was a key figure in my childhood. I had the Ms Magazine book reprinting golden age Wonder Woman comics, held together with packing tape from my carrying it everywhere, that I read and reread. My best friend and I got in the sort of heated debates only five or six get in over what Wonder Woman’s starting pose for “bullets and bracelets” should be. My best friend going with the then running tv show’s crossed wrists seemed silly when you gotta be ready to move, and it wasn’t like that in the original story. We played at being Wonder Woman and made up stories usung our dolls. The only Halloween costume I still have is the Wonder Woman one from back then, an object I take great care of. ** Heck, I still have my dolls, pencil sharpener, puzzle book and the rest of the Amazon Princess gear I gobbled up...

My Mom, whose father never approved of comics, had secretly read them as a little girl back in the 1940s, so approved whole heartedly. In fact Wonder Woman related objects have been a sort of running theke for gifts between us (me giving her a Wonder Woman plush bunny at Easter and her giving me a mug at Christmas being the most recent).

So if both my mother and I have waited most if our lives and through scores of Batman and Superman movies for a Wonder Woman feature film, why the anxiety?

Well, because despite my love of the concept of Wonder Woman, I have really disliked some of the takes on the character over the years. As a little girl adoring the ‘40s comics and the ‘70s tv show (though the Superfriends take was fine for something so “childish”...I was a mature little tyke! LOL), , I’d tried the comics at the newstand and went “This is stupid!”. I ended up for some years buying it just for the Huntress back up stories. At my first comic store trip at 14 I tried some very cheap battered old copies from like around 1960 and....Ick! NO! But then along came the George Perez run, and here was MY Wonder Woman. I loved the comic during his years, but unfortuantely it wasn’t forever. The new creators had a vision of the character, both in personality and increasingly over appearance, that was dramatically different than me. Over the years tales of her have been a roller coaster...here feminist, there sexist, here a figure of peace, there a snarling war monger.

So here is the thing, I admit my image of Wonder Woman has been rather specific. I saw her as someone that can kick your ass, but would rather not if she doesn’t have to. Her first interest is peace, despite being prepared before. If talk fails, she will use force out of a need to protect, but that force will be the minimal necessary for the job. As in she would prefer to restrain you than beat you to a bloody pulp. My Wonder Woman would kill as a last resort, shows compassion and kindness and has a sense of humor. She smiles as often as she glowers. I realize this is a reflection of my basic moral code. Did Wonder Woman shape my world view, or did I take to depictions of Wonder Woman that reflected what I believed?

Which ever, my anxiety came from all those other Wonder Woman versions. The ones that were grim and brutal concerned me more than the old fashioned sexist ones simply because in the modern age the idea of “strength” seems to involve the ability to kill. The recent DC films hadn’t filled me with much hope. Bystanders should matter to a hero (Looking at you “Man of Steel” city smasher, when you could have taken your fight with Zod to a cornfield or the moon or...). A “gritty” Wonder Woman wasn’t something I wanted.

Luckily it looks like I wasn’t the only one. Not that there isn’t plenty of violence and our heroine does rack up a body count.

It begins by telling us of Wonder Woman AKA Princess Diana’s childhood, with the only little girl on the island if Amazon’s running off wanting to learn to fight. And OMG! Isn’t the woman chasing after her trying to catch the little scamp Dayna from Blake’s 7?????? Wow! Yep it really was Josette Simon!*** We get to see the child’s over protective mother reluctantly allow her demigod of a daughter get trained. We also see Diana embrace whole completely the legends and ideals of her people. These things always turn out to be a lot more complicated when you grow up...

And grow up she does. A WWI pilot crashes lands at the island, followed by pursued by Germans, leading to bloodshed and a corpse strewn beach in paradise. Finding out about the World War in progress, Diana wants to take the pilot (Steve Trevor, of course) back into the world, partly because he’s gotten a hold of info about a new a deadlier than ever before gas cooked up by a German scientist, a woman with an interesting bit of mask work covering her experimentation damage. Her main reason is the belief that such a war could only be the result of Ares, god of war, and that as an Amazon she is duty bound to stop him. Naturally, her first step in growing up us to defy he parent and go off to do what she believes is right.

Once out in our world Diana is a fish out of water, coping with a world where women don’t even yet have the right to vote and fashions are most definiately not conducive to battle. She is also incredibly innocent, with a sort of adolecent passionate belief in the world as a simply place. Just go to the battle front, kill Ares, and the world will be at peace. And so, through the story, she comes to learn the world is more complicated, but comes through quickly from the dark disillusionment that brings to find again the hope deep within, only now with a more mature understanding behind it.

Or, you know, lots of fighting and CGI work as Wonder Woman leaps over tall buildings in a single bound...oh wait, that’s the guy in blue tights...But she does leap, off the charts strong. There is a detour for brief romance, much to my mother’s annoyance. (My mother grimiced and muttered as the kissing started.) ****And there is the pyrotechnic superbeing versus superbeing ending, plus the emotional blow of a tragic sacrifice. That sort if thing.

I liked the choice of WWI, not simply because WWII has been done by superhero films already and we are in the anniversary period for that war, but because it was a particularly messy, large and ugly war. It works thematically, both for Diana to assume Ares is behind all of it and to realize humans really are capable of such horrors, without the more simple good guy/ bad guy dichotomy of WWII.

On the other hand, I was a bit uncomfortable with how once Steve showed up he became more of the driving force in the story. In a way it makes sense. He has the experience in our world and knows how it works. He would seem the adult to her not yet fully mature personality in this sort of coming of age story. Yet, a few times I was a bit bothered and had a fleeting “SHE is supposed to be the hero of this story!” moments.

Over all I really enjoyed it. It can’t live up to the hype, but that’s okay because nothing ever does. My mother, who is notoriously hard to please when she has an idea of a character, gave this Wonder Woman her endorsement, saying that this one got the kindness as well a strength. But really, I don’t know if I can give a proper verdict when I have so much emotions tied up with the very existance of the film. Watching the first few minutes of the film I noticed I had tears on my cheeks. After 76 years there was FINALLY a Wonder Woman movie, so for now my feeling is just ....“YES!!!!”

**There are no photos of my wearing it. On fact there are no photos of me wearing ANY Halloween costume! What’s up with that? I dunno, but it just sort of happened. Talking about the costume with Mom she said there should be photos and was shocked when I pointed out the only Halloween pics I have are with jack o’lanterns, and many of them. My folks just didn’t even realize they weren’t thinking to take pictures of us growing up......

***I have a story about my best friend in high school reacting to a pic of her...but that’s for another time...

**** Since this week was my parents’ anniversary and Pop was called “Steve” I think it was reminding her of her grief too.

#movies #wonder woman #wonder woman 2017

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ceciliatan · 5 years

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G. Willow Wilson guest of honor remarks at #ICFA40

I’m in Orlando for the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts (ICFA, pronounced “ick-fah”) where today the guest of honor, G. Willow Wilson, gave a terrific keynote speech at the luncheon in which she talked about how it is that some writers (particularly marginalized writers) get labeled “political” while others (of the most privileged groups) do not.

Some of you who read my blog might remember me getting into a Twitter storm in 2016 at a romance convention when I tweeted that a white, heterosexual, married writer had advised new writers “don’t be political on social media. Be Switzerland. Be neutral and don’t take sides.” My comment to that (on social media) was that only someone who is a member of the privileged class has the privilege to “decide” whether to be political. The rest of us don’t get to “choose” whether to be political or not because merely by existing we are perceived to be making a political statement.

G. Willow Wilson’s speech went right to the heart of that issue. What follows is a pseudo-transcript of about 60% of her remarks. I have recreated this from my notes, so please do not ascribe any direct quotations to her without checking with her first. Any errors are my own and I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t make a few while transcribing. (One little typo can change a “now” to a “not” and reverse the meaning of a sentence, entirely!)

I do these transcript-type blogs for my own record of things I find really noteworthy to talk about and to give folks who couldn’t attend the conference a taste of what was said. I stress again it’s only a fraction of what was actually said.

It begins with an introduction of the speaker by David Higgins, the vice president of the IAFA (hosts of ICFA) and then G. Willow Wilson’s remarks.

G. Willow Wilson GoH Speech March 14 2019 ICFA 40

Introduction by IAFA vice president David Higgins: You may have heard the Captain Marvel film just had a spectacular opening weekend, as the first female solo superhero film in the Marvel franchises, which has put to shame the [former Marvel CEO] Isaac Perlmutter’s wikileaked memos delineating his/the company’s anti-woman bias. I like to think that no one would be more excited by the success of Captain Marvel than Kamala Khan, the creation of our of our guest of honor, G. Willow Wilson.

Kamala is such a Captain Marvel fan, she writes fanfic about it, and [when she is imbued with superpowers] takes on the mantle of Ms Marvel. Although I myself have not written G Willow Wilson fanfic (audience laughter), I did help create the cover of this ICFA program. [Which depicts G. Willow Wilson and Mark Bould in comic book fashion fighting against unseen enemies.] Please let me let out my inner fangirl and gush about how much I love Ms. Marvel.

Let me also talk about the post-911 diversity efforts by DC to internationalize the Green Lantern corps. In the creation of Simon Baz there are elements combatting some problematic stereotypes while doubling down on others. Ms. Marvel, by contrast, is a great pleasure, and I teach Ms. Marvel in my class. Kamala doesn’t fit any of the easy labels that my students have been taught previously. Although they want to refer to her as Arab American but that’s not exactly true, she’s a second generation Pakistani American. My students arrive at [a really long string of words: second-generation Pakistani American millennial from Jersey City].

Part of the brilliance of Wilson’s writing is that Kamala’s identity isn’t oversubscribed to any one of those adjectives that describe her. Kamala comes to life and isn’t just a representative of a social category. Like her, Islam isn’t just one easy-to-understand thing. The fact that Kamala is a millennial is also important. Furthermore Kamala is loving, quirky, and inspiring. Wilson exhibits the same humor and sophistication in her other work. Cairo was recognized as a top pick by Library Journal, etc. [Long list of G. Willow Wilson’s accolades, and a detailed description of the novel Alef the Unseen.] Having finished a five-year run on Ms. Marvel, she has now started writing Wonder Woman for DC. And just days ago, The Bird King was released, a novel that tells the story of the last Emirate of Muslim Spain.

G. Willow Wilson: Wow, I’m apparently very busy! (Laughter) In my job, since I’m on these very specific comic book deadlines, you have to hit them month after month, but it’s easy to lose the forest for the trees. I have to move on to the next and the next. You don’t get to sit back and think, wow, I did such a lot of stuff. But hearing that list makes me think, wow, no wonder I’m so tired! (laughter)

Thank you for having me here. I can already see why so many of you love this convention so much. It combines the best of fan run cons like Westercon and an academically rigorous exchange of ideas. This has already begun to seed ideas into my brain. I wanted to talk a little bit about the theme of the conference this year: Politics and Conflict. I wanted to say something about the trends I see as a writer today in both books without pictures as well as comics.

When I saw the theme, I thought it could not be more timely than to talk about politics and conflict in genre. The roles that politics play in the genres we typically consider escapism, these are at the forefront of what we struggle with at the far end of the political spectrum. Not everybody who writes about politics is considered a “political” voice, while others are automatically considered political. It’s played out in interesting ways in my own career and life. Who is labeled “political?” To talk a bit more about that I’m going to tell you an origin story.

Once upon a time in 2009, I got the most extraordinary piece of hate mail. Every line was a different color. One was red, one was blue, the next one orange… Someone put a lot of work into this it, like a work of art! It was the old Internet so someone put a lot of work into a lot of highlighting to make it like that. This anti-fan or non-fan accused me of being part of the, now let’s see if I can remember all the parts: “socialist Islamist homosexual attack on America.” And as I read it back in 2009, I thought to myself wow, that is not a real thing. (laughter) But it sounds fabulous! (cheers)

This was before I took my email private so I used to get this kind of thing, but never one with such a load of hyperbole and such a work of art! But what was interesting to me was that I got this letter because I was doing a guest writer stint for J. Michael Straczynski on Superman. He was having some health problems and had to take a couple of months off, and I was going to tread water for three issues until he got back. Anyone knows that when there’s a big-name writer on the book who takes a break, the idea is you don’t change anything. You put everything back where it was when you started, and wait for the big-name writer to come back. I was told to “use Superman as little as possible.” I was happy to just have my name on the book and these filler issues were about Lois Lane reconsidering her life and going to her old stomping grounds. The artist they gave me came over from erotica and only knew how to draw women in 3/4 profile with this [stunned] expression her face. So maybe it’s not a surprise they weren’t very well received. But by writing these very mild, banal, filler issues of Superman I was labeled political. This occurred to me was something that was going to follow me. No matter how ridiculous and banal what I wrote was, I would be labeled political.

It was interesting to me to note that some people who wrote political stuff, on the other hand, were NOT labeled political. Some of you may know Fables by Bill Willingham, which is a large ongoing poignant exploration of fairy tales and fairy tale tropes. He was really the first to do that, widely imitated later; he created a genre-defining work. But he wore his Republican credentials on his sleeve. He is a friend and mentor. He was very generous with his time and insight, and when he was the toast of the comic book industry he would throw these infamous parties at Comcion. But he really wore his conservative politics on his sleeve. His beliefs come up not infrequently in Fables. I’ll read you this little bit:

The main character is talking to Gepetto, and there’s big conflict coming between fairy tale creatures. The main character says to Gepetto have you ever heard of Israel? Gepetto [asks him about it]. The character answers: Israel is a small country that is surrounded by countries who want to destroy them. They have a lot of grit and iron and I admire them. [Description goes on for a while.]

It really struck me that if I had said anything similar in my own work, praising real world events or countries, and putting them into the mouths of characters who were owned by a giant media corporation, I would have lost my job. But when I just tread water and write banal Lois Lane stories, here I get these hate letters. Bill Willingham could do this and face no reprisals. And all I had to do was exist and still face reprisals.

Why does that difference exist? When we’re talking about comics and graphic novels, these are a unique medium because they are visual. Those of use who are born with sight, we learn to interpret images automatically. But writing and drawing comics we learn to interpret things in a special way. You learn things as a comic book writer like if you want a cliffhanger it has to go on an odd numbered page, so it was be on a page turn rather than a spread which would be a spoiler. How do different readers interpret different gestures? It becomes political in a way other media do not because it goes straight into our brain that doesn’t differentiate truth from fiction. We believe what we see. And we begin interpreting what we see from the moment we see it whether we realize it or not.

And then when you are writing superheroes in particular you are using characters people grew up with. Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, the great irony is that superheroes are meant to reflect the zeitgeist, what’s going on right now. But people get very attached to the version of the character they grew up with. So when you reboot Spiderman and make him a black kid from New York or Batwoman a lesbian, and you do it just so you can tell a new story, something fresh and current, you get labeled political. That gets labeled a political and not artistic choice. Who owns those images? Corporations or writers or the fans? Who owns the characters, who owns the discourses around them? What do we do when there’s disagreement?

SF/F welcomes the reader to interpret the work because it is so symbolic. It invites us to put ourselves in the work and imagine things wildly beyond the bounds of our daily lives. There is conflict built into these genres that invite interpretation; interpretation invites dispute and discussion. It’s not always easy to know why we label certain things certain ways and not others. It’s been interesting to see this play out as I write Kamala Khan. My run on Ms. Marvel is done and I am now handing it off to Saladin Ahmed. The label of innate politicalness–here I am inventing words–is something that is kind of a spectre that has been hanging over this since the beginning.

I was talking with a mentor of mine and the editor on Ms. Marvel [Sana Amant] about how to navigate that political descriptor. I knew we were going to carry certain labels. A lapsed Catholic from Milwaukee with a typical American backstory wouldn’t get the same labeling. [Making Kamala Khan who she was] shaped the series by forcing us to put care and attention into every aspect of the series that we wouldn’t have examined otherwise.

We set our expectations quite low. We said let’s shoot for 10 issues and it will be really cool, and then we’ll probably go right back to what we were doing before. We didn’t know she’d have a shelf life. Kamala had the “trifecta of death”: new characters don’t sell, female characters don’t sell, minority characters don’t sell. The retrospective is that of course these various other projects failed for various reasons. But we had to create something that had joy and beauty in it and didn’t reflect the terror we were going through in the production of the series. Our editor Steven Wacker who championed us, our colorist, etc. the whole team. We worked more closely with the artistic team than any before or since because we knew there was zero room for error. When you have a character who doesn’t fit in a box, there is a burden of representation that unfairly falls under scrutiny. So everyone has to bring their A game at all times. Then we got to 10 issues, and then to 20, and then 30 and then 50, and then the trade paperback hit the New York Times bestseller list, and then the second one did. And we realized that we had pulled together a team that overcame the low expectations. Kamala survived and will outlive all of us.

[This success] can open the door for more. We have been living in a bottleneck for talent. When we didn’t consider representation [and only wrote/published for the dominant group/dominant paradigm] several generations of talent built up behind that bottleneck. That talent might have been lost if it weren’t opened at this extraordinary moment in history.

I’d like to close by saying nothing is impossible. If there is anyone who knows that for sure, it’s the people in this room. Thank you.

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#cecilia tan

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b-sidemusic · 7 years

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INTERVIEW: STRANGER THAN FICTION - REAL LIFE VICTORIANA WITH THY LAST DROP

Once upon an evening stormy, as I pondered there before me A quaint and curious band of fellows gathered close within As the rain outside was lashing and the lightning bolts were flashing And the rolls of thunder crashing through the walls so old and thin The leader raised his glass and turned towards me with a grin Quoth the Crowe: “Let us begin…”

Thy Last Drop are as unlikely a group of vagabonds as you’ll chance to meet in Bury St Edmunds – a band of storytellers who weave their tales through toe-tapping tunes and morbid, gravelly vocals. Friend of the band Sivy named the genre 'Victorian Murder Punk', and it stuck. Inspired by Poe, Hogarth and a slew of folk styles from Cornwall to Russia, the band’s songs cover subjects from witch-hunts to insane asylums, grave-robbers to hangings at Tyburn.

I joined Thy Last Drop in one of the members’ place of work, a printing warehouse that he’s turned into an extension of their Odditorium. I noticed several bird cages, various dismembered mannequins, a dodgy looking leather contraption, and Donald Trump’s head in a jar. Ask nicely and you’ll get a demonstration of a 1920s gramophone - in my opinion, a far more interesting audio throwback than the current vinyl resurgence.

Thy Last Drop came to be after singer/guitarist Mr Crowe and accordion player Squeezy met up after years of musical inertia, both having come out of a decades-long drought to discover a desire to play some folk music. They ‘made noises’ for about a year before picking up first bandurrian player Amil (an occupational therapist/heavy metal musician from the Philippines) and then bassist Momo (former founder/producer at Vibe FM), who – after some coercion - each brought their own style to the outfit.

The band is a favourite in Bury, but is more often called out into surrounding areas for gigs. This is partly because Bury St Edmunds just doesn’t have that many big venues, although the newly revitalised Constitutional Club, their old haunt The Hunter Club and a willing Oakes Barn have meant a few more local gigs of late.

B-Side: So, who’s in charge here?

Momo: It’s Mr Crowe.

Mr Crowe: I’m a diva. They humour me.

B-Side: Do you all get on pretty well, though?

Mr Crowe: Yeah, it’s easy. I mean, we’re older as well – we’re not chasing the same things as a younger band. We couldn’t do ten months of tour without dying.

B-Side: How did the band get from anonymous noise making to being booked several times a month?

Mr Crowe: We started out in open mics and folk nights – but we became a bit loud and energetic for them. So we started setting up things and working with other bands and things went from there. We now only try to do the things we want to do.

B-Side: So, the Victoriana aesthetic and matching themes in the music – going largely by moustache here, Mr Crowe, I’m guessing it comes from you?

Mr Crowe: It’s definitely a major obsession of mine. There’s such a dark side to Victorian history. Hogarth was a major influence for some of the songs – I’ve always loved that satirical artwork from the 18th and 19th Century. Then, literature-wise, Edgar Allen Poe and Dickens. When I say my stuff’s historical, it comes from a literary side of history – I want to reinvent the gothic stories rather than reflect reality.

Amil: I’ve learned a lot of history. Even if I don’t learn the words to the song I’ll ask “What’s the song about?” and it’s always interesting.

B-Side: How do Thy Last Drop’s songs get written?

Mr Crowe: Most of the songs get written around a phrase I particularly like and mull over in my head for a while. I write lyrics and melody at the same time – not one before the other. Then it goes to the band, who add twists that I didn’t imagine.

B-Side: Your music is definitely very upbeat for the morbid subjects it covers.

Mr Crowe: Yeah, absolutely – but that’s folk music for you. Folk music’s storylines often have awful things happening, but it’s set to a dance because that’s what the peasants wanted. And that’s what it’s all about: drinking and dancing.

B-Side: Who are your peasants? What’s your audience demographic like?

Mr Crowe: Very varied. We’ve got a bunch of 40-and-overs, but also a lot of young people who like to come and bounce around. We’ve done a lot of festival stuff (Latitude, Maui Waui, Strawberry Fair, Secret Garden Party), so it’s that kind of crowd.

B-Side: How have you found the local music scene? Is East Anglia a good place to do music in?

Squeezy: It’s changed a lot since we were kids. When I was a kid in a band it was very hostile, the punk scene. People were envious of each other and a bit scornful of folk. But since things like Washing Machine started, Bury St Edmunds has had a really nice crowd, very supportive.

Mr Crowe: Although there are some great venues there are certain restrictions – residents, time restrictions – in Bury that can be difficult, especially for the younger lot who play heavier music. But across East Anglia, in Ipswich and Colchester, there are some great venues for them as well.

Amil: We played Oakes Barn recently, which is good - it was absolutely packed. Apparently it was so good that some of the people who just popped in got so excited that they ate daffodils.

B-Side: What?!

Amil: Yeah.

(The band offers no further explanation.)

B-Side: Right, okay then... outside of daffodil season, do you have a favourite venue to perform at?

Mr Crowe: The Coronet Theatre in London. It’s a fantastic venue.

Momo: We actually perform best on a tiny stage, or tent, or whatever it is, though – it’s the atmosphere.

Amil: Anywhere, I don’t care, as long as we don’t mess up.

B-Side: Ooh, have there been any big mess ups?

All: No, no!

B-Side: Hmm.

Momo: You probably can’t tell when we’ve messed up, unless we’re up there laughing.

Mr Crowe: We can tell if we’ve messed up, because our fans know all the words – so they’re standing there staring at us if we get it wrong.

B-Side: What’s the most memorable gig you’ve had?

Amil: The first time I saw Hallowe’en was at the Coronet Theatre. I thought it was crazy – people were naked, wearing only antlers and glitter. I’d come from the Catholic Philippines and thought the UK was a proper pagan country!

Squeezy: We played the International Burlesque Festival, that was a bit crazy. There was someone dressed as David Icke, doing a routine to a backing track of him. It was perfectly choreographed.

B-Side: So you’ve ended up doing some pretty weird shit.

Mr Crowe: Yeah, weird is our remit. Having said that, the one that stands out for me, really, was the album launch at Moyses Hall. It was a home crowd for us, and the resonance in that building is fantastic.

B-Side: Speaking of which, it’s been two years since (debut LP) ‘Tales from the Triple Tree’ was released – when are we getting a new record?

Mr Crowe: We’re working on it. It’s in the pipeline. We’ll be re-releasing our first EP – ��Dead Drunk for Two’ – properly first. Look out for new material next year.

B-Side: Any idea which media you’ll be releasing onto?

Mr Crowe: We can’t really afford this vinyl stuff. Maybe mini-discs. Phonographs. But come to see us live if you can, that’s really what it’s all about. We try to contain it on a disk, but it’s really all about the mistakes, and the laughs, and the live noise.

Amil: The pressure of cracking cables. The buttons getting stuck. “Amil, you have small hands, fix it!” Ah, the excitement.

B-Side: Who are your musical influences?

Mr Crowe: 80s bands such as New Model Army; Justin Sullivan is one of my favourite songwriters ever. I’m influenced by really dark music from that era. I love Abba, obviously. Also things like Strauss, though – I probably listen to classical music the most. I just don’t like anything that has apathy.

Squeezy: Classical music, of course. My parents listened to a lot of folk music as well. I’m married to a Russian, so there’s also the whole Eastern European/Asian thing going on at home.

Momo: Mine’s very eclectic. The punk scene was my thing, it was when I had my first proper band – not loud punky stuff, more like The Police, The Stranglers, The Jam. I moved to London in the 80s and the whole decade went over my head, so I started again in the 90s. I also listen to a lot of classical and jazz stuff.

Amil: I respect so many bands but honestly I can’t often remember the names of them. Everything I hear around here is foreign to me. Some of the groups we’ve been able to play with have been so great, though. We played with The Thinking Men for Washing Machine and they are so good. These guys also introduce me to lots of tunes, like The Rolling Stones.

Mr Crowe: Oh, god, Amil’s point of reference is amazing. Coming from the Philippines we’ve been able to introduce him to all sorts.

Amil: Lots of British music got to us, but we always just assumed it was American. I told my mum that Eric Clapton was British and she was so surprised. I was in Ireland before I was in England, and it was amazing to see people singing a capella in pubs and things. But then again, in the Philippines, you’ll get karaoke machines in bus stops.

B-Side: I suddenly desperately want to visit the Philippines, so we’d better wrap up. Let’s have the cliché question: do you have any tips for our readers that want to go into music?

Mr Crowe: Just. Do. It. Don’t second guess yourself, just get out there and get involved. Sitting at home going “I’m not good enough” for 20 years is no good. Getting out there can lead to anything. Nowadays around here, everyone’s so supportive – you don’t have to be good!

Momo: What he said with an extension. Do everything. Don’t just say “I’m going to be a rock God”. Do everything and learn from it all, so you can get back to a point and say “that’s me”.

Squeezy: It’s a bit like a foundation course in art where you try everything and then you find something you want to be.

Mr Crowe: Yeah, don’t be a genre snob.

Amil: Anyone who wants to get into music needs to know themselves.

Mr Crowe: As Ashlene said on Big Brother…

Amil: No, wait: you have to know yourself. In particular if you’re in a group. If you’re starting a band there could be lots of personalities and styles. If you’re comfortable with how you are musically and artistically, you can always stand back and let the song writer write the song with no clashes.

Squeezy: One extra thing that’s so important: just be mates.

Listen to Thy Last Drop on Bandcamp (https://thylastdrop.bandcamp.com)

THE LOWDOWN: THY LAST DROP Members: Mr Crowe (lead vocals and guitar - the guitar is arch-top, strung like a mandolin with only five strings – and twirly-moustaching), Squeezy (accordion, manic grinning), Momo (bass, drums, vocals, multi-tasking), Amil (bandurrian, vocals, prancing), Swampy (unofficial member, Carnival Minister and roadie). From: Bury St Edmunds Listen to: ‘Tales From The Triple Tree’ album, CD and download, out now. See them live at: Bury St Edmunds Constitutional Club, 7th October (Fundraiser for Gatehouse with Scare The Normals) Keep up with them on: Facebook - Twitter

Words by Francine Carrel Photo by Towillen.com

#interview #Interviews #francine carrel #thy last drop

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