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beyondthetemples-ooc · 3 years

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OC-tober Day 2: Glass

OC-tober prompts put together by @oc-growth-and-development! I have to ramble in meta instead of write, because my brain is Mush lately. (I know I’m behind but I have a lot pre-written, I just need to put it into coherent words!)

This one especially can be rambled about at length, because the most important “glass” object in my stories is one I greatly enjoy exploring: Dove’s mindscape mirror!

^ I drew it forever ago; here’s the deviantArt link if you’d like to see the big version!

https://www.deviantart.com/ravenshiddensoul/art/Dove-s-Keepsakes-Mirror-and-Box-284227087

It’s largely modeled after a bird stretching its wings upwards, with a handle like a tail and certain details are inlaid with Azarathean gold to better channel its magics.

Now, this is where the rambling begins: The mirror’s backstory, and I’ll be exploring one of my favorite things to develop in all of my stories: Dove’s mindscape!

Dove's mirror isn't one of her most prized possessions, nor super incredibly sentimental, but it IS an object touched with her mother's magic, it has flourishes of Azarathean gold (some of the last pieces to exist), and it's useful for introspection and self-soothing, so it does have some value and importance.

Dove struggled with meditating quite a lot as a child, and there was only so much her mother could do to help. Meditation was pretty important to them as both a means of helping Dove control her powers, and as a staple of Azarathean spirituality. As she so often did, Alerina poked around and asked enough questions around the temple that she was told about Raven's mirror, and she decided to replicate it for Dove. She custom ordered a gold-lined wooden hand mirror, and then cast the spells to connect it to Dove's inner world herself. It took a few tries (it's much harder to connect something to someone else's mind than your own, after all), but she was nothing if not determined to help her daughter, and eventually figured it out.

As for its main purpose: Self-reflection! (If you'll pardon the pun.) Dove uses it to meditate, but where Raven uses hers for centering and compartmentalization, Dove uses it more as a blend of escapism and a focusing aid.

Much like Raven's, Dove's mirror acts as a portal to the depths of her mind, and this is where it gets fun!

The vortex that transports the users is usually white and gold, imbued with the same energies that give Dove her powers, at least on her mother's side. It's noticeably touched with black and red in DDD. (Dove's evil side starts taking over her mind, and thus its energies manifest through the mindscape, and Dove's portal into it, hence: black and red energies instead.) It tends to open up like a light tunnel and almost opens the mental world around the user, rather than dragging them in.

Once inside, one can't expect to navigate the same way as Beast Boy and Cyborg did in "Nevermore". Every mind is different, after all! We saw Raven's mindscape divided nearly into emotional sections with a neutral space between them, and the way through each area was preset and linear. While different parts of Dove's internal world manifest in different "areas", they're not so totally divided and separate, and there's no real "neutral" zone except at the very "center". The scenery changes, but it's more of a gradual transition, and though Dove employs thresholds to mark key areas, they're very much just visual aids.

Dove's mindscape is laid out more like a series of rooms and courtyards in a very (very, very, very) large mansion. The ground is generally of crystal, spires and columns decorate the scenery, and the thresholds are modeled after birds with their wings outspread. (While this seems like a play on Dove's namesake, it's actually based on Azarath's architecture, particularly that of George Perez's Azarath in the 1980's New Teen Titans comics.)

Dove's sky shows various stars and often casts moonlight from an uncertain source, particularly when she's introspecting. The ambient temperature varies amongst the locations, chilly in the regions ruled by fear and sadness, uncomfortably warm near her demon's domain, and comfortable and breezy where her peace and contentment reside.

One could easily get lost in her mindscape if they don't know where they're going. The place can shift and change on a whim.

Where Dove spends her time building that peace and contentment, it's very closely modeled after her mother's memories of Azarath (which is where she learned how to find peace, after all): there's marble and gold everywhere, and the stars twinkle with dozens of colors in the sky.

Where Dove retreats when there are feelings of timidity, her excruciating shyness, her grief and doubt, the world becomes shrouded in thick fog. Broken buildings and pale light litter the grounds.

Where she built her love for reading, for history, for creativity and study and learning, it's arranged as rooms with dark marbled tile and a carpeted path, the floor for dozens of feet on either side littered with piles of books.

Dove's inner happy place is an open field on gently rolling hills, where thoughts take the form of birds and somehow the sky holds both the stars and suns. One might find trees, flowers, abstract forms of cottages, and forts loaded with mugs and cozy cushions. If you wander far enough you'll find very tall stone walls surrounding it, because Dove's mind is such that her happiness is one of the few things she really truly believes she needs to protect from the rest of herself.

And then there are the aspects of herself that she shoves the deepest down, secreted far away from the surface: the anger, the hunger for power, the mean streak. (Yes, believe it or not, Dove does have a mean streak! You just have to work especially hard to bring it out. Or trigger her in just the right ways around sadism, violence, war, or death. It's very much Not Recommended; bringing too much of that mean streak out could mean Dove loses control of her powers, or worse: her demonic aspects.)

Those secret forces aren't so much located in one particular space of her mind as they're hidden in every dark corner, coursing through the underside of all the ground, a tantalizing power running through every part of her, only ever set free enough to use the dangerous powers to her own ends.

Her places for Fear and Curiosity in particular will be explored in the upcoming Missing: Raven rewrite. (As they're the strongest things Dove is feeling in that story, that's going to be what Beast Boy and Cyborg encounter.) I also explored the way these things manifest in DDD, and in that same story Dove will focus on rebuilding Peace in the final chapter.

I can't talk about Dove's mindscape without mentioning the "emoticlones". These fun little guys are called by the fanon term given to Raven's "emotion clones", the separate parts of her that express a specific set of traits based on particular aspects of her personality. I had so much fun playing with their voices and thoughts in Dove's head during DDD, you have no freaking idea! I also copied the concept of them having Colored Cloaks from Teen Titans canon, because honestly it's a quick and easy way to identify them, and the fandom's familiar with this system through Raven.

Which colors mean what was more inspired by details from a really old, now-defunct website called Cartoon Orbit that had separate "online trading cards" for each of Raven's emoticlones! On that site, Raven's were labeled as such, and this is what I based Dove's system on, loosely: - Pink: "Raven Happy" - Red: "Raven Rage" - Orange: "Raven Rude" - Yellow: "Raven Smart" - Green: "Raven Brave" - Brown: "Raven Fear" (I'm pretty sure there was a purple one, but I don't recall what it was called. "Love" maybe? That might be from fanon; this site was running like 15 years ago, and I was like 10 years old, so I hardly thought to pay Super Special Attention to it...)

But I digress. The point is, I adapted that system for the key aspects of Dove's unique personality, and came to understand them as follows:

- Pink: Joy, relief, coziness - Red: Cruelty, impulsivity, anger - Orange: Apathy, indifference, disregard - Yellow: Curiosity, study, intrigue - Green: Courage, determination, activity - Blue: Contentedness, pacifism, spirituality - Purple: Compassion, friendship, romanticism - Gray: Sadness, grief, longing. - Brown: Fear, fear, fear!

But for Dove's mind in particular, it's not only HER experiences and personality that form the world! She's a telepath, and though she holds others' privacy in very, very high regard and tries never to read someone's mind without their permission, her sense of receptive telepathy is ever-present. Echoes, lights, shadows, reflections of others' memories and thoughts might affect the very edges of her mind. It's a constant sense, but it only ever causes very ephemeral changes unless something deeply affects her.

Her mindscape also grows and changes as Dove grows and changes, experiences life, learns to cope, and changes how she handles her own emotions.

Most notably, the internal struggle in DDD tore her mind apart. Initially it was due to a breakdown of certainty and confidence, hastened by guilt and grief, but it soon became a deliberate tactic to wage war on the parts of Dove's mind that were trying to resist the evil; eventually her inner demon began intentionally breaking/corrupting everything it could touch.

By chapter 20, that evil is the only strong and stable thing in Dove's mind. Raven's attack to remove the evil in her took away that stability, and strength, and thus took away what was essentially the last support holding Dove's mind together. As it says in the story: "everything collapsed". Dove's mindscape was utterly destroyed, and only the most basic aspects of her remained.

For awhile, that left Dove unable to remember things clearly, or feel emotions without great pain. Rebuilding it to the point where she was able to talk and feel Mostly Normally again took months of meditation.

When Dove is kidnapped and Leyla has distressing dreams about her mother, she, Srentha, and Raven use the mirror to check on Dove by accessing her mindscape. With her powers stripped away, surrounded by people who mock her, and certain Fauni rituals sickening Dove to her soul, naturally her mind is very different: shadowy forms flitted at the edges of vision, the ground wavered, her discomfort was thick in the air and the constant fear made everything so, so cold. "Shadows" of others' thoughts flashed in and out of existence, and Dove's desperation manifests as fleeting voices on the wind. It's uncomfortable to be in her mind while she's so distressed.

It's also worth mentioning that her mindscape changes again, essentially "growing" the part of her that belongs to Love when she finally lets herself love Srentha, and it expands again when Leyla's born and Dove once more finds depths of love she didn't know she could carry.

#oc tober #oc tober 2021 #rhs has ocs and this is the tag about them #iala yona #ddd #rhs oc tober

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kuroopaisen · 4 years

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imitheos. (oikawa tooru)

➵ oikawa barely recognises the god he used to be.

wc: 3.8k

warnings: gn!reader, greek god au, melancholia? angst? is that something to warn people about?

a/n: so this got away from me, and ended up half a character study, but,,, @kacchand (sorry for tagging this one but i couldn’t tag @kacchand-archive aa) thank you so much for the warm, lovely things you’ve said to me ever since stumbling across my blog, and for complimenting my oikawa specifically. it’s those sorts of compliments that makes me feel all soft!

Oikawa Tooru. He’s still not sure of the name. He never chooses them himself; they come to him, quite naturally, each time he assumes a new form. Each time he knits himself a backstory, he wonders what this life will bring. If it will be better than the last.

He hasn’t always been Oikawa Tooru. He’s been many other forms littered throughout history, recycling the same ego. And before each of those, he was Apollo.

Apollo had been a god amongst gods, deity of so much and so many. He could absolve men of guilt, gift mortals with the power of prophecy, balance their lives in his hands as he commanded the fate of their crops. Even the gods feared him, loved him, revered him.

But he is no longer Apollo. He is a whisper of him, a half-forgotten shadow.

His old name is everywhere. Rocket ships, theatres, philosophical concepts. He’s watched countless effigies to his old self shoot themselves into the sky, chasing a distance once thought unreachable. They always seem to take the light with them, blazing into the darkness.

But Apollo is just a name, now. Everything he used to symbolise seems to pass through him like white smoke.

It’s so hard to find the light in this endless winter.

Archery is just a niche hobby, now. Wars are won through other means.

Disease and the means to combat it are far past his sphere of influence now. Both continue to take on new and frightening forms that even he couldn’t conjure.

There is no space in this world for prophecy anymore. Such things are considered untruths, the trade of hackneyed swindlers masquerading as fortune tellers.

But poetry. Poetry refuses to die.

Sunday afternoon. The sky is already dark. Slam poetry night at a dingy little coffee shop. He’s sat in his usual spot, a dark corner that grants him a clear view of the makeshift stage at the back of the shop. It’s the best spot to melt away into, to become a true observer.

He’s not sure why he’s come here. The coffee itself isn’t particularly good, nor is the atmosphere of the place much to his liking. It’s a little dingy, reliant on weak oil lamps for light. He knows that it’s supposed to give off a retro vibe, but he thinks it just makes it miserable. There’s the smell of musk too, permeated through both wood and cushion.

But something is drawing him to this place. Something, beating against the fabric of the universe, is telling him that this is where he’s supposed to be.

He still doesn’t know why.

You smile at him from across the room, giving him a small wave. You usually work Sunday afternoons, right until close. He isn’t sure of your name, and usually, he wouldn’t care.

But every Sunday, you seem to take it upon yourself to fulfil his orders. Once upon a time, he would’ve been sure that it was his charm that induced you to do so; mortals often found it hard to resist the gods, after all. But he’s not so sure he can still claim that allure.

“You’re becoming a bit of a regular,” you smile, setting his drink down in front of him. Something made with honey, but he’s not sure what. He never pays much attention when he orders.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re always here on Sundays,” you nod, daring to meet his gaze. “But you’ve never performed yourself.”

Oikawa smiles. One person, at the very least, has noticed his existence. That’s as powerful as a prayer these days.

“I take it you’re a fan,” you remark, eyes scanning his face.

Oikawa nods. “You could say that.”

You smile. It’s small, and he wonders if it’s merely a nicety. “Of slam poetry in particular, or…”

Ah. Yes.

He wants to say it’s because he’s tired of typical poetry. Tired of all its embellishments and platitudes. Slam poetry is newer, younger, angrier. There’s a rawness to it, a rage that speaks to something more visceral in him. Pretty words are not enough anymore.

It’s an offering of something else, of a yearning he still struggles to place. It’s a call for something better, for change, for vindication.

But he won’t bore you with that. You’re just a waiter, making small talk to be polite.

“My preferences change often,” he shrugs.

He appraises you for a moment, clad in a button-up shirt and dress trousers, a charmingly small apron wrapped around your waist. He’s not paid you much mind before; maybe because he’s been looking too hard.

He once thought that this café was drawing him towards a modern muse, an echo of Melpomene. Or perhaps Erato? But it hadn’t been that at all. It had been a call to draw him to you.

For what, he can’t say. But this small moment, this little recognition in the back of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday afternoon in the midst of winter, is the closest he’s felt to worship in aeons.

He fears, for a moment, that you might be Daphne. Or maybe Marpessa. He’s already lost another Hyacinth; not to death, but to the rhythm of life. The pull of a world to which Oikawa couldn’t follow. How long had it been since Hajime left?

Oikawa can’t say.

But he’s been so lonely. So faded.

Whoever you are, whoever you were, does not matter.

What matters is that you’re the first person in a very long time who can see him.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Back again,” you smile. Another drink with honey is placed in front of him. It’s the only thing he’s been ordering for the past few weeks.

He nods, looking up at you with a smile. He knows it’s dead behind the eyes, but he’s trying. He hopes, quietly, that the darkness will mask it.

“You must really enjoy the poetry,” you remark, looking over your shoulder.

One girl has just finished, face flushed with both nervousness and pride. She is young, perhaps barely seventeen, but with the fury of someone who knows too much about the horrors of the world. She’d done quite well by Oikawa’s account. He hadn’t derived much joy from it, but she certainly has potential.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, taking a sip of his drink.

“Do you prefer more…” You pause, brow furrowed as you search for the words. “Traditional poetry?”

Oikawa shakes his head.

Perhaps his tastes would err more to the modern, if he knew more about it. But the fact of the matter is that he simply doesn’t have a clue. Too much time spent with volleyball preoccupying most of his thoughts, and very little time keeping up with the artistic scene of the last decade and a half.

He can’t speak as an expert. But he can speak as the god who invented poetry, who gave mortals the means with which to express their magnitudes. A gift, he’d said. To turn the human experience into something beautiful. But was it for them, or for him?

“The anger is sincere,” he muses, “And they all seem to have poured their soul into their poems.”

You nod, smiling at him. “I wish I was that creative, at their age.”

He looks at you. You look about the same age he should be; twenty-something, maybe? Young, perhaps still in university.

You’ve been spending your breaks with him for a few weeks now.

He doesn’t mind; in fact, he enjoys the company. And, you seem to care about what he has to say, which certainly fluffs his ego.

Why you would care so much about an odd, discreet man sitting in a dark corner of a coffee shop is beyond him.

But he wants to know why. Know more about you. What you love. What you desire.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

The question is sudden, perhaps a bit invasive. It flies from his lips before he has time to reassess it, to craft it into something a bit less intense. He fears, for a moment, that it might scare you – that it might be a bit too much.

But you laugh, tilting your head at him. “That’s a bit of a big question, don’t you think?”

He smiles. “You must have some idea.”

You sigh, shrugging. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I need to survive university before I can start worrying about that sort of stuff.”

He hums.

“What about you?” You ask, polite smile gracing your lips.

He bites the inside of his cheek, his brows creasing. “Not sure.”

He might have dreamed of greatness a while ago. He would’ve chased volleyball, brilliant and vibrant as he was.

Who would have thought that Apollo would find his heart in something so coarse as sport? For a moment, however brief, he’d felt like he might be able to shrug off this immortal shackle. To exist for himself, and not as a mere echo reliant on mortal belief. To maybe, finally, have a chance to live as he wanted to, dictated by his own desires.

That last spark of vibrant humanity had spluttered out the day they lost that one fateful match.

He had wanted to chase his own dreams, the tangible passions he’d discovered as a mortal. He hadn’t wanted to be this, a pathetic half-god that was fading into the grey. But that was the trappings of his dying godhood – a life half-lived, a dream unfulfilled. Where would he be, if he had been able to take on the world as Oikawa Tooru?

Happier, he supposes. Though, he can’t be sure. Because maybe this early evening, grey and cold and bitter, almost tastes like happiness. Almost. And he knows why.

☉ ☉ ☉

There’s a glow to him. He doesn’t notice it; he’s been brighter in the past, blindingly radiant. He was once considered the most beautiful of the gods for a reason.

But to you, this distant, peculiar man is beautiful. There’s something of a fallen giant to him; is he the sort of person whose glory days has long since passed? Had he been a high school hero maybe?

There’s something else to him, too. Something strange. Something esoteric.

You don’t quite know how to explain it.

It’s like he’s asking – no, begging someone to acknowledge him. To breathe new life into him.

And for all his strange, aggressive indifference, there’s a little flame in him. One that seems like it’s been burning for centuries, too stubborn to flicker out.

You haven’t missed how it’s getting brighter.

He only comes in on Sundays, staying from three until eight. If his prolonged presence bothers your co-workers, they don’t mention it.

Perhaps it’s silly to be so fascinated by a complete stranger, especially one that simply sits in a corner and watches. Perhaps it is even sillier to spend your breaks with him. But it’s as if you can’t help yourself; something pulls you towards him, even if you don’t understand it.

“What about the Greeks?” You ask one evening, sitting next to him in his booth.

His smile is bemused at best. “What about them?”

“Well… they’re classics,” you muse, “Are you a fan, or…?”

“Homer can suck my dick,” Oikawa grumbles. He never quite forgave that man for the unflattering portrait of his godliness.

You laugh. There’s an echo of a lyre in it. He wonders, for a moment, what you might look like with a laurel woven through your hair, smiling on a Pierian coast in the height of a blistering summer.

He doesn’t let his mind wander too far.

“I’m not really one for poetry,” you murmur, looking down at your hands.

“Is that so?” Oikawa smiles, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s lukewarm after sitting on the table for so long, but he doesn’t mind.

You shake your head. “I find it difficult to wrap my head around. It makes me feel kind of stupid.”

He nods. He used to understand poetry so well – in the darkest of nights, it was often the only thing he understood. It used to be laced with his very being, threaded through his body like veins. But now, it just fills him with bitterness.

“I like the classics, though,” you smile softly, playing with your fingers. “There’s something about the simplicity and straightforwardness of the language that appeal to me. And, I don’t know…” You bite your lip. “Some emotions seem to transcend time and culture. And some of the classics are so… raw. So… human.”

‘Human.’ He gazes at you, that word in particular playing over in his mind. There’s some truth in the classics, he supposes. Something in them that echoes across the centuries. But he’s been around far too long to care for patterns and parallels.

“Sorry,” you blush, smoothing your apron. “I must be boring you.”

“Not at all.” Oikawa shakes his head, leaning towards you. He takes another sip of his coffee. It’s cold now. “So, you’re a history buff, then?”

Maybe you are Clio, after all.

You shrug. “Only ancient history, really. But I haven’t read as much about it as I should’ve.”

“Are you a fan of the myths?” He asks, a playful lilt to his voice. He knows you won’t get the joke, but he doesn’t mind.

“Some,” you nod. “Why?”

“Know any about Apollo?”

“Apollo?” You smile. His old name sounds like a melody on your lips. “As in the god?”

“Sure.” Who else could he mean?

You pause for a moment, pressing your lips together. It’s a beautiful silence.

“Have you read Plato’s Symposium, by any chance?” You ask, gaze meeting his.

He nods. He doesn’t mind Plato; the man had been grateful for the gift of music, after all.

“There’s a story in it I really like,” you murmur, eyes turning towards the roof. “Well, it’s more of a myth, but… it’s the one about soulmates.”

“Oh?”

“Do you know it?”

“Vaguely.” Of course he knows it. He just wants to hear it retold in your voice.

“Well, alright,” you clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter. “There were three kinds of humans, descended from the sun, the earth and the moon. All had four arms and four legs, two faces, et cetera. But, the gods felt they were too unruly and powerful. By Zeus’ count, this was unacceptable, and he wanted to humble them.”

Oikawa hopes his expression is neutral enough. How is Zeus? Is he still around?

“Instead of simply destroying them, he split them in two,” you continue. “And that made us miserable.”

Your use of the word ‘us’ intrigues him, but he wants to save his questions for later.

“But, Apollo took pity on us,” you smile. “He decided to patch us up, and shape us into, well… the form we have today. The story goes that our navel is where he sewed our broken skin together. But he turned our heads around to what had once been our back, so we’d have to look at that mark as a reminder of our punishment and how incomplete we are.”

It does not matter to him if there is any truth in this story. Regardless, it certainly sounds like the folly of the gods.

“Once we were split, the two halves were flung to the far ends of the earth. From then on, each of us yearns with both body and soul to be reunited with our other half.” Your voice is so lyrical, so comforting. It is, perhaps, the closest thing to music he’s heard in a while. “Those of us who are lucky enough to find them supposedly know no greater joy. We’ll never feel so understood, so complete. Most of us though, will never know that joy.”

Perhaps the gods didn’t deserve the reverence they got. Perhaps they really had been tyrants, all along. But then again, there was little love between gods and mortals; if anything, worship was simply a reflection of the fears the divine inspired.

A new question itches at the back of his mind.

“Do you believe in life after death?” He asks.

You blink at him, eyes wide and round. “Well, I… I don’t know, really.”

He knows it’s a heavy question. He knows that he didn’t prepare you for it, and that it’s only tenuously connected to the conversation at hand. But, he always found that people were at their most honest when they were caught off guard.

“I don’t like thinking about it,” you admit, looking down at your hands. “It makes me all existential.”

Oikawa nods. Most humans react like this.

The relationship between mortals and death has always fascinated him. Fear, loathing, regret. It’s all bundled together. Sometimes, there is comfort. Sometimes, there is a sense of calm. But it is never easy to face the unknown, after such a brief stint of being alive.

It’s something he cannot understand in this existence of his that stretches itself thin across the millenniums.

What is death to a god? He imagines it must be something like relief.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Do you write yourself?” It’s a little question, one he knows was coming.

He doesn’t know how to answer.

You sit next to him in the lamplight, eyes sparkling as they always do. If he was more human, maybe he would compare them to the stars. Or perhaps the ocean after a storm. But he is not human, much less a poet.

How does he say that he’s never needed to? That his patronage, his presence alone was enough to inspire those classics you so dearly love? That he himself has never put lyrics to the human experience?

He has always been a god. There is no beauty to his experience; only in those small pockets of human intimacy he’s been granted across the centuries. There is no beauty to the life of a god – only fire, and fury, and hubris. Even his body is unlike yours; he has no heart, and he bleeds ichor.

“Not really,” he shrugs. It’s all he can say.

“‘Not really’ implies that you write at least a little,” you smile, leaning towards him.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t really have time to do something like that.” He pauses for a moment. Should he tell you? Should he reveal more of himself than is maybe wise? “I played volleyball in high school.”

“Oh, really?” You ask, tilting your head at him.

“I was good, too,” he sighs, brow furrowing. “But my team never made it to nationals.”

“Oh.” You look genuinely sad. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. There’s little else to do.

“I wanted to go further,” he admits. The lamplight casts a long shadow on his face, each feature soft and delicate as marble.

Each form, each reiteration, wants more.

So much of what he’s done this time doesn’t echo the traditional Apollonian figure. There is no art, this time. No song.

There was drama in sport, but it was different. It had filled him with a passion he’d never felt before, beating in his chest just like a heart would. It provided that rush of adrenaline, the brutal awareness of the importance of just one moment. Eternity stretches on forever for a god, but a game must end. Perhaps, in some way, death is very much the same.

He wants that closure. That passion for the now.

Now, more than ever before, he wants to be mortal. To lose himself in the storm that is being human – he wants it all. He wants to let go of the god he no longer is.

Where does Apollo end? Where does Oikawa Tooru begin?

☉ ☉ ☉

Time is passing again. Each day is over before it’s even begun, slipping through his fingers like a lucid dream. A heartbeat that isn’t his own thrums in his ears, quick and loud and frantic.

And yet, he finds himself outside the coffee shop, standing on the curb. You’re next to him, hands dug deep in your pockets. He’s arrived earlier than usual, catching you right at the beginning of your shift.

There’s something he wants – no, needs to say. Something that can’t wait.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, looking up at the sky. It’s pale, a shade found in-between blue and grey. A perfect winter sky, one you might find on a postcard trying to capture the beauty of the season.

Something is pressing on his chest, heavy and immovable. It feels like a goodbye.

“What for?” You laugh. It really is a delightful sound.

Where to begin? You couldn’t possibly comprehend it. Nor would you believe him. If he speaks too frankly, you may not remember him fondly.

“For the coffee,” he says.

There’s more he wants to say. Something about how, maybe, in another life, there could have been something more between the two of you. Something quite beautiful.

But he knows it’s wiser not to speak that into being. If you feel even a modicum of these emotions, then silence would be an act of kindness.

“Are you… going somewhere?” You ask, all signs of levity gone from your face. He regrets speaking at all now.

“Something like that,” he murmurs. It’s the closest he can get to the truth.

A long silence ensues. Oikawa doesn’t know if he should try to fill it; perhaps he should just let it sit for a while? To enjoy this little moment with you, standing with you in front of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday night in the midst of winter.

Because this moment cannot last. Because nothing can.

“Well,” you clear your throat, eyes lingering on his face, as if you’re committing each detail to memory.

He smiles at you. He’s not aware of it, but it’s almost blinding. It brings a warmth to his face that you’ve never seen before, a warmth that makes him so striking, so beautiful, that you know you won’t be able to find the words to praise it.

“I hope I’ll see you again,” you murmur. It’s the best you can manage, keeping your feelings in your heart as best you can.

“Me too.”

He means it.

It’s time to go. Where, he’s not sure. But, with all the courage he could muster, he turns his back to you, making his way down the street.

There’s a space in his heart for fear. But it’s empty. Whatever’s coming, whatever’s about to change – he’s ready for it.

He welcomes it.

☉ ☉ ☉

He opens his eyes. He’s tangled in blankets; his own, or someone else’s?

One thought.

My name is Oikawa Tooru.

In the haze of a Sunday morning, he knows nothing else. His eyes flick to the blinds as they flutter with the wind that whispers through his window.

The light floods in.

It’s finally spring.

#oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa toru x reader #haikyuu x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa x you #oikawa imagine #oikawa tooru imagine #haikyuucreations #this was a labour of love #it's different from my usual style but i enjoyed it

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allanbalisi · 4 years

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Braving Wild Winds, Dec 10,2019 - January 4, 2020 Blanc Gallery, Manila, Philippines How Not to Romanticize Resilience, Resistance Notes on Allan Balisi’s Braving Wild Winds by Con Cabrera When I interviewed Allan Balisi about his current exhibition, he talked about the three stages of painting: what is personal, what you want to say, and what the viewer understands. This concept makes me think about the three rubrics of an exhibition: here I am, here we are, and here you are. Jacques Ranciére explained that achieving this dynamics transforms us viewers into witnesses “to an original co-presence of people and things, of things between themselves, and of people between themselves.” In the text where Ranciére stated this, he also elaborately explained the three forms of ‘imageness’: naked, ostensive, and metamorphic. I cling on to this literature as I do a close reading of Balisi’s body of work because ‘image’ was central in our conversation, and evidently enough, fundamental in his philosophy. He questions its existence, purpose, trajectory, malleability, relationships, reception and presents them in his distinct artistic style and laborious creative process. The Naked Image Because Balisi has transformed his interest in film and photography into implements for his art practice, he has created for himself an exclusive landscape made of B movies, found old photos, vintage magazines, and comics. He also has crafted a navigating system that challenges his patience and sharpens his aesthetic preference. He has generated quite a number of screen captures and clippings, which he uses as painting references. The process of searching is long and tedious at times, but also a source of excitement and joy. In 2018, he released a zine titled Painting Study: Passing of Time. It’s a compilation of cropped photos of hands in some form of action with a running text Balisi wrote as an articulation of his contemplations on man’s movements and pauses… “so tell me – what do revolutionaries do these days?” Opening with a probe, it is poetry that acknowledges the resemblances of the transience of time and hand gestures that express affection, love, regret, character, weakness, faith – our journeys. The naked image’s sole intention is to aim beyond what is present, that is a manner of witnessing. It took the artist a long time in choosing the reference image for the painting Thousand Rays. He looked into disaster movies in different eras to find the appropriate freeze-frame of an erupting volcano. It is labor dedicated to presenting us the slowness of an outburst, akin to a subtle building up of rage or anger. This extensive process of searching constitutes a substantial portion of Balisi’s work. There is attention to the accountability on deciding what he wants us to witness. The Ostensive Image “As a marking on safe waters between dangerous waters, in the last possibilities of light challenge the viewer on unknown position: the dangerous water or the safe water. It’s also a commentary not only to myself but to the viewer as well, to take risks or to stay in the comfort zone, but the title suggests going further. To take courage around the present, not the past or the future, around destruction and creation, not stasis." These were words written by the artist as notes on paintings In the last possibilities of light (dwell) and In the last possibilities of light (haul). As Ranciére explained the ostensive image, he mentioned about the power of a face-to-face – facingness. He says that in facing the spectator, images have an obtuse power of being-there-without-reason and that somehow they “become the radiance of the face… as the gaze of divine transcendence.” This influence though creates for us the arcane bliss in viewing art, complemented by the process of discerning and conversing that happens in between. Balisi’s paintings confront us – face us – into action or meditation. They speak to us in isolation just through their material presence. Since the ostensive image is entitled to be art, the assertion by its sheer presence and ability to conjure meaning is acknowledged. The painting Burning Maps is about revolution as a gateway to a secret world where the existing world is burnt away to reveal what’s beneath. The artist is thinking about the nobility, necessity, and beauty of the collective action to achieve it. It is a forewarning to expect resistance. Through the transformation of a naked image into the ostensible, the insinuations are read via Balisi’s context, his ideologies, and progressive thought. The Metamorphic Image The Gap is a series of clock paintings uncovering Balisi’s fascination with the repetitive pattern of movements. For him, this echoes the process of his work and daily life. He chose the word gap in the title to draw our attention to a clock’s cropped dials, but also the idleness of images. “How many times will we remember a certain afternoon of our childhood, some afternoon that is so deeply part of your being that you can’t even convince of your life without it?” the artist asks. "Perhaps four or five times, perhaps not even? How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty… and yet it is all limitless” -Sheltering Sky, Paul Bowles, 1949 Days Braving Winds is a similar figuration inquisitive on the idea of balance and going against the movement. The power of the metamorphic image as art can be summarized in the exact opposite of ‘voici’ (here is) according to Ranciére. It is the ‘voila’ (there it is/there you are). He also burdens the artist with the critique of the image, as it is “no longer framed in an autonomous history of forms of history of deeds changing the world.” There is no need to demystify it, “play with the forms and products of imagery,” he instructs. As Balisi’s person in the painting balances a knife, he reminds us of the interface of a clock with its body composition, stationing us – the world – in a pause. Anchored Dial, Moving Hands is a lover’s painting based on a photo the artist found while browsing through hospital photos from universities. A capture of a playful event, Balisi sees this as an image of a broken bridge. Here he attempts to illustrate a breach and conflict of information. In his notes he wrote: “its an image destined to create a new meaning, or to reconstruct human relations if we can’t even get along with each other in the attempt.” He wants to focus on moments, but moments change so fast, constantly. The reconstructions of images to artworks using painterly conditions make them unclear, imprecise, with more inconsistencies. Braving Wild Winds This exhibition is a glance into a segment of Allan Balisi’s private landscape with a volcano, the rain, sky, seasons, branches, light, the sun, leaves, wind, and trees coexisting with a whole other universe of imageries. He often thinks about the significance of having an image bank given the existence of the Internet, art, books, etc., in this time of fake news. As we continue to fall blind and be deceived by pictures used in platforms such as advertising, it’s so easy and convenient to misinterpret. As an artist, he feels that this is hard to resolve, especially in the medium of painting. This is where the role of titles comes into play and influence the development of informed viewership. He gives importance to and also relies on words that accompany or articulate his ideas and images, maybe because of the often-filmic origin of his images. Even as he acknowledges the autonomy of the image, he hopes to communicate to the audience most intimately and tenderly, where the length of time does not matter. Within the interconnected micro-narrations of surviving, retreating, taking shelter – exhibiting values of resilience and resistance, the overarching ambition I see here is to achieve the double metamorphosis image. To emphasize the “dual nature of the aesthetic image: the image as a cipher of history and the image as an interruption.” To not lose ourselves, Balisi prompts us to radiate the power of our shared history, our stories that are contained in images… “like finding reassurance on familiar hands on our skin, or a kind loving gesture, or a subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace.”

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toledoendo · 4 years

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You’ll Rise Up, Free and Easy

This is the second story in my series Amphora, an alternate-reality historical fan fiction based on the characters Tony Stark and Peter Parker from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. The characters’ personalities remain mostly intact, but I’ve inserted them into my own reality for them. The series is set at the turn of the 20th Century.

This story is considerably darker than the first; it follows Tony Stark’s difficult childhood. Please exercise safe reading-- the story is not meant to hurt anybody!

I’ve used this platform to purge some personal demons through the metaphor of child abuse. Keep yourself safe and feel free to read the next story in the series (at this time, it is unwritten) as it will not have that focus.

Story Summary: Peter Parker, a brilliantly talented ceramicist-in-training, has been Tony Stark's apprentice for ten days. To his delight, he's able to work closely with Tony and begins to learn more about him and bond with him. However, just as it seems that they are becoming an established part of each other's lives, tragedy puts distance between them.Peter strives to be a source of comfort and support for Tony during a season of grieving, adapting how he shows love to the ways Tony knows how to accept it.

Read the story after the break.

Chapter One: “Chokeberry and Baby Cheeks”

Early May, 1868

“Young Sir?” Jarvis peered around the trunk of a young chokeberry tree at the youth who was crouching in the knoll at its roots. He stepped around, keeping a gingerly distance for he could see that the boy was vulnerable, like a raw nerve.

Tony, blushing from exertion and violence, sat panting a few moments longer, ignoring Jarvis. He clutched at his right fist which was torn across the knuckles. Sweat was heavy on his face and neck and the smell, like well water, hung on him. There was blood peeking under his nose, a thin film across his teeth, as well as a cut on his left eyebrow.

Finally, Tony swallowed to force the remaining moisture evenly in his dry mouth and said, “Is Father going to be home tonight?”

Jarvis removed a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to him. “To my knowledge.” When Tony didn’t take the handkerchief, Jarvis pressed it under his nose himself. Tony resisted, but ceased struggling almost immediately. “Perhaps, though, when he arrives tonight, you’ll already be in bed, Young Sir.”

Tony looked up at him and said in a questioning way, as though expecting betrayal. “You’ll tell him.” Then he added, without waiting for an answer, “Damn British butlers and their sensibilities…” Tony took over the pressure on the handkerchief and Jarvis stood upright again.

Jarvis said sternly, “Let’s leave damnation to the clergy, shall we, sir? Unless you’re studying to become one?”

Tony scoffed then lowered his gaze deferentially.

Offering a hand, Jarvis said, “Strand up, please; crouching on the ground like a gopher is not dignified for a young man.” Jarvis noticed Tony roll his eyes as he obeyed; the butler stifled a smile. The boy pinched the handkerchief and removed it. Jarvis saw with relief that his nose was not bleeding anymore.

When Tony was standing before him, meeting his eyes, Jarvis leaned toward him confidentially. “As far as a British butler’s sensibilities are concerned, I am your father’s servant, not a spy. I have no inclination to report your behavior only for the sake of it.”

Tony listened, blinking at him passively.

Jarvis’s voice softened. “The only time I might do so is if I deem your actions would lead you to greater danger than you would receive at Master Stark’s hands. Are we at an understanding?”

At this Tony smirked and Jarvis nodded in a decisive manner. “Besides, any injurious behavior I witness from you, I shouldn’t wonder to think that we two could reach an understanding without need to concern your father.” He gave Tony a poignant look. “Do you agree, sir?”

This time Tony nodded but still smirked. He seemed to remember the times Jarvis could have handed him over to Howard, but didn’t. That was good enough for the boy to trust him. On those occasions, Jarvis would let him explain himself, rant, cry, and blame others, firmly correcting him if he was disrespectful, but otherwise allowing him to fully express his grievances. Then, he would speak to Tony solemnly but patiently, like he was a man.

“Now,” Jarvis said, shifting to a more curious tone, “might you inform me what foreign object collided with your face so as to leave you in such a state? Perhaps also, what response to the object you gave?”

Tony erupted. “I was trying to keep these boys from carving up my friend’s tree!” Unleashing his pent up desperation caused Tony’s voice to crack. His hand swung wide behind him to indicate the chokeberry tree. “He told them not to and they keep coming back to do it anyway! And they laughed about it because they knew it upset him. He’s real keen on this tree for some reason.”

“Your friend, Master Potts?” Jarvis asked.

Tony nodded. He huffed and tried to hide his emotion by chewing on his lip. There were little tears at the corners of his eyes. He was much more comfortable showing anger than any other emotion, even joy. Often he would mask his feelings with shouts, huffs, shoves, scowls, glares— or sarcasm and jokes, which Jarvis considered a “creative form of aggression.” Of course, if his father were around, he adopted a sullen disposition, or, at times, was an avatar of Howard Stark’s own persona. When Howard was away, his son became Tony again -- guarded, but more volatile. However, Jarvis had a talent for flaying the rage from the sadness or fear underneath.

“The other boys wish to carve it, you say?”

“Yes, you know, Jarvis, like their initials or something, like people do.”

“I see, sir,” Jarvis said and paused to think. He looked at the chokeberry tree; it was still a sapling, though nearly mature. The foamy white buds swayed in their clusters in the Northern wind.

Tony also turned and looked at the tree. “Samuel thinks the flowers look like lace. He’s kind of silly, but a good kid .”

Jarvis was slightly amused by Tony’s condescending use of the term “kid” when he was scarcely eleven years old himself. “A special tree indeed, sir. However, I couldn’t advise you to endeavor to stop them by force.”

Tony shuffled. Though he rolled his eyes, Jarvis felt respect in him, so he continued. “Or your fists for that matter.”

“We ought to put up a wall.” Tony muttered. “With barbed wire.”

“A creative solution, though, it would quite obstruct the view, wouldn’t you agree?” Jarvis deadpanned.

Tony sighed through his nose. “What about a trapping pit, then?”

Jarvis examined the grass stains on the knees of Tony’s trousers. “Better widen the scope of your innovation, Young Sir.” He replied absently while considering how he could clean the blood from the shirt and jacket so that Mrs. Stark wouldn’t notice. She kept strict inventory of her son’s wardrobe, particularly when they were abroad, as they were now.

Then, he remarked, catching Tony off guard, “I am pleased to see you’ve made such an important friend here, sir.”

Tony sniffed and shrugged. After a couple kicks at the ground beneath, he said: “Jarvis, I’m hungry. Is it luncheon yet?”

“You should just have time to bathe and make yourself presentable, sir.”

Jarvis led him back to the Starks’ Toronto estate by a covered path in the garden that was seldom used so no one would see the rough condition he was in.

January, 1903

When Peter threw open the front door of his and May’s house in Queens, Tony couldn’t help but notice the cotton scarf wrapped over his ears. “Mr. Stark! Come see how my latest test glaze turned out, sir!” He stepped quickly out of the way so Tony could enter and held out his arms to take his mentor’s coat, muffler, and hat. “I’ve decided to leave off on the layerings of celadon and copper red glazes and am trying some strike firing techniques with a different glaze mixture.”

Tony’s brow knotted in concern, but he remarked, lightly, “Interesting head adornment, Ms. Mozart. Do you have a toothache?”

Peter touched the thin cloth around his head. “Oh. No, May wants me to wear this to keep my ears warm.” He added, as though trying not to lie: “I’ve had an earache the past few days.”

“Small wonder!” Tony scolded. “I seem to recall you running around most of Christmas week in the icy wind with no hat. Probably blew all manner of viruses into your empty head!”

Peter looked at him unhappily. “But! I’m not contagious, the doctor says. I don’t even have a fever! Anymore.”

Failing to hide his amusement as Peter fell over himself verbally, Tony waited and said, “Easy Pete. No one’s planning to take you behind the barn and shoot you.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’ll get you sick, Mr. Stark.” Peter said. “I’ve been so looking forward to experimenting with you on peach bloom glaze. And, well…” A look of contrition contorted his face. As he began wringing his hands, Tony removed his coat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. It’s selfish of me.”

Tony hung his hat on the hook and then placed a hand on Peter’s head, tousling the scarf along with his curls. “You can’t run me off so easily, kid. I’m not worried over earaches.”

Peter grinned and led him through the hall and dining room, into the kitchen and to the scullery, his little ceramics alcove.

“Read me the recipe notes for this one,” Tony said. He tapped one of the five flat slats of clay arranged before him. The tiles reminded him of dominoes and he came to enjoy the plink clink sound when he handled them. On each was the same glaze mixture but each had undergone a variant firing schedule.

Peter hurriedly finished chewing a piece of sponge candy so he could complete the request. Tony had brought over a box of the candy as a treat while they worked. (“Pepper would like you to believe this is a present from her , but, as I am the one who brought it to you, and in this weather, I think the credit is due to me. So, you’re welcome.”)

Peter leafed through his small notebook. “For this test,” Peter read, “Gerstley Borate, 10.7%; Whiting, 10.7%; NC-4 Feldspar, 40.3%...” Tony nodded as he listened. He plucked the tile from the table and rubbed his thumb over it absently. Peter finished. “Then I added the tin oxide.”

“What percentage to the mixture?” Tony asked. He returned the tile and picked up his favorite. The freckling green, created by the high reduction period of the firing, spider-crawled through the patchy blush of peach. It truly bid his heart to rush at the beauty.

“.5% but I’m thinking of adding a higher percentage next test.”

Tony smiled and looked at him. “Why’s that?”

Peter was leaning eagerly toward him across the table, resting most of his weight on his elbows beneath him. Like a small animal, his eyes were round and animated as he piped: “More tin oxide will create a milkier effect on the glaze. Right?”

Proudly, Tony nodded. “That’s what I was thinking, too.”

Peter seemed to realize that his mentor was pleased with him and he ducked his head, grinning. It was such an unrestrained expression of delight that Tony looked away. Peter had received so little guidance from his previous master that the kid was starved for feedback. Blessed now with more attention, Peter was accelerating in his pursuit of the craft.

Tucking away a surge of affection for the boy, Tony followed up, confirming, “That’s the effect your artistic little heart is set on, right?”

Peter chose another piece of sponge candy from the box. “Yes,” he said and Tony caught how that dreaminess he sometimes got began to cloud his eyes. “The glaze is meant to resemble a ripening peach, sir, with green mottles on a blushing pink.” Peter crunched the candy contemplatively then spread his fingers over his cheeks. “Well, I was very much hoping for a kind of baby’s cheeks look.”

“Baby’s cheeks?” Tony asked and he took some candy, too. “Is that a technical term? Or one of your isms?”

Peter blushed in answer. “Do you know what I mean, Mr. Stark?” He pantomimed a moment, to illustrate his words. “Have you ever held a baby close and looked at their cheeks?”

A slight twitch ran across Tony’s face, but he answered, unaffectedly, “Yes, kid, I have had occasion to see a human in infancy.”

Clicking his tongue, Peter replied, “That’s not what I meant, Mr. Stark.” He mined again, as though it would help. His nose nuzzled into the crook of his elbow. “Have you seen how a baby’s cheeks are so fair that their skin mottles when warm? And they get so rosy, sir?”

“Do they?” Tony said. He was trying to be patient with Peter’s reverie. Normally, he would sit back and enjoy the funny expression on the kid’s face and the rambling explanations for his thoughts that only made it more challenging to understand how his mind worked, but this was a tender subject for Tony.

He and Pepper were unable to have children, except through adoption. Pepper was anguished by the idea, though, so they never had. Instead, they supported and improved the orphanages and children’s homes of New York as well as they could, as benefactors.

“My friend, Ned— his mother had a baby a couple years back, with his step-father and she let me hold her— well, actually his mother had me and Ned hold her for a few hours while she cleaned and mended and took a nap and cooked… but, his sister was pretty as a picture, sir! Her cheeks would go dusky when she cried and they looked like red onions.” He laughed. “It wasn’t a nice sound she made, though.”

Tony regarded him with a gnarled expression. “You’re a rare one, kid. Not many find the inherent attractiveness of colic.”

“Will you and Mrs. Stark have a baby, Mr. Stark?”

Bucking a little, Tony reminded himself that this was a harmless question. Peter was silly-hearted and likely excited by the prospect of a child entering his life, even by some distant channel. Tony composed the ache in his chest. He sniffed and said, “Not likely. My lifestyle is not very conducive for raising a kid. Besides, I have my hands full as it is.”

Peter blinked. He said, “With what?” Innocence was plain on his face.

“With what?” Tony snorted indignantly.

“With me?” Peter asked, even more innocently.

Tony pushed out of his seat and marched across the floor. “Bonehead! I do have a life beyond you and your ceramics. I am a very busy inventor, businessman, and philanthropist. You may have heard.”

Peter stared at him, perplexed.

Tony turned back. His arms flapped at his sides as a segue. “Well, are we going to increase the amount of tin oxide or should I return to my heavily-booked agenda? I’m sure Pepper would not mind having me chained back in the office, if you have no more need of my time.”

“Yes, sir!” Peter said. He managed to hide his smile from his flustered mentor as he donned his apron.

#Amphora #You'll Rise Up Free and Easy

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writemarcus · 4 years

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NEW Black Mutual Aid Carves a Path for What Support Can Be in a Revolution

By Marcus Scott

Do not be deceived into thinking otherwise: The summer of 2020 will go down in history as a once-in-a-generation uprising against the police brutalization of people of Black descent in the United States. Fueled by the video-capture of the nonchalant murder of 46-year-old George Floyd after Minneapolis Police Department officer Derek Chauvin knelt on the victim’s neck for eight minutes as three other officers sporting a thousand-yard stare looked on, a siege of ongoing protests and civil unrest sparked and raged—and continues to rage—across the nation.

Following Floyd’s death, the identities of several martyrs began trending on social media: Breonna Taylor, a 26-year-old African-American emergency medical technician in Louisville, and Ahmaud Arbery, a 25-year-old African-American man in Georgia’s Glynn County, among them. Both cases prompted dialogues around racial inequality and racial profiling, as well as anti-Blackness and the value of Black life in the US and abroad, with Black Lives Matter leading the charge. Ultimately, the demands for justice by Black Lives Matter began to trickle into conversations surrounding workplace discrimination as well as a lack of representation and equal opportunity in myriad industries.

Theatre is one of those industries.

For better or worse, longstanding American theatrical institutions with problematic histories began virtue-signaling and woke-washing, re-branding their websites and social media accounts with resources to fight against systemic racism. The reaction incited a political storm, provoking artists who identify as Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) to share their own experiences. The despair birthed platforms such as the We See You White American Theater movement, which produced a 31-page document of demands written on behalf of BIPOC theatre-makers taking issues with companies and individuals seeking to profit from the culture war. That document addresses “the necessary redistribution of power and funding.”

Enter NEW Black Mutual Aid.

The brainchild of activist Nzinga Williams, NEW Black Mutual Aid Fund (NBMA) strives “to create the safety net and financial support for Black Theater Professionals through a time of revolution and pandemic,” per the Google doc Williams created where Black theatre folx can privately request funds.1 Those funds support everything from protest supplies, bail, and lawyer fees (for protesters) to dinner, rent support, plant care, and more.

Williams, who earns a living as Company Manager at Atlantic Theater Company, says the project was birthed between March and May—the beginning of quarantine, when she also tested positive for COVID-19.

“I started getting better right around the time that George Floyd was murdered,” Williams said, noting that many of her friends and loved ones took to the street, risking their health at the price of justice.

“I wanted to create a support system for us. For the Black people on and off stage that give themselves tirelessly to tell stories. We needed a safety net. They needed to feel like they could go out and protest and someone was going to have their backs. These often incredibly empathic and creative folx who have been mined for their talents (on and off stage) over and over again deserved that support system. Wealth, access, and resources are so often influenced by race and gender. I spent a lot of time thinking about how to affect change on a microlevel in our community.”

Joining the anti-racist groundswell in the American theatre, Williams said the times felt especially fraught being both an Aquarius (the humanitarian of the Zodiac chart) and a Black woman, expressing that it is difficult to ask for help when you need it, as Black women are taught from an early age to persevere and take care of others at the expense of themselves.

“NBMA is about redistributing wealth in order to put it into Black theater folx,” Williams shared. “Funds aren’t allocated for anything specific; people are allowed to request multiple weeks in a row. It is a first-come, first-serve model. We are here to help create just a little extra help, no matter what that looks like, for our community.”

Money comes into the NBMA, and then money goes out—usually via CashApp or Venmo. Those who are able to give, and then those who are in need request. From there, Williams gets to work in fielding the Google docs and their requests.

She noted NBMA is for all Black theater professionals, regardless of gender expression and outright need, illuminating the fact that most theater professions, including Williams, are out of work until at least January 2021, when theaters can reopen.

“This is true for people from all walks of life in theater, but unfortunately due to the systemic racism that is prevalent in both our industry and government, this is adversely impacting Black theatre-makers more,” Williams said. “There are people like me who do not have the option to move ‘home’ but also cannot afford to pay rent without a job. If NBMA can help with groceries one week or transportation to and from protests, maybe even a bit towards rent, we can keep Black theater artists alive. And truly in this climate, staying alive is an act of radical resistance.”

Williams stated none of the work would be possible were it not for her particular administrative and stage managerial experience built up over time from working in nonprofits, which has single-handedly produced the fruits of her labor. She elucidated that her knowledge of surveys and spreadsheets have kept things organized, while her ability to manage people has helped her be transparent and manage expectations. She also noted that her networking skills and inventory of close friends helped, especially in enlisting financial advisors for the fund, creating an LLC, and crafting a logo.

The hard work paid off. Not only has the fund seen strong online traffic (check out the buzzing Instagram account @newblackmutualaid), but Williams has also been tapped by industry leaders to participate in events like the inaugural Antonyo Awards, created by Andrew Shade of Broadway Black.

Presenting lighting and scenic design prizes with friend and stage manager Cody Renard Richard, Williams said she had an amazing time participating, despite her nerves—Williams usually prefers to work behind the scenes.

“I do not have a ring light so my cellphone was balancing on my windowsill in order to get the best light, and we had to hold multiple times when my downstairs neighbor decided to blast the newest Bad Bunny album, which is fire by the way,” she laughed. “Watching all my amazing friends and family was an added bonus. There was so much Black theatre joy on Juneteenth this year and it really filled my soul.”

Although a lot of positivity has come out of her efforts, Williams is highly aware that she is only at the tip of the iceberg with regards to fighting police brutality and creating pathways toward justice. With the recent loss of civil rights icons John Lewis and C. T. Vivian, Black liberation has become imperative for emerging BIPOC activists like Williams who believe the nation is in the midst of a revolution.

“In a revolution, it is necessary to have several lanes. No revolution was ever won by one means of protest,” Williams said. “Being in the streets is necessary to get people’s attention. It is necessary for creating community. It is necessary for keeping pressure on systems and individual people. That is the power of protest.”

“We need people talking about political reform and driving that as much as we need the people physically sitting in in Louisville and taking to the streets in Portland, New York, Seattle, et cetera,” she added. “Anti-Blackness and racism are pervasive. It has subtly stained so many factions of our life. I believe we need to fight it everywhere we can.”

If you are interested and want to know more or get involved, Nzinga Williams would like you to follow these accounts, to name a few: @Justiceforgeorgenyc, @Warriorsinthegarden, and @Untilfreedom.

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdoAXMV36wsPowFbughMsZsRigrCO-8Csv4CI4vy0l7wneyag/viewform

Contributor: Marcus Scott

Marcus Scott is a New York City-based playwright, musical writer, opera librettist, and journalist. He has contributed to Time Out New York, American Theatre, Elle, Essence, Out, Uptown, Trace, Hello Beautiful, Madame Noire, and Playbill, among other publications.

#The Brooklyn Rail #TheBrooklynRail #New Black Mutual Aid #New Black Mutual Aid Fund #Theater #Theatre #Black Artists #Black Theatre #Black Theater #Black Theater Artists #Black Theatre Artists #Marcus Scott #MarcusScott #WriteMarcus #Write Marcus

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ladystylestores · 4 years

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Kalki Subramaniam: If I don’t tell Indian transgender community’s stories, who will?

Written by Kalki Subramaniam

Kalki Subramaniam is a transgender rights activist, artist and founder of the Sahodari Foundation. The opinions in this article belong to the author.

I remember my childhood so vividly. Until the age of 11, I was a playful, happy child at home, and a good student at school.

Growing up in rural India, I was considered the more privileged child among my two sisters, having been born male. Yet, deep inside, I longed to be my true self.

I was a naturally effeminate child. I felt uncomfortable being addressed as “he,” and it seemed like there was this girl inside who liked everything a little girl of my age liked. This made me a constant target. But I didn’t fear those big, bullying boys and would fight back, never ashamed of who I was.

Then, at the age of 14, I gave up. After I started losing interest in school, certain teachers became aggressive and would punish me with a cane. I could never tell my parents. Amid painful episodes of shame and self-doubt, I considered ending my own life, though my family’s love stopped me from doing so.

I cut class and would go to parks and forests to get away from everyone. Under the trees, I wrote poetry and imagined my future life in drawings, which helped me heal my inner wounds.

“I with in” by Kalki Subramaniam. Credit: Courtesy Kalki Subramaniam

When I finally came out as transgender to my parents, I was taken to a psychiatrist to help with my gender dysphoria, or the distress caused by the discrepancy between a person’s body and their gender identity. He asked me to draw how I saw myself in the future, so I drew a beautiful girl with a long skirt, hat and a big smile. He was taken aback, but he eventually helped me gain my family’s acceptance.

This is the dilemma faced by teen children with gender dysphoria. Unable to bear the bullying but terrified of disappointing their parents, they fear going to school and they fear dropping out, too. If they “out” themselves, only a few are accepted by their parents.

“The deepest wounds cannot heal until they are expressed. Practicing art helps us heal emotional injuries, by providing a safe opportunity for self-expression and shaping one’s identity.”

Kalki Subramaniam

When our families reject us, we find solace and refuge with other “hijras” who are also struggling to survive. In my lifetime, I have lost many transgender friends to suicide. Other friends died from AIDS.

As a teenager, I witnessed — and was the victim of — harassment. A transgender friend of mine, who was a sex worker, was raped by seven men. Another friend was chased by her own brother wanting to burn her. While another friend was driven out by her family. These childhood experiences built my raging desire for justice and inspired me to become an activist for the transgender community.

Healing through art

After completing my master’s degree in journalism, I started a magazine called Sahodari (or “sister”) to reach out to and support the transgender community. I used photographs, art and text to educate people about mental health, transitioning and their right to dignity.

Within a few years, I had founded the Sahodari Foundation and trained our team in visual storytelling.

Subramaniam pictured delivering a performance poetry piece. Credit: Sakthi Nithyanandan

Art has helped me identify my self-worth. It has been a medium for me to express my hope, joy, fear, anguish, desires and struggles. It is a reflection of my deep self that mirrors my journeys. It is a divine experience. When I paint, it is like my blood flows into the canvas and there is a soul connection. My artworks “The Purple Princess” and “I with in” celebrate the pure feminine and androgynous expressions with bright fluorescent colors. More recently, I have started to incorporate augmented reality into my artworks — a technology that will help provide another level of meaning and emotional engagement with audiences.

Many people in the community are artistic and creative, but they seldom have the opportunity to practice their art. I realized that our community could not only express themselves through art, they could make a living from it. That is how our Transhearts project was born. I traveled with my team to several cities and small towns in south India to offer free workshops on expressive painting. It has been a therapeutic experience for the participants. When they are making art, they forget time.

Participants create works during a Transhearts workshop. Credit: Sahodari Foundation

We have exhibited the community’s artworks in galleries, universities, colleges and public spaces. The reception had been tremendously positive. When people see the artwork they can identify and empathize with us.

Each piece of art tells a story. Abinaya’s “The Struggling Sex Worker” was a moving work, very raw in portraying the exploitation of trans bodies. Viji D’s “Begging Cycle” expresses the anguish of asking for money from strangers in trains to meet her basic needs. Nayanthara’s “Finding Oneself” is beautiful, spiritual and powerful.

“Begging cycle” by Viji D Credit: Matilda Södergren

“Finding Oneself” by Nayanthara Credit: Courtesy Kalki Subramaniam

The deepest wounds cannot heal until they are expressed. Practicing art helps us heal emotional injuries, by providing a safe opportunity for self-expression and shaping one’s identity. It can bring out our beautiful side. It can make us more tolerant of differences — and of one another.

Standing up against violence

Sexual violence is a terrible, horrible, health-affecting issue that transgender people have endured for decades. Research from the Indian states of Maharashtra, Tamil Nadu and Karnataka found that four in 10 transgender people will experience some form of sexual abuse before the age of 18. Many of us remain silent victims.

The Red Wall Project was created to empower the voices of India’s transgender and gender-diverse people, and to help resist the crimes perpetrated against us. It is a community “art-ivism” project whereby participants are interviewed by my team and write down their experiences of assault, abuse or rape on paper marked with their palm prints in red paint.

Listening to the experiences can be traumatizing, yet we are determined to do it. If we don’t tell our community’s stories, who will?

With their consent, we bring these stories to the public. During the exhibitions, I use my poetry and performance art to provoke dialogue about taking action against gender-based crimes.

Participants in the Red Wall project write their stories. Kalki sees the red painted palms signifying “a slap against abusers and a sign of resistance.” Credit: Sahodari Foundation

The testimonials have been exhibited at the British council in Chennai, the Alliance Française in Trivandrum and various other educational and cultural institutions across India.

We want to reach out to India’s young people with our stories, and tell them that it is unacceptable to hurt people based on their gender identity. Through victims’ first-hand accounts, we can show them that we are human beings who deserve better treatment, respect and dignity.

Whenever we exhibit these testimonials, I see people reading them patiently for hours. I have seen visitors who, after reading, sit in silence in tears. Young people come to me and say, “What can I do to stop this violence? How can I be supportive?” And I tell them: “Educate yourself more, sensitize your family and your friends to be trans-friendly. Empathize with us. That is all we need.”

Struggle for recognition

For decades, our community has struggled for acceptance and equality. In 2014, hard-fought battles led to a milestone victory when India’s Supreme Court finally recognized transgender people as a “third gender.” It was a move I had long lobbied the judiciary for, and the legal recognition meant, for instance, that people could enroll at academic institutions, as openly transgender, without fear.

“The rainbow is shining bright and beautiful. I see hope.”

Kalki Subramaniam

Many corporations have started to hire transgender employees. Years of activism and awareness-building have resulted in many other welcome changes, including the positive portrayals of transgender people in mainstream media and films. In January 2020, the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act came into effect, providing further legal protections of our rights and welfare.

Students read Red Wall testimonials. Kalki sees the red painted palms signifying “a slap against abusers and a sign of resistance.” Exhibited together, she says the palms are a unified and powerful statement from victims seeking justice for the crimes committed against them. Credit: Sahodari Foundation

There is still much work to be done. We are still fighting for affirmative action to ensure jobs and places at educational institutions. We want protection against stigma and discrimination, and legal guarantees that the punishments for crimes against transgender people will be severe.

But the rainbow is shining bright and beautiful. I see hope. I see a better future for our generation of queer Indians. I see India as a place that can uphold LGBTQI rights in the world. And I see India as a pioneer of transgender rights in the future.

For more on the author, visit her website.

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