#or the heat death of writing coherence and quality

[funficwriter]

Gin Ichimaru x Subordinate who likes to write :3

A/N: Welp, this turned out much longer than I expected. Also you gotta love how I switch back and forth between darkfic to fluff. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: None for this one

Ever since you joined the 3rd Division, it was typical of Gin to be curious about the type of person you are outside of work.

So imagine his spiking curiosity when he hears excited chatter among the other seated officers about compelling characters and beautifully executed tragedies. I HC he's very much into literature, so you can bet he'll extend an ear.

"Hanako-san has to be the only antagonist I ever felt bad for! That twist regarding her child's death in the winter! And her last lines! That newbie here is something, eh?".

His mind jogs and traces it back to another subject of his curiosity. So you write well, eh? Why did he not know? No matter, he had a plan to see more.

You were assigned some documenting work. After a while, you decided to steal a little time working on your novel. As you confirmed no one was around and scribbled away, you thought of how a lot would be needed to bring you back into the real world...

Or just your captain's appearance.

Your trance was snapped once you saw a thin hand emerge into your field of vision, which was taken by your notebook, point to a line of dialogue: "My, my... You've already aroused the reader's curiosity in Hanako-san's legacy. Well done".

Before you could even think of saying 'thanks', your notebook was gone. It didn't take a genius to know who took it: "Sorry, little Y/N. I'm a fan of yours, but I'm still a captain and I can't let anyone slack off. You can expect it back by tomorrow.".

Generally, he doesn't do much with confiscated items, but you'd be so so wrong to think the same applied to your novel. No, he finished everything for the day, wore his comfiest kimono, brewed some tea... The minute he started to read, he was gone. Even Kira could barely hold his attention for any remaining matters.

The next morning, you find your notebook back in your room, next to a few persimmons, chocolate and a note in his beautiful handwriting: "I don't think I can go on without knowing how the story ends. I noticed you were free this evening. Please join me for a cup of tea so we can discuss further.".

And so, a new bond forged not of official relations, but a shared interest, began.

From then on, you two often had tea and snacks together, discussing books you liked, characters that stuck with you... You liked Gin's taste, even incorporating a bit of it in your next chapters. Sometimes, you two would get Izuru to join you.

Gin would totally encourage you to write for the Seireitei Communication. It's clear to the 3rd that you're gifted with words; Why hide it from the rest? And if you're nervous about the quality of your work, he'll gladly sit you down for one of his writing seshs, letting you look over his work and he yours.

Speaking of which, assuming he's older, ergo had more writing years than you, he's a pretty great mentor. He likes to praise but never gives it so easily so you're incentivized to keep getting better. He's also great if you feel that a piece isn't living up to its potential, but you can't tell why.

"I see... The set-up is exquisite, but I think you're preoccupied with the recurring details to a point where it harms the climax. Remember to let that shine on its own.".

There's also times where you two compete, whether it be on who can write the more coherent story, the more sorrowful character...

Congrats, you are now his much-touted 'writing companion'. If he wants to fluster you, though, it's 'writing playmate'.

After a while, some might notice that Gin's column and yours are... Answering each other? Like, if he brought up a certain topic, you would bounce off of it whether in terms of agreement or heated debate. Many readers expressed that they enjoy this exchange of ideas.

Once you two are close, it's not at all unusual for him to sneak up behind you while you write like the first time, sometimes even hugging you and resting his chin on your shoulder. Careful not to let him see the growing blush~

One night, you were writing a romance scene. Out of nowhere (as usual), you hear his low chuckle: "How dreamy~"

You turned back to see him grinning at you. Trying to keep stoic, you decided to ask: "I thought that they had good chemistry, unless you think otherwise?".

"Not at all! It was obvious, but just one detail I must point out; When you got to the confession point, you started to skim out on a lot of detail that could endear the reader to this moment.".

He had a point. Were you getting bashful about it?

"But don't worry, Y/N. There's nothing that improves writing like experience. If you ever need a real life example of such scenes, you can always ask me~".

Did he just... Allude to romantic moments between you two? With time, you find that yes, this darned fox couldn't let you know he was interested in you without teasing you.

For one, let's say that after you got together your romance scenes became... Much better.

You two would also use each other as characters in all sorts of writing. To fluster you, Gin would enjoy doing so in old-fashioned style romances. Sometimes he foreshadows dates through that!

If you're feeling petty, you can always present a story where he's the main character and gets beat down by a force of nature he can't control :p

By the time you finish your novel, there's probably a pair that is a lot like you two anyway.

Analyzing each other's work!

Gifting each other fine ink and writing tools!

Seeing who can write the most intense love letter to the other!

All in all, this is my brainrot and I'm gonna go hyperfixate bye bye :3

#gin ichimaru x reader #gin ichimaru fluff #bleach x reader #bleach fanfiction

[starry-bite]

my sweet, non-trek friends, having generously listened to me babble about star trek picard for the last two years: oh your show is back, right? how's season 2?

me, desperately clinging to the bright side: well it has made me like season 1 a lot more

#star trek #pic #star trek picard #grem leans #picard season 2 #or the heat death of writing coherence and quality #where's beverly #posed the theory that they're doing each season like an act of a 3 act play #in which case maybe s3 will be okay #i don't think they're going to throw the motley crew out the proverbial airlock i do think they'll be around in s3 + the tng gang #maybe reduced focus but they'll be around in some capacity #though i guess anything could happen #so i will just hold on for dear life to my silly little fics and hcs and we will get through it together #💙

[the-ghost-king]

hey i saw your post/added tags on that post abt zeus killing jason bc jason stood up to him in hoo, and was wondering if you could elaborate abt the apollo trauma didn’t let him die bit bc i’m curious and don’t know what it means

i only know greek mythology thru pjo, so don’t know a whole lot abt the original myths

thank you!

Oh yeah sure! Forgive me if this is a bit clunky or weirdly typed, I struggle to communicate exactly my thoughts on this and also my hands aren't working properly rn

So basically in the myth where Hyacinthos dies, Apollo goes to Zeus and asks to be made mortal so that he could join Hyacinthos in the underworld forever

In no versions of the myth is this request granted, however in the Spartan myth Hyacinthos was returned to life to spend 6 months with Apollo and 6 months in the underworld not to cheat death. They celebrated Hyacinthos in the seventh month of the year during Apollo's holy week when they harvested and this festival was so important to the Spartans that they once left in the middle of a war to go home and attend it.

However in many versions of the myth Hyacinthos does not return to life and his only remains is the flower Apollo crafted to bear his grief. From there all prophets of Apollo wore a gem stone called Hyacinthos (likely sapphire) upon entering any temple of Apollo.

Essentially from that and various other information, I personally think it can be determined that Apollo loved Hyacinthos more than any other mortal he had ever been with or seen, more than any god, he loved the other so much so that he was willing to die just to see him again and know they were near one another. The trauma of not only losing his lover, but losing the one who he loved more than anyone else, perhaps the only one it can be said Apollo truly loved- broke Apollo.

There's a very different quality to Apollo when Hyacinthos is a part of the discussion/situation, and almost always it is this intense yearning which can never be eased. There's this whole idea there about how Apollo is a vessel for the grief of the gods (being prophetic and alone in knowing the end of time cannot be easy), and beyond this his grief hardened him.

Apollo's personality shifted from something of youth and joy and flightiness, to something hardened and worn and weathered. Gone were the summer days with nice breeze and Hyacinthos was the trigger for that burning heat which destroys everything. But Apollo somehow pulled together, and he made that youthful carelessness a shell- he's the classic "back of the class popular kid jokester who is hurting more than anyone else"

Anyhow I really hate how Rick characterized Apollo because although yes he is a player and crazy and wild... That's not actually who he is that's his persona, and some myths say he never loved another after Hyacinthos (which could mean he never felt a connection or never participated in another relationship following), some versions of the myth have them "married" as well..

There's many other things I want to say on this, and it's a bad idea to pick a favorite god so I'll simply say I have a lot of thoughts about Apollo and I think so much about him and about how Rick got him so wrong all the time... The Apollo we see at the end of ToA is probably most accurate to mythological Apollo, except he didn't need a journey of self learning to get there he already was aware that was who he was he simply needed the space to be vulnerable

Also I know this is loosely coherent and I apologize for that I can't make my thumbs work right rn, but essentially Hyacinthos might be the only person Apollo ever loved truly and fully (there's some stuff about Hermes as well but again, depends on the version) and that the trauma of his death an the act of being hurt by the loss of the only person who ever understood and cared for him deeply effected his character and sense of self for milenas... I just think it says something deeply profound about Apollo to love someone so much meanwhile Zeus jumps from person to person (because he has fallen more from grace, Zeus has a negative arc in regards to plotline) and so Zeus sees some aspect of his lost self in Apollo and punishes him for being able to love so freely and deeply (like he punished Dionysus for having a wife who allowed him to also chase after nympths because Hera dislikes when Zeus does that and it's a hidden thing between them meanwhile Dionysus is freely allowed his urges from his wife)

I might write this better when my hands are working properly but hopefully this answers the main part of your question as of right now!

#ask #notesofarichlycolorednight

[writing-prompts-for-friends]

Notes from Robert McKee’s “Story” 13: Premise, Theme, and How to Discover Both

Heads up: we’re in for a long but absolutely essential post for any writer or creator anywhere. This post summarizes a section of Robert McKee’s book Story, specifically the section that tells you how to determine the core message of your story. Not the plot, but what you want the plot to mean to your audience.

All stories need a premise and a controlling idea to guide them. Without one or the other, you will have a meandering mess that will leave readers asking themselves afterwards, “What did I just read and why did I bother to read it?”

Premise

Simply put, “premise” is whatever inspired you to create your story. 

Quite often we start writing a story based on a “what if...?” premise. When I was in junior high, my parents went to a Marilyn Manson concert (Why are they cooler than me?) and I thought to myself, “What if they never came back? How would my life change?” Not that I wanted them not to come back lol. But that was the impetus for the first novel I ever wrote and finished. 

Premise doesn’t only have to come from “What if” questions. It can come from anything. An intriguing commercial, a daydream, a nightmare, something that happened to you or a friend, a line in a poem. Doesn’t matter. Whatever creates that initial spark--that’s your Premise. 

Once you have your Premise, you can begin writing. But realize that whatever inspired you to write in the first place does not have to be kept in the final product. A Premise is not precious. It is the kindling that starts the fire, and if the path of the story veers away from the Premise, then so be it. 

“The problem is not to start writing, but to keep writing and renewing inspiration. We rarely know where were going; writing is discovery.”

☝ Probably one of my favorite quotes from this book so far.

In the example of that horrid novel I wrote in junior high, the story started out with the protagonist’s parents going out for dinner and passing away in an accident on the way home. But upon their death she learned that she was actually a government experiment and there’s a big magical phenomenon her secret government agent parents were trying to solve and now the task has fallen to her.... Ugh I was 13 and at the height of my 3edgy5me phase so please don’t judge me lol. What I’m trying to say is that the premise of “What would happen if my parents never came home?” quickly evolved into something else, and that was okay. 

Structure as Rhetoric

“Make no mistake: While a story’s inspiration may be a dream and its final effect aesthetic emotion, a work moves from an open premise to a fulfilling climax only when the writer is possessed by serious thought. For an artist must have not only ideas to express, but ideas to prove. Expressing an idea, in the sense of exposing it, is never enough. The audience must not just understand; it must believe. 

Storytelling is the creative demonstration of truth. A story is the living proof of an idea, the conversion of idea to action. A story’s event structure is the means by which you first express, then prove your idea...without explanation.”

Honestly, McKee says things so well sometimes I feel that i have no choice but to simply quote him. My apologies. 

McKee believes that master storytellers never rely on cheap exposition or dialogue that explicitly explains their idea. If you need to have a paragraph of prose explaining how good always triumphs over evil, or if you need to bad guy to say, “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you nosy kids!” then you need to refine your storytelling. 

The reader should be able to feel your idea being built brick by brick, act by act, until it all becomes crystallized in the emotional climax. 

Controlling Idea (a.k.a. “Theme”)

McKee dislikes the word “theme,” as the so-called themes of “war,” “love,”  “poverty,” etc. are too vague. Instead he likes to use the term “controlling idea,” and defines it thus:

“ A Controlling Idea may be expressed in a single sentence describing how and why life undergoes change from one condition of existence at the beginning to another at the end.

A true theme is not a word but a sentence--one clear, coherent sentence that expresses a story’s irreducible meaning. The Controlling Idea shapes the writer’s strategic choices. It will serve as a tool to guide your aesthetic choices toward what is appropriate or inappropriate in your story, toward what is expressive of your Controlling Idea and may be kept versus what is irrelevant to it and must be cut. 

The more beautifully you shape your work around one clear idea, the more meanings audiences will discover in your film as they take your idea and follow its implications into every aspect of their lives. Conversely, the more ideas you try to pack into a story, the more they implode upon themselves, until the work collapses into a rubble of tangential notions, saying nothing.”

So what is the “equation” of the Controlling Idea?

Value + Cause

To recap, values are the universal qualities of human experience that may shift from positive to negative, or negative to positive, from one moment to the next. Some examples of values are justice/injustice, alive/dead, happy/sad, courage/cowardice, etc.

Cause is what makes that value shift from one pole to the other. It is the primary reason that the life or world of the protagonist has changed to its positive or negative value. 

McKee shows the Controlling Idea for various famous films and I will write them out here.

IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT (an up-ending Crime Story) Value: Justice is restored... Cause: ...because a perceptive black outsider sees the truth of white perversion.

MISSING (a down-ending Political Thriller) Value: Tyranny prevails... Cause: ...because it’s supported by a corrupt CIA.

GROUNDHOG DAY (a positive-ending Education Plot) Value: Happiness fills our lives... Cause: ...when we learn to love unconditionally.

DANGEROUS LIAISONS (a negative-ending Love Story) Value: Hatred destroys... Cause: ...us when we fear the opposite sex.

How to Find Your Work’s Controlling Idea

I’m going to preface this by saying that i have some personal misgivings on McKee’s statements, but I’ll voice my opinion after I’ve summarized his.

McKee tells us that we find the controlling idea by doing the following:

“Looking at your ending, ask: As a result of this climatic action, what value, positively or negatively charged, is brought into the world of my protagonist? 

Next, tracing backward from this climax, digging to the bedrock, ask: What is the chief cause, force, or means by which this value is brought into his world? 

The sentence you compose from the answers to those two questions becomes your Controlling Idea. 

In other words, the story tells you its meaning; you do not dictate meaning to the story. You do not draw action from idea, rather idea from action. For no matter your inspiration, ultimately the story embeds its Controlling Idea within the final climax, and when this event speaks its meaning, you will experience one of the most powerful moments in the writing life--Self-Recognition: The Story Climax mirrors your inner self, and if your story is from the very best sources within you, more often than not you’ll be shocked by what you see reflected in it.”

I have mixed feelings about McKee’s opinion here. It feels like he’s telling us to leave the Controlling Idea up to our subconscious, that it is wrong to start out knowing the Controlling Idea and plotting out a story that aligns with it. But is it bad to do so? 

For example, Neil Gaiman has stated that when he set out to write Coraline, he did so with the specific intention to tell children that “When you’re scared but you still do it anyways, that’s brave.” In other words, he had the Controlling Idea in place from the start. And it’s a great work. 

On the other hand, a couple years ago I wrote a fanfiction on a whim. It was something that came into my head and I churned out all 200,000 words in about two months with no particular Controlling Idea. But later on, when I re-read it, I realized that the whole thing had been me working through the duality I feel as a white foreigner living in Japan who is fluent in Japanese and has adopted Japanese culture, as well as the frustration and isolation at the xenophobia/othering I encounter on a daily basis. Judging by the climax of the story, the Controlling Idea was, “You will be accepted...when you learn to show each persona (Japanese and American) at the right time every time.” 

This Controlling Idea does match my true feelings on the matter. However, I really wrote this story with absolutely zero direction, and i feel that perhaps I could have turned this story into something better if I had had an awareness of the Controlling Idea as I wrote it. 

McKee adds one more important note to discovering the Controlling Idea:

“If a plot works out exactly as you first planned, you’re not working loosely enough to give room to your imagination and instincts. Your story should surprise you again and again. Beautiful story design is a combination of the subject found, the imagination at work, and the mind loosely but wisely executing the craft.”

So, in other words...

Your Controlling Idea is like the Pirate Code. It exists and it is honored, but not always in the ways that you expect/intend. 

Source: McKee, Robert. Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. York: Methuen, 1998. Print

#creative writing #writeblr #writing #write #writing inspriation #writing inspo #creative writing methodology #creative writing theory #writing resources #writing reference #robert mckee #writing novels #writing fiction #writing fantasy #writing theme #determining theme #writing prompts for friends notes on story #long post

[emperorren]

would you be ok with talking about the golden age of the reylo fandom? i’m a new shipper so i wasn’t here for it. i’ve heard a few people mention big events but I’m very curious what it was like in the beginning!

aaaaahhhhh the golden age when reylo was just a baby ship and there were like, 56 of us on this site and all busy defending ourselves from random accusations of being *anne’s voice whose name wasn’t anne yet* ABuSe apoLogISTs!!

The initial discourse around reylo was really intimidating, because even the most innocuous mutuals on your dash were reblogging smug untagged anti posts (I remember one in particular that was like “stop shipping female characters with their abusers!!!1111!!!” with something like 50K notes). The first few weeks after TFA’s release were all about heated debates on whether you’re actually allowed to ship problematic things and ~how can you deny that the interrogation scene was a rape analogy~, and for me personally, a LOT of juggling between reylo (which was quickly becoming my main focus, even though back then I was almost certain they were related) and f/nnr/ey (which I had mostly lukewarm feelings for, but showing open indifference seemed like a good way to be bullied for *internalized racism*, so I had to strike a balance).

BUT when actual fan content for the ship started surfacing, and we simultaneously started growing in numbers and closing our ranks against fandom bullies, it was amazing. 

There was Ohtze’s Death and the Maiden meta, which for me sealed the transition from “intriguing enemies to lovers ship” to “ASGFHSJKSGAGSKKS OTP OF OTPS” because I freaking love subtext and ships built on subtext.Creatively there was a lot of freedom, since the reylo dynamic was hinted at in canon but nothing was set in stone yet, and imagination ran wild. There was lots of dark and angsty, lots of proper enemies to lovers tropes, lots of dark!Kylo, lots of scenarios where Rey has to kill him in the end and they’re both in tears and he thanks her for that, the first attempts at depicting the yin/yang dynamic. A popular headcanon was that Ben fell when he was fifteen-something (around the time Rey was abandoned on Jakku), so in many fics the Kylo/Snoke relationship was even more disturbing than it is in canon. Another popular theory was that Rey was a little student at Luke’s academy, and Ben was the one who dropped Rey on Jakku, perhaps to spare her from the jedi temple massacre, so you had lots of fics based on that. And of course the stranded/trapped together tropes proliferated.

You kids are so spoiled now, but back then we were really in the dark. We didn’t have Rian Johnson backing up your reading, or the story group chatting excitedly over Rey and Kylo’s interactions. For all we knew, we were seeing things that weren’t there, as the majority of tumblr kindly reminded us every 5 seconds. (there was a well researched meta theorizing how the actual *trio*—in the sense of the three most important characters—was actually F/nn, Rey and Kylo Ren, and oh, the outrage it attracted. In hindsight it’s hilarious.) Popular reylo shippers tended to be extremely cautious re: canon reylo, if not downright skeptical. Thinking that Rey and Kylo could actually have a romance, rather than a “special antagonism” with very veiled romantic subtext, was considered incredibly optimistic. Most people said they would gladly settle for Rey no longer hating Kylo by the end of IX. Consequently, most fics were excruciatingly slow burn (which is why they were amazing), because it was considered a titanic effort to make these two characters stop wanting to kill each other, especially Rey, something that needed thousand of pages of subtle character evolution to be remotely plausible. It wasn’t even about tempering our expectations—we barely had any. we simply thought we were shipping little more than a crackship.

So when the databank dropped, calling Rey and Kylo’s “destinies intertwined”, and JJ’s TFA commentary described them as “the story we’re really interested in”, and called Rey a princess and Kylo a prince, it was MINDBLOWING. It was the first hint that we were, in fact, reading this story correctly.

There was also a lot of obsessing over Pablo Hidalgo’s tweets and desperately searching for clues. Pablo’s confirmation that Rey “downloaded” Kylo’s force skills by entering his mind was probably the first canon confirmation of the existence of the force bond, but it was again Ohtze who had first introduced most of us to that concept in her meta on the parallels between Reylo and Revan/B*astila, and we latched on it enthusiastically (though back then the force bond was conceived as a merely telepathic connection—TLJ went above and beyond that).

Other touchstones were when John said the romance in this trilogy wasn’t /going the way you think/ and that he and Daisy essentially played their characters as friends (the fandom consensus back then was that the central romance was f*nnrey, so that interview was a turning point in the fandom and bolstered our confidence). And Daisy’s throwaway comment about Rey “feeling the force” with Kylo during the duel (another hint at the force bond).

There was occasionally some big intra-fandom drama (I remember a person called ysbaddadenthebrave, who wrote a lot of VERY popular fics back in the day but it turned out she was lying about personal stuff and some novel she was writing (though I didn’t follow that wank closely) and also the mess with msqualia (a shipper who became a bully to other shippers). 

There were many #gates, too, starting with #ashgate. It happened when a pic of Kylo putting his helmet on a sort of altar covered in ashes, with the commentary by JJ that those ashes were the remains of his dead enemies. People went NUTS over this. People UNSTANNED Kylo for this, I shit you not, others took it as bad writing, lack of coherent characterization, a hint that he was never going to be redeemed, it caused SO MUCH PANIC, lol. 

I also remember very vividly when the first HD version of TFA was leaked, and tumblr was suddenly flooded with a deluge of quality gifs of the duel, the interrogation, unmasked Kylo looking at Snoke with his big puppy eyes, etc. It was CRAZY and it sparked a new wave of meta and commentary, this time MUCH more confident that what we were seeing was real to some extent.

Oh and when filming for TLJ began and we learned that Adam was filming on Skellig Island with Daisy and Mark… that… that was the beginning of a new wave of fanfics, as you can imagine. And the leak of the exploding hut, which most of us thought was BS because it sounded too much like a reylo dream.

2016 was really a crazy year for Reylo shippers.

#anon #asks #the golden age #fandom #/ #reylo

[kasprak]

Hi! You should write! Because I’m sure you’re super amazing at it and even if you don’t think you are practice will make you feel so much better about it! But to get you started, I suggest ‘shh, c’mere’ with reddie. Love you, you’re great!

here i am and i’ll take my time (x)

→  word count: 1,497

→  teen richie and eddie, one-on-one sleepover, kisses in the dark

→  warnings: angst, swears, major character death, spoilers for part two

You’re too late, Richie, a rotting voice echoed in his mind, he’s with me now.

There was a sour smell that hung thick in the air. The whole atmosphere felt dense, claustrophobic even. It felt like how the world felt minutes before a storm struck. When grey clouds loomed heavy, electric. Tense. The scent burned in his nostrils and coated his tongue, causing him to nearly choke on his own breath. Breathing. His breathing was already labored, ragged, but why?

Where the fuck am I?

Richie’s entire body ached. He was aware of a throbbing in the soles of his feet like he’d been walking for hours on end, and of an even more subtle ache in his lower back. He felt tired and weak, and his head hurt most of all. Sharp bouts of pain pulsed through his skull, and his stomach churned in protest with every jolt. There was something else, too, a thick warmth covering his hands. It spread quickly and soaked his clothes.

He was holding something. Dead weight, his mind insisted, and when Richie looked down at this weight (dead weight) in his arms, his heart dropped like a stone.

Now the shrieking, the whimpering sobs that surrounded him made sense. He hadn’t noticed them until now. It was his friends. Beverly, mostly. She was crying, hard, and sputtering out the same name that had just died on Richie’s lips (died in Richie’s arms): Eddie. An older Eddie, sure, but still unmistakably him. Eddie lay limp in Richie’s arms. The wet warmth was his blood, dark and red, and it flowed in a steady stream from the socket where his arm was supposed to be. 

“F-fuck, Eddie!” He was shaking his friend’s body, already knowing it was pointless but not having the heart to stop. “E-Eds, fuck, shit, you’re bleeding pretty bad, man. What happened to you? Oh god, Eds.” He shook even harder this time, until he felt Bill’s hand close over his shoulder. Firmly, but not unkindly. 

“He’s guh-gone, R-Ruh-Richie. Let him go.” Bill was crying too. 

Richie shook his head. “Fucking do something! Eds is ―”

The corpse’s eyelids suddenly flung open, exposing glazed, lifeless eyes. A hollow, dusty voice spoke from Eddie’s still-warm lips. The voice sounded like it belonged in a zombie creature feature at the Aladdin. “Don’t call me that.” Richie sputtered a string of curse words, dropping Eddie’s head into his lap like a hot plate.

Richie woke up with a strangled cry, and was plunged suddenly into the absolute darkness of his own basement. The warm wetness soaking his skin was no longer blood, but sweat and tears. His wavy hair clung to his forehead, sticky and hot. The entire back of his t-shirt was damp. Tears stung his eyes and formed a sore lump in his throat, forcing him to swallow hard. His mind reeled with disorientation. Eddie. Where’s Eddie? Why is it so fucking dark and, oh god, I need to save him, he’s bleeding. I can’t lose him.

“Eds?” 

“I said don’t call me that.” Eddie’s reply came in a harsh whisper, cutting through the darkness like a knife. Richie hadn’t been asleep for long, so this whole time Eddie had been under the impression that he was having a very one-sided conversation with a very awake Richie. Richie would mumble ‘Eds’ urgently, and Eddie would shush him. It was late, and he was grumpy, and he knew that if he caved and asked ‘what?’, Richie would say some dumb shit like ‘Can’t you fall asleep a little faster? I want to spend some quality time with your mom.’ to which Eddie would reply ‘Maybe I’d be asleep if you would shut the fuck up.’ He was not falling for it. No sirree. Not this night, and not at this hour. Turns out, still unbeknownst to Eds, this was not one of those times.

Richie could hear his voice but didn’t process his words.

Eddie’s dying, he’s dying, he’s bleeding out in my arms and I need to find him. Why can’t I see anything? He felt around in the darkness, fingers tracing over the rough carpet and onto his own sleeping bag. “Where the fuck are my glasses?” What little composure he had was failing fast. 

“Richie, are you having a fucking stroke? Your prescription doesn’t give you night vision.”

“I-I just need my fucking glasses so I know ―” Richie whimpered, his voice breaking as he began to search more desperately,“so I know that you’re okay. There’s blood on me. Your arm ―”

“Woah, what? Richie what the fuck are you talki ―” 

“I don’t want to lose you, Eddie, I-I… I can’t… I can’t.” 

The room fell silent, save for Richie’s heavy breathing, and then a faint rustling as Eddie climbed out of his sleeping bag. His voice sounded closer the next time he spoke. “Richie, what happened? Are you okay?” The worry was painfully evident in his voice, and somehow amongst all the chaos in his brain Richie could still feel his heart skip a beat at the sound.

It was starting to make a little more sense now, but his words still tumbled out of his mouth in a jumble. “F-fuck, Eddie, I saw you and you were older and I think I was too, but you were hurt, and I couldn’t do anything. I think I-I’m covered in your blood.” 

He felt Eddie rest a hand on his shoulder and then quickly retract it, as though he’d been burned. “Jesus, Richie, you’re drenched with sweat.” Realization began to dawn over the smaller boy as he knelt closer to Richie, feeling the heat radiating off of him and the sharp, short breaths he was taking in. It was an anxiety attack prompted by a really shitty, scary dream. “I’m okay! You’re okay,” he began, speaking as soothingly as he could in his own state of shock, “you’re in your own basement. We’re having a sleepover. You just had a very bad dream.” He wished he could see Richie’s face right now. 

“No, no,” Richie insisted, shaking his head, “It was real. It was so real. I’m covered in your blood ―”

“It’s sweat, you’re overheating.” Without missing a beat, he began to stand. “I should get you some water and a cold washcloth ―”

“Please don’t go.” 

Eddie froze, struggling to hold back tears himself now. He hadn’t heard Richie sound this broken in a long time, and he had hoped he would never have to again. Hearing him like that broke his heart. He knew Richie wouldn’t want to be seen like this. He hated his own vulnerability. He hated when he couldn’t just crack an inappropriate joke, and laugh his pain away.

“Okay,” Eddie whispered, “I’m here. I’m staying right here.”

Another silence stretched between them. Eddie silently debated whether or not to reach out. Touch him, hug him, do something. God knows he wanted to, but would it be the right thing to do?

The quiet was broken by a strangled sob. Richie had clapped a trembling hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his tears. He wheezed, choked, bit back another cry, and felt his entire body shudder with it. Stop it, Richie. Stop fucking crying, you idiot. Richie spoke coherently for the first time, and Eddie didn’t like what he heard. “F-fuck,” Richie chuckled weakly, “I’m s-stuttering like Bill.” Eddie frowned, and couldn’t help but think ‘he’s doing that thing again where he punishes himself for having real emotions’.

“Shh, c’mere.” Eddie whispered, hands searching in the darkness until they found the other. “You’re shaking.” He shuffled closer, climbing onto Richie’s sleeping bag, and held him close and tight, letting one hand wander to his hair and stroke his curls. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” 

Tears welled in Richie’s eyes as he hugged back, suddenly and intensely. Needing to feel as close as possible. Eddie’s skin was cold to the touch. Richie craved its chill.

“I don’t care if I’m safe,” Richie laughed through the tears, “I just need you to be, Eddie.“ 

“I am.” 

Eddie rested his forehead on Richie’s. He smiled in spite of himself. 

“Stay with me,” Richie begged, his voice breathy. Their noses brushed against one another’s. Eddie’s hand lingered on the side of Richie’s head, cupping his jaw, thumb tracing along his flushed cheek. Their lips drew closer. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eddie said, and sighed into the kiss. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the urge to smile so sweetly against Richie’s mouth because this was finally happening, and it was bittersweet but his heart was soaring all the same.

Richie’s eyes fluttered shut and he wished he would never have to open them, afraid that if he did it would all fall apart, and Beverly would be screaming beside him again, pleading for Eddie to wake up. 

Richie wondered if Eddie knew he was lying when he said he’d never go.

#stories never change #it 2017 #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #reddie #it fanfiction #reddie fanfiction #angst

[lordofsunshadowandsailor]

replies to replies and sexually charged replies

simblu replied to your post “story (and sexuality) replies”

To be clear.. for other seeing my replies.. I have no problem with what happened because of their same sex (I have male couples in my story) ..it was the lack of love and the presence of shame and disgust that saddened me.

I understood it perfectly from your comments... 

It is Tobio that is disgusted with feeling attracted to men, while Alvar is certainly troubled by it, since it is considered both a crime and an illness. The applicable punishments could destroy both of their lives, or even the treatments considered at the time, such as actual castration, chemical castration, replacement of testicles and... no good prospects in whatever direction they look, is there?

Love would have been very bold at the time, me thinks, shame and disgust and doubt and guilt and fear a lot more common, and representative of the times!

I’m also aware, like you have posted about your own story, of having introduced only male characters so far -- and all of them gay, too, in my own story. Women have been mentioned, like a sister on Alvar’s side, and Ms. Rigidhirta and all the women in Tobio’s household (in fact, he is the only man in it), but visually they will appear only much later.

willky12 replied to your post “story (and sexuality) replies”

I will say that it is hard to comment on these scenes for me because I don't want people misinterpreting my feelings or thoughts. Also I feel like I am almost 'intruding' on the writing. It's very raw and deep and personal. I understand where you are writing from and I understand why. I also don't like to see flippant replies like "nice rug" or "he's gorgeous" or similar, so would prefer you to know that my like is in support and when I feel I can express myself I will.

Thank you for your feedback! And also for understanding -- and seeing the writer behind the text. But you would not be intruding. Others views on the story and characters are so precious to me, like what you said about the recurring dream! The thing about flippant replies made me laugh, because I thought the rug in the scene was actually nice and I hope the guys are gorgeous :) -- but totally understand what you mean! Thank you for your truthful support, sincere interest and all the quality comments!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: With a rather vague recollection of the...”

Like, erm WOW! I had to scroll down your page to get to where I last saw, and i got a glimpse of the story and the shots and I was like "0___0" CAN'T WAIT TO READ! So then I gets to this post and thought, oh is this really where I last read, not about the dream and the angels? So I click Previous and it takes me to the dessert and yes it was right, but then I have to scroll back through your posts because I didn't think to click NEXT so now I get teased twice!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: With a rather vague recollection of the...”

Also, I decided to click on @lordofsunshadowandsailor​ blog to read from there but #83 post is not on that blog that I can find? Or I am going crazy. But anyway, enough from me. On with this VISUAL EUPHORIA!

Tumblr is a very weird media for stories, in my opinion. But this is where I’m in society with great storytellers, and I appreciate the company of all so much! And each of us find a different way of organizing their stories, so that it is very varied among blogs... Post #83 for Chapter Two is exactly where the sequence after the desert dream starts, I’m glad you found it! Clicking on previous/next opens the post in its own window, and I guess it is easier to read chronologically than scrolling up or down.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: While the aristocrat boy did not refuse the...”

Intense :O I am gripped! (Now I've walked the dog, done my reply post and can RELAX with your FANTASIC STORY!!) Also I always thought Tobio was a Top. The wording here about the role he is to take on - beautifully put!

Thank you so much for your enthusiasm with LoSSS!

For many guys, being a top is a cop out, as it is presented as less gay, or not gay at all, since the top does what he does to whatever hole he is getting into, be it a woman’s or a man’s. In this same logic, bottoming is the quintessential gay role-- and therefore I could not phantom one as insecure as Tobio taking such a role, that involves a whole lot of courage and being at ease with oneself, even to take any amount of violence in the physical act, that usually comes from the top. 

All the time I’m trying to indicate things more than properly showing them, choosing the words according to that principle, too. 

As for the role Tobio is about to take -- he owes it to Alvar, who quite bravely immediately puts them in their respective places, sensing what is most comfortable for both of them.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Tobio could have blamed the exiguous space...”

OMG THE SLY DOG!!! Alvar! Who'd have thought? I hope poor Tobio can handle him. Also this was so erotic to read. It got me twinging!!! :O

Alvar would be in absolute shock to be called ‘sly dog’! Of course this perspective will change in a later post, when the concept of erastes and eromenos in paiderasteia is introduced, and we understand he is just conforming to an ideal form of love, as he sees it.

I should admit this was erotic to imagine and to write, but also challenging, since I did not want it to sound like an erotic fantasy or a script to porn... I wrote and rewrote this so many times, and am not sure I’d ever print this on paper!

But that the words have had an effect on you... Isn’t it reading some wonderfully magical trick?!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Afraid he would finish before they began,...”

Yeah that is a real fear for him, Penicillin eh? I hope Alvar is clean, but I doubt it tbh now I look at him lol (Judgemental much?)

Imagine a medicine student, and how much he saw this in his studies, or even was discretely approached by guys from the sports teams for help... All the time he fears being caught, losing his reputation -- and though Tobio would be able to treat himself if he caught any venereal disease, he knows how hard it would be to hide it from his colleagues. I wanted to show yet another fear keeping Tobio from having sex.

But all too soon Tobio finds himself planted inside Alvar, who has devoured him, and he finds no forces to retreat...

As for Alvar, he looks a little dusty in those clothes, doesn’t he? And though not taking daily baths, like everyone else back then, I’d say he is clean, though I cannot attest it -- whatever is most interesting to the plot should happen. Please judge as much as you feel like, but please share it with me!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Long overdue, urgent satisfaction...”

Subjugating Terror! Wow, amazing wording to capture the mood :O I LOVE THIS!!!

This is the heat of the moment. Tobio has passed an epic threshold in his life -- sex has to be that powerful a happening for him as to momentarily win over his religiosity. Thank you for your appreciation!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: The front door cracked open, letting in the...”

JESUS F CHRIST! How brazen are these two!! That was a close call!! Whew! I had to lean forward to look at this in detail. Amazing picture of naughtiness!!! :D :D :D

Like other scenes for this sequence, I fear it has turned out too dark, and one might not notice the two men kneeling behind the bench... But it had to be so, if I wanted to be coherent with them being sheltered by the darkness of the niche. 

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: “It’s complicated for them, we all know it....”

I am glad I am reading this now when I know there are more fabulous posts ahead, and don't have to wait for more :D :D :D

I’m rushing to finish this scene and this chapter, since I’m going on holidays soon, so whenever I have at least 7 posts ready, I’ll release them!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: The scandal. And subsequent expulsion. ...”

This is erotica writing at its finest. I can't believe the thoughts this is giving me! Also, perhaps Tobio will be ok with Alvar being so tight and small a bottom - unused and virginal but just as keen as eager to get filled for the first time as Tobio was to fill it. I love these guys. They seem some privacy. Or do they? I sort of am turned on by the public woohoo going on here :D

I think by this point it’s been hinted that Alvar is not unused nor virginal at all -- though he is not promiscuous, either. Sex back then had completely different standards, from what I’ve researched.

I wonder if this scene would ever happen in the privacy of a bedroom... I’m inclined to say Tobio fears intimacy, and he would not have assaulted Alvar (assaulted not being a synonym for rape here, since Alvar clearly wants it too, though maybe not with the same intensity as Tobio) if they were on a bed... It being public, and inadequate, and furtive, and clumsy, in the dark, very adequately suits Tobio’s fears. A romantic situation would have scared him to death. He wants it as forbidden as it can be, so that the act can fit within his stream of past and future suffering. 

Still, both men are also very turned on by the public woohoo going on here, as we shall discover in the next posts.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: His own trembling legs feeling weak, and...”

Jees! Tobio nearly strangled the poor boy! I bet Alvar LOVED THAT!!! :D

Maybe he did, didn’t he? And this could send us back to the first scenes of LoSSS, where a grown up Alvar strangles Eddie the Lost Boy, and the tension between them becomes sexual in this post... Maybe he learned it from this occasion with Tobio?

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: His own trembling legs feeling weak, and...”

Also, this pic leaves just the right amount of graphic stimulation for the brain to do the rest. Lovely work Az!!!

I had to move them around, and the bench and the sculpture, unaccountable times before making this shot... There are some pretty grotesque things, and other very explicit shots that will remain unpublished, for I too prefer to leave it to the writing and imagination to complete the scene. Thank you for the compliment!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: “What was that?” Tobio heard one of the...”

Right, this is the one. THIS is the picture that has finally whipped my arse into finally going back to post #1 and finding out wtf Tobio's brain is all about. I'm going to stop being LAZY and do it!!! lol. I fucking LOVE this story! Have I already mentioned that? lol

I have already sent you the link to the first post where Tobio appears, at the very start of chapter Two. 

Since the sex scene is a flashback, reading about them ten years later might not help and even confuse things about when they were so young... We’ve seen Tobio is a widow, with an orphaned baby at home, his face destroyed by the war... It’s sort of touching, I hope, to see them so young and before real tragedy touches their lives...

Thank you for your enthusiasm with LoSSSS!  Have I already mentioned that? :)

declarations-of-drama replied to your photoset “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Panting heavily, his mouth wide open...”

So it's actually snow leaking in and not rain? �� HAHA JK! Wow, Alvar, you little dick pig!! Somebody gonna need to get an antibac wipe :D

Nearly getting caught simply sent Alvar overboard.

Again, being called ‘little dick pig’ would shock him so much, haha. This and other comments made me laugh so hard, thank you!

As for hygiene -- it will be mentioned later, but I’m left wondering if this is the first sex scene this hall has seen in its existence... 

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: With a tenderness that evoked the hurt...”

Yeah who are you kidding. Tobio is not going anywhere! Those scholars would need a bucket of water to separate these two right now. And I would KILL THEM for trying - we need to see this out! So how did Tobio finish? I can hardly wait to click on the next post :O

They are acting like dogs, aren’t them? But I guess their shame would separate them quicker than that bucket of water, if the scholars had not taken the steps up the stairs...

You’re right. Tobio is fooling himself that he will so easily give up on finishing what he has just started, especially after having waited for so long, suffering so much... It also shows him quite coldly evaluating risks, and his self control in holding back his own satisfaction -- like Alvar couldn’t -- and still surrendering to desire in deciding to go on with it. 

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: But except for their own panting, the hall...”

Go for it boy! Gag him and then destroy that peach!

Haha, this made me laugh so hard! I doubt Tobio is thinking in those terms -- still, that is exactly what he is doing!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: But except for their own panting, the hall...”

:D Haha sorry for my crude comments, my natural love for gay men and their activities has been thrown into the light by your story!

I have to confess I would never have imagined this kind of subdued, sublimating writing to have such an effect... And am made to see a different dimension of this scene with your comments. Gay men and their activities certainly appreciate your love for them -- at least, these two here do!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: He tried stuffing Alvar’s mouth with the...”

To be honest I would have offered to make you Alvar's hat as a mouth accessory for this shot. If you need anything like that for this future story, gimme a shout! :D Also, this is exactly how I would have wanted this to go. Pure rampant repression releasing from Tobio's soul. I'm so happy for him :D

Thank you for the offer! Reading is enough for the readers, though those who are only having a peek shall never know of the detail you mentioned... It’s okay not to have everything in the pictures, I guess. I would often have Sims block from this kind of lack, but I’m fighting my own perfectionism to simply keep on with telling the story, no matter the mistakes or shortcomings.

Yes, let’s be happy for Tobio, though he might not be very happy with himself after this is through. For the moment, he is taking revenge on life -- though it’s poor Alvar who is actually taking the beating.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: He tried stuffing Alvar’s mouth with the...”

Also, I don't know if I would have used the word "relieve" - it sounds to me like Tobio's dick is just too big and almost painful. But maybe I have misinterpreted the wording. (That's the only bad thing I can think about this glorious story so far and thought you might appreciate me being honest)

PLEASE be honest all the time! Do quote my writing, question it, criticize it. (Like Alvar here, I need the beating/spanking to progress as a writer, not just the compliments)

I used the word ‘relieve’ not so much as an indication of Tobio’s size, but certainly of how painful this must be for the bottom. How uncomfortable for Alvar it is to be pounded against bare floorboards, his ribs and pelvic bones hurting, how hard it must be to breathe, and the dust that he is breathing not making it any more comfortable, the lack of room, the restraint of their clothes, and the force of Tobio’s trusts... I did not want to bring in all these details, but that’s why I used ‘relieve’. It feels awfully good, but it hurts badly too!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Tobio couldn’t have known – and being it...”

I hope they have a lovely lasting relationship, though I doubt that it would ever be public knowledge, perhaps an unspoken secret, but I do feel bad that they are stuck in this time. Perhaps they could find a time machine? :D

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Tobio couldn’t have known – and being it...”

Also I'm not sure if my comment is in context with the story because I haven't been back to #1 yet. So forgive me if they are some sort of dream-weaving time lords.

We’ve seen as Alvar did not want to take Apollo Jim to any hospital, but still felt confident to knock on Tobio’s door at 6AM in search of help... Their relationship has survived the war, so it holds some quality and strength in it to have lasted that long... We’ll learn more about it, in chapter Three.

It’s sad that their love is considered both an illness and a crime (and a sin, too, for Tobio) -- but at least death penalty no longer applies to it! As for the time machine -- only Alvar has access to it, in his knowledge of history from Ancient Greece, and in his romantic, idealized fantasies that wrap his sexual relations. Tobio, stuck with religion, should better stay where he is than embark in a time machine -- for he could die on a bonfire or impaled with an spear.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Tobio knew nothing about Greek Love, and...”

Ahh! So this does shed a lot of light onto Alvar's experience. Hopefully he's not a boy from the alleys after all!

Do you mean in present time or in previous incarnations? At 19, Alvar is Lord Phallihurst in the making, and we have seen him admit to have never approached prostitute boys before his search for Apollo Jim -- but maybe in another life he might have been himself a boy from the alleys, or a professional in the brothels, or a slave, who knows?

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Knowing only of his pressing satisfaction,...”

This was a perfect encounter for Tobio's first time. How lucky is he to have found such an eager bottom as Alvar.

Yes -- but he doesn’t know it! He has no terms of comparison, and he doesn’t know how Alvar’s training as an eromenos, the submissive lover, has really made it easier for him, being totally inexperienced and hesitant, to carry out his first intercourse with another man.

And as said above, there is no affection in the act, which suits Tobio perfectly, too!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Whenever his sexual desire sought to...”

The boy has stamina! Unless what he's experiencing is one of those head-fuck moments where time seems like it slows down and a hundred things go through your head, because from the descriptions of Alvar's experience, and grateful need of Tobio's meat I would have guessed that there would be a lot more snow leaking out of somewhere by now!

This post, and the last paragraph in particular, depicts more Tobio’s climax than Alvar’s -- though you’re right to imagine Alvar leaking again from the pounding he has just taken.

In terms of the act, I guess it did not last more than a couple of minutes since Tobio has started trusting -- and it would still be incredibly long, given the exposure of the situation, the risk of being caught still existing, it being his first time, Alvar being not exactly passive... It’s just that I have extended the act along dozens of posts, breaking it with Tobio’s recurring dreams, and the scholars’ arrival, and many personal impressions from both Alvar and Tobio... It doesn’t look so, but as tense and intense as it might have been, it still was a quickie! Which, again, suits Tobio well.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Rather rashly, he was opening an...”

I'm not as good at English as you because I'm only English, but I'm guessing this is the descriptive form of Tobio's ejaculation. I hope his dreams don't haunt him as much now he has crossed this threshold, though I fear his brain is going to make his doubts and self-torment a lot worse :(

Haha, this made me laugh, too!

How many words did I need to use instead of ejaculation, right?! And it’s not even clear when it has happened, is it? 

This particular post is the resolution of his recurring dream -- how the desert is invaded by the water from the dam, as the wall that separated them collapses with Tobio having sex and finally surrendering to his desires. And desert or dam no longer exist for him, but a new, boundless sea, that he’ll have to learn to navigate -- for the rest of his life!

We’ll see more of Tobio as we return to his house and office, ten or so years after this sex scene. We know he has married Emily, who died upon giving birth to their daughter... How to bring together the married man who has become a widower and a father, and this gay sex beast from his youth?

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Enlarged, their expanded bodies...”

:( Such a shame. The heat of the moment has now turned into the hate of the moment :(

I just love it how you played with the words containing the same letters!

Shame is the key word here, though in a different sense for the boys than you are making use of it.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “lordofsunshadowandsailor: Though Tobio did not immediately withdraw...”

Heartbreaking to be honest because Tobio will now torment himself badly over this, and poor Alvar who just wants to be fucked and loved by a manly stud :(

From your words of feedback on both Tobio and Alvar, I believe to have succeeded in depicting sex very differently for each of them. Same place, same moment, both engaged in the same act -- but completely different experiences happening concomitantly, opposite even in outcome, as we’ll see with the closing of the scene.

I’m thankful that you have taken so much interest in Tobio, for he is not  my focus -- but I did not want to leave him out of focus either. To me, he is more a mirror in which Alvar, who is the protagonist, can be seen with an specific quality of reflection -- Tobio-nesque, I guess we can call it. At the same time, I don’t want to make Tobio simply that bland mirror.

I’d say Alvar wants to be loved more than he wants to get fucked. He thoroughly enjoys the second, but aiming at the first. His perception is that openly offering himself, obediently surrendering, and actively submitting and engaging to pleasure his partner (though, as a side benefit, finding himself uncontrollable pleasure) only might lead him to love, some love, any love at all.

Thank you @declarations-of-drama so very much for the comments --and @simblu  and @willky12  too in this post -- your comments and special perceptions of the story put you all in a position of co-writers, really!

#simblu #willky12 #declarations-of-drama

[mint-sm]

LOS CAMPESINOS! REVIEW/ANALYSIS: Sick Scenes

Note: I haven’t found a full album post video and some of the songs aren’t available on Youtube for me to cite like with my other reviews, sadly. Listen to it on Spotify or something lol

---

So... that was a long time, wasn’t it? Not just the gap between my last review, but between albums. There was a four-year gap between “Sick Scenes” and the band’s last album, “No Blues,” a product that I could see some appeal in but was personally unsatisfied with, but I was still eager to hear another record from them. Unfortunately, we had to wait this long gap, since things have changed, and simply put: the band has grown up.

Not necessarily in just a literal or maturity-level sense, but the fact that the world we’ve been living in has kind of grown unkind to everyone in the last few years. Not only has the music scene the band was affiliated with been changing to something else that’s -- for the lack of better words -- kinda boring, and not only has it also become less profitable, with the band resigning to day jobs for a while (thank God for commemorative football jersey sales!), but this has been a long stretch of time where everyone’s gone much more weary, especially as the world starts bombarding you with crappiness.

Worrying about a quarter-life crisis, fighting physical and mental illnesses, watching all the things from your youth slowly crumble away while past generations trivialize and demean your current problems, watching all your current interests go to shit, and also becoming increasingly uneasy with how crappy and seemingly suicidal the world at large has become, especially with the US presidential election, the Brexit vote, and most importantly, Euro 2016 being largely terrible.

I bring this up because it finally seems to provide the backing for something I desperately missed from “No Blues”: Context. I’ve went over the musical issues I had with “No Blues” a bit more in-depth in my review of it, but lyrically and thematically, there was just a sort of vagueness and a lack of a definite focus that also really turned me off from liking it very much. “Sick Scenes,” however, feels like it’s much more of a return to form in that finally, we do have a more concrete approach to the album, in that we actually know what went behind its philosophy, and now there’s actually more to latch onto and relate to other than vaguely pretty, overly-precise and clean production.

ALL THESE / SICK SCENES PLAYED OUT IN MY MEMORY / WAKE UP / I'LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING HONESTLY /

The album has actually toned down a lot of that overly pristine mixing and production of “No Blues,” and there’s actually a lot more grit, texture as well as tightness to it. It’s not “Romance Is Boring”-levels noisy, but there is a certain rawness and thump to a lot of the instrumentation again; one standout thing is the snares and kicks like from the song “Sad Suppers,” which feel a bit more crackly, but also god-loads tighter, and in a way that actually has a sort of “dirty” quality to it that I’m a huge fan of for this type of music.

“Sick Scenes” has also been a step-up compositionally as well. The melodies feel a lot catchier, with many of the bangers feeling a lot faster and more driving than those in “No Blues,” and they tend to have a consistent or growing momentum to them that actually feel powerful. “Renato Dall’Ara (2008)” is an awesome opening track because of this, starting off with like these awesome “spiralling-down” backup vocals, a really catchy chorus and more definitive sonic evolution as it goes on, it’s just great (as of this writing, there’s now word this song’s getting a music video next week! Can’t wait!)

THEY WOULD PLAY MY REQUESTS AT THE GUESTLIST’S BEHEST / ANY DISCO ALL ACROSS TOWN / BUT THINGS CHANGE, NOW STELLA’S A LAGER / AND BOY SHE IS ALWAYS DOWNED /

Los Camp have even much improved most of their slower ballads, or at least their sort of “breather” tracks, which now actually have a lot more going for them musically and lyrically. “5 Flucloxacillin” and “The Fall of Home” are especially surprising since basically, praise heaven almighty, GARETH CAN ACTUALLY SING! Like I don’t know what the hell happened in these last 4 years, but holy god Gareth can actually pull of being gentle and melodic, and in a way that actually conveys a lot of emotion and isn’t boring, especially with the subject matter.

Like I said, “Sick Scenes” feels like much more of a step up from “No Blues” and even “Hello Sadness” in that it definitely feels more about actual definite things, but a lot of the mentalities that I did think could’ve made both of those two albums much more interesting than they ended up being are still present here. It took me a while to figure out what made it so different, but I think the early days of “Hold on Now, Youngster…” fell more along the lines of being more actively emotional and visceral, trying to thump these feelings of weirdly upbeat melancholia into your head, whereas things like “No Blues” and this album seem to want to treat it more playfully, look at it with contemplation and humility, trying to find a dryer sense of subtle wittiness to it.

In that sense, “Sick Scenes” feels like it’s sort of blending the best of both worlds by approaching the focused definition, viscerality and sound of the “Youngster” days, but mixing it with a much more self-reflective and mature philosophical method. It’s a reasonable approach for the album considering its subject matter and consistent sense of fond nostalgia, and while it does tread a bit more of older ground as a result, it feels a lot more comprehensive and less overly stuffed or boring, while giving a bit of a wink back to the days of old. Hell, “Renato Dall’Ara (2008)” seems to directly reference “Youngster,” not just with the general feel and attitude (and it’s snarky as hell and I love it), but also that title (hint hint, the “2008” in the title is NOT referencing the Renato Dall'Ara).

PICTURED READING KARL MARX BESIDE HIS PARENTS’ POOL / FACING RIDICULE HE BLEATED / “THAT DOESN’T MAKE ME RICH, NO WAY, / IT’S ONLY OUTDOOR AND IT ISN’T HEATED” /

Unfortunately, a bit of a strike against this more grown-up-approach is that it means some parts of the album fall into the same trap as with “No Blues,” in that sometimes the lyrics can get a little too witty for their own good, and can get a little too obsessed with esoteric referential wordplay rather than actual content or coherence. “For Whom the Belly Tolls” (couldn’t find a video for this) to me feels like one of the weaker links on the album, in that the music isn’t particularly dynamic nor all that catchy for me, and would be ultimately rather unremarkable if not for that spontaneous choral bridge at the halfway point... which to be honest, transitions AWESOMELY.

Also, there are just some occasionally “No Blues”-esque deadpan moments on this album, which again, I can totally find appreciation for, but for me tend to end up kind of samey-sounding and a little boring, especially later on the album with “A Litany/Heart Swells,” or “Got Stendhal’s.” I dunno what to really say about these tbh, not only do they just kinda get repetitive after a bit, but they also feel like retreads to stuff Los Camp’s already done before, like with the “Heart Swells/Pacific Daylight Time” from “Doomed” or “What Death Leaves Behind” from “No Blues.”

However, with all that said, just about every other song on the album has something to offer as I’d expect from Los Camp’s standards, in that the music and subject matters feel diverse and intricate, eliciting conflicting yet consistent feels, and I do mean “feels,” since while this album is mostly much more vibrant than these last few albums, it’s actually still very gloomy and impending at times. Honestly, while that cover art above is still that popular pastel-y pink color that I kinda hate, it actually does feel rather indicative of the album in a good way: This kind of vacant, slacking and tired, nearly zombie-like person that’s so utterly fed up with how life and the world is playing out that they just want to lay there in the middle of a supermarket like an idiot who’s been up all night thinking about how shitty the world is. It’s indicative, interesting, kinda bleak, but also really funny.

(IT SEEMS UNFAIR) TO BE A ROTTEN HORN OF PLENTY! / (IT SEEMS UNFAIR) TO BE CADAVER FOR A CURSE! / (IT SEEMS UNFAIR) TO BE AN OVERFLOW FOR EMPTY! / (IT SEEMS UNFAIR) TO TRY YOUR BEST BUT FEEL THE WORST! /

Tracks like “I Broke Up in Amarante” and “A Slow, Slow Death” manage to encapsulate a lot of complete and utter frustration in an incredibly bombastic and grand veneer. Even though they do feel like they’re about completely different EXACT subjects (which I’m pretty sure are the aforementioned Euro 2016 and Brexit, respectively), they manage to feel oddly cathartic, but in a weird, kind of restrained but still natural-feeling way. There are also a lot of references in the songs like with “No Blues,” but overall it doesn’t feel as overbearing with these tracks, since the lyrics feel like perfectly comprehensible metaphors as is, and I find them pretty charming and relatable, as well as accessible.

“Here’s to the Fourth Time” (couldn’t find a link for this one) is also pretty humorous but also kind of awesome, and it honestly feels like the closest the album gets to “Romance is Boring”’s sound. The melodies are pretty poppy and catchy and have like this sort of just “grooving” and textured flow and feel to them that I love, and the last third of this song goes onto like this really noisy but badass-sounding breakdown with looped drums, distorted guitars and vocals, but in addition to that, the lyrics manage to be probably the most charming on the record, in that obviously the situation is cringey as hell (it’s about sex, and sex in a Los Camp song can never end well) but also kind of awkwardly hilarious and sympathetic, especially given the context the bandmates, now being 30-something-year-olds contemplating their quarter-life crises.

“5 Flucloxacillin” and “The Fall of Home,” once again, do feel the most indicative of that mentality of “I’m so fucking done with this place”-ness, but they approach it in such unique ways to what you’d expect from typical Los Camp fare. “5 Flucloxacillin” is kind of like this livelier indie rock ballad, with again, Gareth’s great vocals, but it’s surprisingly more “mellow” than “gentle”: the vocals are smooth and lively, but there does sound like a bit of deep-seated resentment hidden as the lyrics go into the frustration and bitterness that one would have with taking a lot of medications for things like acne or depression, and growing up in a world of utter chaos while being shittalked to by the people who made it that way whilst undermining your problems, and how even though years have passed and you probably should’ve grown out of them… you still haven’t.

(Hint hint! This song is about baby-boomers being assholes! Do you like this song yet?)

AM I A PIGGY BANK OF OBSOLETE CURRENCY? / AN ORDER OF MERIT FROM COUNTRY KNOWN FOR TYRANNY? / ANOTHER BLISTER PACK POPS, BUT I STILL FEEL MUCH THE SAME / THIRTY-ONE AND DEPRESSION IS A YOUNG MAN'S GAME /

“The Fall of Home” takes a much more intimate approach to these subjects in a way that feels rather basic, but gut-wrenching. It’s a guitar ballad, and while this could’ve easily been boring, it just sounds so nice, with like these great piano and violin accompaniments, and Gareth’s gentle, almost kind of fragile-sounding but beautiful singing, basically listing all the miserable losses of everything you once loved, locally and nationally, going down to shit by simple virtue of time having passed by and the present not being kind to them. It manages to be the simplest, but most poignant track on the entire album, and is honestly probably one of Los Camp’s newest classics.

BATTERY DIES ON YOUR MONTHLY CALL / BUDGET CUT AT YOUR PRIMARY SCHOOL / ANOTHER FAMILY FRIEND FELL SICK / GAVE THE FASCISTS A THOUSAND TICKS /

The ending track, “Hung Empty,” is alright. It’s got some great flow to it and a very catchy chorus hook, and it ends in a way only Los Camp can really get away with, valiantly shouting “Feels like I've been waiting on it, nearly all my life, but what, if this is it now, what if this is how we die!?” in a way that almost feels defiant or daring. It’s a creditable finisher, but at the same time it kind of feels… expected, you know? It feels like a typical Los Camp finisher, but it’s also just kinda basic. It’s actually kind of a microcosm of the entire album for me: it’s good! But some parts of it feel like they’ve been done before.

Like I’ve said, this album does feel like a much more pleasing return to form for the band’s earlier works but approached with a more grown-up, more exposed-to-the-world and vaguely “doomed” mindset, and for the most part, it’s very compelling! It’s got some great songs, and its feel feels a lot more definite and impactful than their last albums, it’s just that there’s a bit of crows feet here and there, and it kinda feels like even with the new perspectives it explores, some of it feels a little by-the-numbers at this point.

Not in a ruinous way, but I hope that for next album they do go even more adventurous than they did here. Again, I do think they already made a good effort; I was going to give this more of a 3.5/5, but after being given more time to appreciate the little intricacies of this album and realizing where a lot of it is coming from, it’s grown on me pretty well, it’s just I kinda wanna see more in the future, y’know? Who knows? Maybe they actually will, and I’m kind of excited by that prospect. We’re just going to have to wait and see.

Maybe if they manage to sell another thousand more of those “Doomed” football jerseys. I don’t care much about football, but goddamn I kinda want one anyway.

LC!4LYF (4/5)

FAVES: “Renato Dall’Ara (2008)”, “Sad Suppers”, “I Broke Up in Amarante”, “The Fall of Home”, “5 Flucloxacillin”, “Here’s to the Fourth Time!”, “Hung Empty”

aaaaand there you have it! Reviews of all the major Los Camp albums! Ahh… fuck

I might do more reviews of different albums in the future, but maybe not. Iunno, maybe I’ll do a few one-shots of albums I wanna talk about, like Gorillaz or something, but I don’t really know what I can really offer for that lol. We’ll see.

#music review #los campesinos #sick scenes

[ecotone99]

[MF] Drugs - Death - And Loneliness at a music festival - Pt 1

Hello!

This is the first part of a true story I have been writing and I want to get some feedback or provide it to people who would be interested in reading where it goes.

If you manage to get to the end of this, thanks for taking the time. It's appreciated.

There are half a million people scattered around this small island which you have called home for almost a week. Worn down by days on end of dancing you are continually collapsing into make shift camps that have slowly degraded into the accumulated trash that surrounds them. The same could probably be said about degrading state of your organs.

Being in one place under the effect of so many substances for so long you begin to forget what it was like outside the island. That coupled with months of travel, the idea of your home life is now just a distant memory or even maybe just some fantasy of a life you probably never had. It’s funny how your mind forgets so quickly what it’s like to have something you never went through the pain of loosing. if only it worked that way in reverse.

You spend the daylight hours working. Online over a tethered mobile connection which competes desperately amongst everyone else who managed to keep electricity surging through their now battered and most most likely water damaged warranty voided devices. Destroyed in service of reporting to their FOMO friends the highlight reel of their previous nights or the heavily censored & altered reports of their activities to their loved ones some distance away. Like your internet connection, you also are barley working. You can hardly collect a coherent thought to have a superficial conversation let alone automate some infrastructure in a foreign land to keep some companies electronic ship syncing. However you work, just long enough to stave off the heat and your guilt from taking a pay check that might not be deserved.

The night creeps on and with crowds scurrying to the headlining act,,“Mumford and Sons” a band you know from the radio and maybe if you paid attention you could recall the lyrics to their song as they came on and have some fun singing along while trying not to trip over every second sentence.The night however has other plans for you as you have just taken some uncrushed MDMA bought from some very lued and very attractively sounding South Africans which you met on walk between stages surrounded by a conspicuous dirty kids pool. This pool was too dirty to swim in, so it must be serving as some kind of landmark to help someone who was looking for something find something.True to that observation, you bluff a story about someone pointing you to this pool in search of a better time which they successfully buy and after looking you over once or twice they provide you like many others their supposedly last bag of “we brought too much and thanks it would of gone to waste” for a festively appropriate price of €50. Conveniently packaged but with the final step of pulverising it into a consumable powder missed. The kind of powder that has a granularity where you can control your dosage and slowly step it up if required, but this time it’s just rocks.

You make great decision of eating some of them whole and that pink domino shaped pill someone at your campsite handed you which probably was made that way with the intention for you to only eat half at a time. Damn, at this stage your serotonin receptors which have already gone on unpaid stress leave have been called back into action with the promise of a bonus and better working conditions. Now is a good time to take those mushroom pills you have in your pocket after all they are in these gel caps and it’s such moist conditions in your pocket that they could probably dissolve away. That or the incoming overflow of euphoria might be too much for you to not just give them away to the next most beautiful passer by who asks for them or looks a little too deserving.

​

Mumford start playing. Wow, who are these guys, instantly you are transformed into a Danty teenager who has only ever fantasised about the love their favourite musicians sing about. But you are alone. So alone, all these people, they smile, you smile, maybe a little too much. They retreat as you approach oh no, don’t scare anyone.

Remember Europeans only know of non alcohol induced intoxication within the confines of some boring yet seductive techno dungeon, which you can find over at another stage called the colosseum along side a Russian roulette of party consumables that will either add to your experience or allow you to even be able to have one at all. I am not sure how many people this night filled that course compacted powder pill which resembles a miniature dishwashing pellet into their revolvers spun the barrel and successfully blow away their brains for 4-6 hours against the odds of spending the night vomiting or trying to escape an IV drip and the faces of their concerned friend. For the ones who run the gauntlet at the colosseum for hours on end sober I am not sure how they do it, but then again as time goes on I feel the same way about life as it seems be becoming it’s own techno dungeon with me on the hunt for deeper beats and higher quality consumables.

Ahh man these songs are emotional and you are leaking emotion, you try to hold it together but it’s as if you are one giant pinyata being beaten by Mumford words about a lost love and hoping to not spill everything out all over the ground. No one wants to be the one who breaks down in a crowd full of people, you are also too mangled to invent a reason as to why for any would be heros or heroines to cover up the fact you may of just dosed too hard or you simply can’t handle your drugs. Can’t handle your drugs? Wait a minute, you know deep into the depths of your soul that that could never be you and that blind belief alone is probably was has stopped you from loosing it so many times before. Now we are told drugs are bad in highscool but when it comes to how bad and how much someone can handle, there are only real two camps which people can fall into. One being the conservatives who only take small dosages and either don't get the full experience they could be having or have to lie about how intense it was. Or the overconfident who secretly believe they are superhuman and trust their bodies way too much , the ones who have taken their now inverted belief in drugs being bad way too far. They could also be secretly trying to hurt themselves or don’t really think too much about the possibilities and just don’t give a fuck. It is pretty obvious which camp you fall into, but why may need a little more introspection. Oh it is always fun to laugh at the people who think they know how much they can handle and religiously stick to their prescribed dosages. It is as if their physiology remains the same between rolls as well the quality control and manufacturing processes in the clandestine laboratories these substances are made in will some how result in some consistency of potency or purity. Let’s not even consider the claim that their “guy” back home gets “good shit” something you pride yourself on, but have no objective way of determining. You can laugh at yourself as hard as you laughed at your friend when he told you he gets it from the guy who makes it. Those people you can happily grab the hand of and comically walk over to the overconfident camp and cheer them on the next time they spin the drug wheel of fortune which features prizes ranging from broken relationships to permanent states of psychosis. Oh man that is a little grim, 99 percent of the time it won’t be that grim, but you remain diligent in your duty to remind yourself and others that on chance it can be, and when you boil it down that’s all it is, one giant dice roll.

You definitely have given the wheel of drug fortune a good spin today and with it still in motion you are try to keep it together while hard papermache shell of yours starts to cave you slowly starting to believe it’s not going to stop on the “greatest night ever” panel. You have never really lost your shit, but I guess this your time and it is going to be to fucking Mumford And Sons. Damn. Your eyes begin to water so you stare into the sky in an attempt to stop them beading down your face and they begin to form miniature pools with your ever expanded pupils serving as the black holed window into your soul they are pouring out of. At that point in the blurry silent sky, crystal clear psychedelic coloured bombers come flying over as if those mushroom pills you ate earlier yelled broken arrow through a military radio and blurted the co-ordinates of the main stage declaring that the assault on your emotions had taken too many casualties and there was no way to retreat. Oh no its about to all go down. You were already trying to plough your way out of the seas of entranced onlookers with beady eyes that reflected the words of the songs that you were trying so hard to block out. You increase your pace in a feeble attempt to escape a blast radius you know moves with you. You need to get away from any would be saviours, it would be better to OD than to have to deal with someone who is probably bored out of their mind by this point in the festival who has decided to take on saving your life as their form of entertainment this evening. at past festivals you have seen those sorry souls who have to endure someone wasting their month long accumulation of serotonin by continually grabbing their shoulders and screaming “are you ok” at them as they are shaken back and forth or trying to force feed them water as they prop them up and rock them to the music while they channel their inner 3 year old with their first ragdoll. It could be even worse where a would be mother teresa takes you to the medical station where the volunteer overnight paramedic toys with it the idea of sending you off to a hospital for some treatment which would result in a night of your stomach being pumped and you contemplating weather your insurance will cover recreational self destruction. If it all goes bad you can hope that someone just makes sure you are passed out in an out the way place and in a position where you can’t choke on your own vomit.

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#Blogger #Story

[democratsunited-blog]

The Democratic Party’s 1968 Implosion Is Still Sending Shock Waves Fifty Years On

https://uniteddemocrats.net/?p=8667

The Democratic Party’s 1968 Implosion Is Still Sending Shock Waves Fifty Years On

On the fifteenth floor of Chicago’s Conrad Hilton Hotel, a makeshift medical post sprang up in one of the Democratic delegate’s rooms to receive bloodied and injured staffers taking refuge from the police riot below.

Tear gas wafting from the Chicago streets reached the room of Hubert Humphrey, then the current Vice President and favored to secure the presidential nomination at the Democratic National Convention taking place in the Windy City. His eyes watering, Humphrey called reporters into the room for a briefing. In the International Amphitheater, the venue for the convention, the delayed roll call for the nomination began shortly before midnight. The convention, August 26-29, 1968, was not going well.

“It was a city under siege,” says Stephen Shames, who attended the convention both as a journalist for the underground press and as a protester. “You have to remember it followed the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, and riots in major cities—people were really angry.”

The rancor among Democrats in the convention hall and the police brutality on Chicago’s streets—including attacks of the media—resonate with today’s discordant politics.The dysfunction and mayhem unleashed on the convention floor led to the implosion of the Democratic Party, and a split that continues to thwart it today.

“In approximately half an hour, the complete breakdown of true law and order, and of the soul of the Democratic Party was shatteringly exposed on Michigan Avenue,” wrote journalist Jules Witcover in his 1998 book, The Year the Dream Died: Revisiting 1968. Witcover, who was an active reporter at that time, has given his archives to the Dolph Briscoe Center of American History in Austin, Texas (see slideshow). “Fifty years on, there is a lot of interest in this period: it lies at the heart of the time when I was most active as a reporter.”

In the week preceding the convention, groups of anti-war protesters began arriving in Chicago, determined to change the party’s policy toward the increasingly hated Vietnam War.

Counterculture radicals and peace activists were bent on disrupting the convention by whatever means necessary. The Yippies, members of the radical Youth International Party, ran a “Festival of Life” to counter the “Convention of Death.” It offered a nude “grope-in for peace and prosperity,” and workshops on joint rolling, guerrilla theater, and draft dodging.

A less radical approach came from members of the National Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam, one of the protest’s main organizers, and from other peace efforts such as students backing the Democratic Party’s anti-war candidate Eugene McCarthy. Nevertheless, a mischievous and anarchic atmosphere persisted, with some protesters stoking rumours they were going to dose the city’s drinking water with LSD, and send out “stud teams” to seduce the wives and daughters of the delegates.

It was all designed, Witcover writes in his book, to unnerve the Democratic delegates and keep the Chicago police and investigative agencies guessing. It worked—perhaps too well. Following civil unrest in Los Angeles (1965), Detroit (1967), and Chicago itself the previous April, an atmosphere of severe apprehension clung to the convention and the city. The city’s iron-fisted mayor Richard J. Daley mobilised 12,000 police, supported by 6,000 armed National Guardsman and 1,000 intelligence agents from the FBI, CIA, Army and Navy. Another 6,000 U.S. Army troops were put on standby.

Most protesters were set on demonstrating peacefully, but clashes occurred after protesters encamped in the city’s major parks defied the mayor’s 11 p.m. curfew, giving police the excuse they wanted.

“The city of Chicago ran on officially sanctioned violence against minorities and the counterculture—it’s an American way of life,” University of Texas history professor James Galbraith said in an interview. Galbraith attended the convention as a sixteen-year-old with his delegate and floor-leader father, whose room in the hotel was commandeered to treat wounded protesters. “The protesters were an affront to the mayor’s management of the convention, and he was embarrassed and had no qualms about teaching them a lesson.” The clashes in Chicago were just one manifestation of broad ideological collisions between the country’s counterculture and its “establishment.”

In addition to cracking down on street protesters, the Chicago police also went after those covering the dissent. “Police burst out of the woods in selective pursuit of news photographers,” Nicholas von Hoffman wrote in The Washington Post about a clash at Lincoln Park. “Pictures are unanswerable evidence in court. They’d taken off their badges, their name plates, even the unit patches on their shoulders to become a mob of identical, unidentifiable club-swingers.”

In the convention hall, the Democrats were being consumed by their own ideological split, as heated arguments and scuffles broke out over the Vietnam War and who should be the presidential nominee.

Delegates supporting Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy and other anti-war candidates (including George McGovern, who would be the party’s nominee in 1972) tried to argue their cause, but in the end Hubert Humphrey secured the nomination. The better known and more established candidate, coming from within the Administration’s inner sanctum as Vice President, Humphrey had the required and more acceptable pedigree: many of his delegates still supported Johnson, who through his machinations remained enormously influential within the party. Also, while Humphrey personally favored America pulling out of Vietnam, before the convention he had toed the Johnson line, defending the war as a necessary fight against communism, political expediencies that ultimately condemned him and the party.

Many convention attendees were incensed at the choice of Humphrey, seeing it as an endorsement of the Johnson Administration and its Vietnam War policies. Ted Warshafsky, vice chairman of the Wisconsin delegation, made his own form of protest on the convention floor by nominating for vice president Georgia state legislator Julian Bond, even though, at age twenty-eight, he was too young to hold the post.

“Mr. Chairman, we of Wisconsin are Democrats who are interested in not only what the party is but what it will become,” Warshafsky remarked. “If it will truly make the American Dream a reality not just for affluent delegates but for those young people who march in the parks and look for quality in life.”

The gesture was emblematic of the level of dissent in the Democratic Party and an ever-widening rift. George Wallace, the former Democratic governor of Alabama, had broken away from the party to run in the 1968 presidential election as an independent. Wallace railed against “federal judges playing God,” “pseudo-intellectuals,” and newspaper editors “who have looked down their noses long enough at the average man on the street.”

His segregationist campaign inspired millions of conservative Democrats with the motto “Stand Up for America,” and ultimately set the stage for Nixon’s “southern strategy,” appealing to whites rejecting gains made in civil rights.

Many Democrats as well as Republicans voted for Wallace’s American Independent Party in 1968, which ended up with 10 million votes—about 13.5 percent and five southern states. The damage was done, as far as Democratic Party loyalties were concerned, with 1968 proving a major realigning election. By 1972, Southerners who had formerly been Democrats were voting for the Republican Party—Nixon won by a landslide—as they have ever since, with states like Texas, which the Democratic Party had dominated for a century, turning from blue to indomitably red.

“The Democratic party lost its working-class base,” Galbraith said about the convention’s ramifications. “Today it appeals to two tails of the economy: well-off urban professionals and minorities, making it hard for the party to have a coherent message—which the Republicans have.”

“The Democratic split has only deepened,” he concludes. “It led to Donald Trump today.”

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#Democrats