#up for interpretation but in my mind: 'her partner'=andrea

[incorrect-supercorp]

Kara: You remind me of my partner.

Lena: I'm sorry?

Kara: I said you remind me –

Lena: No, I'm sorry you said that while making heavy eye contact and applying lip balm.

#up for interpretation but in my mind: 'her partner'=andrea #superrojascorp #(if u squint) #incorrect supergirl quotes #supergirl #kara danvers #lena luthor #incorrect quotes #supergirl crack #supercrack #source: deadpool 2

[silver-wield]

I wanna hear your thoughts on the scene where Cloud, Tifa and Barret just finished fighting that big machine when the were scaling the wall to go save Aerith. (Sorry I totally forgot the name of the boss) Where the platform they’re on totally gives way and they all start falling.

Just finished the fight, or pre and post fight? Imma do the latter anyway cause I love being validated when I saw something and had people tell me I was seeing things.

Ok, spoiler warning for ppl who haven’t played – do I still need to do this? Eh ok, (I tag FF7R spoilers as final fantasy 7 remake spoilers) and it’s gonna be reasonably long.

Also, this is one person’s interpretation of the scene, so if you disagree that’s cool and we’ll agree to disagree.

You’re also gonna have to excuse the janky quality on some of the screens, I’m grabbing them from Youtube and it’s frustrating af trying to get the exact moment I want.

Other analyses if anyone’s interested.

Shinra HQ vision scene (Cloti/plot analysis) 

Chapter 3 (Cloti reblog) 

Tifa character analysis 

Aerith Resolution (plot analysis/theory – I should probably update this since I’ve had other ideas since then) 

Train graveyard (not really an analysis, but I got some sweet screenshots of Cloti) 

Clotiscrew tunnel analysis 

Cloti reunion analysis 

The Promise Analysis 

Andrea’s approval (Cloti ask response) 

Leslie analysis (not mine, but a good read) 

Cloti action touching 

Aerti friendship analysis 

Cloti body language chapter 3 

Cloti healthy disagreement 

Now, strap in and enjoy the ride.

Recap time! So our trio have made it almost to the top of the collapsed plate in Sector 7 and they stop to take in the view. After that there's some banter and a boss fight and more action touching. I just wanna say before I start that a lot of this is at a distance, so it's not gonna be much of an analysis since there's so few close ups and all the body language is geared towards protective/rescue type movements, which is pretty obvious.

Gonna start with the pre battle image here of Cloud smiling after making a joke because certain people like to get it in their heads that he's being serious here because it’s a callback to the whole “merc/money” thing. The fact both Tifa and Barret chuckle and Cloud literally smiles – DO YOU SEE HIM SMILING HERE?! – has a pretty simple meaning that he's grown close to them. He's no longer that cold af mercenary who only goes on about money in a serious way. This is his version of camaraderie which suits his dry af sense of humour.

Ok, so our heroes are triumphant and pretty pleased about it. Just throwing this one in for context since what comes next is pretty fast paced.

While Barrett's crowing, Cloud's already noticed something's wrong. That's just how quick his reflexes are. Frowning, looking at the mech. He can tell something's about to go sideways.

KABOOM! Platform starts collapsing, taking Tifa with it. Cloud's speed off the mark here is almost too quick to capture. He goes after her before she even realises she's falling. He wasn't even facing her when she slipped. She made a noise and he turned. That's how attentive he is towards her. Like, fucking hell, man, I'm blown away more and more with every in-depth look at their interactions.

We know Cloud's graceful af from watching him fight (not to mention that dance scene), but honestly, this looks next level even for him! I think this is the only time he goes this far with his body language. He's got his arms wide for balance, legs bent, I mean, he is literally using the tilting platform to increase his speed. This takes so much skill I'm super impressed! And he did this without even stopping to consider what he needed to do. He just did it.

Tifa's reaching for the ground, not Cloud, btw. I don't think she's noticed him yet – he's not quite in her field of vision – so she's attempting to save herself because she's not some damsel.

And if you think this screen was easy to get, you're wrong. I've literally never seen this bit of this scene before, it happens that quick! Cloud leaps without even being able to see if he's lined up with Tifa. This looks like an instinctive action from him. This isn't something he's been taught, this is all him wanting to protect Tifa and going above and beyond to do it.

To further reiterate the last screen, he's just leapt at her and hoped for the best. I mean, he could've knocked into her and sent her flying, but he got his arm around her, swung them both around and then shot a grappling hook all in one smooth action. This is definitely SOLDIER!Cloud in the driver's seat if anyone was wondering. There's no way our poor flawed real!Cloud could do this without second guessing himself. That's why he's got the false persona, so it'll give him confidence in situations like this to protect the woman he loves.

Cloud's totally focused in the moment and relying on Tifa to hang onto him now he's got her. For her part, I think she's a bit “wtaf where am I?” because everything happened so quickly. She's got her eyes squeezed shut, so she was clearly scared she was about to die.

Well, I was trying to grab a different shot that proved my point Tifa had her eyes closed and opened them when she heard the grappling gun fire, but this one's better. Yet another part of this fast paced scene that I didn't quite catch because it all goes by so quickly.

Cloud's got his arm around her waist, while she's clinging to his shoulder. To be fair, this isn't a very secure hold by either of them, but highlights the urgency of the moment. He's not been able to get her in a secure hold so he needs to get her to safety quickly.

Tifa's not even gripping him, which validates how quickly everything happened and how she's not caught up to what's going on. Not surprising, really. This all went by in milliseconds.

I honestly wasn't going to screen this either. It's the part where Barrett's line breaks, but I caught sight of Cloud and Tifa in the corner and thought why not? You'll see the hold still isn't that secure and Tifa's legs are all over the place. I will say it looks like she's got a tighter grip on his shoulder from this angle, so that's something. And...is Cloud’s hand splayed on her butt? I don’t wanna say yes, but the angle of his arm is suspicious.

And this is why Cloud's so damn good at what he does! Barrett's line snapped and he saw him falling from his peripheral vision! How on the ball is this guy?!?! Damn, with everything he does throughout Midgar and – we can assume -- beyond I honestly don't know how he can think he's not a hero. He is definitely a hero. Not a perfect one, but damn, he absolutely brings 110% to everything he does!

Omg Tifa's hold is worse than I thought! She's got her hand flat against his chest. I mean, at least grab hold of his shirt or something! She's barely holding onto him, so this is all him with his arm around her waist making sure she doesn't slip. I've gotta forgive her, I mean, it was quick action and I sure af wouldn't move anything in case I fell whatever the distance is between them and the ground lol

Even though Tifa's position is precarious af, Cloud's still relying on her to be his partner in this situation. He can't save Barrett, so she has to.

This is just a nice shot of how graceful they both are. Reminds me of when they're in the drum separately and Tifa and Aerith fall off the pipe – Tifa lands on her feet, Aerith lands on her face – and then Barrett and Cloud fall off a platform and Cloud lands on his feet and Barrett lands on his ass lol

It's telling that these two have similar balance and grace in a fight – probably why they combo so well.

And if I said the above screens were hard to get it's nothing on this one! This happened between one second and the next! I replayed it a million times to get that shot of Cloud going to put his hand on Tifa's back because I knew that's where he had one of them, but damn, if that wasn't boss level rewinding to get!

Okay, obviously the focus is saving Barrett here, and with that in mind the second Cloud's feet hit the ground he tosses the grappling gun to one side and goes to help Tifa haul him up. He puts one hand on her back and grabs her forearm with the other, lending her his strength and support.

And there's the proof in case anyone doubted my eye. That is Cloud's hand on Tifa's lower back. His other hand is gripping her forearm out of frame. I mean, does he need to have his hand there? Is that supportive in the context of the situation? Wouldn't it make more sense that he has his arm fully round her to stop her slipping? I know some of yall would be like “yes, that's better” from a ship pov, but from an action pov it does make more sense that he's got her in a firmer grip. It's almost like part of him doesn't want to make that closer contact because it's too intimate and he's trying to be professional. It's SOLDIER!Cloud basically. Mr “I keep my distance”. The guy who got them through that whole mess. Which does go to show that Cloud relies on that SOLDIER persona to save everyone's asses, but it also makes him more detatched. However, when there's no danger, he's more himself again.

I'd like to point out that if he'd actually had a better hold on Tifa, like I pointed out, she wouldn't have fallen over because Cloud would've been bracing her more. As it is she's on her ass and after checking Barrett's in one piece – quick look – Cloud's offering his hand to Tifa. We can't see his face in this moment, but we could guess there's an element of oops about him since it was kinda his fault she fell over.

Some quick banter and it's onto the Shinra building.

Conclusion:

Ofc this is an amazing action sequence! Everything happens so quickly that you definitely have to back and watch it again, pause it and examine everyone's faces and body language to really break down the sequence of events and motivations – besides rescue.

Cloud is definitely living up to the SOLDIER hype, even though he's never been one. I wonder how he got so skilled. Is this CC stuff? Or is he just going for broke and getting lucky? It says a lot that he'll just dive into whatever danger is around when Tifa's life is on the line. But, he also trusts her to come through in a pinch too. He just had to say her name and she got his meaning. That's some beautiful synchronisation from them. They're showing how much of a unit they are. Battle couples are one of my favourite tropes and that whole mind reader part of it is just perfection to me.

Even though this is a scene of SOLDIER!Cloud at his best, that side of him also knows he can trust Tifa to support him, and even while he's being all business there's part of him that still yearns to be close to Tifa and has to resist.

#cloti #final fantasy 7 remake spoilers #final fantasy 7 remake analysis #battle couple at their best

[that-curly-haired-lesbian]

Hey! Could you possibly do a queer reading into Dear John and how it could possibly be about coming out?

Dear John…I-I mean @ryanprettyboyrossI just wanted to start out by telling you that I’ve been excited about writingthis forever,but then depression sucker-punched me in the soul and put a stop to all mywriting (academic or otherwise) for literal weeks and when I finally got out ofthat there was a ton of essay to write… fuuuuun! 🙃🙃🙃

Anywayyyy, I’m out ofmy funk and just wanted to let you know that ever since you sent me this askages ago I’ve been intrigued by it.

I thank you all foryour patience during my absence and hope that this analysis was worth the wait! 😊

Dear John is one of my absolute favorite Taylor songs and in myopinion one of her most underrated, but solid works lyrics-wise.

In it I think hertalents as a poet and writer really shines through (friendlyreminder that Tay wrote the whole Speak Nowalbum by herself at 19 *cries in pride*) and for that I adore the freaking sparkleout of the song in question.

However, as I’vepreviously mentioned in asks and the like, for me it’s also always been one ofthe most interesting and complex ones to analyze. I’ve always kind of assumed Dear John is one of those songs that isnot what it seems.

My theory for a longtime has been that it’s some kind of metaphor describing queer identity andexperience and then you came along and placed this coming-out-narrative in mylap. Thank you very much, by asking me to stick to that thesis you’ve made myjob a lot easier, otherwise this analysis would’ve been all over the place withpossible theories! 😊

So let’s talk aboutthis for a sec, the majority of the fandom seem to assume it’s a song writtenabout the conveniently named John Meyer with whom Taylor was allegedly in arelationship from December 2009-February 2010. Meyer even went along with thatnarrative claiming the song “humiliated” him (x) to which Taylor responded thathe was being presumptuous in blatantly assuming the song to be about him. (x)

While therelationship did last for Taylor’s bearding-standard of 3 months a lot ofGaylors do seem convinced that Meyer was Taylor’s one (at least post-fame) non-PRboyfriend, for my personal thoughts on that please read this ask. (x)

Meyer may be namedJohn and the timeline during which the song was written may fit with thetimeline of whatever was going on between him and Taylor (PR or otherwise) but “DearJohn” as a phrase or title has a history longer than that.

Perhaps what most contemporary people think of(besides the Taylor song, provided they have any musical taste at all 😊)when hearing the phrase is the 2010 movie by the same name (it possibly cameout right around the time Tay was writing the song and we do know she likesromantic movies, so she may very well have found her inspiration there) whichin turn is based on the 2006 novel by Nicholas Sparks.

Another perhaps lessknown use of the phrase is the so called “Dear John letter.”

It refers to a wifeor girlfriend writing her husband/boyfriend a letter while he’s in themilitary, the letter is written to inform him that his partner has foundsomeone else and wants to break up/divorce, the phrase dates back to at leastWorld War II.

Wikipedia defines a “DearJohn letter” simply as “a break-up letter to an absent boyfriend or husband.”(x)

That does indeed seemto fit the bill for the song, Taylor sings to a “John” that is no longer a partof her life and informs him why the relationship had to end. (This song is to let you know why.”)

So, if the song isn’tabout John Meyer at all and we were just encouraged to think so, who or what isit really about?

Well, John is apretty common all-American name, in fact it was so common during the WWII erathat it was picked specifically to be a placeholder name when referring tobreakup letters addressed to solders (“Dear John letters.”) I think it’spossible that Taylor is using this pretty generic name as a placeholder too.

In the context of hersong “John” is the set of rules, ideas and practices (such as bearding) put inplace within the music/entertainment industry (specifically the country scene)to systematically closet performers to “save” or benefit their careers. 🤮

Long story short, Ibelieve “John” to be the heteronormativity and societal pressures to conform tosaid normativity which is keeping our singer in the closet. If you will, “John”is her own internalized homophobia which is stopping her from publicly comingout.

That being said thisis just an idea (cred to the asker, @ryanprettyboyross of course) on what thesong may be about, I personally have thought up many a theory regarding thisone in my time and everyone else is free to do so as well.

Credit for the lyricsbeing used goes to AZLyrics as usual; you all know the drill by now.

Without further ado,let’s get analyzin’

–

Long were the nights when

My days once revolved around you

Counting my footsteps

Praying the floor won’t fall through, again

–

Let’s have a look at these opening lines, Taylorclaims to have difficulty sleeping, this is because her life (or “her days” akaher every waking moment) revolves around pleasing someone who isn’t herself. 

Her days revolve around living up to the perfect image of America’s LittleHeterosexual Sweetheart™ that her team as well as her masses of adoringconservative fans built for her.

She can’t truly be herself and has to be careful whatshe does, what she says and how she acts. A feeling I’m sure many closetedpeople are more familiar with than they’d like.

She watches her every steps, every movement, everyword very carefully as to not accidentally out herself. She prays that peoplewon’t catch on and she’ll fall from her country princess throne (or through thedelicate floor of heteronormativity she has to constantly step on) and ruin herown career.

That constant fear is stressful for anyone who iscloseted, but must be so on an evendeeper level for someone who’s so public and simultaneously so deep in thecloset. A sad fate for such a young, talented artist and quite frankly it devastatesme to think about it in any greater detail. 💔

–

And my mother accused me of losing my mind

But I swore I was fine

–

Taylor must feel lonely to say the least, essentiallybeing required to refrain from being herself and hiding her truth, but one can atleast hope she has the unwavering support of her family and close friends towhom I think it’s safe to assume she’s out and has been for quite a long time. (Probably at least since high school, maybeeven earlier? My point is that she was most likely out to at least the family,if not to most of her friends long pre-fame.)

Her mother is mentioned here and my interpretation ofthe line is that Andrea is starting to see what the constant bearding andheteronormativity is doing to her daughter.

Perhaps she worries that Taylor is truly losing hersense of self and inquires whether the oldest of her children feels the PRgames have gone too far and if she wants to stop it and publicly come out? Afterall, Taylor’s parents raised her in a family free from homophobia if we’re tobelieve Taylor herself.

Taylor however reassures her mother that it’s fine;it’s all just a necessary part of the job and a small price to pay to get tolive her professional dream.

Chely Wright, a lesbian country singer who was closetedin the industry for a long time wrote the following in her book, Like Me: Confessions of a Heartland CountrySinger:

“I’d made a dealwith God early on that I’d go without love in my life, just give me music” (x)and I think that’s a pretty universal mindset among closeted musicians.

The chance to have music and performance andcreativity in one’s life is worth giving up on a happy and truthful personallife for. As long as you get to practice your art any personal sacrifices don’tmatter, or at least they’re not supposed to. Taylor promised her mother thiswas the case for her as much as anyone else.

–

You paint me a blue sky

And go back and turn it to rain

–

Here I think Taylor’s describing what this idea islike in theory, the idea of a fruitful career with hordes of adoring fans andcommercial success is all she ever dreamed of ever since she was a little girlwho repeatedly begged her parents to relocate the family to Nashville.

In practice though, it turns out Nashville is a prettyscary place for a young, gay singer, in fact the community there is viciouslyhomophobic. (x) Something that probably became apparent to Taylor pretty soon.

The perfect dream of country music stardom wasTaylor’s blue sky, but pretty soon it had been turned to rain by the systematichomophobia in the community she now found herself a part of.

–

And I lived in your chess game

But you changed the rules everyday

–

PR is a lot like chess, it’s one thoroughly thoughtout move after another, but instead of getting your opponent’s queen you moveand strategize in the hopes to please the general public with its conservativecountry fans. Not only them, but also producers, record labels and PR teams allcommitted to keeping the public image of heterosexuality, the one that sells andkeeps their artists afloat in the mainstream.

Taylor does her best to keep up with these moves andcountermoves, but it confuses her and she feels like what is expected of herchanges from day to day thus causing her to struggle with keeping up. Whatshe’s allowed to do, say and sing all changes constantly to adapt to the latestPR strategy and Taylor feels lost and helpless in the machinery that is theeconomy of homophobia, like a pawn lost on a giant chessboard.

–

Wonderin’ which version of you I might get on the phone,tonight

Well I stopped pickin’ up and this song is to let youknow why

–

Who is she talking about here then?

Well, I think this line is describing her relationshipto Team Taylor. I am assuming a kid like Taylor has had extensive mediatraining on how “not to appear gay” or whatever *puke* so if she messes up shelikely knows she’s going to get a call from her publicist.

Sometimes I’m sure that phone call wasn’t all toonice, as we’ve discussed before it seems Taylor’s publicist from her youngerdays was a very big fan of having Taylor stay in the closet, so if Taylor daredto publicly venture out of it in even the smallest of ways I’m sure she’d knowwhy that wasn’t advisable by the end of the night.

I’m not saying Taylor’s publicist was homophobic ornasty or mean, because obviously I don’t know that. I’m saying however, that I’msure she did what she thought was necessary to protect Taylor’s career andimage (aka to keep her safely closeted.)

I’m also not saying Taylor literally stopped pickingup or started ignoring her publicist, I think what the “stopped pickin’up-line” means is that perhaps she stopped listening, or at least she stoppedletting what was said get to her.

The song as she mentions was written to let “you” knowwhy it is that she stopped listening.

I don’t think“you” is the publicist, I actually think that “you” here is a more general you,as in all of the people who tried to get Taylor to understand that homophobiais just a given part of the music industry.

This is the song where Taylor says she’ll keep goingalong with their games, at least for the time being, but she’s had enough ofthe self-hatred.

As young gay people I think we’re all familiar withhow being constantly surrounded by homophobia, be it from our parents,classmates, or just society in general (or you know, a conservative musicindustry) keeps us from truly accepting ourselves.

We may very well be aware that we’re gay, but we don’thave to like it, we can wish it away and hate ourselves for feeling what we’refeeling. (Chely Wright’s Wish Me Away,anyone?)

Dear John isthe turning point for Taylor, she decides that no matter what anyone else saysand the fact that she has to stay in the closet, she can still love herself andbe okay with who she is, at least within herself. Just because she’s goingalong with the bearding and the heteronormativity doesn’t mean she has toapprove of it, she doesn’t need to hate herself just because it seems everyoneelse does. Somehow there’s strength in that heartbreak, I think.

–

Dear John, I see it all now that you’re gone.

Don’t you think I was too young

To be messed with?

–

As the chorus comes around Taylor addresses her owninternalized homophobia (who she’s apparently named John, perhaps becausesociety expects her to conform to their heteronormativity and end up with aJohn, a generic cishet boy) for the first time.

Now that her internalized homophobia/“John” is goneand she’s realized she doesn’t have hate herself she’s starting to see howfucked up it was that she ever did in the first place.

Many on thissite have discussed the fact that a pre-fame Taylor didn’t seem scared ofappearing gay, but it seems sometime after her mainstream recognition there wasa shift and she started fearing her gay side.

The heteronormative, homophobic values within theindustry truly messed with her, as she chose to word it. She went from out andproud to closeted and terrified.

She brings her age into the conversation, asking ifshe wasn’t too young to be messed with?

It seems that Taylor is as livid as me when it comesto the prospect of society teaching kids to internalize homophobia andself-hatred.

She wasn’t brought up that way (x) but she came tolearn that she was supposed to be ashamed of who she was as soon as she wastold by the people in the industry, the very people who were supposed to lookout for her that she had to sing about boys and “not act gay” if she everwanted to get on the radio or reach mainstream success.

–

The girl in the dress

Cried the whole way home, I should’ve known.–

The “girl-in-the-dress-line” is interesting to me andperhaps it is the line that resonates most with me in this entire song.

As someone who’s all too familiar with being forced toact feminine and wear dresses and being guilty of constantly policing their ownbody language as to not “act too gay” or “too un-feminine” I can say that I seemuch of myself in that person who wants to rip their pretty dress to shreds,but just ends up crying about it when no one can see instead.

Why? Well, making a public statement and refusing towear the dress would mean taking a step out from the shadow of thatinternalized self-hatred.

Admittedly though, I struggle with dysphoria which I’massuming (or rather hoping since I wouldn’t wish it on anyone) Taylor hasn’t. Despitethis I would say that being uncomfortable in dresses and “not being yourtypical princess” (to borrow a phrase from Taylor) isn’t limited to those of uswho aren’t actually girls, there are girls and women who aren’t comfortablewith being feminine or with wearing stereotypically feminine clothes (“she wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts”)and I’ve previously spoken of how I suspect Taylor to be one of them. (x)

Obviously I can’t know that for sure, but I feel thatperhaps Taylor is a lot less feminine than she publicly lets on and that’swhere this dress-line comes in.

With its beer and its cowboy hats and manly men Iwould assume that in addition to being at least implicitly homophobic thecountry music scene is also fairly dependent on gender roles, meaning that forsomeone like Taylor that means dresses and boys and makeup galore.

In my analysis of NewRomantics I mentioned that attending some event with a boy she barely knewand a pretty dress must’ve felt incredibly alienating at times to a young starwho’s just started understanding the perceived necessity of bearding andheteronormativity in this industry. So alienating in fact that I wouldn’t blameher for shedding a few tears from time to time, “mascara tears in the bathroom”as well as tears on the way home in a pretty dress she didn’t want to wear.

The dress couldalso be a metaphor of course, one to describe the heteronormative role she’dbeen forced into with all the bearding and femininity. A metaphor that’s saying“the girl you made look so pretty on the outside felt so ugly and ashamed onthe inside” the girl in the pretty dress that appeared to have it all couldn’t bringherself to be truly happy. (Lucky One, anyone?)

Lastly she’s saying she should’ve known this would bethe outcome of entering the industry, she should’ve known it had been naive tothink she could continue to be her authentic self while also being mainstreamfamous.

–

Well maybe it’s me

And my blind optimism to blame

Or maybe it’s you and your sick need

To give love then take it away

–

Whose fault is it, then, that poor Taylor is somiserable?

Well, she suggests, maybe it’s her own for being sonaively optimistic and thinking that staying closeted wouldn’t feel like a bigdeal as long as she got to work with music. Or maybe it’s the industry’s faultfor adoring and praising her as long as she followed their set of rules, buttaking that love away the moment she started to break the rules, not to mentionthreatening to take the fame away entirely should she ever dare come out. It’ssick says Taylor, how two-faced these so-called “fans” and “supporters” are andI wholeheartedly agree!

–

And you’ll add my name to your long list of traitorswho don’t understand

And I’ll look back in regret how I ignored when theysaid,

“Run as fast as you can.”

–

We’ve talked about “gender traitors” before, a termthat shows up in Margaret Atwood’s TheHandmaid’s Tale from 1985 (as well as the excellent 2017 HBO series) aswell as in a bunch of feminist course lit I’m familiar with, to describe homosexualsand primarily homosexual women.

I know Taylor likes classical literature, but I can’tbe sure if she’s read that one, although I hope so since it’s brilliant!

Anyway, regardless of her reading habits I don’t thinkthe term is what Taylor’s referring to here. I think she’s simply saying theindustry will blacklist her. Put her on a list of traitors to the industry whoaren’t committed to upholding the order and the rules and doesn’t understandwhy it’s necessary to keep the environment so conservative and unaccepting.

In other words,were she to ever come out the country music community would freeze her out.This seems to be a real fear among those in the closet in Nashville and Chely Wright spoke about it at length. (x)

Someone seems to have warned Taylor not to getinvolved with the bearding and the systematic closeting. Maybe it was hermother or someone else who saw the potential dangers of internalized hatredsuch a process would create within such a young girl and thus advised Taylor torefuse to conform and run far away from that homophobic nonsense before shelost her sense of self.

Taylor of course, didn’t listen she was too busyreaching for the dream of music she’d always wanted and now that she’s olderand wiser she of course regrets letting the closeting process be the price shepaid for it all, but she was young and thought the adults who told her to goback in the closet knew what was best. Now of course, she wished she would’verun and taken steps to be an out artist from the start, instead of going usualroute of forced closeting and aggressive hetero marketing.

–

 (Chorus)

–

Dear John, I see it all now it was wrong

Don’t you think nineteen’s too young

To be played by your dark, twisted games?

When I loved you so, I should’ve known.

–

At one point in time Taylor obviously had a real andvery strong love for country music (and given the fact that she still occasionallyghost-writes a country hit or two I’d say she still does) but here she addresses“John” who now seems to be the country music industry itself and says shethinks she was too young to be dragged into the systematic homophobia thatlives rampant within that industry. She loved the music so much, she loved thepeople and the aesthetic, but the dark side of the industry in Nashville was anunfair price to pay for that love Taylor reasons. Don’t forget that Dear John was on Speak Now the album that came before Red which in turn was the first album where Taylor definitelystarted leaning more towards pop music. 

She’s said that Red wasn’t “sonically cohesive” and there seems to be a reasonfor that, Red wanted to be pop, butTaylor didn’t yet dare to fully take the leap that’d later come with 1989 and leave country behind, so Red became a mixture of Taylor’s desireto break free from country music and her very strong love for it, a toxicrelationship indeed, with the country music industry.

Nonetheless I think Dear John was Tay’s breakup song for country music, Red was the first step towards leavingthat industry behind and Dear John waswhen she first decided it was time to do so and shake off (sorry I couldn’t resist) that homophobic environment.

–

You are an expert at “Sorry”

And keeping lines blurry

Never impressed by me acing your tests

–

She laments some more about the rules and the peoplewithin the country music “machine” (as Wright refers to it) she says they’revery good at not personally being homophobic, it’s like when someone says “Ihave nothing against you gays, BUT”  the industry at large and perhaps mostlythe people within it who work close to Taylor claim that they wish things couldbe different, but that the homophobic structure in the music industry is necessaryto uphold it or whatever. They’re basically experts at making excuses for whyhomophobia is so deeply ingrained in Nashville and country communities ingeneral. They keep the lines blurry between claiming they’re keeping Taylorcloseted to protect her from the homophobia exuded by fans and parts of themusic industry and by doing it because they themselves are blatantly homophobicand scared Taylor will stop making them money if she comes out.

It’s the sortof situation where you think “Are they doing this to protect me or to protectthemselves?”    

Taylor plays her role perfectly, she has everyoneconvinced she’s as straight as they come and yet Team Taylor don’t seem happy,they have more hoops for her to jump through and more strategies with which tokeep her locked in the closet and they never seem 100% happy with Taylor’s “StraightPerformance (aka her “Acing their tests”)

–

All the girls that you’ve run dry have tired lifelesseyes

Cause you’ve burned them out

–

Then she goes on to mention other people who are inthe closet and work in country music, or in Hollywood, people (and here,specifically other women) whose closeting processes are so far along that theyhave just accepted they’ll never be able to come out and live as their trueselves. Girls who have accepted this is just their lives now.

The girls who go into lavender marriages and just dealwith it, no one being able to spot just how dead they are behind the eyes,except for a young, fellow gay who’s terrified she’ll end up like them. End uplike the women the entertainment industry  has already ran dry and ensnared in their PR gamesto the point where they see no way out, girls who are so closeted they’ll taketheir truths to their graves.

–

But I took your matches

Before fire could catch me

So don’t look now

I’m shining like fireworks

Over your sad empty town

–

It might be too late for those girls, Taylor pointsout, but not for me, not yet. By writing this song she’s taking the firsttentative step towards stopping her own closeting process. She won’t let theindustry dampen her passion for music or her will to be herself, she’s stoppedthem now, or at least she’s going to, they’re going to witness her succeed evenwhile breaking out of that tightly locked closet. She’ll shine like (colorful… 🌈🌈) fireworks over the sad reality that is homophobia and bearding.

–

(Chorus)

–

 I see it all now that you’re gone

Don’t you think I was too young

To be messed with?

The girl in the dress

Wrote you a song, you should’ve known.

–

Now that she’s decided to slowly but surely leave itbehind she can see how messed up systematic closeting is, especially when doneto someone so young and hopeful as herself.

 The girl they dressed up andfeminized, hetero-proofed™ against her will when she was still too young toknow any better wrote them all a song about how messed up they are.

They should’ve known she wasn’t like the others and wouldn’tlet herself be trapped and limited, go Taylor!! 🌈🌈🌈

–

So perhaps the way I wrotethat didn’t frame the song in so much a coming-out-narrative as an it’s-okay-to-want-to-come-out-narrativeand it’s okay to take tiny steps towards that goal while simultaneouslyflipping off everyone who want to stop you. 🌈

Hope you alllike that idea of this song. 😊

I can’t promiseanything, but I’m hopefully back now as my essay is due next Friday, whereupon Ishall have more time to hang out here and talk to you guys and do analysis regularlyagain! (Hopefully every Sunday)

I’ve really missed itas well as all of you, so if you guys have requests for songs to be analyzed inthe future or just questions for me about Kaylor, Gaylor or anything else, myaskbox is open! 😊

Next song to be analyzedaccording to my list is Fearless! 💃🌈

#gaylor swift #kaylor #songs #queer analysis #asks

[seventyfiveapples]

Shaken

CHAPTER 5

Bright / Nick Jakoby x OFC

(Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4)

Oh hello: it's you, plot and angst. Yes that's right, but there is important background stuff to lay down. I promise there will be sexy times soon. (SO SOON.) So, I was thinking that if Nick was the nation's first orc police officer and it's present day LA, and "races living separately" is a thing, then it might be a pretty Big Deal for an orc and human to date. So that had an affect on some of the conversations in this chapter, and maybe Ward has a little “journey” as he evolves on this topic. Is this too much exposition? Is this too plot heavy? Would it stop me if it was? haha enjoy.

The sun was bright and warm the next day, and Nick took a moment to tilt his head upwards and take a deep breath before climbing the stairs to the station. Was it always this bright? Did the lantana on the sidewalk always smell so sweet? Everything seemed a little... more today. He smiled to himself, thinking about his date with Lucy - their conversation, the way she looked at him... even the end of the date, when their goodbye kiss was so rudely interrupted by the San Andreas fault.

It was a small earthquake: 3.5 or 3.6 tops, but he could tell Lucy was thoroughly freaked out. He realized that she must be relatively new to the area. 

When she gripped him tightly for stability, he thought his heart might pound right out of his chest: Not only did she seem to like his company, she trusted him. She believed he could keep her safe. He wanted to keep earning that trust, to make her feel safe as much as he could. Every now and then he could tell that there was something… some fear at the back of her mind… that kept her always a little on edge.

When she’d asked to come see him at the station today, her whole demeanor had changed. He saw her fear most clearly then.

Oh shit, he thought suddenly, seeing Daryl at his desk across the room. She’s coming to the station today. Nick still hadn't told him that Lucy was human. Maybe it wouldn't be a big deal... Maybe he should tell him just in case.

His partner waved at him from across the room.

“Hey Casanova, how was the big date?”

Nick couldn’t help himself from grinning ear to ear.

“It was… really good! Really REALLY good.” He smiled to himself for a moment and then just shook his head. “She’s incredible… funny, smart, kind, driven... AND,” he concluded, “she picked the smoothie café.”

“Well, aren’t you two just two little orc peas in a pod? You know what, I’m happy for you, Nick.”

“Hey Daryl, can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure thing right after you go turn this paperwork in.”

Daryl handed him a small stack of folders. Nick frowned. Daryl hated to turn in paperwork. The new Captain could chat up a brick wall, and might not even notice. He would take up no less than fifteen minutes of Daryl’s time every time he saw him, regaling him with tales of the glory days of his youth while Daryl tried his best to politely excuse himself. If Daryl Ward could barely get a word in edgewise, Nick didn’t know how anyone else managed.

Luckily for Nick, the captain’s anti-orc bigotry expressed itself in something close to the silent treatment. He barely said two words when he saw Officer Jakoby. For once, Nick didn’t entirely mind being treated differently.

He headed down to drop off the papers.

***

One thing Lucy would never get used to in Southern California was the earthquakes. There was something so unsettling about the ground under her feet moving… what kind of place had she moved to, where she couldn’t trust the ground?

Luckily, yesterday’s was a smaller one. Nick had taken it completely in stride. He hadn’t even flinched when the tremor rolled through - or when she grabbed onto him for dear life. Real smooth, Lucy. There’s that confident image you try to project.

She thought of how he looked at her when she'd held him. She didn’t think he’d minded one bit, actually.

In the police station, she walked straight to Officer Jakoby’s desk. It was empty for the moment.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” Asked a tall, black, human officer from behind her.

“Oh! Thank you, I’m just waiting for Officer Jakoby.”

“He’ll be right back if you want to have a seat. If there’s anything I can help with, he’s my partner.”

“You’re Daryl Ward? It’s nice to meet you! I’m Lucy Harris and-“

“You’re Lucy Harris.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“That’s right, Officer Ward, and I was-“

“Lucy Harris. Teacher, smoothie fan... you’re a human?” He had an odd look on his face as he asked her this question. What was going on here?

Lucy said nothing, watching Daryl as he looked at her with an expression she could not interpret. Finally, she spoke.

“Um, yeah. Last time I checked... Is Nic- Officer Jakoby coming back soon?”

“Yeah, why don’t you just take a seat.” He said, suddenly chilly. Lucy pretended to be fascinated with the contents of her purse while she waited.

After a few minutes, Nick came back. He smiled when he saw Lucy but paused as he approached, seeming to sense something off in the room.

“Hey, Nick. Thanks for meeting with me. Is there somewhere we can go to talk privately? This is kind of... sensitive.”

“Sure. We have a few empty offices down the hall.” He turned to Ward and saw a look that was a mix of... Disappointment? Disgust? Something in between?

“Partner, we can talk in a minute, but right now I could use your help.”

***

The three of them sat in an empty office while Lucy removed three items from the purple canvas tote bag she had brought with her.

“I came home a week ago and my roommate had found this propped against our front door,” she started.

The officers looked closely at the items - torn brown wrapping paper with Lucy’s full name printed in block letter, the framed photo, and the note reading “Found you.”

“Do you have any idea who might have left this?” Asked Ward.

“Absolutely."

***

Two and a half years ago, Lucy Harris didn’t exist.

Jennie Perkins, however, was living a quiet life in Tacoma, Washington. She worked as a teacher at a highly regarded private school and lived with her boyfriend of a year and a half, Dave West.

One day in the early spring, an FBI agent approached her, out of the blue. She told Jennie that her boyfriend was not who he claimed to be, but a murderer and drug dealer involved with organized crime. She brought boxes of photos and documents: not enough for a legal conviction but more than enough to convince Jennie, who was undone by the news. She was shocked and unmoored. Everything she knew about the person she thought she loved had been a lie.

The agent convinced her to hide cameras and listening devices in strategic locations around the house. She advised Jennie to “act normal” until they could build an airtight legal case.

Easier said than done. Overnight she’d gone from a relatively carefree life to being essentially a spy, knowing that her partner was living a double life and trying to make sure he’d be arrested. Acting normally without tipping off a paranoid criminal required tremendous effort.

After a couple of months, something violent happened at their house while Jennie was at work. She never found out what it was. In fact, she never saw the inside of that house again. The takeaways from the incident were 1) that one of the cameras was knocked loose in front of Dave and his “colleagues,” and 2) that Dave probably knew Jennie had hidden it, and was cooperating with the feds.

The agent and Jennie agreed that they would fake Jennie’s death (an elaborately staged car accident) and she would move out of state under an assumed name until the trial was over. The FBI slotted enough resources to help her get set up, and Lucy Harris was “born.”

About a month ago, Lucy received notice that the trial was about to start. The FBI agent had contacted Lucy/Jennie to start making arrangements for her to come and testify.

That phone call was the last time anyone had heard from the agent.

A week later, they found her body in a field by the highway.

Her apartment had been torn up as if someone was looking for something… Lucy had a pretty good idea of what. Not quite three weeks after that when the package had shown up on Lucy’s door.

“So," Lucy concluded. "Billie and I moved into a new place. Luckily, her brothers had an empty rent house right next door. I was just starting to feel okay again, but the afternoon someone slashed two of my tires. They left this.” She reached into her bag to pull out the knife and note. She couldn’t look Nick in the eye when he picked up the note full of slurs and read it.

“Apparently, he's close by, and he knows where I am. And I don’t know what to do. So I wanted to just report this, just in case there's some way to find him or stop him.”

There was a moment’s pause, as the officers digested what she had told them. Daryl spoke first.

"Damn," he said. “That's... a lot. Look I know this is a long shot, but I don't suppose you have any evidence about this? Before we commit to any security detail, we'll need some hard proof.

Lucy looked up, surprised. She let out a sudden sharp laugh.

“Oh no, I have tons of evidence! Boxes and boxes. I made copies of everything I gave to the agent. It’s all in a safety deposit box. I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason I’m still alive. I haven’t visited it in months, but it’s all there.”

“We’ll need to see it.”

“Well then you’ll need to figure out how to get me there unrecognized, because I am pretty sure he’s following me.”

Nick swallowed hard. Had he followed them on their date? Lucy looked at him, a guilty expression washing over her face.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Nick. I should have. I just… it seems like I keep putting more and more people at risk. I had a great time with you, but I don’t blame you if…” she shook her head. She didn’t have to say it. She knew he’d want to call it off. Hot tears sprang to her eyes, as the reality of the whole situation settled on her. It was the first time she’d talked about this in two years to anyone except Billie.

“Lucy, you haven’t done anything wrong. Daryl, could you give us a minute?” After his partner left, Nick moved close enough to lay a strong hand on her forearm and look straight in her eyes. “Lucy, I really like you. I’m not going anywhere. It’s going to take more than that to get rid of me.”

“More than a murdering psychopath?” she said with a skeptical laugh.

He raised his eyebrows. “Murdering psychopaths? I eat those for breakfast. They go great with that kale smoothie.” He didn’t often make jokes, but when he did, they seemed to have been borrowed from cop movies. Lucy broke into a loud laugh, part nerves and part surprise, and hugged him. 

“Now, tell us everything that might help us track down this asshole.”

***

Later, on patrol, Nick broke several minutes of silence with a pointed question. “Something on your mind, partner?”

“I guess not.”

“You ‘guess’ not? The fuck does that mean?”

“If you don’t want to tell me about your business, then I guess it’s not my place to say shit about shit.”

“Meaning?” Nick asked gruffly.

“Why didn’t you mention she was human?”

“Does it matter?”

“You know what all those assholes at the station are gonna-“

“Does it matter to YOU, Daryl?”

Daryl looked out of the window, not answering. After a few seconds, he spoke.

“You should have told me.”

“Ward,” Jakoby started, keeping as even a tone as he could, “are you upset because I didn’t tell you, or are you upset because you don’t think orcs and humans should date?”

Ward paused again, and tried to choose his words carefully. “Each of the nine races stay separate, you know that. That’s why there’s peace.”

Nick snorted, a humorless laugh. It was two steps forward, two steps back with his partner.

“Peace?! Is that what you see out here?” Driving through an Orcish district, they saw gang-tagged graffiti on every wall, smashed windows covered with plywood boards, crime scene tape around one corner, and a group of teen orcs glaring at them. In the distance they could see a billboard advertising jewelry. It read: “exclusively available in the Elf District.”

“I’ll tell you what I see,” Nick concluded, “a powder keg. I don’t think keeping people separate is really helping anything.”

He continued: “Look, Lucy and I didn’t plan this, and we’ve only had one date, but I really like her. How the fuck does that hurt anyone?”

After another pause, Ward finally spoke. “What about her? I mean, you’re used to all the bullshit people say. Do you really want to put her through that?”

Daryl had struck a chord. Nick hated to think of Lucy - of anyone - being insulted or attacked because of him.

“She’s not naive, Ward,” Nick responded in a softer tone. “It’s her choice to make, and mine. No one else’s.”

“I just… it’s not going to be easy for you.”

“Maybe not. Since when do I take the easy road?” Nick asked, smiling a little. “I’m used to people - humans, orcs, whoever - saying shit to me. They’re going to do that anyway.” He stopped for a minute. “I know they say shit about me to you, too.”

It wasn’t an accusation, but Daryl felt a pang of guilt. Had he heard what the other officers said about him on a daily basis in the locker room? Had Daryl even spoken up? He couldn’t remember.

“I’m not asking you to confront them, or fight my battles. I’m just asking - in this situation, with Lucy - if people get ugly, it would mean a lot to me to know I had your support… if I do have it.”

Nick looked at him with questioning eyes and Daryl sighed. He’d never known any orc-human couples and it just seemed odd to him, but Nick had a point: who did it hurt? Nick’s request was so sincere it cut through anything Daryl might have said in protest.

Besides that, Daryl thought of Lucy's story. How were they ever going to find this guy? A little orc/human racial tension might be the least of their worries.

More than anything he kept thinking, what if the tables were reversed? What would Nick say if Daryl asked for his support, for anything?

He would offer it without hesitation, of course.

“Yeah,” Daryl replied at last. “You got it, Nick.”

***

Across town, Dave West paced in his makeshift room: an abandoned shipping container at the very far end of the docks. At his feet lay a spectrum of weapons, but he would have to add to these: most of them wouldn’t do too much on the orcs that were protecting Jennie now. He logged onto his computer to keep tabs on her through the GPS tracker he’d placed on her car.

The police station, huh? He wondered if it was business or pleasure. He flipped through the photos he’d taken of Jennie and the orc police officer on their date. He’d probably have to move a little more quickly than he wanted to.

There was still no sign of her visiting any storage units or banks with safety deposit boxes. He had to wait, for now, damn it. As long as that evidence was out there, he was in danger of not only criminal conviction, but he was in danger from all of the other people who were mentioned or implicated in whatever she had gathered.

He’d be better off in prison than out and “free” with them as his enemies.

No, for now, he just had to wait for her to slip up. Once he destroyed the evidence, he could kill her and everyone who tried to help her, and get back to San Francisco.

Or, he thought, flipping through the photos again, he could help things along and get... creative.

@beastlybfs @bonnietakesnosh-t @fantasticauthorofzonk

#bright #bright netflix #bright fanfiction #nick jakoby #nick jakoby x oc #nick jakoby fanfiction #orc #orc boyfriend #team how are your holes

[remembertae]

Beverly Hills, 90210 “Nancy’s Choice”

(Photo: FOX)

S6 E19 Jan. 30, 1996

WRITTEN BY: John Eisendrath and Meredith Stiehm

SYNOPSIS

California University student newspaper editor Susan has been nominated for a Collegiate Press Club Award. Her boyfriend/newspaper colleague Brandon believes she’s sure to win for last year’s notorious feature story about an anonymous young woman (“Nancy”) who had an abortion. The two discuss her odds as they walk into the newspaper office, where they find Susan’s ex-boyfriend/ex-editor Jonathan hanging out with all his former colleagues. Unbeknownst to Brandon, CU has invited Jonathan to the awards dinner since he’d served as editor when “Nancy’s Story” was published. Brandon assumes Jonathan is attending the dinner as Susan’s date and jealously stomps out of the office, even after Susan assures him there’s nothing going on between her and Jonathan.

Later at the student union, Jonathan and Susan chat about the awards. She wonders why he came for the ceremony. He insists he’s there to support her, adding, “Who else knows how much you sacrificed for this story?” Susan winces and Jonathan apologizes, but Brandon approaches before they can discuss things further. After Jonathan leaves, Susan explains to Brandon that Jonathan never approved of Nancy’s story because he’s pro-life and thinks Susan “infringed on her privacy.” When Brandon asks if she did, Susan admits to pushing Nancy to tell her tale, but also believes the story helped her subject heal. When Brandon wonders why Susan cares so much what Jonathan thinks, she explains that he was her mentor and his disapproval hurt. And when she admits she’s still bothered by Jonathan’s disapproval, Brandon stomps off again.

Brandon asks his friends Steve and Clare to come to the dinner so he doesn’t have to deal with Jonathan alone. But then he and Susan bicker more later when she refuses to print his column until he does more reporting. Taking her editorial decision personally, Brandon tells her to have fun at the awards with Jonathan.

On the evening of the awards, Brandon dons a suit but heads to a local diner, The Peach Pit, instead of the dinner. Peach Pit proprietor Nat asks Brandon why he’s ditching the ceremony. Brandon can’t figure why Jonathan came back to town to celebrate Susan’s nomination for a story that caused their break-up. Nat tells Brandon he’ll never get an answer if he doesn’t show up for the dinner and compete for Susan.

Brandon arrives at the awards dinner right before Susan’s category is announced. After he sits down, someone at their table asks Susan what her article was about. She answers, “It’s about a woman’s right to choose.” Steve asks why it’s never the man’s right to choose, to which Clare and Susan both make snarky remarks about men never getting pregnant. Jonathan chimes in to say he doesn’t believe men or women should be able to choose. Brandon asks, in open ear shot of their entire table, if Jonathan broke up with Susan over the article. But before he can answer, Susan is announced as the best feature story winner.

Susan nervously accepts the award on behalf of all women who’ve faced Nancy’s difficult decision. “If Nancy were here tonight,” she says, “I can’t say she might not regret her choice. The effects are that profound and the consequences are that lasting. That’s why winning this award is very special – it honors more than choice, it also honors courage.” She leaves the stage visibly unnerved.

Brandon and Susan take a walk after the awards. He suggests she tell Nancy about her win, to which she replies, “I’m Nancy.” Brandon guesses correctly that Jonathan was the fetus father. She explains that after her sister died in a tragic accident the year prior, she and Jonathan got drunk and had unprotected sex. And when Jonathan learned of the pregnancy, he asked her to marry him. Susan gets weepy telling her story and Brandon embraces her. She asks him if he’s now turned off by her and he assures her that he’s not.

Jonathan approaches the two of them and Brandon lets them be alone. Jonathan is still upset he never had any input in Susan’s decision. She says she wasn’t going to change her life over a mistake, to which he angrily responds, “That’s a great way to talk about a child!” Susan claims he was pro-choice until he didn’t have one. Despite his resentment, Jonathan says he can’t help but forgive Susan and congratulates her for her award win.

Back at the banquet hall, Brandon hands Susan her award and tells her, “Doubting your decision doesn’t mean you made the wrong one.” All Susan can say is, “He forgave me. Now if only I could forgive myself.” She asks Brandon to hold her and he does.

KEEPING IT REAL QUOTIENT

I find this tale very interesting within the context of Beverly Hills, 90210’s previous abortion stories - season 2’s episode about reformed “bad mom” Jackie’s unplanned pregnancy and season 4’s two-episode arc about college freshman Andrea’s oops fetus. In a way, one could interpret this episode as the alternate reality Andrea might have experienced if she’d chosen abortion instead of birthing baby Hannah and marrying fetus father Jesse.

Susan and Andrea are remarkably similar characters - intelligent, intense (one might say “uptight”), proudly feminist women who serve as newspaper editors at different points in the series. Both women have a somewhat competitive relationship with Brandon, and are attracted to him. Both characters are accidentally impregnated by their non-Brandon college boyfriends and, at least at first, both choose abortion. When Andrea pursues termination despite Jesse’s pro-life stance, he threatens to break up with her. Between the prospect of losing him and the shame of terminating her offspring (she tearfully apologizes to her fetus the night before her appointment), Andrea changes her mind, marries Jesse and has her baby. The outcome of her choice is complicated. Hannah is born premature and suffers serious health problems during her infancy. Andrea struggles with balancing parenting and her studies. Jesse proves to be a judgmental, pushy, yet not particularly helpful father/husband. Both he and Andrea end up cheating on each other and consider divorce. Though they patch things up enough to keep their family together, one has to wonder if she might have been happier having an abortion and telling Jesse to kiss off.

With Susan’s story, we get an idea of how Andrea might have fared had she just gone through with it. And, no surprise to me, it looks like Susan’s decision was a good one. Jonathan is a jerk (to the point that he makes bratty Brandon look like a great guy in comparison). Essentially, it seems he offered Susan the same ultimatum Jesse gave Andrea - marry me and have this child or I break up with you. And if that weren’t enough manipulation, now he’s trying to sabotage her new relationship. Why ever would she be inclined to birth a baby she doesn’t want just to be with this guy, when instead she can continue pursuing her academic goals and be editor of the newspaper?

And yet, Susan remains plagued by shame. Not only does she second-guess her decision to abort, she still cannot forgive herself. For what? The abortion itself? Or getting pregnant in the first place? A decent narrative that centers the abortion-seeking character would answer that question, but the writers dumbly assume Susan must feel guilty about something, even if they don’t explain what. Her point of view feels so un-feminist. She internalizes Jonathan’s disapproval. And when she tells Brandon the truth about “Nancy”, she needs to know he doesn’t see her as damaged goods. There’s this moment after Brandon asks her (very judgmentally) how she got knocked up by accident, only to check himself and say she doesn’t owe him an answer to that question. But then Susan says, “Yes, I do.” No, you really don’t! People fuck up and get pregnant by mistake literally all the time. This “mourning my dead sister made us forget the condom” bit is overkill, but the writers probably thought we needed that maudlin detail to feel any sympathy for her. Because unlike Andrea, she actually went through with the abortion. And so she must do penance.

I’d somehow missed this episode when it originally aired and knew nothing about it until it was recently highlighted on the Beverly Hills, 90210 podcast “Again with This”. In her scathing recap, host Tara Ariano commented on the fact that both Jesse and Jonathan were eager to raise their girlfriends’ babies, noting, “This seems statistically unlikely that, of this sample, it would be one hundred percent anti-choice on the dudes’ side.” I’ve discussed the “overzealous fetus father” trope before, and how I believe it’s way overrepresented in the dozens of abortion episodes I’ve reviewed for this site.* Making the male partner disagree with the abortion-seeking woman is such a hackneyed source of abortion conflict, but the trope doesn’t have to be done this poorly. Again, in a smarter story, we’d have more discussion about Susan’s claim that Jonathan became anti-abortion simply because he didn’t have any input (we might have wound up with something like Mimi-Rose and Adam’s story from Girls). Or perhaps, if Susan had to be at odds with Jonathan, she could have been more secure in her decision, as Jackie was when she discussed her past abortion with daughter Kelly back in season 2. But no. Instead, there’s this sense that Susan should want her ex and her beau’s forgiveness. She may have dodged premature motherhood and an unhappy marriage, but vague, inexplicable guilt is her trade-off for maintaining that freedom.

GRADE

D+ I’m glad Susan had her abortion. Her stupid, unnecessary guilt trip (that does not suit her character) sucks, but it’s still better than her starting a family with Jonathan. That’s about all this dopey, lazy, stigmatizing episode has going for it.

Including this episode, we’ve reviewed 51 abortion stories. In 35 of those stories, the fetus father is made aware of the pregnancy. In 20 of those 35 stories, the pregnant woman either considers or goes through with an abortion, and the fetus father disagrees with her choice.

- by Tara

#abortion #abortion episode #beverly hills 90210

[hprarepairnet]

silverskin

pairing: cormac mclaggen x pansy parkinson

setting: modern, non-magical, the cutting edge au; also, a spiritual continuation of the ice, ice, baby series

word count: 3,749 

alternate link: ao3

get to know our members challenge: favorite rare-pairs | (3/5) - andrea

Goalies have a short shelf life, is the thing.

Everyone’s always surprised when they find out that Cormac went to college.

Six semesters at Minnesota, two trips to the Frozen Four, and a solid enough GPA that he hadn’t even been that embarrassed when he was the only dude in his poetry seminar to nut up and declare for English Lit. But then he’d been drafted into the actual motherfucking NHL on a steady diet of Jane Eyre and Madame Bovary, and he’d barely had to make a choice. School was school, and he was okay at it, of course he was, he knew how to focus and he knew how to get shit done and he knew how to parse out the overarching narrative themes of a good gothic romance.

But hockey—hockey was everything.

And he fucking hates calling himself a drop-out, because that makes it sound like he’d quit, or something, and it wasn’t…he isn’t a quitter. He’s not. He commits to shit. That’s his trademark. He’d picked up a hockey stick when he was four years old, and he’d basically never put it down again. His loud roar of triumph after stopping the final puck in a championship shootout had resulted in a sick as hell nickname and an even sicker tattoo permanently inked across most of his upper body. He’d fallen in love with the smartest girl in the world when he was nineteen and too dumb to see all the ways she wasn’t going to love him back, and he’d been carrying around the admittedly pitiful remnants of that particular torch ever fucking since. He’s stubborn. He’s determined. He doesn’t fucking quit.

Which is why hockey—

Hockey was everything.

Hockey was forever.

Forever, it turns out, is approximately three and a half years.

Malfoy solemnly squints as he snaps his fingers next to Cormac’s ear.

“My peripheral vision’s gone, not my hearing,” Cormac says darkly, draining his pint of weak-ass Canadian beer. “You unbelievable fucking dick.”

Across the table, Potter winces, and then waves at the bartender for another round of drinks. “Nothing they can do about it?” he asks, because Potter’s a pretty solid dude, even if his taste in boyfriends is fucking horrifying. “There’s no, like, surgery, or anything?”

“Nah,” Cormac replies, directing a sleazy, mostly automatic grin at the waitress who delivers their tray of Jäger bombs. “Puck hit me at—uh, at a bad angle. One in a million, the doctor said. I’m done, man.”

Malfoy hiccups. “Okay, but, like, can you still skate? Or are you. Y’know. Broken. Permanently.”

Cormac drops his shot glass, watches the Jäger splash out and the Red Bull gently fizz, and he doesn’t really know how to respond. A fuck-ton of guys have it way worse than him, have ruptured Achilles and splintered orbital sockets and totally debilitating concussion symptoms that’ll never quite go away. But he’s only twenty-four. He’d wanted to keep hockey. He’d wanted to hold hockey’s hand and buy it a dozen red roses and take it home to meet his fucking mom during the off-season. Hockey just hadn’t wanted to stick around. Hockey hadn’t wanted him back.

“Yeah, I can still skate,” he says, wiping his hand over his mouth. “Why?”

Blaise Zabini is a retired ex-figure skater with two gold medals and the blankest, most dead-eyed serial killer shark stare that Cormac’s ever seen.

He sizes Cormac up like he’s a particularly questionable side of beef—and somehow, it makes sense to think of Zabini as a butcher with, like, unlimited access to a lot of sharp knives and bloody meat hooks and industrial cleaning supplies—but it only takes Zabini three or four minutes to finally crack a microscopic smile and turn his attention back to his Arnold Palmer.

“Good shoulders,” Zabini says, apropos of fucking nothing. “You’ll do.”

Cormac doesn’t go after girls like Hermione Granger anymore.

Girls with edges.

He picks up girls who are stacked and blonde and uncomplicated. Girls who laugh at his jokes and who smile at the appletinis he buys them and who don’t mind being fucked from behind because stacked and blonde and uncomplicated is actually really, really, really not his type, but the alternative isn’t an option, seriously, he’s not cut out for that level of self-flagellating masochistic bullshit.

And then he’s stepping inside the enormous private rink Zabini brings him to, gaping at the gorgeously polished cedar beams crisscrossing the ceiling, and he sees—he sees—

Pansy Parkinson is her name.

She swishes across the ice with the kind of grace that can only be taught—can only be bought—swift and serpentine and so, so sure, and Cormac’s hockey gear abruptly feels cumbersome and oddly heavy as he watches her move. Watches her glide.

He notices the rest of her in fragments.

Slight, small build. Slender arms, long legs, narrow waist. Glossy black hair, blunt-cut bangs and a sparkly purple headband. High cheekbones and ivory skin and scarlet lips. Emerald green leotard with a keyhole cutout between the wings of her collarbones, shimmery beige tights and boring white skates.

She comes to a halt next to where he’s standing with Zabini, icing them both pretty thoroughly, and, god, she barely even looks at Cormac, just props her hands on her hips and frowns at Zabini and jerks her chin towards Cormac before asking, in a tone that’s flat with derision—

“Who the fuck is he?”

She’s not even pleasant, Cormac thinks, helplessly dismayed by how much he already knows he doesn’t give a shit.

His palms are sweaty.

His mouth is dry.

His stomach is sinking.

He’s been here before.

Pansy Parkinson is not the smartest girl in the world.

She’s arrogant and she’s whiny and she’s entitled and she’s focused. She’s militant about being up before the sun rises, and she’s scathingly critical of everything from the calluses on his fingers to the lingering traces of middle-class Boston in his accent, and she’s unfailingly strict in her interpretation of her nutrition plan. She eats steel-cut oats steeped in flavorless raw almond milk for breakfast, piles leafy greens and grilled chicken and soft-boiled eggs onto her plate for lunch, and carefully weighs out her portion of whole-wheat pasta every night after they’ve studied the film Zabini seems to arbitrarily fucking choose for them.

She’s determined.

She’s competitive.

She’s carefully composed and hilariously self-absorbed and intensely, frustratingly enigmatic.

She listens to shitty pop music during their morning runs, and she flips through dog-eared back-issues of Vogue when they take their water breaks, and she carries herself like she’s simultaneously afraid of her own shadow and confident in her ability to take both him and Zabini in a fucking fist fight. She’s fascinating, and she’s clever, and she’s honestly kind of mean. She spends their first week together speaking very, very slowly, almost exclusively in monosyllables, and asking him if he’s absolutely certain he doesn’t need to keep wearing his hockey helmet.

“You’re lucky I’m not that sensitive,” Cormac tells her, twisting the cap off a bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade. He’s lying. He’s really fucking sensitive. He still cries every time he reads Emma. “Could give a guy a complex.”

“I doubt you need any help with that,” Pansy retorts sweetly.

She’s not wrong.

Skating to music is harder than Cormac thought it would be.

He’s been doing yoga and ballet and, like, jazzercise with Pansy every day, training his muscles to twitch and flex and stretch in ways they never really have before—but finding rhythm on the ice, in sleek black skates with unreliable laces and rickety little blades; it’s fucking rough.

“Jesus Christ,” Pansy hisses, shoving him backwards after he’s messed up some needlessly complicated footwork sequence for the fifth time in one day. “Count out loud if you have to, but get your shit together before you break your fucking ankle.”

“I’m a hockey player,” Cormac argues, annoyed by the defensive slant of his own posture. “There’s a learning curve, princess, we didn’t all grow up doing—whatever the fuck this—tap dancing Charlie Chaplin on ice bullshit is.”

“Yeah, well, there isn’t a learning curve at the Olympics,” she replies, coolly. “Which is where we’re going. Maybe. If you stop skating like a drunk toddler with an eye patch on.”

Cormac grits his teeth, unable to come up with a response that isn’t dumb and petulant and embarrassing, and the smirk that Pansy levels him with is as unimpressed as it is a challenge.

It’s then, though, that he registers a low-simmering onslaught of something—excitement and adrenaline and energy, cratering in his veins and punching at his sternum and reminding him, with vivid, vicious clarity, of suiting up before a game and reading the angle of a puck just right and winning. Being tackled into the boards by his team, by his brothers, after he’s managed another shutout. He’s fucking missed it. Missed this. And he doesn’t have a team anymore, but he does have Pansy. A partner. His partner.

“Again,” Cormac eventually says, holding Pansy’s gaze for a second too long. “Let’s do it again.”

A month into training, Cormac’s dick gets involved.

Zabini’s there, ostensibly to teach Cormac how to propel Pansy into some kind of spinning twirling death-defying lift that, yeah, okay, looks hella fucking rad on grainy Soviet-era film, but—gravity? Gravity’s a thing. Cormac went to college. He knows his shit.

“How,” Cormac starts, scratching at the back of neck.

Zabini gestures absently to Pansy’s thighs, not even bothering to look up from his phone. “Just pick her up.”

Cormac tilts his head to the side. “Uh. Just—where, exactly, am I touching her?” He clears his throat. Adds, again, deliberately plaintive, “Exactly?”

Pansy huffs, and then sighs, and then reaches for Cormac’s wrists, dragging his hands to the space between her thighs. And he just—

He freezes, thumbs and forefingers framing the cradle of her…pelvis? He doesn’t think it’s her pelvis. He’s, like, eighty percent sure, actually, that it isn’t.

But his brain’s not quite firing on all cylinders, and his chest is rippling tight and tense and hot like he’s been crosschecked into a fucking bonfire, and his hands look so fucking big like this, fingers long and thick, palms broad and callused, and she’s tiny, of course she’s tiny, he’s been aware of that—painfully, viscerally aware—since that very first day, that very first moment, except the way his gut is clenching and his skin is tingling and his pulse is racing—it’s new, and it’s familiar, and he aches with how badly he wants to move his hands. A little farther up. A little farther in. He wants to trace the center seam of her leggings with his fingernail, wants to tease her, get her wet, make her gasp, wants to flick his tongue out and swipe his fingers down and press an open-mouthed kiss to the mound of her cunt, grip her hips and hold her—

“—hold her up, man,” Zabini is drawling, sounding bored. “Gotta get used to her sense of balance.”

Cormac blinks.

He’s half-hard in his Under Armour, and it’s as jarring as it is mortifying to realize that touching Pansy like this—learning her body, memorizing the shape of it and the bend of it and the strength of it—this is his fucking job now. He’s here to win. To skate. To take ballet lessons and pack on a lot of unnecessary muscle and grope Pansy fucking Parkinson in exchange for an Olympic gold medal. Nothing else.

Still.

He glances up.

He meets Pansy’s eyes.

He doesn’t think he’s imagining the faint hint of pink that’s blossoming across her cheeks.

It gets worse, after that.

They suck at Worlds.

They suck hard.

Cormac trips over the fucking snaggletooth murder traps on the fronts of his skates, skids into the boards while the crescendo of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony echoes around the rafters of the rink, and he hasn’t eaten ice like that since he was twelve, training with Zabini notwithstanding, and he’s taken aback, almost, by how fucking infuriating it is.

To work and sweat and bleed and still not be good enough.

Somewhere, Hermione Granger is writing her fucking dissertation on emotional manipulation and fucking laughing at him.

Again.

But Pansy’s a professional, of course, and so she skates on, footwork beautiful and timing impeccable, but there’s a rigidity to her movements, a stiffness in her spine and a wariness clouding her jumps, that doesn’t translate well. And Cormac heaves himself up, hurries to join her, tries to get the counts right in his head, but he’s not used to this, still doesn’t hear the nuances of the music quite like he should, and he’s a visible half-beat behind her for the rest of their long program.

Pansy doesn’t look at him afterwards.

She lifts her chin, clutches his hand, pastes a smile on her face, graciously accepts the scattered flowers and the slightly subdued applause; but her lower lip is trembling, and her eyes are suspiciously glassy underneath the false lashes and the metric fuck-ton of glitter, and Cormac feels guilt, gross and thick and vaguely acidic, begin to eat at his insides. It’s shitty. He’s shitty.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out when they get back to their dressing room.

Pansy yanks at the laces of her skates. “For what?”

Cormac hesitates. “For, uh, fucking that up? Like, the whole thing?”

She shrugs. Fiddles with the zipper on her Team USA jacket. Still doesn’t look at him. “It happens,” she says, shortly.

“Well, yeah,” he replies, tugging at the over-starched cuffs of his shirt. It’s an ugly fucking shirt, interlocking shades of grey superimposed by a ragged slash of purposely illegible graffiti. “But, like. I’m still—I’m sorry, I guess, that you’ll have to. You know. Find someone else to skate with.”

Pansy goes dangerously still, a travel pack of cucumber-scented exfoliating wipes crinkling between her fingertips. “Excuse me?”

“Uh,” he hedges, licking his lips, “I’m sorry? I just—this shit was a lot easier during practice, you know, and I’m really…there’s still a few months left before San Jose, you could probably find another dude to—”

“What the fuck?” she interrupts. “What are you talking about?”

“I—I’m just—isn’t that how this goes?” Cormac asks, cracking his knuckles. His forehead is itchy where his sweat’s dried, caking the thin layer of bronze powder the makeup artist had dusted all over his face. “You got rid of…your other partners, the ones before me, and I don’t really expect—I mean—I’m not even a figure skater, you know? You don’t have to. Keep me around, or whatever. It’s okay.”

“Right,” she exhales, and that’s—that’s anger, he can hear it now. Anger and consternation and just the tiniest bit of fear. She’s finally looking at him. “I’m only going to say this once.”

“Uh.”

“You are not expendable,” Pansy snaps, enunciating each word so, so clearly, so crisply, like she’s convinced that if she doesn’t—convinced that if she slurs, or if she stumbles, or if she stutters—he might not get it. It makes her sound frantic. It makes her sound fierce. And he wonders at that, at her, just for a second; has to, absolutely, because she’s the most rigidly self-contained person he’s ever met, and this is unprecedented. This is. This is. “One subpar performance isn’t—it happens, you know that, but you—you’re not going anywhere, you’re not—you’re not temporary. Okay?”

Cormac swallows. He feels a little wrung out, like his skin’s stretched too thin and his bones are too spongey. Like—he’s exposed. Nerves raw, tonsils scratchy. It isn’t bad. Not really. He thinks he could get used to it, actually, if she needed him to. Asked him to.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

On New Year’s Eve, they’re sitting cross-legged on his living room floor, three iPods and Zabini’s laptop and a wine-stained yellow legal pad spread out between them. Cormac’s never really had strong opinions about classical music before, but they’ve been arguing about this shit for three and a half hours, and he has a fucking headache. He deserves a drink. He deserves a Stanley Cup.

“I’ve got it,” he says, popping the cork on a bottle of Bollinger. “Def Leppard.”

Pansy chews on the inside of her mouth. “I know you think you’re joking, but that’s actually—that might not be a bad idea.”

Cormac skips the crystal stemware and grabs two custom black beer steins emblazoned with his old jersey number. “What, asking the Olympic Committee to install a stripper pole on the ice?”

“No, I meant—going rogue, with the music and the costumes and the—the routine, maybe, your technique is garbage, but—wait, what are you doing? What is that?”

“Champagne,” he says, holding out a mug for her.

She doesn’t take it. “I don’t drink.”

He rears back. “What? How do you live?”

“With excellent liver function and a spotless criminal record,” she simpers.

He pauses. “You read my Wikipedia page,” he says, kind of accusingly.

“You punched a math major.”

Cormac makes sure to gulp down most of his champagne before he deigns to answer.

Midnight comes and goes.

They give up on making a decision about the music for their short program, and Cormac turns on a holiday marathon of Love It or List It. Pansy scrunches her toes into the carpet, toys with the hem of her tank top, gradually shifts closer and closer and closer; and the minutes seem to grind to a slick, syrupy halt as the weight of this—the expectation—suddenly becomes realer. More tangible.

It’s not a surprise when their lips finally brush.

It is a surprise, though, that Pansy’s so tentative about it.

So uncertain.

She has her eyes squeezed shut, and her hands bunched into fists around the fabric of his henley, and the movement of her mouth against his is mechanical, slow and soft and wet, yeah, but almost like those are things that she’s mentally checking off a list. Commonly Accepted Attributes of a First Kiss. Lean in. Arch up. Meld. Melt. Tease. Her tongue flicks out, just once, and she tastes cold and tart, like lemon water and peppermint, and Cormac groans, threading his fingers through the ends of her hair, cupping the nape of her neck and tilting her head a little farther back and—she relaxes, slightly.

“Yeah?” he breathes.

Her nails scrape against his skin. “Yeah.”

Twenty minutes later, they’re upstairs.

Pansy’s naked, sitting on the end of his bed with her knees pressed together and her face flushed a seriously satisfying shade of pink. And Cormac’s trying to get his own clothes off, really, he is, but she’s leaning back on her elbows, right, and her tits are small, obviously, she’s small, but they’re round and firm and perfect and the movement sort of thrusts them forward, drawing his attention to the tight peachy-beige buds of her nipples, and they’re—she’s—distracting. He’s distracted.

“Jesus Christ, are you going to fuck me or not?” she demands.

Cormac yanks his boxers off so fast that his cock slaps against his lower abdomen. “Don’t worry,” he assures her when her eyebrows fly up, “it’ll fit.”

Pansy’s jaw goes slack, and then she’s snorting out a laugh that’s deep and throaty and remarkably genuine, actually, nothing at all like the audibly artificial giggling she’d done at their last presser. And Cormac—he doesn’t care, he decides, that this laugh had come at his expense. He doesn’t. He’d say awful, humiliating, utterly moronic shit for the rest of his life, probably, if it would get her to laugh like that again. Which is a problem. Definitely. That he’ll totally address. At some point. Definitely. In the far, far, far off future.

“Who have you been sleeping with?” she asks, sounding mystified.

“No one, lately,” he replies, maybe a little too honestly, before pushing her backwards, dragging his hands from her shoulders to her waist to her hips.

Her lashes flutter as she clamps her bottom lip between her teeth. “Oh,” she says, but then she’s flashing him a smile, small and subtle and pleased, and her knees are falling open, and she’s repeating, much more quietly, much more intimately—

“Oh.”

They’re waiting to board their charter to South Korea when she grabs his wrist.

“Cormac.”

“Hmm?” he answers, scowling at an email from Malfoy that contains an inexplicably snide lol and absolutely nothing else. “What?”

Pansy glances over at him, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized cashmere sweater and fluffy brown Uggs with the tops folded down. She looks fucking ridiculous.

“So…are you…are we…?” she asks, sounding—not indifferent, exactly, but maybe like she’s trying incredibly hard to pretend that she is. “All in?”

And Cormac—

Cormac forgets, sometimes, that other people have feelings, too. Feelings like he does. He shies away from words like “inadequate” and “unremarkable”, hasn’t ever let himself go there, even in his own head, because that’s a slippery fucking slope and he’s a big believer in faking shit until he doesn’t have to anymore. Until he’s tricked himself into thinking that it’s real.

He’s never had to do that with Pansy.

Not once.

And he doesn’t want her to have to do that, either. Second-guess herself, or him, or his place in her life. She’d told him he wasn’t temporary, wasn’t expendable, and she’d meant it, she’d made sure that he knew she meant it, and all he’d done in return was give her orgasms. He could do better. He would do better. He’d get her a gold medal and he’d curate her fucking library and he’d teach her how to play hockey. He’d love her, eventually. He would.

For now, though, he just twists his wrist around, slides his hand up, presses the flat of his palm to the flat of Pansy’s, and he—he marvels for a second. At how tiny she is compared to him. How fragile, and how not fragile, and how much of a fundamental fucking contradiction she’s been all along.

He then laces their fingers together, and he feels her brief tremor of surprise. Feels how she stills, and how she steadies, and how she settles.

“All in,” he promises.

#pansy x cormac #cormac x pansy #cormac mclaggen #pansy parkinson #hprarepairnet #gtk #andrea #drabble #slytherdornet

[bethestaryouareradio]

Short, Sweet, Free

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July 3, 2020

Short, Sweet, Free

Celebrate Life!

  MIRACLE MOMENT®

“Just living isn’t enough,” said the butterfly. “One must also have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower.”  Hans Christian Andersen

      A Message fhttp://hosted.verticalresponse.com/672296/26698eccb0/288055965/ac7221bc2f/rom Founder and Executive Director, Cynthia Brian

It’s the 4th of July weekend and I know you want to be outside, even if you are alone, sheltering-in-place, wearing a mask when you walk, and remembering the “good ‘ole days” before pandemic. Much has happened since our last newsletter, but I’ll make our announcements short and sweet.

  1, For Middle Schoolers: 

Check out The Hope Challenge (Helping Our Passions Emerge) from student-led nonprofit, Seattle Advocates for Education (seattleadvocatesfe.org/):

The HOPE Challenge is a free entrepreneurship competition for middle school students, providing an opportunity for students to learn entrepreneurship by allowing their ideas to come to life. The PROMPT: Develop a solution that seeks to solve an arising problem that COVID-19 has created. Students are expected to respond to the prompt by submitting an elevator pitch video (1-3 minutes) proposing their product or service. View the Competition Guidelines to learn what to include in your video! Visit the website https://www.thehopechallenge.org for more info. Deadline soon.

Win awards from $25-200.

  2.  New Teen Reporter: 

Welcome to our awesome new reporter on Express Yourself! Teen Radio, Andrea Smith. Her segment is titled, In the Spotlight. Andrea is a senior at Santa Margarita Catholic High School in Southern CA. She loves swimming and participating in everything ocean related. She is also extremely passionate about Model United Nations and knows the ins and outs of living a happy and healthy lifestyle! www.ExpressYourselfTeenRadio.com

  3. Thank You:

The California Humanities and the National Endowment for the Humanities as part of the Cares Act have just awarded me a small grant to continuing producing Super Smart Sundays on Express Yourself! Teen Radio showcasing authors, musicians, artists, actors, creatives, and more who have had their work, appearances, concerts, etc. cancelled during this pandemic. My paid personal appearances have all been canceled and I know how they feel. I’m thrilled to be able to support fellow artists. 

    4. Free Women’s Summit: 

Want to find your superpower?  REGISTER for the FREE Passions into Profits Women's Summit hosted by Jane Applegath at http://JaneApplegath.com.  Be the heroine of your own epic life. Watch and learn from a league of leaders and trailblazers to help you to lead a life you love.Your dreams can be your reality! I was the featured guest on June 25th and Jane is incredible FREE registration, http://www.janeapplegath.com.

  5. WEDNESDAYS with Writers and SUPER SMART SUNDAYS

As part of our Be the Star You Are! Disaster Relief Outreach program (https://www.bethestaryouare.org/copy-of-operation-hurricane-disaste), StarStyle® Productions, LLC and Be the Star You Are!® have collaborated with the Authors Guild to showcase the new books launched by many authors from around the country in a variety of genres. We are showcasing artists, actors, and musicians, all of whom had had their gigs canceled and are out of work. We believe in supporting creativity that provides escape and joy, especially during tough times. Tune in to both StarStyle®-Be the Star You Are!® on Wednesdays at 4pm PT for “Writers Wednesdays” LIVE http://www.voiceamerica.com/show/2206/be-the-star-you-are as well as our teen program, Express Yourself!™ airing on Sundays at 3pm PT for “Super Smart Sundays” https://www.voiceamerica.com/show/2014/express-yourself

  Both programs broadcast on the Voice America Network, Empowerment Channel and will be archived on that site as well as iTunes, Stitcher, etc.

  6. Summer Reading

Our Star Teen Book Review Team is busy reading and writing reviews for you to enjoy this summer. Reviews are honest and the personal experience of each writer. Check them out at our website, http://www.btsya.com/book_reviews.html, and at our partner, The Reading Tub, https://thereadingtub.org/books/be-the-star-you-are/.  Many thanks to our Book Review Coordinator, Stephanie Cogeos, for keeping us on track. If you are interested in joining our team and you are genuinely interested in being of service to others, you can find the info at http://www.btsya.com/book_reviews.html

  7. Nurture with Nature

If you need a bit of sunshine and flowers, visit https://www.cynthiabrian.com/gardening where you’ll find loads of photos and gardening articles (https://www.cynthiabrian.com/gardening-articles) that will inspire you to get off the couch, power down the gadgets, and enjoy nature bathing. 

    Before I leave you to your popsicles and barbecues, I want to repeat what Beyonce said when she received her Humanitarian Award recently “vote like our life depends on it.”  

  Voting is our ultimate freedom to choose. It's FREE. Just do it. 

  Have a healthy, safe, and happy Independence Day. Care, share, be fair. 

  Celebrate Life.

  Living with gratitude, 

  Cynthia Brian

Founder/Executive Director

Be the Star You Are!®

PO Box 376

Moraga, California 94556

[email protected]

https://www.BetheStarYouAre.org

http://www.BTSYA.org

    We invite you to volunteer, get involved, or make a donation. Make a DONATION through PAYPAL GIVING FUND and PAYPAL with 100% going to BTSYA with NO FEES:  https://www.paypal.com/fundraiser/charity/1504

      THE IMPORTANCE OF BLACK LIVES MATTER

                            All Lives Matter should be true but it is a current lie. This is why it’s important to emphasize that Black Lives Matter. I’m not sure that it would make some people feel more comfortable if it were neatly wrapped in a box, tied with a bow, and titled titled Black Lives Matter Too. Which is the problem.

Why does Black Lives Matter make some people feel uncomfortable? Those who operate in treating people fairly have the hardest time grasping this. Perhaps they have a naïve interpretation of the world by having been sheltered. Perhaps they have developed a defense mechanism to cope. In their minds it’s, “Hey, if 7 out of 7 billion people in the world are good then all people are good.” 

A clear mathematical imbalance.

The Black Lives Movement has demonstrated it is more powerful than any opposition. We have joined together with Caucasian, Asian, African, Latino and all Lives around the world to make this statement a giant. Let’s do the right thing and respect each other, protest peacefully, and appreciate one another. Black people here in Washington D.C. where I live, were wrought with pain over the death of George Floyd. Once the protests calmed, for once in my life, my black experience was that Black Lives Mattered.

My own people were more conscious of being kind to each other by intentionally supporting one another’s businesses.  We even look at each other totally different now. 

For a long time I’ve been mistreated by my own race.  For the first time, I can see a different soul in the eyes of my people. This matters to me.

We have become the Black Lives that Matter to Black Lives.

  Priscilla Mac is volunteer with Be the Star You Are!® and Christian Television Talk Show Host of a program called "Still Learning Still Developing" which airs on Preach The Word Worldwide Network.During her 5 years of service in the U.S. Army she specialized in Logistics and is currently a Digital Systems Analyst for Voice of America International Broadcasting.. www.priscillamac.com

  PLEASE DONATE

            Since BTSYA receives no government or corporate support, we count on YOU to help us help others. During this pandemic, all of our fundraising events have been canceled, yet we continue to support those in need. We appreciate a direct donation most of all via PAYPAL GIVING FUND at https://www.paypal.com/fundraiser/charity/1504

  Checks can be sent to PO Box 376, Moraga, California 94556

http://www.btsya.org

    Classified Ads:

If you’d like to advertise your service or product while supporting Be the Star You Are!®, we are now accepting approved ads that will benefit readers. Contact [email protected] for details. 

  GET SOCIAL

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  Happy 4th of July! Be Safe! Be Smart! Be Strong!

  Be the Star You Are!®

PO Box 376

Moraga, California 94556

[email protected]

https://www.BetheStarYouAre.org

http://www.BTSYA.org

  CELEBRATE LIFE!

    A SWELTERING SUMMER DAY

  Some call it a sweltering summer day. I like to call it a scattering kindness opportunity!

  What kid, of any age, doesn’t smile with their first lick of a frozen popsicle on a very hot day? 

  You can be a super hero by simply picking up a box of popsicles and searching for a nearby shelter to drop them off. 

  Hint -- shelters are everywhere.

You'll feel cooler just imagining when the paper comes off that first popsicle. 

  Give a kid joy and sweetness today! 

    Karen Kitchel who penned two chapters in the book, Be the Star You Are! Millennials to Boomers Celebrating Gifts of Positive Voices in a Changing Digital World, is the Kindness Coordinator volunteer with BTSYA. She serves meals to the homeless and is a volunteer teacher, writer, job coach, and mentor. 

www.scatteringkindness.com

      SHOP ONLINE WITHOUT A MASK!

Since we need to stay at home and only go out when absolutely necessary, these are on-line shopping portals that will sell you what you need, offer discounts, and assist our mission as a nonprofit. Please use these web sites for all of your shopping essentials, 

    1. AmazonSmile donates .5% of purchases https://smile.amazon.com/ch/94-3333882

2. Discounted books at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/shops/be_the_star_you_are_charity

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[atlff18]

EIGHTH GRADE

For his first feature film writer director Bo Burnham owes everything to Elsie Fisher his 14-year-old star who just completed her own eighth grade of middle school when production started. Burnham doesn’t owe A24, the distributor, not composer Anna Meredith, not cinematographer Andrew Wehde, not the editor Jennifer Lilly who has the most film experience here, all key people who can really impact a first time film director. No, he owes all of Eighth Grade to Fisher who allows Burnham to capture every ounce of her physical and mental being not so much in an exploitative way—though you might suspect that is the case since the film is reality based and highly stalking at times —but in a very anthropological way that in a positive sense schools people on what internet life is like at this age. Which is not that much different from everyone else who experienced eighth grade before Facebook, YouTube and Snapchat, in terms of social anxiety. Today it’s just a more penetrating, omnipresence of social concerns.

 The Story: Kayla is in her final year of middle school. She’ll be graduating and heading to high school and we get to follow her and watch her as she navigates this delicate time in her life. Eighth Grade is a “day in the life” narrative-based fictional film about Kayla, an only child, who lives with her dad Mark, played by Josh Hamilton (The Meyerowitz Stories (2017), Manchester By The Sea (2016), Frances Ha (2012)), who does his best to stay in touch with his daughter; to allow her to do her thing while also being concerned for her wellbeing; trying to have conversations with her though she just wants to be left alone. And we see her desire to be accepted by the popular girls, while crushing on a boy, Aiden, played by Luke Prael, and in turn, her friend Gabe, played by Jake Ryan, who crushes on her.

 The Goods: What Burnham does best is write accidental maturity into these kids. That Aiden the cool, dreamy kid doesn’t even know how magnificent he is to Kayla, though he’s really scrawny and thin, especially as he makes child-like grimaces and accompanying sound effects in class. Yet he’s one of the most popular kids. And that Gabe is a nerd but his seemingly inherent gentlemanly qualities brush off of him like a dog shedding hair. A kid, a child, but one who makes Kayla dinner and shares her concerns about the future.

 Eighth Grade is not a John Hughes film, it is not a Disney film with kid actors from Disney Channel shows. It is not innocent comedic Napoleon Dynamite (2004) fun. And it’s not this year’s Lady Bird (2017) as some media outlets are saying. It sort of touches on all of the schematic pieces of these entities, such as capturing the ticks and sounds young people like to make, the natural dialogue of “likes” and “ums,” or the quirky clothing and hairstyles of kids and teachers, done here as well if not better than in Sixteen Candles (1984) or Welcome To The Doll House (1995), or in Richard Linklater’s Dazed And Confused (1993). And the subculture that exists in the hallways, between lockers. But Eighth Grade is dark, the lighting is dark, the music is at times cold and isolating, whether that is all done on purpose or whether it was created this way in post-production based on inexperienced filmmaking…it’s as if we’re on another planet. Which often times we are when trying to recognize and understand kids of this age, or ourselves, when we were in this limbo between childhood and adulthood.

 And if you think of the world of Eighth Grade, whether it’s this film, or the actual moment in time—our actual eighth grade—it really is like a level of Dante’s Inferno and Burnham and the crew he works with here have nailed that in every scary, alienated, other worldly way without leaving the reality of the true situation. It’s not a documentary but it documents with accuracy this year in Kayla’s life, just as Michael Apted documented kids from seven years old and up…called the UP series, following the same people from age 7 to age 56, and is still going, and just as the Michael Apted title explains his long term biography project Eighth Grade does the same thing. It’s an anthropological title, a history term paper title, it’s a milestone, a moment, a term used for the eighth year of a child’s education. It can’t get any dryer than that. Like National Geographic, as their motto says, “to increase and diffuse geographic knowledge,” Eighth Grade, as would be fifth grade, or twelfth grade, or say the year in a college freshman’s life on campus, provides us with something more than just a Hollywood top 40 soundtrack movie with adolescent guys having sex with pies.

 In that regard, Eighth Grade is more like Fish Tank (2009), written and directed by Andrea Arnold, a fictional slice-of-life look documenting the daily events of 15-year-old Mia who lives with her single mother which won the Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival. And yet not at all like Thirteen (2003), a well-lit professional-looking film shot in a handheld style that involves thirteen-year-old girls in a pattern of self-destruction, and stars Holly Hunter, again, a single parent. To further describe where Eighth Grade fits into the narrative film structure of this genre.

 The original music in Eighth Grade, composed mostly of electronic music by Anna Meredith, adds more of a Nicolas Winding Refn (Valhalla Rising (2009), Drive (2011), The Neon Demon (2016)), feel at times. There is definitely a science-fiction underscore to the film. When we consider the effects the internet and social media have on Kayla’s young mind, the way Burnham captures late night screen time with Kayla, in bed, always with her purple earbud headphones on, sort of hiding from dad, and the world, in the darkness of her room with the single light of her cell phone…it’s no different than any other cold, electronic, robotic, A.I. image in any science fiction film dealing with lonely astronauts.

 Or like in the films of Refn where the central characters are often loners where the camera follows them and stays with them all day allowing us—with electronic music—to crawl under their skin like nano bots and go along for what is usually a dramatically creepy ride.

 The music proliferates the fantasies and fears of the young person experience, more so than music from a Hughes film, but not dissimilar to Sophia Coppola who does this quite well in nearly all of her films, using musicians like electronic synth-heavy bands and artists like Squarepusher, Air, Klaus Schulze, Oneohtrix Point Never and the more accessible Avicii, or deadmau5.

 Even bigger, wide reaching films have an original electronic score most of which lends itself well to suspenseful or psychological moments, in recent films like Game Night (2018), score by Cliff Martinez, and Phantom Thread (2017), soundtrack by Radiohead guitarist Johnny Greenwood. Greenwood was nominated for an Oscar in the Original Score category for that film and recently scored Lynne Ramsey’s You Were Never Really Here (2018), which, starring Joaquin Phoenix, is much more common in tonality, music wise, electronically, to contemporary films like Drive, and Tron: Legacy (2010), and curiously Burnham’s Eighth Grade. Both films in fact—You Were Never Really Here and Eighth Grade—have tracks that are siren-like in their attempt to interpret scenes where sirens might be required for both a) the characters in the film, as sort of red flags, and b) for the audience in enhancing the “alarm” of character distress.

 This kind of music is nothing new. Hans Zimmer of Inception (2010), Interstellar (2014), The Dark Knight Rises (2012), uses nearly all synthesizers and electronics; as does Steven Jablonsky, composer of the Transformer films. That same highly affective synthetic sound logic is found in the X-Files TV show and films, Scarface (1983), The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (2011), the Blade Runner films, Hackers (1995), big film and TV stuff. But indie films too have a pedigree of electronic music as part of their original soundtrack. John Carpenter, the sci-fi and fantasy indie film king, composes a lot of electronic music for his films, the most noticeable and recognizable being the theme from his Halloween films, but also Escape from New York (1981), The Thing (1982), They Live (1988), Ghosts of Mars (2001), etc. And a near wordless action nail-biter like Terminator (1984) relies heavily on electronic music that drives the tension and suspense of that film like few others.

 The point of all of this is two things: a) the electronic music you hear in Eighth Grade works against the character, is a cold partner to the artificiality and falseness of social media, and creates a subtext of “alien presence” in the sense the soundtrack synthesizer is the voice of a world outside of reality, at best symbolizing the world of overbearing self-consciousness young people exist in at this age, and b) if that is so, then the upside is that Kayla’s character beats this sound around her, rises above it and conquers this monster-alien’s monolith alarm warfare in times of greatest challenges within the film.

 Even when we hear a contemporary song, like one from Selena Gomez or Katy Perry, it is not the party anthem of good times, one that appears on a soundtrack you can download on iTunes or buy at Walmart, but instead is often muffled in the film by kids conversing or by earbuds and quickly replaced by Meredith’s electronic composition which we surely come to recognize as representative of Kayla’s true psyche. And that music, it’s almost like the black alien goo from the Spider-Man comics which eventually takes over the bearer’s body and goes on to become Venom, taking over the mainstream pop music of  Eighth Grade.

 But Kayla rises above all that, and that is the film’s most successful aspect. It gives this character’s story a positive punch in the end.

 The Flaws: My problem is it’s all just a little too dark, that the film goes to the dark side of eighth grade angst and isolation more than I’d like it to. Which makes the film stand out, I recognize that, and for which it also makes the film better than most in this category. I find the music a little too invasive, but that’s the point too…that all of this social media stigmata and middle school distress is overbearing. And the music gives the film a signature that neither Kayla nor the audience can shake. Is that what reality is like? Are we affected by technology and people around us, our place in society, to such a degree it gives us a mark of disgrace, of shame, and an aura of neurosis? I don’t think so. In reality. At least not permanently. But yes, in the movie, the electronic compositions are so strong they put a UPC code-like stamp on our Kayla that leaves us very little hope for a positive future. In that regard Eighth Grade feels more like a monster movie than a young adult drama.

 Comedy is what we need a little more of here, if we wish to retain the sense of realism Burnham has done so well with here. If we could laugh at ourselves a bit more in Eighth Grade, laugh with Kayla, watch Kayla laugh a little at herself and some of her circumstances, not in a Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982) way, or in a Clueless (1995), Amy Heckerling way, or in a Mean Girls (2004) way—but in a Matt Damon laughing at Robin Williams way in Good Will Hunting (1997), or in a Tom Berenger trying a stunt jump in The Big Chill (1983) way, or in a Rachel Getting Married (2008) wedding craziness relief like family toasts way…if we have these comedic personality traits in Eighth Grade, the comedy of life’s weirdest moments would seem more real than it does here in what we only see as a series of reactions that for Kayla express disappointment and embarrassment.

 That realistic lighting and those humiliating parents and that awkward bathing suit at the swim party, that the prospect of a relationship with someone we have a crush on, those “realities” aren’t real enough in the end without the ability to laugh at something, anything, which is what kids do with their friends—seeking comfort from the madness of this time in our life.  True, that doesn’t always happen. Some kids don’t get that outlet, the outlet of life-like friends, or sports, or after school programs…or that opportunity to vent while just hanging out with friends after school watching TV and laughing at body noises and funky odors. In the film Eighth Grade, we get a glimpse of that and see that Kayla does in fact have those options, yet we only really see her drop her guard, loosen up, on one or two occasions which are far outweighed by the more humiliating, self-conscious, constricting horrors in her head.  

 Working with limited budgets, cast, equipment, you’re talking a school full of kids, a community, a shopping mall, a high school where the eighth graders shadow high school students…sure, there are a lot of successful quantities here. And in that regard Burnham has made a great film. Correction, Elsie Fisher has made a great film, as laden as it is with oppressive dark matter of the universe.

 The Call: Spend the ten. Eighth Grade is shy of being a master piece but it’s a fantastic dramatic debut for Burnham who by trade is a comedian. His previous directing work is with TV and cable comedy stand-up specials with the likes of Chris Rock, Jerod Carmichael and himself even though there’s rarely any comedy in this film. The original electronic music by Anna Meredith is at times mostly highhanded and sometimes terrorizing; the film could use a few more real-life comedic moments to punchline Kayla’s most difficult moments. But Elsie Fisher offers herself up for the cameras like a pro. Meryl Streep has nothing on her. It’s more than acting though. She’s sacrificing herself for the good of the film. Burnham has a lot to be thankful for. And so do we. Gucci!

 Eighth Grade is still on the festival circuit and will receive a rating closer to release date. Running time is 1 hour and 34 minutes.

By Jon Lamoreaux

[alittlelessdemocracy]

LOOKING FOR YOUR CLOWN.......AND FINDING YOURSELF

I found this article over the summer on a blog devoted to the psychotherapeutic applications of clowning as a performance art after listening to a moving interview with the actor John C. Reilly on Marc Maron’s podcast WTF. In the interview, Reilly talks about this idea of “finding your face” as an essential, and basically mystical aspect of the old profession of clowning. Hearing him discuss these ideas, I couldn’t help but make the connection to the vulnerability I inevitably experience as a teacher, and the ways that I’ve tried to remain open to this feeling (rather than trying to cultivate a cool professionalism) as a way to connect with the vulnerability that is part of the experience of learning for students. Oddly enough, while researching this topic, I was at the same time toying with the idea of including a reading (also from 1984 or so) about what seems like it would be the opposite mindset (in the true sense of opposition - in that it is not simply different from, but in a direct inverted relation) - namely - that of the idea of coolness. The reading - by Robert Farris Thompson - traces the idea of coolness in popular culture back to its roots in African spirituality - the Yaruba in particular. Interestingly - Itutu - or “mystic coolness,” when it comes down to it, is a kind of reverse clowning. Rather than putting on an exaggeratedly expressive mask in order to perform a cathartic vulnerability, personifying Itutu entails a kind of masking that has to do with tapping into the foundational strength of ones ancestors. What I find most resonant is that both positions are performative, both involve masks, and both are an attempt to “tarry with” (to borrow a phrase from the psychoanalyst Lou Andreas-Salomé via Kaja Silverman’s 2009 book Flesh of My Flesh, which we’re reading in seminar) the experience of trauma. I can’t help thinking that part of the reason that clowning is a dying profession (and why clowns are so demonized within popular culture) is that we find this idea of vulnerability genuinely threatening: we don’t believe it’s advisable (life’s too hard), and we don’t trust ourselves with it (we’re not competent enough, or good enough people, to be trusted with this kind of power). And for good reason - we live in a society in which spontaneity is more often than not a privilege exercised at others expense, and in which vulnerability is an involuntary structural inevitability for most people, making it harder to embrace as a voluntary position of strength.

--------------------------------------------------

This article was published in 1984 in "ART ET THERAPIE" and written by Bertil SYLVANDER. Adapted and translated from the French by Vivian GLADWELL.

In this article I will attempt to answer two questions:

Who is the clown?

Why and how does seeking our clown allow personal development and a move towards self-awareness?

Who is the clown?

I do not wish (and it would be too tiring for me) to write about the historical origins of the clown, or archetypes of the collective unconscious or of psychoanalytical interpretations. I will go straight to the essential which is my own experience of clowning. Something which may seem obvious but isn't, is the distinction I draw between "THE CLOWN", who is on stage in front of an audience and "the person" who is behind the red nose and gives life to the clown.

The clown is essentially an emotional being

Clowns feel and express powerful and intense emotions. They respond to events which often seem to us, normal people, trivial. If all of a sudden a beam of sunlight crosses the room, one clown may become happy as if this was the greatest and most wonderful thing that had ever happened in his or her life, another however might become completely and inexplicably depressed. Whatever their reactions, clowns are expressive and fragile in their emotions: they stay very close to what is happening inside them without worrying too much about whether it makes sense or is the right thing to do.

For a clown, the emotional state generated by an event is perceived as an overwhelming experience; it is this obsessive and frantic perception of feelings which forces the clown to identify with the world around: the clown is in empathy with the world. The clown is a professional empathiser.

Identification with an object, identification with the other

If someone's crying, the clown might be overcome with sadness and not know why, simply through empathy and mimicry. This fusion with feelings often drives clowns to repeat the actions, sounds, words, and movements which give them pleasure. This is called the taste for excess and exaggeration.

The clown lives "the now" of every second

The intensity which clowns experience is due to the fact that they live the present moment of each second. Feelings and emotions in the present are the most important things in the world for them, and they are not preoccupied by what the next second will bring. Clowns take time to savour the extraordinary inner treasures of the moment (Except if their present feeling is worry, then they will be worried, really worried sick. Clowns will settle into the state of being worried with serenity!) Staying close to the present allows clowns to live out their emotions to the full. They are unrepentant optimists and have got all the time in the world to wait for things to turn out the way they want.

The clown lives through what is "real and objective"

The clown isn't on some fictional stage playing Hamlet. No, he or she is here with us, the audience, in a room or elsewhere. Clowns see us, and through eye contact share with us their every thoughts and feelings. This is what makes clowning different from traditional theatre. Clowns have a very objective relationship with the world.

The clown's present reality is shared and lived with us. The clown is also a super concentrated source of sugary fantasies. The slightest event, the slightest emotion evokes within the clown all sorts of fantastic images which then bring him or her to embark upon fantastic adventures.

The clown's (controlled) slips of imagination ... into absurdity

By diving into the world of the imagination, clowns are at its mercy. Like rally-car drivers, clowns skid through their imagination. They leave the road, go careering through fields, jump over ditches and join the road again further down. Clowns are ace racing drivers. Their folly is based on non-sense : Absurdity does not frighten clowns in the least. Non-sense is a rational form of madness, it's a logical delirium.

Essential moments in clowning : breaking the thread

Clowns may be fools at the mercy of their imagination and they skid on the ice of delirium....But do not be misled! Clowns are well aware of the road signs. When leading us into some make believe airy-fairy world, clowns do not really want us to believe in the world they are creating, because they only half believe in it themselves .....and let's face it, they don't believe in it at all. (What we should believe however is the way in which clowns live through their fragile constructions.)

Clowns live all their pathetic or disastrous adventures in front of us and with us. They never try to mislead us (this would be presumptuous, for the various stage-props are ridiculous) because they never mislead themselves.

Clowning requires keeping a close watch on the subtle line that exists between reality and an imaginary world. This is done by stepping back and taking one's distance from time to time. It is a crucial moment in clowning. We call it breaking the thread or distanciation.

Just look at a child playing and it becomes obvious. The child is both within reality and within an imaginary world. Clowns find their own solutions to stop madness from driving them completely over the edge of the road. (It would create real unease for an audience if it thought the clown was really mad)

It is important to realise that when feelings and emotions in clowning become too strong, clowns have the freedom to play with them. It is this "breaking free" which releases relief and laughter from the audience, because it de dramatises a tense situation, it exorcises tragedy. (The person behind the red nose will also experience this relief for him or herself.)

Clowns thus are able to break free from the dramatic tension they create. Their own feelings, those of their partner and of the audience do not restrict them. This is because clowns are capricious, fickle, manic depressive, versatile and free beings. In other words, clowns live in the present.

We may be moved by their emotions, carried along by their imagination, concerned by the complex and dramatic events they struggle with, intrigued by the logic they develop and profoundly relieved through the laughter, the somersaults, the breaking free from events or the winking of an eye which defuses the tragic.

Deep down the clown is a vulnerable being

All the threads I have introduced and attached next to each other form an indissoluble whole: the weft of the clown's character. It is on this frame that each of us will then weave, in our own fashion, our unique clown character. (Naturally this character will evolve as and when we discover meaning and get nearer to ourselves through the creation of that character).

But let's take a closer look at the character's underlying colour.

Clowns are primarily and fundamentally fragile and vulnerable (it is through this that clowns will draw their strength). While society expects us to be beautiful, intelligent, in control of our emotions and successful in our projects, clowns are not ashamed to show their physical disabilities, their simple-minded nature (not to mention a charming foolishness), their uncontrolled and overwhelming emotions. Naturally such a constitution drives clowns from one failure to another (up to the final success, of course). Clowns are not like the unruffled heroes of some Hollywood cowboy movies but more like eternally awkward and hopeless cases of failure.

It is precisely for this that we love the clown! For us, within us and with us the clown plays at Losers Win. The more it goes wrong, the greater the success, because it is by drawing on their weaknesses that clowns become strong. (Where there's muck, there's gold...) Why is this so?

First and foremost it is because clowns are not ashamed to be themselves, and to present themselves to us as profoundly human and close to our nature that they strike a chord in us. They also carry the responsibility of their nature without letting anyone else bear its weight.

It is this self-acceptance that makes clowns committed optimists. They are losers with a winner's soul, they stubbornly go through countless ordeals until they find their own solution within the confusion of their problems.

By taking a step to the side, clowning shows us how vain, derisory and hopeless are the efforts towards success. It is through failure that clowns show their wisdom. Though they embark on their projects with great emotional intensity, there is deep inside a serenity, a detachment which fills us with peace. One realises that one doesn't laugh at clowns but through them.

Clowns wins in the end because they ridicule social pressures and show us that happiness is possible without necessarily conforming to the norms of beauty, of self- control and of logical intelligence extolled by the white clown. In destroying the myth of superficial appearances and giving us the right to be ourselves, the clown makes us (and the person playing him or her) feel better about ourselves.

It is clear why the clown is so much loved by children - and by the child within us - he or she is on their side in the fight for acquiring an identity and in the face of pressures to conform as an adult.

Why and how does the search for one's clown allow personal growth ?

Having introduced the character of the clown I will now present my thoughts on the relationship between searching for one's clown and personal growth. (It sounds better than therapy).

Seeking one's clown does have therapeutic effects. Though it cannot, I think, be considered a true form of therapy, it can accompany, help, and prepare one for such an experience.

Why and how?

Seeking one's clown is primarily working towards self-expression

Finding one's clown isn't a matter of "learning to do funny things", rather it consists of discovering within oneself a clown as unique as each of us are.

Self-expression, which constitutes the basis of this search, requires first the creation of conditions that will allow a breaking free from inhibitions, a loosening of control, a letting go of creativity. All of which are basically the conditions needed for play. As Winnicott (1971) says "It is in playing and only in playing that an individual is able to be creative".

Under those conditions, where everything is allowed, creating a secure environment is essential. It will exist when it becomes established that there is no judgement (of others, and of oneself by others), no comparing, no systematic attempt to intellectualise what has happened. This means that what is expressed cannot become the object of an analysis or interpretation unless the person concerned clearly expresses the desire for it. Thus we believe that what is expressed has a value in itself, simply for having been expressed.

Guy Lafargue (1984) writes: "Artistic, poetic, physical or intellectual creation is clearly ambiguous in that while revealing the latent content of lived experiences, it also protects the individual from an excess of feelings. This it does through a partial discharge of dangerous emotions. This is possible only when the individual feels a sense of security in the creative situation."

A second condition for creating a secure environment for expression, which is linked to the first, concerns how we invest our identity and our selves in the work. Discovering the clown's fundamental characteristic of vulnerability means that before beginning work we should abandon on the one hand the stereotypes of the clown which are perpetuated through mass culture and on the other hand we need to progressively leave aside too-dearly held perceptions of our selves as successful, effective and strong individuals. There is in all this a risk-taking which is rewarded by the pleasure of expressive creativity.

Guy Lafargue writes: "Therapeutic work attempts to recognise a symptom in its linguistic and creative form, but in such a way as to allow the individual to experience it as a creative achievement...." "Establishing a space for creativity means giving the individual the possibility of exploring a territory in which he or she unconsciously turns away from the symptom in the context of a highly structured activity such as the progressive construction of meaning"

Like the work on dreams done in Gestalt, or on deep relaxation in Sophrology, or on automatic writing by the Surrealists, this work when carried over into a theatrical form of expression leads one to seek a release of the imagination through verbal or physical delirium. In this way the raw messages from the unconscious will be revealed. (Phew!)

It is for this reason that we greatly value improvisation, and that we give a lot of importance to the body. As the body's spontaneous language is generally less well controlled than speech, it more easily expresses our authenticity (as long as we allow it to do so).

If the conditions I have just mentioned exist, characters fundamentally close to each individual will then come alive through the exercises and the improvisations.

The mere awareness of this is already a therapeutic process.

Madness and the clown's imagination

The expression of the clown's personality does not appear by "itself", out the blue. It comes by means of a substance which is the clown's madness.

In our work, we look for this madness and we try to make it blossom. However it is not an uncontrolled form of madness but has a logic of its own that I have already mentioned. One might as well call it a paranoid delirium! Or according to Seglas (1895!), it is the development of "structured and persistent delirious ideas,....., a peculiar interpretation of the relationship between the outside world and the personality of the suffering person." Further: "It is the coherent development of a dramatic event, with an unshakeable, clear, perceptive and convincing argument!"

This quote describes well the clown's madness. First the clown's eccentric and personal way of relating to and interpreting reality. It is this that makes us able to understand clowns even in their madness. Clowns see the reality that we see (objects, places, events, partners, the audience) in a peculiar and strange manner but it is intelligible.

I also believe that this intelligibility comes from the fact that clowns do not follow aimlessly every image or fantasy which appears to them. The clown's madness is structured. (One could even say it is theatrical)

Also, let us not forget that the clown is living through an adventure and acts and experiences emotions in relation to events as they fold and unfold each other. Absurdity and nonsense in no way excludes the need for intrigue.

Finally, the therapeutic value of seeking one's clown is not limited to the timely expression of such or such an emotion or of such an image, it is also found in the fact that this search is structured within a logic that is unique to each individual and which will uncover features of that individual not only within an emotional context but also within the action of drama.

To end this paragraph I feel I need to remind you that although the clown can be paranoid, it does not mean that the person or individual is necessarily so! I shall come to this point later.

Living with the present moment

As I mentioned earlier we work a lot with improvisation. The great difficulty of improvisation work is that it requires us to be aware of things that are happening in the present. Which is just as well because the clown is someone who lives in the present. But the experience of improvising often brings with it the very fear which can inhibit expression. It is the fear of showing ourselves, of offering ourselves to be seen.

When experiencing this fear, we should simply be receptive to how it transforms our perception of the place we are in, to the partner we play with and the audience. Images, movements and emotions will appear and connect us with this fear. Clowns play with this confusion of emotions and reality.

If the person fears a situation, the clown can express this fear (and play with it); If the person experiences pleasure at being there, the clown can show this pleasure; if the person "does not know what to do", the clown can show how he or she lives the fact that the person does not know what to do (through gestures, voice and words) and in the process the clown will be doing. To express emptiness is already to express something.

Improvisation consists in coming on stage empty (predisposed and receptive to all that can happen) but charged with all of one's imagination. People we worked with have all noticed the extraordinary potential that this charge carries. Thus, to the fear of "not finding anything to do", is gradually substituted an awareness of the fabulous riches just lying there to be harvested.

From feeling inhibited in our body, we become gradually more confident in what it can tell us. Even when we experience a feeling of gapping emptiness, the body becomes our most trustworthy and reliable partner. The slightest event can from that moment become the thread upon which a complete improvisation can be woven. In such a way then, a breath of wind in a room can give a refreshing feeling on the skin. If we listen to our body instead of ignoring it, emotions and images spontaneously come to mind. A spontaneous gesture, if you trust yourself, does not need to mean something immediately. Let it grow on you, be receptive to what it is telling you. Emotion and meaning will come as an added surplus. "Be content in the present"

Connecting with the present emotion is therefore an essential aspect of improvisation in clowning. This connecting becomes both easier, and more difficult when irnprovising in twos for example. Easier because the other clown is an immediate source of inspiration, as an originator of proposals. More difficult because, however receptive one is to the other, this other still needs to express him or herself very clearly. This requires in turn that this other is clear in his or her own head about what is going on. Working in twos can be defined as: "Listening to oneself - listening to the other"

This is the way that clown improvisations brings us towards a truthful relationship with the other, based upon clarity and a flexibility of emotions.

Clowns live an objective and commonly shared reality. By staying in the "here and now", clowns cannot escape from the reality of their experiences, and what's more clowns never leave the presence of the audience. So "Here and Now" is the clown's motto.

The skills required for improvising as a clown carry extraordinary therapeutic value. After all that has been said one could come to the conclusion that the clown is quite simply mad. Through the expression of our symptoms comes a growth of awareness and the therapeutic effect. One might also say that the skills required for improvising in the "here and now" are enough to define the "therapeutic effect".

But something essential is still missing, that is breaking with the thread or distanciation.

Breaking the thread, Distanciation and self-awareness

We saw in the first part how clowns distance themselves from madness, feelings, logic or with the rhythm of bodily movements. We saw that the theatrical function of this distanciation was to exorcise emotional and affective charges created by the clown and that finally, through the relief this procures, to bring laughter to the audience.

How does this bring about a growing-awareness and a development of the person?

Throughout an improvisation, the person produces within and around him or her self emotional energy. This the person does through the risk of expressing something personal and authentic. However at the same time, clowning imposes certain technical constraints and these confront the person with reality. The reality of being on stage, of improvising, of being with other clown-seekers, of being successful or failing. All this, let us not forget, the person does while playing. This confrontation sets limits to the person's madness or delirium and "rescues it".

In fact, neither the person nor the clown get into a true state of madness. To do that would be loosing touch with reality without the possibility of knowing that one has lost touch with it because reality would become an illusion. Being aware that one is mad implies one no longer is.

The clown-seeker uses delirium like Salvador Dali used critical paranoia. According to G. Bertrand (1980), this is "a spontaneous method of acquiring irrational knowledge based upon an interpretative association of delirious phenomena .... ". In paranoia, Dali attempted to use raw messages from the unconscious, the logic of the absurd, coherence within incoherence, but he refused to let himself become a prisonner of the system and kept the right to just observe its worst aberrations. Artists play upon these two levels: by imitating psychosis, they release great and shadowy powers from within themselves, but by moulding them through artistic expression, they escape from their control and are saved.

All this leads me to think that in clowning the "moulding of artistic expression" is the boundary which theatrical expression sets through distanciation. This moulding of artistic expression provides a safe space which allows self-expression. Self-expression grows with the capacity of the person to use that space for a playful exploration of his/her symptoms. (And to find pleasure in the process, which is quite something!)

The rules and convention of theatre are, I believe, similar to the notion of control in therapy, where violent emotions and powerful feelings of pain can be generally expressed without the patient acting out.

The person seeking his or her clown feels real feelings, and at the same time plays with these. This is a point which puzzles a lot of people at the workshops. Janine is improvising and she decides to act out a meeting with her father. Feelings of desertion surge within her. The emotional energy becomes intense and makes the audience uneasy. The audience (unconsciously) would welcome a break to bring relief. (Otherwise this isn't clowning anymore, but drama!)

Janine comes back from her improvisation. She is disturbed and cries. She is angry with us: "You told me: feel your emotion and play that. That's the result". We answer: " Janine, it is possible to be both authentic and play at the same time. Step back from yourself. It may sound contradictory but in this kind of work, the more you are able to play with your feelings, the more you are giving yourself the chance to be true to yourself."

A few days later, Janine did a moving and extremely funny improvisation on the same theme. The reason clowns are not mad, paranoid or hysterical, is that they are able to distance themselves from what is happening to them.

So, is the clown a "polymorphous pervert"? Ah ha! Good question! My feeling is no. The clown isn't a child but an adult, and what's more a particularly well-balanced adult.

Why?

Because the rule that allows us to break free from our symptoms of being an unloved child while on stage allows us to reveal our basic vulnerability and humanity. Clowns say to their audience: "The person behind this red nose is like this and I accept this. The person is like this and laughs at himself or herself."

Clowns are adults because they assume responsibility for their existence, they do not try to find excuses anywhere and are answerable only to themselves. Clowns confront life with all the strength and optimism of their nature.

While I say that clowns "confront life", I don't hesitate to say that they confront death also.

I said earlier that it was by drawing upon their weakness that clowns become strong: This is also true for the person. Through self-acceptance and the pleasure it gives, clowning helps the person behind the red nose to progressively create himself or herself while producing his or her symptoms.

To finish, I would like to ask one last question: If the search for one's clown has a therapeutic effect and if the person works with this (and/or by other means), his or her clown character will also evolve and perhaps in the end die.

Does therapy consist in finding the clown's own death? Will my clown one day drown himself? So far the question remains unanswered...