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lightread · 4 years

Text

meu amado (0.5)

pairing; tour guide and dancer!hoseok x journalist!reader

genre; fluff, angst

word count; 1.3k

warnings; mentions of anxiety, implications of smut (later updates), alcohol consumption (later updates), slow burn (??)

author’s piece; good day, everyone! i present to you my first fic! this idea has been cultivating in my cabezita (little head) for a month. my inspiration reached a high after watching ego (stream it on youtube!) and rewatching yeh jawaani hai deewani, which brought upon the title of this project. i’m excited to go on a journey with these characters, and with you, the readers!

“I can do it, just give me time,” your voice desperate as you push your iPad towards your father, observing his grimace of hesitation and ignoring how his little sigh of exasperation has your hands feeling clammy. “This editorial is going to blow your mind, I managed to get an appointment with Cut-”

“Y/n-,” your father takes off his glasses as he reclines deeper into his leather chair, pinching the bridge of his nose-almost as if a headache’s coming on. Standing in front of him, you can’t help but feel inferior. You can sense his dejection, so you push forward, pointing back to the bright screen on his desk.

“Pa, no, listen, Headline is gonna be ahead of its time with this piece! I scheduled the appointment with Cutthroat’s top producers, getting the behind the scenes look of the making of the top 40 hits,” you reach towards your bookbag on the chair behind you, rummaging through its contents, but before you could take out the mood board you had put blood, sweat, and tears into for the past week, you hear the little click of the iPad.

Your hands freeze. You close your eyes. You take a deep breath. You turn back to face him. You hang your head and your shoulders seem to lose their confidence, sagging as the tension in the room gets heavier every passing second.

You lift your head to glance over at the device, observing his stern reflection on the black screen. You narrow your eyes at the obnoxious piece of technology. No, your inner monologue says, not today. You huff and you straighten your back, pushing your shoulders back, folding your arms as you look up at him. You refuse to look defeated in front of him. How dare he cut me off, you think to yourself.

“That’s what you said about your last three editorials, y/n. I don’t need the ‘ahead of its time’ piece in my magazine, I need a ‘make an impact’ influence,” leaning forward, he pauses and sighs, staring at his folded hands, and with the gesture alone, you start feeling a dull ache in your chest. You clutch your sleeves a little tighter as the seconds go by.

“Sweetheart,” you grimace at the nickname, “your pieces are predictable. Your last 3 have the lowest reads on the website and do you want to know why?” Your father stands up from his chair and steps around his desk, walking to the window that looks over Headline’s floor-interns and journalists chatting and typing away on their computers as if their life depended on it. The wall behind his desk joins your father’s reflection; the frames surrounding his various awards and words of praise seem to give him a glow through the transparent glass.

Your eyes lock on the awards, and as you open your mouth to respond, he turns to face you, cutting you off before you even began, his finger wagging too close to your face, his hands resting at his hips, “I’ll tell you why; it’s because you’re not having fun.”

As you take a step back, you swallow, your voice tight, “What does that even mean?”

“It means that you’re writing for the sake of writing. There is no personality in your words. It’s like I’m reading a textbook, a condescending and boring one,” he says matter of factly.

You scoff, “Thanks for that, dad,” you roll your eyes, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear.

He puts his hands up, “I’m critiquing you because I want you to be better. I want you to grow. And as you grow, the magazine will too.” He places his large hands on your shoulders, squeezing them. “You need to practice.”

Your eyes narrow, you push his arms away from you, your lips setting themselves into their usual grim line, and your arms positioning themselves back into their comfortable crossed state. “I don’t need to practice, I’m good at what I do. I graduated top of my major, my articles have been published in major newspapers and magazine-”

“And yet, with the time privileges that I give you, you just can’t seem to organize a good editorial or write an adequate article for Headline.”

You close your eyes out annoyance, your hands now clenched and your tone defensive, “My articles are informative-”

“Informative with no substance-”

“They teach the audi-”

“ I didn’t realize you were a teacher-”

“Stop interrupting me!” You can hear your heartbeat drumming in your ears, your breathing becoming heavier as you open your eyes to look at the man in front of you-his eyes sharper.

“Then start listening. Readers don’t care about your fancy credentials. In fact, they don’t care about you at all. They care about what they read, “ He strides back over to his desk and hands the iPad back to you, “The goal that I have for this magazine is enlightenment. I want our readers to be in love with the world they live in, so much so, they’ll want to pay 5 dollars to know it each month. All the while getting a free tote.” He points to the device in your hand, “Your job is to exemplify that goal in your projects, y/n. I’ve read your past works, I’ve read and felt the emotions you put on those papers. So why haven’t you been able to do the same here?”

You look down, away from your father and the gaze trying to understand you. Instead of answering, you direct your gaze to the words of affirmation and praise that surround him, given to him by the most respected writers and journalists; artists. The frames don’t seem to give you that same glow when you’re in his space. Do the awards in your apartment give you that same glow? Will you glow when you have your own editor’s office?

You bring the iPad towards your chest, clutching it like a lifeline. How do you tell your dad that you’re scared? How do you explain to him that even though you have been able to write piece after piece for other magazines in the past, you feel like whatever you write for him or Headline now will never be good enough? And that him telling you all this just confirms those fears?

Knowing there would be judgment behind the eyes of your peers, you decided to work for your father. You thought it would be a great way to get to know him better, you thought you could even learn from and adapt to his work ethic; all this with the possibility of him seeing how capable you could be. How you could be just as good as your older sister. The sister that graduated from university at the age of 18, published her first novel at 22 and started her own publishing firm 5 years later. Successfully, might you add.

You rearranged your entire life to meet the highest of unspoken expectations for your parents, for him. So, why is it when you want to prove to them that you can, the universe and your brain decide to work against you?

Your fingers tap against the iPad, creating a steady beat as you rack your brain for something to say, something to do. After a couple more silent taps, you decide to take a seat on the dark violet guest chair.

Clearing your throat, you look up at your father, “You said I had to practice. What did you have in mind?”

The corners of his mouth quirked up, and you pick up on the mischievous glimmer in his wise eyes, “How do you feel about Rio de Janerio?”

#jung hoseok #hoseok #jhope #bts scenarios #bts imagines #hoseok fluff #hoseok angst #hoseok LOVE #love #bts #fan fic #fan fiction #writing #prologue #scenarios #meu amado #mine #lightread #lightreads writing

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night-speak-blog · 7 years

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Suzanne Tamaki (Tuhoe, Te Arawa, Maniapoto) is a costume designer and the Events and Festivals Coordinator for Wellington City Council. She has a long personal and professional involvement in Wellington nightlife.

lightreading (lr): How would you describe your involvement with Wellington’s nightlife?

Suzanne Tamaki (ST): At the moment I work in the City Arts and Events Team, I mainly do events and festivals. But I’m also a designer so I do a lot of fashion/costume stuff. So I spend a lot of time either in clubs, watching, dancing, inhabiting...Or I spend a lot of time in there working...So I’ll be backstage or I’ll have a show on, and it’s either work-related [for the Council] or fashion-related... Which is when I’ll be back stage dressing models, either in my own garments or I do a lot of work to promote Māori designers. My main emphasis is Māori fashion. So it could be a bunch of different designers’ work as well, not just mine. Which is really, really, exciting! The only thing I hate about it is that I’m so busy working I never get to see the shows! That’s why it’s so good these days that everyone carries cameras...The way I get to experience the show is when they tag me in social media.

lr: Where would you put one of these events on?

ST: Most of the time it comes down to facilities that are available in the clubs...You need to have decent back space area...Especially for the number of models we tend to work with. Although, in saying that, we’ve also done shows in places where all we’ve had is a toilet to get changed in which can be really trying and sort of hilarious. The main thing we look for is a really nice green room space that has mirrors, water, power for hairdryers etc., good lighting. I’ve been in places where we’ve had one light bulb swinging on a rope...You don’t want that. We don’t work under those conditions anymore—ha! Those were the old days. A really good stage, good lighting, good sound is a must. One of the best shows I remember doing was—I called it Anti-fashion. I did a residency at Unitech and put on a show in a club that coincided with Auckland Fashion Week. The whole back wall was covered in monitors. I had a video artist come in and he worked with my images and put together this big multimedia thing on the monitors behind the live show. It looked really spectacular. A double hit of art.

lr: How long have you lived in Wellington?

ST: I was born here and brought up here. Then I moved to Auckland in the eighties for about 10 years and then I came back.

lr: Over the time you’ve been involved in the Wellington scene in this professional capacity or just partying do you think that there’s a distinctive way to characterise the nightlife down here?

ST: Wellington’s always had a grungy feel about it. It’s always quite gritty. The Southern Cross had a public bar where all the gangs used to drink—you don’t have that any more, you don’t really have public bars and lounge bars. You could wear patches and jandals and bare feet in the public bar and that was acceptable, but you couldn’t get away with that in the lounge bar. Now it’s just blended into this one big room. It was great, bars would have a really rough room and a posh room, and I’d always end up in the rough room because that’s where all the fun was. It was loud and partying. There were always loads of Māoris in there. And good music and really cheap drinks. And there’d always be a fight, but you’d just stay out of the way. And I guess that grungy, gritty thing has permeated into lounge culture, like if you look again at Southern Cross, it’s kind of hippy, almost…Still earthy, grounded…We don’t get too elitist, I guess. Even the Matterhorn is still a little bit real. It’s like glamping…You might have a fancy caravan but you’re still in the motor camp

lr: What’s been the most memorable thing for you about Wellington’s nightlife?

ST: One of the most memorable things for me was Chips, a nightclub back in the eighties. You used to get issued chips and that’s what you’d use to exchange for drinks. And that was Frankie Stevens who managed that place. It was up the top of Plimmer Steps, I think. You’d get your chips and he was such a smooth guy. It was like walking onto a cruise ship…He was like the guy who meets you at the door. He was always in a suit and very suave. And in his deep voice he’d say something like, “hello Suzanne, good to see you tonight”. You'd get this personal welcome from the owner of the bar and you’d feel like a VIP. And he’d give you your handful of chips.

lr: So you would pay for the chips? Did he do it for the novelty?

ST: You’d pay for the chips. Yeah, partly for the novelty but hey, probably also to get around liquor licensing rules too. You’d buy chips so you didn’t put any money across the bar. I didn’t care, I just liked that I got my chips and I liked the personal approach. And always really good music and people dancing—I miss that. People don’t dance any more. A few do at Laundry but all the other clubs will be playing really great music but people won’t dance until they’re really drunk. So I find myself dancing alone a lot.

lr: What’s your favourite music to dance to?

ST: Still disco. It’ll always be disco.

lr: You mentioned Frankie Stevens, who were the other big names in the scene (from any time you remember)?

ST: In Auckland I loved bars like The Staircase that had loads of drag queens there. And I loved the glamour. They always dressed up, always made an effort, and looked absolutely stunning and spectacular, above and beyond…The clubs would play a lot of disco and they had a disco ball. When disco is playing people seem happier, it’s quite uplifting. Maybe it’s because the songs have words, and everyone knows the words. I just remember the glamour and the glitz. It was like magic, especially when the mirror balls were going and the light was bouncing off the drag queens’ sequins. They became big mirror balls. Two other personalities in Wellington are Scotty and Mel from S&M’s. They remind me of Frankie Stevens in the way they always welcome people in, they enjoy their job, they will join in. It makes such a big difference. And I love their bar. Red velvet ropes and curtains, chandeliers...But it’s like an alley. It’s just a tiny alley that gets absolutely packed.

lr: Is this how you became interested in fashion?

ST: I was already in fashion. I used to dress a lot of the drag performers. I got into fashion because my mum was a seamstress and used to make all my clothes as a girl. But then I got away from the mainstream, and started making my own stuff, which is more militant and political, talking about the landscape here in New Zealand. But I still love glamour, so I do a lot of styling too. I do a lot of theatre, I dress a lot of bands. I loved the drag queens because they’re so fantastic, surreal. It’s almost like you could be anything you wanted to be. Nothing was forbidden, it’s like Alice In Wonderland, but if you go down into the rabbit hole and underneath it’s all sequins, glitter, make up and big hair. Surreal. So in terms of personalities it was Bertha and Buckwheat who used to host at Staircase. Bust'Op, she used to do a little bit of hostessing. Another one of the standout drag queens in Auckland was Pussy Galore. Those are really Auckland memories. Wellington-wise I don’t really remember many of the personalities. I remember we used to go clubbing at Claire’s nightclub and I used to go with my hairdresser. I always remember we’d spend hours and hours getting ready. So once again it comes back to glamour and fashion. We all lived in Upper Hutt and it was such a hole, and we’d go into Wellington—the big city! As soon as you came along the harbour toward Wellington and you’d see the lights…We’d squeal when we saw the lights because we knew we’d made it. It always looked like magic, like Christmas. The city lights bounced off the water and you’re transported into this other world. And we weren’t in Upper Hutt any more, we were these glamorous creatures coming to Wellington to ponce around in a club and pretend we were somebody for— two hours—then back to reality.

lr: Was there any specific night that sticks in your mind as a time when you might have met someone who was particularly influential or interesting, or had a conversation that has shifted your thinking somehow?

ST: In truth nearly every time I go out it’s like that. You get into a club and there’ll be someone I’m looking for or some idea that I’m trying to get and you always meet someone interesting, who’s doing something that aligns with what you’re doing or is just doing something really exciting. I don’t know if that’s just the alcohol. I carry around a notebook and so the next day I’ll look at my notebook to see what I wrote but half the time I can’t read my writing. But I know at the time I had this fantastic idea, a brilliant light bulb moment and the next day it’s terrible because I can’t read my writing. I think that people are relaxed in clubs and they don’t have their guard up, and because they’ve had a few drinks the ideas flow and they’re less cautious about sharing information. I can’t think of any particular moment but almost every week I have an ‘a-ha’ moment with somebody in a club.

lr: So you’re still out every week?

ST: It’s my job and I’m always looking for what’s going on—who’s the band, what’s the show, who’s around. So you need to get out and about. You can follow it on Facebook or read about it but it’s not the same as experiencing it.

lr: How do you think the scene here has come about, how did it form? Maybe the grittiness you mentioned?

ST: I reckon it was that ‘number eight wire’ mentality; they wanted to make it happen so they just had to do it. And it wasn’t that they were breaking rules but they were making them up as they went along. Wellingtonians were so keen to get out and do something that it didn’t matter about the weather. If there was a band playing they went out to see them. I was listening to the news this morning and there’s going to be 100km winds today…And I was like, “Oh, it’s just another Monday. Maybe I’ll wear my gloves. I’m ready, bring it Wellington!”. We’re hardy, so the elements don’t put us off at all. We just wrap up and under all those layers of hats and scarves there’ll be a glamorous outfit waiting to emerge. We just want to party.

lr: The project we are working on addresses the way architecture helps or hinders the atmosphere in social situations, so I was wondering if you have any thoughts about how the built environment can impact on social dynamics?

ST: I think that on lots of levels we like to watch. We like watching people. Say for example at The Staircase there was a mezzanine floor where you could have your drink and lean on the rail and watch everybody below and you could see people coming and going. I always liked the clubs that had chairs and tables upstairs too. So you could be removed from it. You’re not in the middle of the tank but you could see what the social interactions were…Who had come into the room, what everyone was wearing, who was dancing with who...St John’s bar here, on the waterfront, used to have one too, and there’s also that sleazy thing where the people upstairs were also the ones maybe doing drugs or having a sneaky joint. But you were still above the maddening crowd. So I like the ideas of stairs, and even the queues of people up the stairs made it seem like a fashion thing, where everyone was lined up and was looking.

lr: I’m interested in the idea of the queue—it doesn’t seem simply that the club is too full…

ST: They do it for the people driving past so they think they need to get into that club. It’s all about the hype.

lr: Do you think it builds a sense of anticipation for the people who are in the queue as well—or just frustration?

ST: It’s a social thing, because I can remember when we had to queue, and it’d just be like, oh well we had to queue, so we’d just enjoy it and talk to each other and wait until we got in. Maybe things have changed now…We’re not as socially kind anymore, it’s just ‘I want it now’. Maybe I was obnoxious too when I was young, I don’t remember. I think I just had interesting friends around me so we’d still have a good time being in the queue. Maybe [in your nightclub design] you could have people in queues but the queues are like a series of cubicles, so it’s also like a window display.

lr: I was talking to some others yesterday about Ivy and the car park/smoking cage. We were thinking about the politics of having a smoking area tucked out of sight like that…And we were speculating that it might be because it’s still not entirely safe to be dressed in drag out on the street. Maybe it’s kinder to provide people a way to have a cigarette—

ST:—while still being sheltered. I really like it that they do that. I don’t smoke but it annoys me that the smokers have to brave the elements. I think it’s unfair. I think the same owners had the Garden Bar on Courtenay Place and there was a balcony and there was one bar upstairs and you could still smoke in it even after the legislation changed. I like that renegade thing.

lr: A couple of bars down that area have been in legal trouble over the past two years over letting people smoke in covered areas...

ST: Yeah, and it’s still in an outside area but covered on too many sides…I think it’s just going to get worse. It’s going to wreck the clubs.

lr: Is there any other way the architecture or built environment might reflect what’s happening politically or socially?

ST: You might think about socio-economic groups, like people who, for example, vote National, aren’t likely to be going to an underground warehouse party.

lr: So would you say that having an underground warehouse party is implicitly excluding certain groups of people?

ST: Definitely. Like over the weekend there was a punk gig at the Newtown Bowling Club. One, who’s going to go to a punk gig. But two, who even knows where Newtown Bowling Club is! I loved the idea that these guys would do it in a bowling club. I’m actually a member of the Newtown Bowling Club and I laughed because I went along to the gig and there were all the old Koro who were all members, and they’re there because it’s where they always go, and it’s cheap beer and what else would they do? And all of a sudden they’ve got this wall of noise with these punks playing. And they’re not going to leave, they’ve got nowhere else to go. And their faces were absolutely stunned, listening to this wall of sound but they still stayed there. I don’t know, maybe if you force people into those positions where they have to listen to music or interact with a whole other crowd what could happen? Probably nothing.

lr: Are there any other memorable interiors that you haven’t already mentioned?

ST: The other thing I pay attention to is the toilets. I’ve been into some toilets and they are plush. Bangalore Polo Club has good toilets. The other thing that Bangalore has that I adore is a red carpet that runs from the front door right through to the back, up some stairs. And I love the idea of having a show in there and lining people up on the side of the carpet, with a band at the top, and having the models parade in and back out onto Courtenay Place. So the street turns into part of the catwalk. That’d be a dream come true to do that. You might have picked it up that I like the idea of glamour, fashion and performance... Surrealism. Taking people on a journey.

lr: Other than Courtenay place, are there any other areas where there was a lot of nightlife activity?

ST: I really loved Eddie's. It was down an alleyway and up some stairs. The alley and the stairs always smelled like piss, but Eddie’s was just a big pool hall. The interior was all graffiti, tags, whatever, it didn’t matter. It looked really underground even though it was upstairs. And you could smoke in there. I like the idea of that, it’s like you’re breaking the rules, it’s like a garage party but you’re in a bar. All the people who would go there were edgy and arty. I think he closed last year, it was a shame. He’d be open until really late and you’d get locked in. I like the idea of a lock-in. That was a great space. And S&M’s again…the lounge, boudoir feel. Ivy’s Garden Bar, I think it was where Calendar Girls is now. There were four different bars so you could go to different levels—I love the idea of that, that you could be downstairs in the dance room, go upstairs to the smoking area, out the back to the gay room. I didn’t go there, it’s just another closet. I loved Electric Avenue with the cheesy eighties music and they played music videos from my youth that I’d never had the chance to see and we had really limited access to them. And upstairs was just a private room, a mezzanine floor.

lr: I was looking at a documentary about the punk scene on the terrace in the eighties, which revolved around two flats...Was that before your time?

ST: I’d left Wellington and moved to Auckland by then so I missed a lot of that scene. But I remember coming down and going to a party there and also on Cuba Street on Tonks Avenue. Up on Tonks there used to be a lot of musos and artists. They used to have a lot of parties down there—live jams. The houses weren’t condemned but no one was supposed to be living in them, people were squatting, but they were all really good artists. Lots of drugs actually. You asked what Wellington was built on, I think Cuba street was built on those Tonk Street tenants. A lot of them had shops down Cuba Street or they were supporting the shops, it was a really supportive community, they all looked after each other and they all knew each other. A lot of the artists who lived on Tonks were supplying the shops with their clothes...They were selling things through Misdemeanor [a shop] etc. It was edgy and quirky but very uniquely Wellington. As soon as they pulled down all of those buildings Cuba lost its artiness and became mainstream. And now the punk scene has moved to Valhalla and the Newtown Bowling Club. Maybe that’s because they needed to find an affordable venue.

lr: Nightclubs are said to have the ability to contribute to counter-cultural movements. Do you think this could be said of Wellington’s nightlife?

ST: Not as much now as it used to be. We’ve turned into a real nanny-state. You can’t even smoke cigarettes, never mind anything else. But I do remember some of the clubs used to have rooms that the managers would take you to do coke or speed or smoke pot. And I’m sure that those rooms still exist. But I like the idea that there are these areas hidden away. Nearly every club that I go there is another room to be honest…And they’ll take you there if you want to go or they know you well enough, or if you’re into it. But I don’t know if it contributes to counter-culture behavior because it is so secretive, you wouldn’t want everyone knowing that’s what you were getting up to…A lot of the people who can afford to do drugs have good jobs as well. So it’s not the same grungy “let's go into the backroom and do needles” anymore. It’s “let's go into the backroom and do coke”. Stuff that will cost you lots of money. So I don’t know it is about counter-culture. It’s maybe more elitist. It doesn’t contribute to a scene because it’s so secretive…You’d have to be careful who sees the activity. But the other thing I think has come about, since people have to go outside to smoke cigarettes…In the old days your whole table would leave to go have a joint…Now everyone just thinks you’re going out to smoke a cigarette…So, thanks! At least they’ve made that easier. And it’s so expensive to drink, and that’s why they talk about ‘pre-loading’. But that’s driven people like the punks to Newtown. Arlo Edwards was living in a warehouse in Newtown with a bunch of other guys and they used to organise bands to come down from Auckland. It was $5 on the door, BYO alcohol and there was a bar. I’m sure they didn’t have a licence. But it was such a great crowd, really young and the bands were really good but it was just someone’s grungy old warehouse. So much more life and excitement than the clubs who’d spent millions of dollars doing them up…People would go to them and be bored. They’d sit there and wait for something to happen but no one would want to make it happen.

lr: Do you think these clubs and venues are/were safe for you? Did you ever feel unsafe?

ST: I think that a lot of those public bars that I went to were really unsafe. But I guess that was part of the appeal, the risk was part of the excitement. You know like, “oooh I’m hanging out with the rough crowd”. Nobody liked me doing it, they’d all ask me “Suzanne, what are you doing hanging out with that lot?”. But it was interesting! Different and exciting. It’s not the same as everything else. But generally you’re pretty safe in the clubs now. They have good security, the bar staff are really mindful. But then I read recently that someone’s been going around spiking drinks again, so that’s not a good thing for people, especially females who go out alone, which I do a lot but I have never had my drink spiked. I’ve saved a few girls who have had their drinks spiked. One time I found a girl who was passed out in a car park in the pouring rain, lying in the gutter. I managed to get out of her where she lived, and took her home, poor thing. It’s quite commonplace. I see girls passed out all the time. We’re talking about safety, maybe I’m safe because I’m really mindful, maybe I’ve been around so long I know how to take care of myself. But I see girls half-dressed and vomiting or passed out. Maybe it’s not safe. Maybe they’re not well looked after…They get themselves into a state and then the bars will kick them out and leave them. Just desert them, and maybe they’ve become separated from their friends somehow.

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