#this is actually a self portrait I took in the middle of my breakdown

[mer-se]

(Part 1) Hey! I love your photos and blog so much that I’m anonymously embarrassing myself here. Thing is do you have any tips when starting out? Having my work be seen etc. I don’t have a big platform. When did you start your photography work? Hey I know that I’m on anon so that is a contraction but my page and work is far from ready but I’ll messge you off anon when it is..

I appreciate that so much thank you. I’m not sure I started taking pictures in like early middle school days, maybe even earlier. My dad took a lot of film photos when he was younger and did all that dark room stuff, he has boxes of pictures and I think it’s cute that I can see similar styles in his photos and mine. I think it’s always just been in me. I was the friend taking pictures of everyone at every after/school event (I have some veryyyyy old photo albums it’s cool to look back on because I’m like damn I was the same person back then haha) I had (and broke) several digital cameras as a kid/preteen) but I didn’t get my first dslr until I think 2007?

I had my first film camera gifted to me during this time, too. Which is a whole other love. I immediately started advertising myself on Craigslist (idk how I’m alive) and did a few jewelry/portrait/wedding/engagements shoots as a teen and that was pretty cool and huge for my age and experience level looking back. I’m like damn, I did pretty well for myself as a dumb 17/18 yr old. I’m trying to work my way back into that now actually, slowly this time though. Bless all those people who gave me a shot and believed in lil ol me then. Lots of cool memories from that time period but it’s wild to me that I did that.

Anyway. I’m not sure on tips aside from ones that are personal to me because I don’t know what kind of photography you’re into? One of mine is like don’t take ten pictures of the same thing because it’ll make you have a mental breakdown when all of them are good but subtly different and you can’t pick one - but that’s me - I also have ocd and that helps nothing. When starting out that’s probably a good idea though to learn angles and lighting. Take pictures of everything. Learn your own personal style, everyone’s is different even if it’s similar, we all see different things. Learn your camera, learn about lighting and how to edit eventually. If you want to shoot people there’s a huge social aspect so you can work on that. There’s things I don’t even know after 100 years because the technical side doesn’t rly do it for me, I just run on intuition and vibes. We’re all always learning still. Its ok! I don’t have a large platform either especially on here, half my followers are deactivated - it’s dying out on here and I also won’t be on here eventually all together. But if you’re talking about notes/likes I’d suggest tagging your pictures! I find it kinda embarrassing but it’s necessary if that’s what you’re after.

That’s something I actually struggle with because I don’t worry about that stuff much, especially on here. I’ve never cared about that sort of validation, tumblr and instagram even facebook have always been just a photo diary to me - everything’s a diary haha. Even if it seems I overshare I’m really actually not? I’m super private and things make me uncomfortable. (I don’t share my writing either..) Notes are never why I post or even take photos it’s all very personal to me, there’s a deep private love there for me that I can’t put into words but! It’s ok to care and when you want to switch over to working with the public and getting back/into freelance photography (which I do, and maybe you will too someday) advertising is absolutely important, it’s hard for someone like me that finds it extremely cringe to self promote/overly tag everything because that’s never been my vibe or why I do it but I’m slowly working on it because I have to - it’s sort of a large mental obstacle for me. But don’t worry about that right now. Don’t get caught up on things like that honestly, it doesn’t mean anything. If people see and appreciate your pictures that’s lovely but there’s tons of reasons why you may not get notes that mean nothing to the quality of your pics. I see posts circulate with 10000 notes of a blurry eyeball and see an incredible picture of something with 5 notes. On tumblr notes mean nothing, don’t let it influence anything. You’re just starting out and your work is for you right now, and in my opinion it always should be in a way. Give it time. I post way more on my Instagram than here and my account is private, like I said I’m working on that aspect myself still haha. I am working on a different account though and slowly a website! So yes keep at it, and yes tag away, can even pin your posts even if it feels embarrassing - not everyone sees it that way, promise.

Don’t stress just do your thing. Find other photographers on here. But I wouldn’t really worry about tumblr too much, there’s other and better sites to get your work seen.

#this is stupid long #and sorry it took a couple days I’ve been a bit unplugged from the interwebs

[nah-she-didnt]

Another Day

Slight tw: self harm, violence (nothing too graphic)

One day I will thoroughly proof read before I post, but not today!

--

Don’t cry.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, you stupid cow. Come on, just a few more minutes. Hold it in, just hold it in a little while longer, alright? Can’t you just be a grown up for once in your life? Stop fucking crying!

Just twenty more meters and she’d be safely behind the Fat Lady’s portrait. Ten more meters, and she could let it all out. But not yet.

The Fat Lady eyed her suspiciously. “You’re out late, m’dear.”

Lily cleared her throat. She could feel the tears longing to be shed that pricked at the corners of her eyes. “Prefect duty. Password’s ‘Agean.’”

The portrait swung wide, and Lily dashed inside. The common room was, miraculously, empty. This wasn’t totally surprising, as it was past one in the morning on a Wednesday night, but it came as a huge relief nonetheless.

Lily glanced around twice to make sure that there were no stray seventh years in the corner of the room taking advantage of the quiet atmosphere to finish up another hour of studying.

At last, when she was satisfied that the room was clear, Lily burst into tears.

“Damn it,” she whispered ferociously as she wiped her tears on the back of her sleeve, “for fuck’s sake, stop it. Stop it!” But she was powerless to stop the flood of feelings that came pouring out of her. She swore again and shook her head, hard, to stop the thoughts. Useless. Pathetic. Little girl. The words rang out over and over again, bouncing around the corners of her mind until she couldn’t take it any more.

With a roar of frustration, Lily kicked the leg of the nearest armchair as hard as she could. Fuck.

“OUCH!” She screamed and dropped to the floor. Her toe throbbed horribly, but at least it distracted from her head. She cradled the toe and prayed she hadn’t broken any bones. At this rate, she’d probably end up back in the hospital wing tomorrow morning. Lily knew that Pomfrey could probably fix a broken toe just as fast as she’d fixed the cut on her neck, but the idea did not bring her any comfort.

“Uh, Evans?”

Lily shrieked. She grabbed instinctually for her wand before realizing that it was tucked into the waistband of her school skirt. She had to flip over onto her stomach to access it properly. She pointed the wand wildly in the air in the direction of the voice. “Who’s there?”

“Oi! Stand down! It’s me!”

Lily’s heart sank. That was the last voice in the entire world she needed to hear right now.

James Potter stood near the door to the common room, his hands raised in front of him in surrender. “Blimey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Lily groaned as she rolled onto her back, then sat up, wand still pointed at James. “How the hell did you get in here? The common room was empty five seconds ago, and I didn’t hear the door open.”

James, who still had his hands raised, offered her a weak smile. “Ah, well, a gentleman never reveals his secrets, or something like that,” but he looked a little guilty, “would you put that thing away? I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

Lily lowered her wand cautiously. “I’m fine.”

James pointed down at her toe. “You don’t sound fine. C’mon, up you get.”

He strode over to her spot on the floor and pulled her into a standing position. She winced as she tried to put weight on her damaged toe. “I think I broke it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” James tried to joke as he helped her hobble over to the couch, “the way you kicked that chair. Did the poor bastard commit an unspeakable offense to your person?”

“Very funny,” Lily grimaced as she sank into a seat on the couch. To her annoyance, James slid into the seat next to her. “Now, if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of having a very private breakdown.”

“Yeah, I noticed that bit. Come on, give me your foot.”

Lily scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“Seriously!” James cried as he waved her foot in the direction of his lap, “I’m actually pretty good with injuries. Comes with the territory, being quidditch captain. I see lots of injuries worse than this.”

“I’m surprised you made it this long through a conversation without bringing up your captainship,” Lily grumbled, but relented. She reached down to pull her mary jane off, wincing sharply as she did, then pulled her sock off as well. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some sort of foot fetish.”

“Nah,” James grinned as he accepted her maimed foot onto his lap, “I’m actually not fond of feet. Can’t stand anyone touching mine, you see. I’m dead ticklish.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Lily joked, then flushed a deep scarlet. The comment sounded much more innocent in her head.

James, however, merely laughed. She could feel herself soften a bit at his smile.

“So,” James said cautiously as he examined her foot, “do you want to talk about it?”

Lily picked at a hangnail to save herself the moment when she would have to meet his gaze. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

James rotated her foot gingerly, frowning slightly as he moved. “I mean your very private breakdown. Want to tell me what happened? You were on rounds tonight, right?”

Lily nodded. “Nothing happened. Just a bit of an accident. Kept me out later than usual. I must have gotten over tired.”

“You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?” He took his wand from his pocket and pointed it steadily at her toe. “Episkey.”

Lily took a sharp intake of breath as she felt her bones reset with a soft pop. Then, suddenly, the pain was gone.

“Thank you,” she breathed as she flexed her toe back and forth, “really, Potter, that was brilliant. It doesn’t hurt at all anymore.”

James winked annoyingly. “Don’t mention it, now,” he leaned forward slightly, hands clasped between his knees, “if you don’t want to talk about what really happened, fine. I’ll leave you alone. But, on the off chance that you do want to talk about it, I’ve got nowhere else to be tonight.”

Lily considered this proposal. On the one hand, she’d rather eat frogspawn than admit weakness to James Potter. On the other, she couldn’t bear the thought of going back up to the dormitory with nothing but five sleeping roommates and her own thoughts for company.

For now, Potter seemed to be her only option.

“I was on rounds,” she began slowly, still looking down at her hangnail instead of in his eyes, “and I was in the dungeons.”

She paused here for a reaction from James, but he did not offer one. In fact, he was so silent she wondered if he even dared to breathe.

“It was my last stop of the night before my shift was over,” Lily said into her hands again, “and I was coming round the corner by Dungeon five. Benjy was down the other hall and lost sight of me. You know where there’s that enclave with the tapestry of Agrippa?”

She waited for James to say something, but he did not. Instead, he offered the tiniest of nods.

“He was waiting in the shadows there. Mulciber.” The name was poison on her tongue. It attacked her senses. Filled her mouth, her ears, her nose and eyes with a foul presence. She wanted to scream, to claw her face to get it out get it out get it out.

James swore quietly under his breath, but did not interrupt her. She took a moment to compose herself, then pressed on. “I tried to scream, but he put his hand over my mouth. He had something sharp up against my neck. I couldn’t see if it was a knife or some sort of spell, but it cut me. Just there,” and she pointed to a spot on her neck just above her collar bone. “Then he started to say things to me. Nasty things. Just kept on and on. Then, finally, Benjy yelled out, and Mulciber ran off back to his common room. And I just...let him go.”

She was shocked to realize that she’d started to cry again. The tears weren’t fast and desperate as they had been a few minutes ago. Now they were controlled, cathartic. They rolled slowly down her cheeks, past her chin, and over the spot on her neck where Mulciber had cut her.

“Thank god,” James murmured. She was grateful for this interjection as it gave her a moment to wipe her eyes. “What happened then?”

Lily shook herself slightly. Now that she’d started to talk, she found she couldn’t stop. “We went straight to Dumbledore.”

James nodded vigorously. “Good, good. I’m glad. What’s going to happen to Mulciber?”

Lily let out a cold, involuntary laugh. “Nothing, James. Nothing at all.”

James gaped at her. “How is that possible! Surely Dumbledore-”

“I gave Dumbledore my memory,” Lily felt shame creep into her once again, “but it wasn’t enough. I never saw his face, never got a clear view of him in my mind. But I knew it was him. Dumbledore said there wasn’t enough to go on and sent me off to Pomfrey.”

A moment of silence passed between them. Lily noticed with a jolt that James clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. “That’s bullshit,” he whispered finally, “Dumbledore is supposed to protect us. Supposed to protect you.” He glanced sideways at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry, Lily.”

She smiled weakly back at him. “Thanks. But honestly, he was right. If I’d have just gone after him. I mean, he ran away from me, I could have hit him with a stunner when his back was turned. But I just let him run away. I didn’t do anything to stop him.”

James’ jaw twitched, as if he were about to argue but thought better of it. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then looked at her once more. “Lily,” he whispered, as he put his hand gingerly over her own, “I am so glad you didn’t try to stop him.”

Of all the things he could have said, this was perhaps the most surprising. “How can you say that?” She wrenched her hand from his as if he’d burned her skin. “I’m supposed to be a Gryffindor. A prefect. And I can’t even defend myself from an evil, cowardly-”

“I’m glad,” James interjected softly, “because it could have saved your life. Or at the very least, saved you from an even greater harm. Think about it. He was already willing to hurt you once, who’s to say he wouldn’t have done it again?”

Lily did her best to choke back a sob. “But I let him get away with it. What if he does it again to someone else?”

James considered this for a moment. “I think sometimes the bravest choice is to keep yourself safe. And it sounds like in that moment you were in no position, emotionally or otherwise, to try and take him down. Not after what he did to you. You live to fight another day, always.”

Lily said nothing. She still felt the shame, the guilt that she’d watched Mulciber run down that corridor without so much as reaching for her wand. But she also remembered the panic, the feeling that she couldn’t move a muscle. Fear had rendered her completely immobile. She couldn’t have stopped him even if she wanted to.

“I know you won’t believe me when I say this, but you can’t blame yourself,” James said firmly, “you reacted the only way you knew how. It doesn’t make you weak.”

Lily nodded slowly. Then, without thinking, she reached back out and took his hand gently in her own. They sat like that for a long time, sitting several feet away from each other but holding hands quietly. James stared straight ahead into the fire, but every now and then would run his thumb across the ridges of her knuckles.

After at least ten minutes of quiet, Lily spoke. “You haven’t asked me what he said.”

James shrugged. “It’s not my business. I mean, if you want to tell me, you can. But I have a feeling you would have by now.”

Lily tried to block out the voice that played like a megaphone in her head. Mudblood. Pathetic. Useless. Stupid little girl.

“I’m sure you can guess,” Lily muttered, hating herself for crying again.

James turned his head from the fire to look at her again. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met, Lily,” he’d never heard him sound so sincere before, “I really believe he chose the wrong person to fuck with.”

Lily smiled weakly and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

James smiled back. “Plus,” he offered, “you’ve got a lot of friends that will help you kick his arse back to hell or whatever hole he crawled out from.”

Lily couldn’t help but laugh a little. It was an empty threat. She knew that Mulciber’s attack was a symptom of something darker, something more insidious than a school rivalry. Her friends wouldn’t be able to protect her forever. But it was nice to pretend that she wasn’t alone.

“Thank you. I’m glad you were here tonight, even if you scared the ever loving shit out of me.”

James winked, but it was with less cheek than he usually possessed. “No problem. You know me, students from far and wide across this great castle seek me out for my emotional services.”

She really laughed at this. “Somehow I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it, I’m really quite mature when I want to be.”

She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. Her heart was still heavy, and she suspected it would be for some time now, but it was easier to bear. Suddenly she realized how completely exhausted she was.

“I should go up,” she whispered. She squeezed his hand gently before pulling away from him. “I’ve got to get some sleep or I’ll be a wreck for McGonagall.”

James stood quickly with her as she moved to leave. “I’ll hand in your essay, if you want,” he said hurriedly, “you should get as much sleep as you can. She won’t mind, I’ll tell her to talk to Dumbledore if she has any questions.”

Lily frowned at him slightly. “How can you hand in my essay if you haven’t even done yours?”

James barked with laughter at this. “You underestimate me! I wouldn’t dare ignore an assignment from Minnie.”

“Right,” Lily said, bemused. She pulled out her wand and summoned her essay down from her dorm. It zoomed right into her hand, and she handed it over. “Thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t mention it, I hope you get some-”

But his sentence was cut off by the sound of the portrait hole swinging open.

“Oi!” Sirius called as he and Peter strode over to them, “where the bloody hell were you? You were supposed to be our lookout, remember?”

Lily raised an eyebrow at James. “You know, we never did get around to discussing what you were doing in the common room at one in the morning.”

James laughed nervously. “Ah, Evans, there are some things you’re better off not knowing. Trust me.”

She smiled at him once more, then turned her back on him for her dormitory. The sounds of bickering followed her, echoing all the way across the common room and up the stairs.

The words did not stop playing over and over again in her head the whole time she got ready for bed. Pathetic. Useless. Mudlbood. But now, new words joined them. Soft, kind words broke the monotony of cruelty that played on repeat inside her mind.

You live to fight another day, always.

#I am once again asking you all to ignore my typos #I post the same night as I write bc I'm not a COWARD #jk it's because my anxiety won't let me sleep on anything #nina writes #jily #jily oneshot #canon compliant #james potter/lily evans #tw: self harm #tw: violence

[bsd-bibliophile]

BSD-Bibliophile 2019 Top Ten

#10 Post:

I’m in no position to stand above humanity, acting as prosecutor, or judge. I have no right to condemn others. I am a child of evil. Beyond redemption. I suspect my past sins are fifty or a hundred times greater than yours.

- Dazai Osamu, “Thinking of Zenzo” from Self Portraits

#9 Post:

I hate the idea of getting old and ugly, you know. I’m not so afraid of dying, but the ravages of age just don’t match my aesthetic.

- Dazai Osamu, “Urashima-san” from Otogizoshi

#8 Post:

#7 Post:

Disappearing into the darkened sky,  The longing that consumed me in my youth-

Resembling the stars of a summer night as ever,  Obscured in the vast distances as ever.

Disappearing into the darkened sky,  The hope, the dream of my youth.

I just grovel on the ground here  Like some kind of beast, thoughts darken

There’s no way of knowing  When those darkened thoughts will break.

It’s as if I’m drowning in the ocean  And can see the moon glowing overhead.

Now that the wave is so swollen,  And the rising moon so crisp,

This longing that consumed me in my youth of quiet sadness  Is on its way to disappearing into the darkened night.

- Nakahara Chūya, “Lost Hope” from Poems of the Goat

#6 Post:

#5 Post:

Nakahara Chūya Trivia

His old surname was Kashiwamura. Later on, because the Nakahara family (his mother’s side) was a wealthy landowner, his surname was changed to Nakahara.

He was a prodigy in elementary school. However, when his brother died in 1915, he turned to composing poetry out of sorrow. He later failed middle school because he was too engrossed in literature.

He translated around 60 poems by the French poet Arthur Rimbaud into Japanese. Due to their similar lifestyles, he gained the nickname ‘The Japanese Rimbaud’. (Other Source)

He had a mistress, Hasegawa Yasuko, when he was 17; she was noted to be older and taller than him. However, the following year, she left Nakahara to live with his best friend Kobayashi Hideo, which frustrated him greatly. (Other Source)

After Kobayashi left Hasegawa, she married and had a child; she named Nakahara Chuuya the child’s godfather.

Chuuya was noted to adore children, and spoiled them rotten. When his eldest son, Fumiya, died at the age of two, Chuuya had a mental breakdown and had to be hospitalized for a month.

After his death, Hasegawa Yasuko established the Nakahara Chuuya Prize to honor him. The prize only lasted a few years, with Tachihara Michizou as one of its notable winners. Another award with the same name was established in 1996 by Yamaguchi City.

He greatly looked up to Miyazawa Kenji, and he had been noted to hum Miyazawa’s poems from time to time.

He once spent a month in jail for smashing street lamps while in a drunken rage.

He was 151.5 cm (about 4'11.5") in height. The Bungou Stray Dogs version of Chuuya is 160 cm, so they actually made him taller.

He remained close friends with Kobayashi Hideo all his life, and entrusted the manuscript for Songs of Bygone Days to him while on his deathbed.

He died at age 30 due to cerebral meningitis.

Because of their lyrical qualities, many of his poems were used as lyrics in songs.

It is possible to buy an exact replica of his hat from the Nakahara Chuuya Memorial Museum.

“Some of Nakahara’s images and metaphors may strike the Western reader as strange. Notes have been provided wherever helpful, but in general this strangeness is not a product of any culture gap, nor of the translation process. It is Nakahara’s own.” - from the Note on Translation from The Poems of Nakahara Chūya

Nakahara worked one the only issue of the Blue Flower Magazine with Dazai Osamu and the two hated each other immediately. Dazai Osamu invited Kazuo Dan and Chuya to a bar in Higashi Nakano and described Chuya as looking like “a blue mackerel floating in the sky.” (Source 1, Source 2)

His ideal woman, the inspiration for his poem Michiko, was Hayama Michiko (the screen name of Ishikawa Seiko). She was also Tanizaki Junichirou’s sister-in-law and the model for the character Naomi in his novel A Fool’s Love. (Source)

(Trivia Source: Bungo to Alchemist Wiki *italicized sections are added by me* - Image Source: tsukiko-ciah.tumblr.com)

#4 Post:

If you have only watched episode 31 of Bungou Stray Dogs and have not read chapter 39 of the manga, this is definitely worth reading. If you only watch the anime you are missing out.

If you’re not convinced check out my analysis under the cut.

Bungou Stray Dogs is more than just an anime series full of supernatural powers, action scenes, and tension between a detective agency and the mafia. The series is based on world famous literary figures, and by doing so invites its readers to compare BSD to the beloved authors and literary masterpieces it features. You are supposed to look closely at the characters, their backgrounds, development, and compare them to the authors and literary characters who inspired them. You are supposed to look closely at the plot, dissect it, notice foreshadowing, and analyze how events are sequenced and presented. Asagiri Kafka, the author of BSD, has obviously written the series in a way that gives bibliophiles a chance to compare, analyze, and dissect the series to their heart’s content.

The anime does a great job of making the characters Harukawa35 created move and interact in a beautifully animated world. The voice actors put everything they had into their performances and as a result the characters have very distinct voices that reflect the characters’ personalities and traits and draws audiences deeper into the world and story of BSD. The action scenes and moments of suspense are amazing to watch with a heart pounding soundtrack to match. Visually and audibly the series is superb.

However, if you only watch the anime then you are missing out on a lot of the details that make BSD so intricate and adds all the depth to the series. The anime has only so much time, and as a result various moments, scenes, and characters get cut. The anime also has a tendency to prioritize certain characters above others, so anime viewers see a lot of a handful of characters but don’t get to see the other characters’ scenes, backstories, and character development in their entirety. As scenes and characters are changed or left out in the anime the world of BSD gradually drifts away from the manga until ensuring the continuity of the anime means the series becomes more of its own entity and less connected to the manga. Of course the anime has not moved so far away from the manga that it has become its own entity, but there are distinct differences and unique atmospheres that are not shared between the anime and manga.

And that brings me to how the material in chapter 39 was presented in episode 31. There are three important facts in the chapter that makes it so powerful and memorable to readers:

Atsushi’s experiences at the orphanage: In season 1 on the anime there are various short flashbacks to when Atsushi was living at the orphanage. All are very brief, focus on Atsushi sitting helplessly as verbal abuse is heaped on him, and they are shown repeatedly to emphasize how deeply these experiences have affected Atsushi. Because of that when you see a new moment from Atsushi’s past you instinctively pay attention and notice how it is different from the flashbacks you had seen before. In chapter 39 the flashbacks are more than a mere few seconds where a few words are spoken and we see a helpless Atsushi; these flashbacks are complete stories about very specific instances where Atsushi was blamed, ridiculed, beaten, publicly humiliated, forced to have his foot nailed to the floor, had an unknown liquid injected into his system, was locked up, and taught some very important lessons that he didn’t understand at the time but would make him into the amazing protagonist he turned out to be. Episode 31 did not show any of these scenes in their entirety, condensing them into eight seconds of minute representations of the horrors Atsushi experienced, and only showed one part of an exchange between the young Atsushi and the Headmaster. Considering that Atsushi is the series protagonist it is strange that so much information that is vital to understanding Atsushi’s character was condensed into one third of an anime episode (while Kyouka’s backstory took up two thirds of the same episode).

The way Atsushi views his relationship to the Headmaster compared to how Akutagawa and Dazai view it: Chapter 39 shows Atsushi’s initial reaction the the Headmaster’s death as a kind of manic joy, which is also accurately portrayed in episode 31. Tanizaki, in both the manga and anime, is obviously concerned that Atsushi would be so overjoyed at someone’s death, even if it is the Headmaster who caused Atsushi to suffer so much. However, it is only in chapter 39 that Atsushi admits that he knew very little about the Headmaster and only knew “that he was the king of that small, small country,” the orphanage. That is the first hint that the way Atsushi remembers the Headmaster is skewed because he was so young and ignorant at the time. To Atsushi it is only natural to hate the man who he believed disliked him and tortured him because of it, but to outside parties like Akutagawa and Dazai the situation looks different. It is only in the manga that Dazai helps with the case by contacting an informant and sending Atsushi to meet them. The informant turns out to be Akutagawa. Atsushi and Akutagawa are foils, so while they are opposites they also complement each other which makes Akutagawa the perfect person to throw a wrench in Atsushi’s way of thinking. Akutagawa proves through the information he gathered that the Headmaster was not in Yokohama to do any harm to Atsushi, but to sell a gun in order to buy something and that there was no foul play that lead to his death. Akutagawa is also the only person to point out that while Dazai taught him, the Headmaster taught Atsushi and says he will let Atsushi off the hook today because it is “the anniversary of [his] mentor’s death.” Later when Atsushi doesn’t know how to feel after learning that the Headmaster had come to Yokohama to give him flowers and congratulate him on the person he had become, Dazai is the one to refer to the Headmaster as Atsushi’s father. It is only after this that Atsushi understands the role the Headmaster played in his life and he is finally able to cry and face his emotions and confusion surrounding the Headmaster’s death.

How the Headmaster’s past influenced the way he raised Atsushi: If you only watched the anime then you would have absolutely no idea how amazing and complex a character the Headmaster is! He didn’t just happen to become the Headmaster of an orphanage. When he was a child he grew up in an orphanage, “experienced a hellish life” that made the orphanage Atsushi grew up in “seem like heaven,” graduated from the orphanage only to join the criminal underworld, and he watched as all his friends from the orphanage died and he was the lone survivor. After becoming the Headmaster he, because of his past experience, recognized Atsushi had an ability and hid it from the rest of the orphanage until Atsushi was 18 in order to protect him. He knew how Atsushi would be hunted down and mistreated because of his ability and did the best he could, considering the horrible upbringing he had himself, to teach Atsushi to hate those who would hurt him and do everything he could to survive. The Headmaster taught Atsushi to be who he is and enabled him to have the will and determination to become the person who would save a drowning man while he himself is nearly dead from hunger, throw himself over a bomb to try and protect people in a detective agency he doesn’t know, risk his place in the Agency in order to save Kyouka and rescue her from a hopeless situation, and risk his own life to stop the Guild and become the hero who saved Yokohama. Can you imagine how proud and relieved the Headmaster must have been to learn that Atsushi was not only alive but had saved countless lives? How comforted he must have been knowing that his worst fears of Atsushi being killed, resorting to crime and living in a worse hell than the orphanage, or being tortured or used because of his ability had not become a reality! How could he be considered anything other than a proud father who wants to find and congratulate the son he raised? In my opinion, the absolute worst thing the anime has done is deprive its viewers the Headmaster’s complex and incredible character. Without knowing him there is no way of understanding what Atsushi truly felt and how much he grew to understand himself and his place in the world as a result of learning about the Headmaster’s past and what he had risked and sacrificed for him.

To me the anime’s biggest disappointment is how they treat the protagonist. The most important chapter for understanding Atsushi’s character and what makes him protagonist material has been squeezed into 7 minutes and 43 seconds of an anime episode (about 1/3 of an episode). As the protagonist he at least deserves his own episode explaining his backstory, or the two thirds of an episode that Kyouka got for her backstory. Asagiri Kafka and Harukawa35 took the time to create a vivid portrayal of Atsushi’s childhood and him learning what role the Headmaster really played in raising Atsushi. The writing in this chapter was superb. The characters were deep and fleshed out. The plot and the way evidence and memories were presented were so powerful people were dreading seeing it play out in the anime because it had that big of an effect on them. After getting ready for the most emotional chapter in the series to be animated, actually watching the episode was a major let down in so many ways.

I will always remember chapter 39 and what it taught me about humanity, perspective, and the influence one person can have on another. Reading it changed me as much as reading No Longer Human has, and I am just as fond of it as I am of Dazai Osamu’s works. What Atsushi and his battle to overcome his past represents has already helped me overcome some of my own demons. I hope more BSD fans will read the manga, and I mean really read it the way you would a work of literature, and allow the characters and writing to really sink in as they read. The manga is just that powerful and that relatable, because all of us have felt like the outcast, all of us have had our own demons from out past that haunt us even after they are dead, and all of us are looking for a place to belong and the power to conquer ourselves.

#3 Post:

No one realized that I had become insane; when I recovered nobody could tell the difference.

- Dazai Osamu, “Toys” from Dazai Osamu: Selected Stories and Sketches

#2 Post:

Nakahara Chuuya - “Poem of the Sheep”

II

Intention, thou art old dark vapour; begone from my heart! I now hope for nothing more than simplicity and peaceful murmurs and, at any rate, neatness.

Society, thou art indulgence of gloomy filth; do not wake me up again! I now will try to endure solitude, my arms already seem like useless things.

Thou, eyes opening wide in suspicion, eyes not moving for a while as they open. Ah, heart that believes too much in what is outside itself.

Intention, though art old dark vapour; begone from my heart! Begone! Apart from my poor dreams, nothing interests me.

Dazai Osamu - No Longer Human

“You might say that I still have no understanding of what makes human beings tick. My apprehension on discovering that my concept of happiness seemed to be completely at variance with that of everyone else was so great as to make me toss sleeplessly and groan night after night in my bed. It drove me indeed to the brink of lunacy. I wonder if I have actually been happy.”

“Whenever I was asked what I wanted my first impulse was to answer ‘Nothing.’ The thought went through my mind that it didn’t make any difference, that nothing was going to make me happy.”

Mori Ogai - Vita Sexualis

“There are things which everyone does but which one does not mention to others.”

(FIFTEEN spoilers below)

Arthur Rimbaud - “A Season in Hell”

A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.

One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.

I armed myself against justice.

I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure’s been turned over to you!

I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.

I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.

And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.

So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.

Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!

“You’ll always be a hyena etc… ,“ yells the devil, who’d crowned me with such pretty poppies. “Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!”

Ah! I’ve been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.

Paul Verlaine - Oh, Heavy, Heavy My Despair

Oh, heavy, heavy my despair, Because, because of One so fair. My misery knows no allay, Although my heart has come away. Although my heart, although my soul, Have fled the fatal One’s control. My misery knows no allay, Although my heart has come away. My heart, the too, too feeling one, Says to my soul, 'Can it be done, 'Can it be done, too feeling heart, That we from her shall live apart?’ My soul says to my heart, 'Know I What this strange pitfall should imply, 'That we, though far from her, are near, Yea, present, though in exile here?’

Note: These poems were selected simply because they reminded me of the plot in FIFTEEN.

#1 Post:

Looking for something to read on Halloween?

“Hell Screen” by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke

Kappa by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke

“The Human Chair” by Edogawa Ranpo

“Love After Death” by Yumeno Kyūsaku

“Hell in a Bottle” by Yumeno Kyūsaku

“The Holy Man of Mt. Koya” by Izumi Kyōka

“The Tattooer” by Tanizaki Jun'ichirō

“In the Forest, Under the Cherries in Full Bloom” by Sakaguchi Ango

“Fish Scales” by Shibusawa Tatsuhiko

The Decagon House Murders by Ayatsuji Yukito

In Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke:

Rashomon (pg. 48)

In a Bamboo Grove (pg. 54)

The Spider Thread (pg. 79)

Hell Screen (pg. 82)

In Japanese Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edogawa Ranpo:

The Human Chair (pg. 14)

The Caterpillar (pg. 76)

The Hell of Mirrors (pg. 117)

The Red Chamber (pg. 151)

These stories and books are included in my Online Library along with many others! The stories listed here are only a handful of the dark, terrifying tales written by the Japanese authors who inspired BSD, but they are all easily accessible and ones I would recommend.

Happy Halloween and happy reading!

#happy new year #2019 most popular posts #bsd-bibliophile #japanese literature #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd

[carndriverrecords]

First Blog Post 3/20/20

Started CnD Records today. Feels Good.

Working on some diss tracks. Not sure if they see it coming - doesn’t matter either way.

Planning to release Car and Driver first real record this Friday 3/20/20. Driving Test Driver Fest 1. 

Self release first record - another 20 tracks next week. Compile top 10 - 15 for first release with other label - thinking Terrible, Kranky, blu ish label or Thrill Jockey. Citrus City a no-go for now. Maybe just keep building CnD records.

Be the middle man - take advantage of opportunities without sacrificing my bands’ (and those I represent) integrity.

Reach sleep destroyer.

Last night at Ted’s - great DJ set. Kidz bop remixes, Fancy. Crowd hated it. Ted disappointed we had to leave but it’s ok with everyone. Tall guy took aux right out of computer, have video. Started dancing - cucked everyone. Everyone thinks they’re the crazy charismatic guy. Am I actually? I think so. Syd thinks so. 

CnD Fest 2 , 3 , 4 at Purchase and beyond. Would like to play apartments, Scully’s den in BK (reach out) and Philly, DC etc.

Next voice memo album - 20 - 25 tracks right now. Better than the first. Danny said best album ever.

Working on “My oh Maia Reason Why” video - my favorite video I’ve ever seen. Getting good feedback.

Important to collab with certain SUNY people before I go:

Members of Lip Critic, Dawson, Neal, Gabe.

Send stuff back and forth with Joseph Kress. 

Need to write song about not sharing a stage w unstable Car and Driver - cost me 2 gigs. Ok because I had the police interaction that night. 

Things have been working out quite well. Syd is keeping me in check. Main priorities are keep the energy going while I can and make sure everyone around me is comfortable with me doing my thing, specifically mom, sofia.

Going to Only Angels tomorrow to collab with Alex.

Tues/Wed in RI with Zach Gorton. Need to see Nick Holcomb, Sofia, Will Orchard if he’s around. Riley in Boston? Would love to. 

Visit Dad soon on the way to Richmond, in a few weeks perhaps. Grandma Roberta etc. They have a BBQ place now - I bet it’s great. 

Follow up in the morning (3 hours from now) with wedding band, Kevin Daniels, drummer etc.

Film sunrise sessions at Purchase: My Ride’s Here, Splendid Isolation, Keep me in your heart, Studebaker, Cat’s in the Cradle, Everybody that you know. Don’t think twice, Boots of Spanish Leather, Someday my Prince, Teenage Dirtbag, Arthur (Woof Woof), Forget You, Signed Sealed Delivered, Superstition, The Promise, Hold me now (TT), Love on Top, Townes Van Zandt, 1-800 superstar, Evan Wright, Tom Petty, Blinded By the Light, Searching for a Heart, Mag Field’s, Barenaked Ladies, TMBG, Dolly Parton one sided love, Byrds, Beatles, Kinks, Stones, Parquet Courts, T Swift (Red, Way I loved you), Mitski, Sasami, Anything Could Happen, Beach House, He Needs Me, These Days, YLT, Beach Boys, Big Star Take Care, G500/Luna, Felt, Psychic TV, Shelia, BJM, Yellow Sarong, Over and Over, Hazel St, Heatherwood, Helicopter, He Would’ve Laughted, I wanna be your lover, The pump, Good enough (sleep destroyer), Them airs, BH (14, indian summer), help me scrape mucus off my brain), Beach Comber, DO YOUR THING, Icehead, Bobby, 1000 times, WIll Orchard, Bon Iver, MGMT, Tame impala, Instant Crush, etc. Art Vandelay, Quick Canal, Stereolab, Grouper, Broadcast, Animal Collective, Panda Bear, Bachelor Kisses, Cranberries, Cure, Pastels, MBV, I found a reason, pale blue eyes, Deerhoof, Gretel Alex G, Dancing w tears in my eyes, Elvis Costello, No age(things i did), Are ya ok, Maus, Ariel, R Stevie, Aphex Twin, Zomes, Vampire Weekend etc.

Bring Laptop for Beats on some and lyrics for all. 

Love life more than ever before. Music feels so good. Want to help, make amends, everything that moondog did. Don’t be homeless much longer.

Not sure if I like throbbing gristle - definitely like Psychic TV.

How savage should diss tracks be? Very? Match the severity of the person’s treatment of me/others. Aka - pretty bad for all except for Auto.

Listened to new Kanye today - 10x better and more influential than death grips. 

Realized today that i’ve spent my whole life wishing I was Kanye and now I am Kanye. Feels very good.

Everyone is gifted but internet makes us angst. 

I am mostly Camus right now - maybe more Kierkegaard soon. Religion and Terrence Malik. Still need to read books.

Order of Books: The graduate Portrait of the artist Consider Lobster Infinite Jest Pynchon Ulysses (At recommendation of American gamer association)

Syd is incredibly gifted. Want to help her feel comfortable doing art/work here in the chaos but also sort out the chaos for both of ours’ sake. I thrive in it, she tolerates well. Want to move to Riverdale still, maybe East Williamsburg with Backpack Chris. We’ll see about money. Philly perhaps, little too far. Jersey is good location but bad commute. Bad to RI. 

Visit RI and Boston Tues - Thurs. Sell Cigarettes at Concerts. Feels right.

Keep smoking for now - quit end of summer perhaps. 

Don’t have Corona Virus - glad we are not quarantined. Still be smart. Don’t expose mom regardless. Protect at ALL costs. 

Really though, why does Journee hate me? Write new track (Journee into forever nevermore not now not ever (Lou)) or Journee into SJW self righteous moral posturing (way too savage - maybe voice memo outro)

AR Kane album is incredible. Syd loves too. Sample everything.

Crazy - sound better at jazz than ever in my life. Exploring harmony - never practice. Teach free lessons all the time. Love the diminished scale. Might be best jazz guitarist to ever live. Time will tell. Would be cool long term. Prefer singing. 

Getting good at piano too.

I’m my favorite lyricist/comedian/actor.

Is maia right, acting isn’t hard? Weird they can’t act.

^Remember to delete^

Don’t share this on Facebook yet.

Why does Journee hate me so much? Just the Louis CK joke?

People who stay home and do nothing hate to see irreverent people doing things.

People like when you’re losing - don’t like to see you win.

^That makes me sound crazy.

F00D outsider might make me famous first.

Need to keep up with legal situation.

Hope mom and dad both live long. Call Syd, get something nice for everyone in family. Get weird jewel cases. Order jewelry from etsy. Post merch on bandcamp.

Finish album art soon. Music videos. Get better at animation etc. Pay Ben for his poster. Actually really good. Maybe album art? Duo album! Record in Wisconsin, release under his name. WIll success be good for Ben? I think so. Still can’t believe Liv told him I wasn’t ok. Wow - good content for lyrics. You truly cannot write this.

How will people react to diss tracks? Extremely negatively. Or no reaction. We shall see. Maybe no real names in the titles...... only on Oh my. 4 names in titles is too many. Don’t release Auto track. Maybe on Voice Memos. 

Track List: Good God Bed Head Rosa Reprise Oh My House Pop 1 skydive Pop 2 APhex GVO Pay 4 Take some Cherish Stars in F Are ya ok too bright Honeys Get to work Everybody That You Know Frost Bit BPC NYC New Age Heimet Helmet Deadbeat dads watermill for slitting bars romantic song david byrne Cinema study in cinema Brain ego Cherry doc marten Can’t liv w/o Venmo groceries Oh you like? Dancin DJ blues We are the State Farm robots Danny dorito is a dirty devito My funny valentine Zoomer blues The thing abt genres Blss Like minds ft dawson Lil toucha jazz Introducing car and driver The holy moment empire Ethics 101 - gma in the street Otto is sad I don’t know what it means! Operatic mellismatic Car and driver fest will be a success! Car and driver fest was a bust again! Cipha’s comedy corner Ryder Be gone evil atonal spirits!

Unreleased mental breakdown compilation ep:

I like all music! I’m a stupid pos Electric micro bike Get off your phone! John frusc Nice song Lap steel for 2 My masseuse advice Bed head wash sq Punchie John Maus yoyo interview Diminished  kinda thing

Build the NYC scene, w Blu ish, Evan, 1 800, sweet joseph, Comics Club, Dawson, Sloppy Jane, Wheatus,

See Jack Fortin in NYC soon. Either my event or his. 

Things are still good. Syd will be a great filmmaker. WIll maybe will end up with a dancer or a filmmaker - Probably not a musician. WIll have many loves. 

Things are good right now - hope they stay that way. 

Feel like Ezra Keonig - hopefully someone reads this one day and agrees. Different time in history and the internet - hope this is less cringe than Ezra’s blog , probably not. Ezra, if you’re reading this, sorry. See ya at Bernie’s rally. 

[neverendingparable]

The Aftermath - 4.09.17

It was quiet in his Office, as usual. It was how Jonathan liked his Office, actually, occasional loneliness aside.

He’d rather have it peaceful and quiet, than riddled with employees who knock things over, make noises in the Lounge or get roped into public displays of affection with no sense of decency for the others; so in a way, he did consider himself lucky to be alone here with only one other guest.

Augustin wasn’t unnecessarily noisy; he even made a good conversation partner every now and then.

And when it got too quiet and Jonathan wished to take his mind off his scripts, he’d visit the Athenaeum.

It was ironic, how the former lair of a woman who had caused so much havoc this year could be so peaceful. The connected rooms were bright white, filled with endless shelves of books about languages and artworks.

There were large potted plants in corners and the marble fountain bubbled on happily, uncaring that its owner had abandoned them.

And then there were paintings of every employee, Narrator, and visitor in the collective Offices, some drawn with their lovers, others drawn with blood on their fists and clothes, coming back from a fight.

In the middle of the room, a self portrait of Maelle. Its eyes glowed even in the brightly lit space as it surveyed its surroundings, pleased.

Maybe he was too sentimental about the delusions of her past self he had thought to know. After all, seeing from a human’s point of view, Maelle had always been insane; even as a child talking about things children shouldn’t be interested in, not batting an eye at a mountain of rotting corpses in the woods.

She had always said he was too soft to deal with reality, but Jonathan guessed they had very different ideas of what was considered normal.

Still, mass murderer, psychopathic wanna be goddess aside, she was still his friend and he enjoyed spending quiet mornings in these rooms, sipping his coffee and reading her old books.

The Athenaeum had become sacred in its own way for him.  

He was enjoying his coffee with a dose of Maelle’s paintings, lost in his memories of her, when an odd shuffle pulled him out of his thoughts.

Jonathan sighed.

“Employees are not allowed in here,” He said, not bothering to turn. “Augustin, if that’s you, I’d like you to wait outside.”

There was silence at first, and then a heavy thud.

The Narrator frowned and turned towards the source. “Didn’t I say-”

He froze cold.

In the middle of the room was a bloody trail, leading to the grand self portrait of Maelle and underneath it, a disheveled, grief stricken Alice.

She was clad in the white surgeon’s outfit Jonathan recognized from countless books, only it wasn’t white anymore, now smeared with blood and dirt. Her hair and skin was coated with the same filth, but she didn’t seem to care as she clutched the dirty bundle of her nurse’s apron to her chest.

Alice was muttering silently to herself, disregarding the other completely. She appeared on the verge of some sort of breakdown, which scared Jonathan almost as much as the state she was in.

He waved his coffee away and hurried to her, fearing the worst.

“Alice?”

The Acolyte flinched at his voice. She hugged herself tighter and looked up at him, seemingly startled.

Jonathan kneeled next to her, trying to determine whether some of that blood was hers and if she was injured. At that point keeping his hands busy was the only thing he could do to distract himself from the horrible sense of dread threatening to drown him.

“Are you injured?”

Alice drew away from him immediately, clutching her apron tighter.

“Don’t.” Her voice was raw from exhaustion.

Jonathan pulled back. There was a moment of silence between the two, with only the fountain’s continued babble in the background, until he resigned and started to ask the question he didn’t want the answer to.

“What happened to Maelle? Is-…is she-”

“God- fuck-” Alice’s voice nearly cracked in a sob. She buried her face into the apron. “I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked everything up, everything is ruined. I lost her and- and it’s all my fucking fault-”

“….” Jonathan sat next to her and stared blankly at the wall.

He thought the shock of it all would take away his ability to grieve but everything rushed at him at once.

Anger, at the turn of events, at Maelle for leaving him to pursue her selfish dreams, at Dmitri for infecting her; hope that there might some way to get her back, but that was all ruined with realization that they should be celebrating.

A merciless tyrant was dead. For the sake of the good of all the employees in here, they should leave it be.

So, grief was what was left and it settled in comfortably in his bones, ready to strangle him completely- until he was made aware of Alice’s mumble, still droning on beside him.

“Don’t- don’t tell her I was here. Don’t, please don’t. She can’t find out, she can’t know about this, she’ll abandon me. She- she’ll hate me-”

Jonathan blinked, dumbfounded. “Who?”

“….my Goddess.”

“Maelle?” Confusion replaced his grief abruptly. “Maelle- she’s alive after all?”

Alice shot him a tired look. “Yes, of course. She’s…just…resting after-….”

“After what?”

The Acolyte sighed heavily. Reluctantly she sat up and placed her crumpled apron into her lap. Her panic had faded a bit now, she just seemed exhausted.

“Ms Maelle had concluded it was best if we were all kept in the dark- about…her condition.” She began wearily.

“Including me- in case someone found out and would used her weakness against her. She only told me yesterday, before the- the thing, what had been going on with her body this past month."

"From what I understand she had been infected by Von Diamongal and it was slowly killing her." Jon said, sitting so he was facing her. His confusion still swirled around his mind, but he forced himself to listen.

"I suppose half of that is true. Yes, she had been infected and it was hellish to get it out of her system. She would've managed too, if she hadn't been in the middle of dying." Alice added indignantly, like she felt the urge to still justify her Goddess to the Offices.

"I was led to believe she was dying because of the infection, Alice." Jonathan ignored her hostile undertones.

"No. A stupid little mutant isn't going to take my Mistress down. But even then, the infections were interfering with her plans and- she got too annoyed to deal with it. So she tried one last thing and...it…it worked."

Jonathan frowned at the way she said it. He knew there would be a catch, of course, with Maelle, there always was.

"What was the cure?"

“……” Alice slumped. Wordlessly, she opened the bundle on her lap.

Jon’s eyes widened. “…you can’t be serious.”

“She’s brilliant.”

“Alice-”

“Honestly-” Alice’s eyes sparkled with bitterness. “Why fight the infection when you can simply steer it into an unwanted part of yours, one that’ll soon no longer be attached to your body anyway?”

With utter shock, Jonathan stared down at the sleeping infant wrapped in Alice’s bloodied apron. It was too big for its age, too big for a newborn, since it couldn’t have been more than the equivalent of a week or two if it were birthed properly.

Its dark red skin was covered in painful sores and blisters from the inherited disease, and Jonathan would’ve mistaken it for a stillborn because no infant comes to the world looking like that, but its tiny hand curled weakly around nothing from time to time.

The Narrator took a moment to gather himself; drew in a breath and asked, “What does she plan to do with it?”

“Nothing. It’s supposed to be dead.” Alice glanced down at the child with an expression he couldn’t read. “She told me to kill it, but- but I didn’t. Because I couldn’t. I can’t- I can’t kill this kid, Jon. I-”

She shuddered.

After a moment of pause, Jonathan had made up his mind. He got to his feet and hauled Alice up. She didn't struggle against him, her stare fixed on the child in her arms.

"Where is Maelle now?" Jonathan urged. "Is she looking for you?"

"I don’t-

"Actually, save it. We have to get you and the child to safety and this place is not protected against Maelle. …I think I know where to take you."

He placed his hand on her shoulder and teleported them away, to Bradley's Office.

#drabble #thegrimdarknarrator #it was p fun to write until the end #i lost track of how many times i have to rewrite the last few paragraphs #so if its still a bit awkward i apologize #the acolyte #4.09.17

[lumifuer]

Shattered

Pairings: Dean x Reader Words: 1,191 Warnings: Angst, violence Summary: Dean is going through a breakdown, but reader is there to keep him sane  A/N: I missed writing so badly, that I decided to take a break from studying and there we go: short story or should I say, a reimagination based on Brother’s Keeper. This scene is so powerful and makes my heart weak, so I decided to work on it and properly write it down. New chapters of the stories are coming when I’m finished with my finals. Hope you enjoy and as always, feedback is a priceless! 

It was one of those days. The Mark of Cain was manifesting its presence in most terrible ways; toying with Dean's emotions, thoughts and beliefs. Picking on his weak and doubtful self esteem.

He was standing in front of the sink, washing his hands, not really knowing why. They weren't dirty, but they certainly felt this way, the weight of lives they took away was almost unbearable. The water was way too hot, a burning sensation on his skin. But he didn't seem to be bothered at all. The high temperature, along with the noise of the running water served as a perfect distraction. Or at least the best one he could count on in that moment. The memories were hidden in the dark corner of his mind, swept away by his coping mechanism, but threatening to surface without a warning at any time. He wouldn't endure it. Those images, premonitions that were constantly haunting his dreams, became too much for him to handle. It was getting worse with every passing hour. Dean didn't want to think about tomorrow, afraid what it may bring into his miserable existence. 

Then he made a mistake. He looked up in the mirror and met his own gaze. His emerald eyes, ever so livid and hopeful, were now hollow, lifeless and bloodshot. As if someone took his soul from him, dragging it out through his iris, making the colour fade away. One glance at this man could suggest that he’d lost his will to fight long time ago. And maybe it wasn't so far from becoming true. 

Dean looked away, pressing his lips together, trying to hold back a scream. A new wave of hatred flooded his body, using the newly found reminder of how broken this man was. His moves became more frantic, he didn't care if he was hurting himself, he was desperately trying to wash something off his hands, but this burden just wouldn't give up. 

Dean bit his inner cheek, wanting to focus on his pain rather than guilt. Sam was always lecturing him about letting go and leaving things in the past, but his older brother couldn't bring himself to do it. He always felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, the fact that he set his hand to the beginning of the apocalypse didn't actually help the cause. 

The sound of the water muted and his body adjusted to the temperature. His means of distraction were gone and he was exposed to whatever demons were fiddling with his mind. 

With a snap of a finger, they decided to put on a show, showing Dean every single one of his victims and people he wasn't able to save. The images where flashing before his eyes as if someone was changing the slides in the projector, forcing him to watch. He was trying to escape, but the battle was already lost when he glanced in the mirror for the second time. Rage directed at the reflection of the man he has become overtook his body and before he could think he his fist landed on the panel. The glass broke under his impact, tearing his skin open and sending a sharp pain trough his hand and arm. Dozens of glowing shreds fell onto the floor, reminescending a silver rain. 

Dean took a step back and driven by madness he turned and grabbed the first thing within his touch. Without a second thought, he threw the tv on the floor, enjoying the sight of complete destruction the fall caused. He didn't stop there. He took a bottle from his night stand and sent it flying across the bedroom. Glass broke on the concrete wall, leaving scarlet stains on the fresh paint. Dean lost control; he was no longer interested in keeping his belongings intact, he knocked over the chair and lamp, threw the papers off his desk and broke the rest of the bottles. He would regret that later, but right then the only feeling fueling his body was unobtainable rage. 

When the deed was done, he looked around calculating the damage. His legs became weak and he fell to his knees, burying his face in hands in a desperate try to hide his shame and suffering from the world. 

Y/N was sitting in the main room, trying her best to ignore the commotion coming from Dean's room, but she flinched with every bottle shattered on the wall. She was worried, but every attempt at easing his pain ended up with a huge fight, so she eventually gave up. She was telling  herself that he's a big boy and should be able to handle it just fine, but it wasn't just a regular problem with attitude or anger management. He was autodestructive and she couldn't stand seeing him in that state. 

Another thing was smashed and Y/N jumped on her chair startled by the noise. There was no point in trying to focus on the articles she was going trough. The man she loved so dearly was in a dark place and even if she couldn't provide a solution, she should still be there for him. 

Y/N stood up and headed toward Dean's bedroom. The sounds suddenly stopped and she became even more petrified. She rushed to the end of the hallway, afraid that he might have hurt himself. Or worse. When she reached the right place, she didn't even bother to knock. She grabbed the knob and slowly opened the heavy metal door. 

The sight was terrible, a mirror, or what was left of it, was bearly hanging on the lonely pin, shards of it laying all over the tiles on the floor, painted with thick, red liquid. Walls and furniture were stained with either alcohol or blood, she couldn't tell for sure from that distance and the smell of both was still thick in the air. 

But there was something else, something that collided with the mess around. A single framed photo was laying on the bed, as if someone put it there in the middle of their breakdown. 

She took another step. It was her portrait which Dean managed to take when she wasn't looking. He wouldn't shut up how perfect this photo was for him, so Sam ended up putting it in frame and gave it to his brother. Dean made place for it on his nightstand. She knew it very well, it was one of the happiest day in her whole life. One of the few days she get to spend with Dean, without having to deal with any monstrosity that was currently terrorizing mankind. 

She smiled at the memory and looked over the bed. Dean was sitting on the floor, drained and exhausted. He was leaning against the bed, she could hear his heavy breath from where she was standing. Y/N walked around the bed and without asking for permission sat right next to him, letting their shoulders touch. None of them dared to break the silence for the next few minutes, no matter the amount of questions and concern hovering in the air between them. There was no point in asking, Y/N knew that nothing was right and there were no words that would possibly make it any easier for Dean. 

"I love you, you should know that," she spoke finally.

 This was the sentence that Dean needed to hear on a daily basis, not because he wanted to be praised, but his self-esteem relied on it. He wasn't able to tell if someone really cared for him just based on their behaviour towards him, not anymore. 

He glanced at her and she offered a gentle smile. Nothing was right back then and there, but that spark of hope and motivation in her eyes was enough to convince him that everything's going to be one day. All they needed was patience and each other. This little, pretty dysfunctional family. 

"I do," he replied and meant it.  

#deanxreader #dean winchester x reader #dean imagine #dean winchester fanfiction #readerxdean #dean winchester fan fiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fan fic #supernatural fanfiction #dean angst #mywriting

[flauntpage]

Review: Institutional Garbage

It’s December. The time of year when all the ‘Best Ofs’ and just-in-time-for-Christmas reviews spill out from the internet, beckoning you to consider your engagement with the year just passed. In January of this year, I was invited to “write something” about Institutional Garbage, a book published by The Green Lantern Press and edited by Lara Schoorl in conjunction with an exhibition of the same title. Like the residue that is the content in the book itself, my review got buried in the rubble of other demands. So as I (finally) sit down to write, three things are at the top of my mind:

Critical reviews of books usually serve two functions: to lure readers to read or buy the book in question, or to bolster the significance of the book or its contents.

Book reviews are derived from the books they review, which in turn are derived from their subjects. This means both are traces, at least once or twice removed from their sources. In other words, they are debris – the garbage leftover from experiences.

Reviews of books produced outside of a timeline deemed relevant to their release date are even more garbage-like.

This, of course, is subjective. But in this case of this review, given that Institutional Garbage the exhibition took place in 2016, that Institutional Garbage the book was published in 2018, and that my review of it takes place in the final dregs of 2019, I think it’s safe to say we’re in the garbage zone. Thus, I posit this a sort of ‘anti-review review’: one so late as to hardly be useful, and which is more a reflection on the possibility (or impossibility) of the book’s content, rather than a review of ‘come hither’ promotional value. Another trace.

So, what was (or is) Institutional Garbage?

According to those in charge of describing it, it (is/was) an experimental publication that endeavors to grasp the memory, feeling, and trace of an online (and physical) exhibition that took place in the fall of 2016 through Sector 2337. The (no longer extant) gallery’s website states that it is “the administrative residue of imaginary public institutions produced by artists, writers, and curators. Contracts, email correspondences, documented unproductivity, syllabi, scanned objects, obstacle courses, and other fragments were collected to illustrate the backend activities of imaginary bureaucracies, to trace the private life of institutional endeavors.”

But what (is/was) it really?

Having been to the physical space that was Sector 2337 three years ago during the time of the original exhibition, I have some impression. There were details about the exhibition printed on paper towels in the gallery’s bathroom by artist David Hall, which viewers wiped their hands on and promptly tossed (I kept mine, to add to my ironic consumable-art collection – ever more ironic in the face of Maurizio Cattelan’s recent exploits). There were physical performances, and a website I was encouraged to (and, my apologies) did not really engage with. Probably there were other things. Then came this book.

The authors of Institutional Garbage encourage you to go through it in any direction or order, which I promptly ignored in favour of a classic cover-to-cover engagement. The book, after all, does nothing to break convention. It is artfully designed in a way that I can only describe as contemporarily Dutch, like many of its contributors. (I get off saying this because I’ve lived in The Netherlands for the last two years, and trust me – any poster in any city for any purpose is done with near identical visual cadence and designerly minimalism, down to the Helvetica Neue and Knif Mono typefaces). In the midst of this perhaps atopical slickness, reading this book is a bit like an act of rummaging. I will categorize and highlight a few “finds” here:

Teasers: Daniel Borzutzky’s “Data Bodies (excerpt),” which came in the form fragments of poetry and text that left me wanting more, such as the rife-with-implications correspondences between Chelsea Manning and an unknown other in which she describes listening and lip-synching “to Lady Gaga’s Telephone while exfiltratrating possibly the largest data spillage in american history”

(Grimly Familiar) Traces: Jane Lewty’s “Dear Committee [To be Read Alongside CV],” which painfully engages institutional biases around gender and mental health

Gratifying/Formally Succinct Works: Lise Haller Baggesen’s “The Archive,” a series of science-fiction emails to be read from the first to the last (in other words, backward) that chronicle the interaction between two women around female genius in the year 2033, rife with productive feminist metaphor, and ending in a baby swap…

Negating/Formally Succinct Works: David Hall’s “The Lid on Garbage Can,” which does well not to appease in the robotic ‘spamming’ of its own text (a coded program that renders a fragment of barely sensible legalese completely incomprehensible)

Bird’s Eye View: Jill Magi’s “Thirteen Thoughts Contextualizing “Institutional Garbage”,” that describes garbage as an expression of middle-class consciousness/good citizenship, and waste management as theatre for an institution’s ecopolitical stance

Garbage: The overblown academic-speak of Rowland Saifi’s “Statement for a Configured Curriculum,” which exhibits a flagrant wastefulness of language: “A hermeneutic condition of Open Chronotope Objects is conducted in the state of Deep Interlocking Ambiguity and, therefore is in a state of multiplicity. This creates the condition of an Architecture of De-puzzlement.” Like most writing of this kind, one has to do backflips to get anything from it, even in context, and I won’t.

In the end, what struck me about Institutional Garbage was how my experience reading it was so very unlike the process of sifting through trash (a task that I have, in varying states of poverty and privilege, done a great deal of). The book does self-consciously attempt to complicate itself in some ways, as with the curatorial section largely blanked out with white ‘paint’ (then promptly ‘explained’ by descriptions of the actual events curated for Sector 2337), with images of these performances Ben Day dotted to near oblivion, and with mixtures of fact and fiction. But the strong curatorial vision and inherent desire to preserve the integrity and relevance of its contributors is staunchly maintained.

Perhaps the only clear thwart I found was buried deep in Institutional Garbage, in Jill Magi’s “Curious, Fugitive, and Unedited (The Art Labor Archive of Teaching Days).” In this writing, Magi re-presents “the detritus of in-class writing exercises” by her students as part of her own work titled “The Labor Archive.” It is unclear whether or not she obtained permission for this, but her “dangerous citational practices” are precisely where the rubber meets the road. As any homeless person in the United States could tell you, trash becomes public property once it leaves private grounds. This is what makes dumpster diving possible, and why some businesses have resorted to compacting or, even more heinous, to poisoning food waste to keep humans out of it. In some ways, I almost wish the creators of this publication hadn’t curated or commissioned anything at all, but rather had taken what they wanted from what institutional garbage they could access. What would the ramifications have been for a publication which picked through digital trash, and braved negotiating the line between digital garbage and digital property?

In their emails to one another, Caroline Picard and Lara Schoorl speculate on the impossibility of a perfect, imaginary, “alternative, ideal, utopic institution” might look like. As a reader, the more pressing questions at hand seem to be these: are curating and garbage-making polar opposites? And what does it mean for curators to ‘make garbage’ (render slightly less clear, slightly less complete, and in some cases, slightly less contextual) the practices of art-adjacent people? I’m reminded of Marcel Duchamp’s “sixteen miles of string,” which in order to achieve its overarching vision intentionally paved over and inhibited viewing other work in the exhibition. Contemporarily, of course, it’s a dating faux pas to view curation in this light. In Institutional Garbage, Tricia Van Eck produces a hand-written letter called “Alchemy and Curation,” stating that “[…] it’s important for curators and artists in group shows (and even in solo shows) to share the oxygen in the space for all artworks to breathe.” Trash is stifling – it erases meaning through its surplus of meaning and scarcity of space. Aesthetically, this book has a lot of breathing room.

Of course, proclamations of impossibility and desirable failure such as those in the correspondences between Schoorl and Picard are like get-out-of-jail-free cards that anticipate any potential wrongdoings. But I think the real key to Institutional Garbage lies in Fulla Abdul-Jabbar’s essay, “Always,” at the book’s end:

  “What we really want from our time with this book is that which is not this.

I don’t think you mean to sound that way.

Do you mean to say it like this?

Perhaps you can rephrase this.

Can you expand on this?”

  To which we respond, of course, always. But not now.

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Epilogue:

On a small shelf in my house a sun-baked candy from Félix González-Torres “Untitled (Portrait of Ross in L.A.)” oozed and leaked in dangerous proximity to my Ai Weiwei “Sunflower Seeds.” So I took David Hall’s paper towel program and wiped it up. I’m not sure, but I think this has something to do with art.

Make Up the Breakdown: Music as Self-Contained Instruction in 140

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In Conversation: Community Glue Workshop and Fixers Collective

Twit Twat Twut, The Art of Twitter

Review: Institutional Garbage published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[assholemurphy]

i’m so fucking close to having a breakdown tbh. like, it’s so fuckign stupid, but the student store was closed bc of construction tonight, and they didn’t tell anybody, so i get halfway there in the middle of the freezing cold only to be told (by a very sweet guy and his girlfriend) that they’re closed, which sucks bc i get breakfast there for the next morning, but i can’t do that, but it’s not too big of a deal bc i’ve got some chips i could eat tomorrow, but if they had emailed ppl, or announced it in advance somehow, then i could have gotten something at the store in the grill, but they didn’t and i’m pissed at that, but that’s not even what’s stressing me out, it’s just the thing that’s tipping me over. i’ve got like 6 sketches due before monday, one of which needs three light sources, and i live in the dorms??? i have a built in lamp and a flashlight, but that’s only two and idfk how to get a third? or even how to set it up? i’m hoping i can get two shadows if i place the mug right on my desk and then use the flashlight, but idk if that’ll work, so i could be fucked for that sketch. i don’t even want to do them to begin with bc i’m like, 7 years behind everyone else when it comes to skill level for realistic shit. anything with lots of small details, i can do, but not if they’re supposed to look real, that’s never been my focus, i’ve always hated it, and i will never fucking use it bc that’s not the kid of art i make ffs. if she had given us a chance to do it in our style, it’d be fine, cause then i could make it look like a tattoo or some shit and go from there, or at least let us use color so i could show off my skills there, but nah, so i’m gonna look like a shit artist compared to everyone else bc we have to tack them up in the motherfucking hallway of the building for everyone to see, bc i stopped sketching years ago bc i was told i’d never make it as an artist, so i gave up and never picked it back up bc of my fucking parents, without whom i could have been just as good as everyone else, but nah, that’s not gonna happen. i’m a fucking painter, i do abstracts, not fucking realism and bullshit, what the literal fuck, but i need the class for my major, and i know she’s only grading on how well you shade and shit, so i can pass, but i don’t want it to look shitty where everyone can see it.and then the fucking hands we’ve got to do, which i can’t draw without a reference, and even then i can’t use my own hand bc i can’t see the lines clearly, so they’re going to be terrible as well, and a fucking gradient that i would have had done in class but i screwed up bc she gave bullshit instructions and told us to reverse our gradients and made a big show of erasing them, but no, we aren’t supposed to erase them, wtf?? honestly, i hate this class so much bc it’s bullshit. i love the prof but not as a teacher, bc she can’t give clear instructions on basic things and it’s bullshit. i feel like a shitty artist even tho i know i’m not, this just isn’t my medium, with photography or painting, i’m great, but i’m shit at sketching and i stopped drawing when i was 5 while everyone else was getting better, and i know i need practice, but ffs, give me something that’ll help me, not make me look like a kindergartner. i love found ii bc i get to take photos, but he isn’t even looking at them, he just wants us to make an, admittedly interesting, project with other ppl, which means most of my photos are going to be bastardized instead of appreciated for the abstracts that they are, or for the editing i did, bc apparently i’m the only one in our group that knows how to edit a photo, wtf, they could have at least tried, my gods, but that doesn’t matter, he’s not even going to know which ones are ours, so all my work is for nothing, i could have just taken a few pics of bullshit lines that weren’t cool looking at all, but no, i tried to make the photos good, but in the end, it was fucking pointless and i had to crop so many of them into nothingness for the sake of the shitty project. it’s all fucking bullshit. i spent hours getting the right shots and it’s for nothing but a stupid project that turned into a fucking group activity and i hate group activities, esp regarding my fucking work, that i took, that now doesn’t matter bc there’s a fuckton other photos on the stupid thing and they all have to connect, and it would be cool, if i had been allowed to do it by myself, but now, work together, fuck that. and wtf is my found i prof doing? 6 sketches? on top of the fuckton of classes we’re already taking? i’ve got physics works to do, history work, and math to do this week, i don’t have time for 6 fucking sketches that are only going to depress me bc they suck. i know i need practice, but between 15 hours of classes and being president of the lgbt club, i don’t have time for that, not when we’ve got 3 multiple piece fucking assignments due each week for her shitty class. i don’t like sketching, i rly don’t, bc i’m not good at it, never have been. and eventually we have a self portrait to do and i hate my face so fucking much but i’ve got to spend several class periods staring at it in hopes of not making a shitty piece of art. i deal with abstract art, colors, not fucking realistic sketches, wtf is that going to do for me, it’s not my medium at all. it’s only the second week and i already want to drop the class, but i can’t bc it’s a requirement for my major. i’m not even close to as good as everyone else and i know it, but i didn’t get the support they got, nobody ever told me i should keep drawing, nobody ever said i was decent at it, and bc of that, i stopped loving it and stopped doing it. everyone there is confident in being an artist, and i’m just there like ‘waddup i tried being a doctor but had a mental breakdown so i decided to make my hobby a career’ and it fucking shows. and i’ve got so much fucking work to do as our workshop comes up that i barely have time for anything else, but oh no, got to do 6 fucking sketches, full size, realistic, and PIN THEM TO THE BOARD so everyone can see how much you suck. but i’ve got to get through this semester so i can take the classes i want to take, so i’ve got to do it. i just wish i didn’t suck as badly as i do. it seems like every artist can sketch, no matter what their medium, and it’s fucking bullshit. i’m just getting back into this after 7 fucking years of not creating anything but writing shit. of course i’m going to suck, but i’d rather not have everyone see that. nobody’s going to take me seriously in that class. and now i’m having a fucking breakdown bc i’m an idiot who gave up on what they loved bc i crave validation and nobody ever gave that to me bc art wasn’t seen as a real career in my family, and now the only thing they think i’ll be able to do with my degree is teach and i fucking hate teaching, i hate people, i’m also minoring in theatre and writing but everyone i tell that too laughs and asks if i expect to be famous and i’m just like ‘yeah bitch what of it? at least i won’t be downing my eighth glass of wine while making dinner for the kids i had but now resent and my husband who i don’t love anymore who’s fucking his secretary while i spend my days filing some other family’s taxes just bc i went with the safe choice for my major, janet. how’s it gonna feel when you’re forty and can’t remember the last time you were actually happy without the use of alcohol to drown the fact that you want to get a divorce but you know you can’t financially support the lifestyle you crave without him, so you let him fuck her in his office while you take care of the kids? oh, alice’s failing her science classes, and jermey’s smoking pot in the boys’ room? wow, i don’t know what you could have done different, but it must not be your parenting at all, how could you be to blame? but yeah, i’m the loser starving artist who won’t get work and will end up some dishwashing junkie in la dreaming o things i’ll never have bc my talents aren’t seen as ‘real’ bc they aren’t considered ‘good enough for a real career’ by society and therefore must not be good enough to support me’ fuck off janet. support me or get out. i don’t even care about being famous, not really, i just want to be happy when i’m forty and be able to look at my life and decide that it fucking mattered, but how am i supposed to do that if i can’t fucking draw a hand??

#text #long post #fucking hell #i told her i wanted to be an actor and she told me i'd never do it #so as much as i care about her #now i've got to do it to prove her wrong #but that means i have to be able to pass this class #which means i've got to deal with sucking #bc i will get better #i might never be good at realism #but i can fuckign pass this class #so i can take a couple theatre and writing classes next semester #so i can graduate and move to la #and suffer like the gay little runaway that i am #but i'm gonna do it #i'm gonna bitch and complain about it every step of the way #but i will do it #but right now i've got to pull my shit together #so i can go to class tomorrow #and do the same damn thing #for four months #fuck i hate this #i hate everything about this #i just want to instantly be good at it #or just not have to do it #but that's not how it works #fuck my to do list is longer than the great wall of china tbh #but i've got to get it done #maybe not tonight tho #tonight i'm gonna go smoke