Tumgik
#joe hills just seems like an enigma
anony-mouse-writer · 2 years
Text
why hermit archives Joe Hills is less despicable than Jurgen Leitner even though they technically serve the same role in the story:
Simple - he's Joe Hills
okay no but for real. Joe has more of his special brand of charisma in his pinky than Jurgen has in his whole body. that being said, im feeling verbose and needed a half decent excuse to re-read the hermit archives, so spoilers for The Magnus Archives distributed by the Rusty Quill and the crossover fanfic From The Archives by @sixteenth-days
Introduction - Hi there, Joe Hills here, recording as I always do...
so obviously, every narrator in both series is an unreliable narrator to some extent. something about the eldritch influence of fear itself seems to have an adverse affect on the little things, like authorial bias. its whatever.
however, for both of these cases, our primary impressions of the these two characters- whose role I will be referring to as The Curator for the rest of this cuz I'll be referencing it a lot and im lazy- is the same. both are only spoken of in passing reference by the victims of their books. there's usually an understandable lack of curiosity by the victims to dig further into the origins of their books, but for everyone lacking immediate incentive to stop looking (and occasionally, even those who aren't), the pattern is unmistakable: Curator's nameplate = dangerous spooky book.
as the audience (on the first viewing), we're increasingly aware of the nameplates and their ties to the entities and it's clear that the archivists are aware of them to some extent as well, but neither party has any real glimpse into The Curator's motivations or story until:
The Curator's Statement - Call it a desire for narrative presence!
when we finally meet Jurgen in person, he saves Jon lotta J names in this, huh from the Strange clutches of Not!Sasha with a book and a pithy one liner. The entire rest of his screen time is spent with a dawning realization that this man isn't a malicious actor or even a knowledgeable shadow, standing against the forces of fear with wit and skill. instead, he's just a man. a particularly lucky man whose cloying, whining cowardice isn't even enough to tempt the fear entities he's willingly surrounded himself with. For all his attempts to appear otherwise, Jurgen is an underwhelming disappointment - a fail upward bohemian whose eye for 'value' and sense of drama painted him into a much more intimidating figure than reality.
Joe Hills, on the other hand is an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in lime green scene gloves and chains. He is, in many ways, a perfect foil to Jurgen. Obviously, there is the narrative awareness that is endemic to Joe Hills, an advantage which seems to have served him as well as Jurgen's luck. But there's also the little quirks of their personalities. Jurgen's failed attempts at self preservation and heroics contrasted to Joe's blithe acceptance of his mortality the fates of his collection's victims. Jurgen whines impatiently at Jon about wasted time and Joe meanders thoughtfully through his reflections and their little asides until Cleo reminds him of the limited tape.
And then there's the presentation of their statements. Jurgen comes to the archives for aid and gives his statement as a bartering tool. For all his former vanity, he recognizes his tale is not one of a shadowed hero or tragic warden, but a cautionary tale of trying to contain the forces of fear. He hides and waits till a point of dramatic tension to reveal himself, using the bits of knowledge he gained through the blood and sanity of others to keep himself safe. He is alone. Reviled and hunted, with just enough knowledge to be a problem, and not enough to be a threat. And in the end, his last, half-hearted attempt to leave a mark on the narrative is dashed and he becomes a conduit for someone else's bid for power.
Joe sends the institute his statement of his own accord in order to participate in the narrative of the archives. He is introduced in much less tenuous position largely due to his own agency in his life. Joe, as he tells Cleo, lives as though in a fable. He is careful and aware of his surroundings, but he is also clever and willing to exploit the offers given to him. he doesn't wait for the story to come to him, he reaches out to find it.
Outside Looking In - ...gathering the evils of the world and locking them away.
There are, of course, several lists for which roles and entities the hermits best embody- personally, I quite enjoy @magicalmanhattanproject's- but what all of them agree on is that whatever his role in the narrative, JoeHills is Definitely Not Normal. on one hand, he is too aware of himself and his surroundings to be an easy pawn or the catalyst of pandora's box by ignorant hubris; but on the other, his mercurial sense of chaos lends perfectly well to the sorts that become avatars of fear. the question from there is not if, but who's avatar is Joe Hills? regardless of your answer, his participation as an avatar is not in question.
Jurgen longs to be a part of the story. he wants recognition, and even after he realizes the ironic monkey's paw granting of his wish, he still strives to be a hero. but the lesson he seems to have failed to grasp, despite his time in-the-know as it were, is that one cannot have an affect on the story without first being a part of it. Adelard Dekker is perhaps the closest to an exception there is, succumbing in the end to death, but remaining himself throughout. but in every other case, the only thing reliably capable of countering one fear entity is another. Jurgen tries to use the books as a conduit, to harness their power while remaining untouched, and it's not enough. not even close.
(arguably, not surrendering oneself to an eldritch fear entity would be the ethically correct move, but from someone who was self admittedly ruthless and sacrificed several other people to gain the paltry knowledge he can use, it seems to be less for some attempt at an uncorrupted high ground and more because he was a coward too afraid to commit his own skin to the game.)
Joe doesn't seek to harness the entities. he doesn't play his game with death to prolong his life for the sake of living or a fear of the end, but to explore and experience a world that he is very much a part of.
Conclusion - And really, isn’t that the most any of us fragile little humans could ask for?
so in conclusion, Joe is a more likable character than Jurgen because he's more charismatic, more autonomous, and hasn't managed to alienate every affiliated existence on earth. what else is there?
well, the rest from here is more speculation then analysis since we haven't seen Joe's response to pressure since his time as the Curator. but if I had to guess, when confronted by a man with a pipe and good reason to want him out of the picture, Joe would do a bit more than snivel and beg.
and that is the Joe Hills difference.
277 notes · View notes
Text
Is it just me or like
Is Joe Hills and Connereatspants the same kind of guy but on opposite spectrums for their respective servers
39 notes · View notes
andyangus · 4 years
Text
Wednesday 10th February
Recognisable faces paraded before me, worn down by a tumultuous decade of drink and drugs in search of ‘the one’. They hovered above the youth of today expectantly. And when I say youth, I do mean youth.
‘How old are some of these kids?’ I asked Ryan as he returned from CC’s bar.
‘It’s the knock-on effect from the equalisation of the age of consent, my friend. This place can seem like a damn Tolkien novel sometimes. Out of my way hobbits!’ he nipped as he pushed past a group of teenagers to gain the perfect vantage point of the dance floor.
I can’t really blame the boys and girls for feeling free and liberated by the change in the law, it’s what we fought for after all. Thanks to this, there’s a now a pile of support available that wasn’t when I came out. And it allows sexual health education more freedom too. I just wish they didn’t make me feel so ancient.
‘Some things have changed for the better though,’ added Tony, who had just elbowed a guy in the ribs to get through the crowd. ‘The lesbians have got prettier.’
‘Who’s the drag on the pole?’ I asked, pointing towards three pole-dancers on podiums. Two fit lads wearing nothing but white pants and boots cavorted and contorted either side of a girl kitted out in a black corset and fishnets as she moved slickly to Mein Herr from Cabaret.
Ryan laughed, almost choking on his pint, ‘That isn’t a drag queen. That is Ms Sally Knowles, all-round entertainer and close friend of Miss Molasses Brown. A bit of an enigma, if you ask me. Appeared on the scene a few years ago. She causes quite a stir with her performances.
‘Even though she’s obviously getting on a bit, the poor thing,’ chirped in Tony.
Ryan continued, ‘The jury’s still out if she swings both ways or is just a boring straight. She doesn’t give much away, but the girls and boys love her, and she most definitely is a she! Just wait and see, she’ll be popping her tits out soon enough for you. One of those new girls that do a stint of fake drag, which takes some balls, if you ask me. You’ll meet the biggest fag hag in town sooner or later if you take the job at the café.’
‘She waits on tables there to subsidise her waning career,’ added Tony, as if he’d just swallowed vinegar.
Her toned frame glistened with beads of sweat as the lights reflected on her mocha coloured skin. Slight in frame, she sported a black bobbed wig, wide eyes caked in thick dark makeup, and knee-high, kinky boots that Emma Peel would be proud of. I watched her routine, mesmerised by her total command of the crowd and flexibility, ignoring the muscular boys next to her. Within minutes, the show was over, and she was gone. I thought it was a damn fine performance and suspect Tony is a tad envious. Even so, could I really work in a place that employs a stripper? What kind of establishment would do that? A place that isn’t as boring as a corner shop, I imagine. You know what? I think I really could.
Beer after beer, cocktail after cocktail: the night danced on. Before long, I lost myself in the entity of the seething masses while alcohol coursed through my blood and detached my brain from the complications in life, sliding me towards the dawn through a smoky haze and the rhythm of the night.
Sheer bliss.
******
Later, after at least ten selfies in which I looked consistently drunk, we returned home hungrily forking our chips and buzzing from a great night. Ryan suggested taking a walk after Tony decided to head to bed. I figured that an early morning stroll would be just the tonic. I needed to sober up a little. So, at 4 a.m., we climbed Calton Hill and gazed down on Edinburgh as she ebbed and flowed. As any city, she’s a feisty creature that sings her own lullaby but is never able to fall asleep. Ryan chose to sit on the north edge of the hill and asked, ‘Do you remember when we’d come up here together at the end of the night if neither of us had pulled?’
‘I remember. Which was pretty often, as we rarely pulled,’ I laughed.
‘I didn’t mind,’ he said. He turned to face me and smiled that beautiful toothy grin. He held my gaze and bit his lower lip. It was as if he’d rattled some old emotions and was fighting to keep them boxed in. He looked away. ‘I sometimes forfeited a shag just to come up here with you. I needed our time together. There’s a stillness about you, Mr, that I’ve always loved. Your calmness at the end of the night helped me wind down.’
‘Thanks. That calmness didn’t stop Steve pulling every single night,’ I joked. I sat next to him, the ground was cold and damp, but that didn’t bother me now we were alone again.
‘No, it didn’t. But then, there were nights he’d take anything.’
We chuckled and then went quiet for a time. In our own thoughts. Faint traffic could be heard making its way down Leith Walk. The occasional ladette’s drunken yelps echoed through the night as the amber lamps twinkled along the streets. Lights of the tenements on Leith Walk randomly glimmered into life for a short time and then died. Below our feet, just along the steps, the last pieces of trade wandered up and down the gravel steps in the safe anonymity of darkness, occasionally stopping to inspect a possible opportunity or to rest against the wall and wait on something better coming along.
‘Cruising doesn’t turn me on,’ I interjected. ‘I like the chase. The intimacy and sheer bliss of unhurried sex in the comfort of a potential lover’s home. Learning who they are by scanning their CD collection and bookshelves. Where’s the fun in cruising?’
‘But cruising’s a part of life that’s always existed. It demands to be included.’
‘True,’ I agreed. And here it was, keeping our feet firmly on the grit and dirt of this fairytale city. ‘Steve never had a problem with it.’
‘Totally!’ nodded Ryan. ‘Brazen hussy, that he was.’ We laughed, and then he asked, ‘Hey, do you remember, when he was really drunk, he’d shout loud over the dance floor, “Ryan! Andy! I just want ma’ hole! Is that too much to ask? I want ma’ hole!” ?’
I cringed, ‘Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. Bloody outrageous.’
‘Totally inappropriate,’ agreed Ryan.
‘And he’d leave us high and dry if an opportunity caught his eye. Do you know, he once left me on a train to Glasgow?
‘No way!’
Yes, way! We were heading for a night out. He buggered off to shag a ticket collector in the station toilets? There I was, doors closed, train moving, thinking he’d just nipped to the loo in the carriage, and I only realised when I was well out of the city. I got off at Croy and turned about. I was the only queen at Croy. In a bloody glittery Kylie tee-shirt, damn it.’
‘He was a selfish idiot at times, but great fun.’
We burst out laughing. A guy called from the steps, ‘Hey! Keep the noise down! Some of us are trying to get some down here.’
‘Sorry!’ we called back, toning down to a giggle. We fell silent and huddled together to keep warm. Ryan rested his lovely head on mine. It was perfection. We didn’t really need to talk about the gap years, we just needed to start again – a second chance. I’m bloody thankful for that. Sat there with him, watching tiny lives stumbling around before dawn. Stumbling through life like the rest of us. Getting up and going at it again, just as Ryan and I could. It felt like it was us against the world once more. I basked in the tranquillity of the moment. A little pocket of time and space just for us. Ships sailed quietly on the Firth of Forth as lighthouses pulsated their reassuring beacons. The water melded with the star-speckled sky. So much darkness and yet, reassuringly, tiny glimmers of hope, guiding us safely through the dark.
‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘Where in the world do you get all of this? A city, with a castle, built on a volcano, with bridges buried under buildings, with a loch that’s now a park, and a palace, and all sitting on this gorgeous coastline. It’s a sort of fairytale.’ A rush of pride came over me, and I nodded in agreement. I felt his hand grip my arm through the thickness of my coat as he pulled me even closer. His eyes were steadfast. ‘Come back,’ he whispered.
Forget the dancing, the men, the city … that was all I really needed. With two little words, he’d managed to turn back time.
0 notes