#I haven't figured out a way to make lyrics take less space

[batgirlsay]

Striving for Worthiness

A Playlist for Obiyuki Week 2023 by @snowwhite-andtheknight 

While trying to fit the songs to the prompts, this playlist became less about making himself worthy, and more about working through his self-doubt, eventually fading out with some Lilias bonfire feels!

Striving for Worthiness

Kiss of Life- The Dear Hunter (Day 1: Attraction) As Above, So Alone- Copeland (Day 2: Worship from Afar) Whatever’s Left- Snow Patrol (Day 3: Declaration of Devotion) Circles- Anberlin (Day 4: Virtuous Rejection- Indecision) Not Strong Enough- Boygenius (Day 5: Renewed Wooing) Bed Head- Manchester Orchestra (Day 6: Heroic Deeds of Valor) Shut Your Eyes- Snow Patrol (Day 7: Consummation of Secret Love)

Summary lyrics are cited after the cut:

Kiss of Life- The Dear Hunter (Day 1: Attraction to the Lady)

Give me more than the things that I live for I'm only echoes of the man that I'm supposed to be Because I want more of the things I'd die for I want to feel it in my soul Now that you've unburied me, dust me off and carry me home And I beg you sing life to me again I promise this won't happen again Because it would be so wonderful to see your starry eyes again

As Above, So Alone- Copeland (Day 2: Worship of the Lady from Afar)

And I know you love me Even when you can't say it like you mean it But no one has ever seen my Soul unfettered the way you are I wake but layers of a dream Lay over everyone I see But how is it so, my world looks different now But no one knows?

Whatever’s Left- Snow Patrol (Day 3: Declaration of Passionate Devotion)

A feeling I've had many times before I can't hold the fort, so don't give me more I struggle and sweat when I'm wide awake And I know I'm fine, I'm not used to fine As the madness sets in You must know that I'll follow you

Circles- Anberlin (Day 4: Virtuous Rejection- Indecision)

I set to search the ruins I looked inward to find I keep running into circles Lost myself to find me Left him there to just bleed Running into circles to find myself Are we all looking for someone To see us for who we really are? Because as long as we know ourselves No one could ever get that far

Not Strong Enough- Boygenius (Day 5: Renewed Wooing with Oaths of Virtue)

I don't know why I am the way I am Not strong enough to be your man I try, I can't stop staring at the ceiling fan and Spinning out about things that haven't happened Breathing in and out Half a mind that keeps the other second guessing Close my eyes and count

Bed Head- Manchester Orchestra (Day 6: Heroic Deeds of Valor)

Let me relinquish and start to distinguish my past, and my time There is only love and fire, so Let me extinguish the habit, the sequence, the loss, in my mind Right by the entrance, you broke Finally, reality's taking its hold You're not who you were, but you can't let it go You're not where you're from, but you're always alone So I stick a flag in the ground I think I know who I'm living for now I am what I am, same above as the ground It's not what I want, but I'm figuring it out

Shut Your Eyes- Snow Patrol (Day 7: Consummation of the Secret Love)

Shut your eyes and think of somewhere Somewhere cold and caked in snow By the fire, we break the quiet And when the worrying starts to hurt And the world feels like graves of dirt Just close your eyes until You can imagine this place, yeah, our secret space at will

#akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #obiyuki #playlist #obiyukiweek23 #same 5 bands as always #this boygenius song works so well though #the dear hunter #copeland #snow patrol #anberlin #boygenius #manchester orchestra

[mascarasalocaso]

‘Mine’ is literally Andreil (especially Neil but not just him); the song was written about them, I'm convinced. Ever since I had that realization I've had the need for everyone to know that and, since I haven't seen anyone mentioning it in the fandom, I had to do my best to ensure more people have this information. 

I mean, these are the lyrics of the song:

(Text in brackets are my comments, text in blue are the actual lyrics of the song)

Verse 1:

You were in college working part-time waitin’ tables [Well, Andrew no longer works at Eden's, but he does go to college, so I'd consider it a partial match] 

Left a small town, never looked back [Cass' house back in California] 

I was a flight risk with a fear of fallin’ [“Flight risk"? That is literally Josten's middle name]

Wondering why we bother with love if it never lasts [I know that Neil 'didn' t swing' (being the fandom consensus, I think, that he's demi) but at first he was also all like 'Yeah, I can't afford to trust people and caring about anyone in that way it's not worth it , since it only leads to trouble'  and so on] 

Verse 2

I say “Can you believe it?

As we’re lying on the couch?"

The moment I can see it.

Yes, yes, I can see it now [I haven’t thought of any special meaning to this, so if anyone sees anything, feel free to point it out in the comments]

Chorus A 

Do you remember, we were sitting there by the waters? [*on the roof] 

You put your arm around me for the first time [their first kiss (and many others) but it is also a safe place of sorts for them, somewhere they can go to to be alone. At first, it's Andrew's place, but later on he also takes Neil, and it turns into a safe space for the both of them, metaphorically putting his arm around Neil] 

You made a rebel of a careless man’s careful daughter [Andrew made Neil a rebel in the sense that he convinced and motivated him to stand his ground and fight instead of keep on running. And I guess the part about his father doesn't need much explanation] 

You are the best thing that’s ever been mine [They've both lived lives full of trauma, people hurting them, and other negative things. And now they have each other and it's so much better than anything either of them thought they could get. I’m not one to say that a certain couple is perfect because it sounds cheesy, but in each other they now have someone who really (bothers to) understand them, and “accepts” them, with everything they have in a way that they couldn't find in just anyone] 

Verse 3 [This might be my favourite verse]

Flash forward, and we’re taking on the world together, [This could refer to the part between Andrew coming back from Easthaven and Neil getting kidnapped, where (at least for Neil) it was a time of peace and things going fine (all things considered), or to their lives post trilogy/college, even if then it alters a bit the chronology of the song] 

And there’s a drawer of my things at your place [I was about to say that they skipped this part and moved ahead to living together, but actually, I think this could be connected to the keys. It isn't having his things at Andrew's but, ultimately, the whole thing about having something (a space) that is yours at someone else's house is that this person is allowing/inviting you in it. The drawer is like saying "This is my thing, but you are also welcome, not only as a guest but rather as it also being your thing", and that is (more or less) what Andrew was saying when he gave Neil the keys to his house and his car. ] 

You learn my secrets, and you figure out why I’m guarded, [Do I even need to explain?  I will anyway. Again, doesn’t chronologically follow the story, but I feel like the scene in Wymack’s living room coming back from the first time at Eden's really does count as Andrew “figuring” Neil out. He doesn’t get all the truth, but he then gets the blurry picture of what Neil’s life is. I guess this line is just perfect for them and really didn’t need explaining] 

You say we’ll never make my parents’ mistakes [I could be tripping here, but I think Andrew does at some point say to Neil something about not being his father, not looking alike and… Alright, I don’t remember, maybe I should reread the books.]

Verse 4

But we got bills to pay, [At first metaphorical bills, then “real” ones. I already mentioned the “time of peace” Neil has before getting kidnapped. During this time, he has long decided how he’s going to play thighs and made peace with the fact that his death is nearing. So, yeah, they have their moment of calm, but bills are due, he has to answer for all the unresolved issues surrounding his life. The second interpretation, the one with the real bills, would be, of course, about the deal Neil makes with the Moriyamas at the end of the books.]

We got nothing figured out, [1. Taking into account what I said about the preceding line, this is obvious, I guess. Neil and Andrew are at a point where they are finding their footing and also their happiness, I suppose. But they haven’t really resolved their problems, and they (the problems) are just around the corner. 2: They kinda survived through the whole deal, but they didn’t exactly “solve” them (except for Nathan, I guess?), they merely did that: surviving. I think the first interpretation is much more fitting and just goes along better with the rest of the song.]

When it was hard to take, 

Yes, yes, this is what I thought about [Here I’m not completely sure I understand what the song is saying, so I’m sorry if I get it wrong, but if I’m right: This is during his time with his father. Of course life at that point isn’t very nice. And while he is suffering he also thinks about the nice things in the last years. Namely, the foxes and Andrew. 

Chorus A

Do you remember, we were sitting there by the water? [This follows the same string as the last verse. So while Neil is with his father and everything he has the good memories of Andrew, etc]

You put your arm around me for the first time [Given that Andrew wasn’t the only good thing Andrew had while with the foxes, this time we could say that the “you put your arm around me for the first time" doesn’t mean just Andrew but the rest of the foxes (especially Wymack) as well]

You made a rebel of a careless man’s careful daughter

You are the best thing that’s ever been mine [With that in mind, this line makes even more sense, because with his troubled childhood and everything that was his life from hen on, the foxes are by far the best thing he has ever had]

Chorus B

Do you remember all the city lights on the water?

You saw me start to believe for the first time

You made a rebel of a careless man’s careful daughter

You are the best thing that’s ever been mine

Oh, oh, oh

[All the chorus part is that, remembering the various instances. Both mentioned priorly on the show and not mentioned]

Verse 5

And I remember that fight, two-thirty a.m. 

When everything was slipping right out of our hands

I ran out crying, and you followed me out into the street

[I really liked thinking about this as a scene that’s a bit different from what the song might be describing; Which is the one in TKM, if I’m not wrong, where Wymack tells Neil he’s going to be captain the following year, and he has a panic attack (I think). So the “fight” wouldn’t be an actual fight but a conversation that did upset Neil nevertheless. This upsets him because it’s something that he wants but knows he can never get; and this causes a crash between the life that he’s kind of build for himself at PSU, where he’s a promising striker for the Foxes who could be Court, and his “actual life”, where he’s the runaway son of a criminal and will die before the end of the year. All of this to say that at that moment Neil was made aware of the fact that the life he really wanted was going to slip right out of his hands without him being able to do anything about it. He then literally ran out, except not crying but having a panic attack. And Andrew came to him.

As I said I liked seeing this part as a reference to that scene, maybe because I like the scene, but now I’m thinking it actually matches way better with another scene. It’s still not chronologically in order, but it doesn’t go as far back (as the aforementioned scene). The scene in question is the riot. There was in fact a fight. It was not 2:30 a.m., but it was late at night. Everything was in fact slipping out of their hands (except Andrew didn’t know it, but still), that with Neil getting kidnapped, probably never to be seen again. Neil very much did not run, and he did not cry, but he was in distress and Andrew went to follow him where he went. (I know Andrew at the moment was looking after Aaron and Kevin, not so much after Neil, since they had broken the deal. But once his people were safe and stuff had calmed down a bit, he did try to find Neil in the car park, he choked Kevin for information, he tried to fight the FBI, etc. Neil doesn’t really know about what Andrew is doing at the time, but when he speaks with the FBI he knows Andrew wouldn't just leave him. And later, of course, he hears of what happened, all that Andrew did.]

Verse 6

Braced myself for the "Goodbye"

‘cause that’s all I’ve ever known

Then you took me by surprise

You said, "I’ll never leave you alone"

[Even ignoring how Neil thought he was going to die at the hand of his father and because of that said goodbye to Neil and everything he (Neil) had. 

When Neil is with the FBI, he thinks the Foxes probably hate him now that they know the truth, so when he goes to meet them at the hotel it’s mostly to say goodbye. He thinks Andrew, more than anyone, will be mad at him for lying to him, but when they actually see each other Andrew is just relieved to see him alive. He then refuses to leave his side, both while they’re in the room and later with the FBI, making it really clear to Neil that Andrew will be with him no matter what, “you aren’t going anywhere”.]

Chorus C

You said, "I remember how we felt sitting by the water

And every time I look at you, it’s like the first time

I fell in love with a careless man’s careful daughter

She is the best thing that’s ever been mine"

Whoa

You made a rebel of a careless man’s careful daughter

You are the best thing that’s ever been mine

Verse 2.2

Do you believe it?

We’re gonna make it now

And I can see it

I can see it now

[They're in love (or something) forever, etc, etc ]

#andreil #aftg #neil josten #tfc #andrew minyard #andrew x neil #all for the game #Sorry for this whole ramble about something that could've been explained in two sentences #also the verse/chorus status are kinda made up #taylor swift #Just added a cut bc I was getting bored scrolling through it

[somebody-in-this-world-who-lives]

Imagine being mad about fifty bucks

Imagine being dead about fifty bucks

Imagine being mad about fifty bucks

Eleven year old fifty bucks

We were seven

These bucks are eleven

Eleven year old fifty bucks

Fifty bucks you stole from me

Killed our friendship and gave your brother to eat

Eleven year old fifty bucks

I always thought I was a generous kid

I was clingy and jealous, but I wasn't rich

I still wonder if you'd asked me

Maybe you wouldn't have to leave

You'd manipulate me but it was fine

It was my daily fine to pay for a good time

And if your problems would vanish with my plastic card

In the next bank robbery I'd be your gard

I was a kid, I didn't know how much my mom could make

When they caught you I didn't say it was a mistake

Your father apologized and you were gone

I spent the rest of the year alone

Your snacks were more expensive than mine

But I guess I never wanted to kill the vibe

You were my first friend and I trusted you with my life

So I wish you didn't cross that line

Imagine being mad about fifty bucks

Imagine being dead, about fifty bucks

Imagine being mad about fifty bucks

Eleven year old fifty bucks

It's been eleven years but I remember your name

Your skinny form and curls, all the same

My eighteen old wish I could help

But my seven year old wish you to fuck yourself

And I'm sorry but a dog has to be honest

Our relationship left me with a complex

And if my psychologist has to hear

Dear eleven year old memory, I gotta be clear

Imagine being mad about fifty bucks

Imagine being dead, about fifty bucks

Imagine being mad about fifty bucks

Eleven year olds fifty bucks

There is probably something about this that was racist

And I have overly scoured memories for it

But in the end, girl, you fucking traumatized me

Fifty bucks didn't pay off my codependency

I don't brood over this just to feel seen

I remember because you were mean

I was seven and already had a scar on my face

Your lying and pressing didn't leave much grace

But imagine being mad about fifty bucks

Imagine being dead about fifty bucks

Imagine being mad about fifty bucks

Eleven year old fifty bucks

#working lyrics #My god this triggers me a lot #I'm just posting so I can link it to show people #But this whole song gets me tense and shaking #Personal #tw vent #Honestly I'm very open to putting trigger warnings in this I just can't with words and don't know if this its just because it's me #long post #I haven't figured out a way to make lyrics take less space #Tw trauma discussion #? #tw manipulation #I'm just trying to be safe here

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

Switching Lanes With St. Vincent

By Molly Young

January 22, 2019

Jacket (men’s), $4,900, pants (men’s), $2,300, by Dior / Men shoes, by Christian Louboutin / Rings (throughout) by Cartier

On a cold recent night in Brooklyn, St. Vincent appeared onstage in a Saint Laurent smoking jacket to much clapping and hooting, gave the crowd a deadpan look, and said, “Without being reductive, I'd like to say that we haven't actually done anything yet.” Pause. “So let's do something.”

She launched into a cover of Lou Reed's “Perfect Day”: an arty torch-song version that made you really wonder whom she was thinking about when she sang it. This was the elusive chanteuse version of St. Vincent, at least 80 percent leg, with slicked-back hair and pale, pale skin. She belted, sipped from a tumbler of tequila (“Oh, Christ on a cracker, that's strong”), executed little feints and pounces, flung the mic cord away from herself like a filthy sock, and spat on the stage a bunch of times. Nine parts Judy Garland, one part GG Allin.

If the Garland-Allin combination suggests that St. Vincent is an acquired taste, she's one that has been acquired by a wide range of fans. The crowd in Brooklyn included young women with Haircuts in pastel fur and guys with beards of widely varying intentionality. There was a woman of at least 90 years and a Hasidic guy in a tall hat, which was too bad for whoever sat behind him. There were models, full nuclear families, and even a solitary frat bro. St. Vincent brings people together.

If you chart the career of Annie Clark, which is St. Vincent's civilian name, you will see what start-up founders and venture capitalists call “hockey-stick growth.” That is, a line that moves steadily in a northeast direction until it hits an “inflection point” and shoots steeply upward. It's called hockey-stick growth because…it looks like a hockey stick.

Dress, by Balmain

The toe of the stick starts with Marry Me, Clark's debut solo album, which came out a decade ago and established a few things that would become essential St. Vincent traits: her ability to play a zillion instruments (she's credited on the album with everything from dulcimer to vibraphone), her highbrow streak (Shakespeare citations), her goofy streak (“Marry me!” is an Arrested Development bit), and her oceanic library of musical references (Kate Bush, Steve Reich, uh…D'Angelo!). The blade of the stick is her next four albums, one of them a collaboration with David Byrne, all of them confirming her presence as an enigma of indie pop and a guitar genius. The stick of the stick took a non-musical detour in 2016, when Clark was photographed canoodling with (now ex-) girlfriend Cara Delevingne at Taylor Swift's mansion, followed a few months later by pictures of Clark holding hands with Kristen Stewart. That brought her to the realm of mainstream paparazzi-pictures-in-the-Daily-Mail celebrity. Finally, the top of the stick is Masseduction, the 2017 album she co-produced with Jack Antonoff, which revealed St. Vincent to be not only experimental and beguiling but capable of turning out incorrigible bangers.

Masseduction made the case that Clark could be as much a pop star as someone like Sia or Nicki Minaj—a performer whose idiosyncrasies didn't have to be tamped down for mainstream success but could actually be amplified. The artist Bruce Nauman once said he made work that was like “going up the stairs in the dark and either having an extra stair that you didn't expect or not having one that you thought was going to be there.” The idea applies to Masseduction: Into the familiar form of a pop song Clark introduces surprising missteps, unexpected additions and subtractions. The album reached No. 10 on the Billboard 200. The David Bowie comparisons got louder.

This past fall, she released MassEducation (not quite the same title; note the addition of the letter a), which turned a dozen of the tracks into stripped-down piano songs. Although technically off duty after being on tour for nearly all of 2018, Clark has been performing the reduced songs here and there in small venues with her collaborator, the composer and pianist Thomas Bartlett. Whereas the Masseduction tour involved a lot of latex, neon, choreographed sex-robot dance moves, and LED screens, these recent shows have been comparatively austere. When she performed in Brooklyn, the stage was empty, aside from a piano and a side table. There were blue lights, a little piped-in fog for atmosphere, and that was it. It looked like an early-'90s magazine ad for premium liquor: art-directed, yes, but not to the degree that it Pinterested itself.

Coat, (men’s) $8,475, by Versace / Shoes, by Christian Louboutin / Tights, by Wolford

The performance was similarly informal. Midway through one song, Clark forgot the lyrics and halted. “It takes a different energy to be performing [than] to sit in your sweatpants watching Babylon Berlin,” she said. “Wherever I am, I completely forget the past, and I'm like. ‘This is now.’ And sometimes this means forgetting song lyrics. So, if you will…tell me what the second fucking verse is.”

Clark has only a decade in the public eye behind her, but she's accomplished a good amount of shape-shifting. An openness to the full range of human expression, in fact, is kind of a requirement for being a St. Vincent fan. This is a person who has appeared in the front row at Chanel and also a person who played a gig dressed as a toilet, a person profiled in Vogue and on the cover of Guitar World.

The day before her Brooklyn show, I sat with Clark to find out what it's like to be utterly unstructured, time-wise, after a long stretch of knowing a year in advance that she had to be in, like, Denmark on July 4 and couldn't make plans with friends.

“I've been off tour now for three weeks,” she said. “When I say ‘off,’ I mean I didn't have to travel.”

This doesn't mean she hasn't traveled—she went to L.A. to get in the studio with Sleater-Kinney and also hopped down to Texas, where she grew up—just that she hasn't been contractually obligated to travel. What else did she do on her mini-vacation?

“I had the best weekend last weekend. I woke up and did hot Pilates, and then I got a bunch of new modular synths, and I set 'em up, and I spent ten hours with modular synths. Plugging things in. What happens when I do this? I'm unburdened by a full understanding of what's going on, so I'm very willing to experiment.”

Coat, by Boss

Jacket, and coat, by Boss / Necklace, by Cartier

Like a child?

“Exactly. Did you ever get those electronics kits as a kid for like 20 bucks from RadioShack? Where you connect this wire to that one and a light bulb turns on? It's very much like that.”

There's an element of chaos, she said, that makes synth noodling a neat way to stumble on melodies that she might not have consciously assembled. She played with the synths by herself all day. “I don't stop, necessarily,” she said, reflecting on what the idea of “vacation” means to someone for whom “job” and “things I love to do” happen to overlap more or less exactly. “I just get to do other things that are really fun. I'm in control of my time.” She had plans to see a show at the New Museum, read books, play music and see movies alone, always sitting on the aisle so she could make a quick escape if necessary. But she will probably keep working. St. Vincent doesn't have hobbies.

When it manifests in a person, this synergy between life and work is an almost physically perceptible quality, like having brown eyes or one leg or being beautiful. Like beauty, it's a result of luck, and a quality that can invoke total despair in people who aren't themselves allotted it. This isn't to say that Clark's career is a stroke of unearned fortune but that her skills and character and era and influences have collided into a perfect storm of realized talent. And to have talent and realize that talent and then be beloved by thousands for exactly the thing that is most special about you: Is there anything a person could possibly want more? Is this why Annie Clark glows? Or is it because she's super pale? Or was it because there was a sound coming through the window where we sat that sounded thrillingly familiar?

“Is Amy Sedaris running by?” Clark asked, her spine straightening. A man with a boom mic was visible on the sidewalk outside. Another guy in a baseball cap issued instructions to someone beyond the window. Someone said “Action!” and a figure in vampire makeup and a clown wig streaked across the sidewalk. Someone said “Cut!” and Clark zipped over for a look. It was, in fact, Amy Sedaris, her clown wig bobbing in the 44-degree breeze. The mic operator was gagging with laughter. It seemed like a good omen, this sighting, like the New York City version of Groundhog Day: If an Amy Sedaris streaks across your sight line in vampire makeup, spring will arrive early.

Blazer (men’s) $1,125, by Paul Smith

Another thing Clark does when off tour is absorb all the input that she misses when she's locked into performance mode. On a Monday afternoon, she met artist Lisa Yuskavage at an exhibition of her paintings at the David Zwirner gallery in Chelsea. Yuskavage was part of a mini-boom of figurative painting in the '90s, turning out portraits of Penthouse centerfolds and giant-jugged babes with Rembrandt-esque skill. It made sense that Clark wanted to meet her: Both women make art about the inner lives of female figures, both are sorcerers of technique, both are theatrical but introspective, both have incendiary style. The gallery was a white cube, skylit, with paintings around the perimeter. Yuskavage and Clark wandered through at a pace exclusive to walking tours of cultural spaces, which is to say a few steps every 10 to 15 seconds with pauses between for the proper amount of motionless appreciation.

The paintings were small, all about the size of a human head, and featured a lot of nipples, tufted pudenda, tan lines, majestic asses, and protruding tongues. “I like the idea of possessing something by painting it,” Yuskavage said. “That's the way I understand the world. Like a dog licking something.”

Clark looked at the works with the expression people make when they're meditating. She was wearing elfin boots, black pants, and a shirt with a print that I can only describe as “funky”—“funky” being an adjective that looks good on very few people, St. Vincent being one of them—and sipped from a cup of espresso furnished by a gallery minion. After she finished the drink, there was a moment when she looked blankly at the saucer, unsure what to do with it, and then stuck it in the breast pocket of her funky shirt for the rest of the tour.

A painting called Sweetpuss featured a bubble-butted blonde in beaded panties with nipples so upwardly erect they actually resembled little boners. Yuskavage based the underwear on a pair of real underwear that she'd constructed herself from colored balls and string. “I've got the beaded panties if you ever need 'em,” she said to Clark. “They might fit you. They're tiny.”

Earrings, by Erickson Beamon

“I'm picturing you going to the Garment District,” Clark said.

“There was a lot of going to the Garment District.”

As they completed their lap around the white cube, Clark interjected with questions—what year was this? were you considering getting into film? how long did these sittings take? what does “mise-en-scène” mean?—but mainly listened. And she is a good listener: an inquisitive head tilter, an encouraging nodder, a non-fidgeter, a maker of eye contact. She found analogues between painting and music. When Yuskavage mourned the death of lead white paint (due to its poisonous qualities, although, as the artist pointed out, “It's not that big a deal to not get lead poisoning; just don't eat the paint”), Clark compared it to recording's transition from tape to digital.

“Back in the day, if you wanted to hear something really reverberant”—she clapped; it reverberated—“you'd have to be in a room like this and record it, or make a reverb chamber,” Clark said. “Now we have digital plug-ins where you can say, ‘Oh, I want the acoustic resonance of the Sistine Chapel.’ Great. Somebody's gone and sampled that and created an algorithm that sounds like you're in the Sistine Chapel.”

Lately, she said, she's been way more into devices that betray their imperfections. That are slightly out of tune, or capable of messing up, or less forgiving of human intervention. “Air moving through a room,” Clark said. “That's what's interesting to me.”

They kept pacing. The paintings on the wall evolved. Conversation turned to what happens when you grow as an artist and people respond by flipping out.

“I always find it interesting when someone wants you to go back to ‘when you were good,’ ” Yuskavage said. “This is why we liked you.”

“I can't think of anybody where I go, ‘What's great about that artist is their consistency, ” Clark said. “Anything that stays the same for too long dies. It fails to capture people's imagination.”

Coat (mens), $1,150, by Acne Studios

They were identifying a problem with fans, of course, not with themselves. It was an implicit identification, because performers aren't permitted to critique their audiences, and it was definitely the artistic equivalent of a First World problem—an issue that arises only when you're so resplendent with talent that you not only nail something enough to attract adoration but nail it hard enough to get personally bored and move on—but it was still valid. They were talking about the kind of fan who clings to a specific tree when he or she could be roaming through a whole forest. In St. Vincent's case, a forest of prog-rock thickets and jazzy roots and orchestral brambles and mournful-ballad underlayers, all of it sprouting and molting under a prodigious pop canopy. They were talking about the strange phenomenon of people getting mad at you for surprising them. Even if the surprise is great.

Molly Young is a writer living in New York City. She wrote about Donatella Versace in the April 2018 issue of GQ.

A version of this story originally appeared in the February 2019 issue with the title "Switching Lanes With St. Vincent."

#st vincent #annie clark #gq #interviews #shakespeare citations #christ on a cracker #lmao

[bloodandrosesarenofun]

Landrymat - The Reincarnation Series

(After a long time out of commission I am back to writing! I thought I'd share the excerpt of the first chapter of my novel, inspired by the last two pictures I posted. Let me know your thoughts. <3

Tag list:

@luna-evans-writes )

I feel the night air push at my hair and flannel as both stir up at it's touch. The clock on my cellphone says it's only four-thirty but the sun is already on it's way down for the night, early as every winter. It's taken a while for me to actually feel the winter. Strangely enough it's actually just starting to get warm in Jacksonville again but at the same time all of the typical winter shit is just starting to happen. People ringing bells for charity and lighting up random palm trees in an attempt to be festive, and complaining about seeing people's breathe as though breathing doesn't really happen till it's cold out.

The bus thankfully drops me off only maybe a two or three minute walk from my destination so I don't have to deal with it that much. The being outside. I hate this neighborhood, sort of. It's not like it's particularly bad, and I know I grew up better than my mum did, but it is still pretty ghetto and run down. The laundromat is not so cleverly named 'Landrymat' but the word looks cooler to me on the marquee so I chuckle at it, glowing like an old school neon sign in some Tumblr kid's bedroom. I feel my face warm up as I go up to the door, pausing as anxiety creeps it's way up the back of my neck. I doubt anyone'll know what they are, or even care what I'm washing, but I still feel that despite the logical side of my brain arguing against it.

'CLEANERS AND DRY CLEAN

WASHING MACHINES ONLY 50 CENTS PER LOAD

COME IN AND ASK ABOUT OUR SPECIALS'

I question what kind of specials a laundromat could possibly have but I suppose they mean deals on multiple loads? I glance at my backpack's strap and realize I'm not sure if I need to wash anything separate. The idea of asking up at the desk makes my heart go number than all the years of abuse so I decide to just go in and figure it out myself. "I'm only carrying somewhere over a hundred dollars worth of material in my bag, what's ruining a couple of them," I mutter. 

Walking into the laundromat the first thing I see are all the washers and dryers so it takes me a secound to find the desk. 

I hold my tongue about how stupid I think it is that it's in the back of the room (which it is about the size of a large master bedroom) as I walk up to the counter, I'd never been to a laundromat before and my anxious ass wants to eliminate as much risk of my looking stupid as I possibly can. "Hey," I try and lower my voice, standing straighter than I usually do. It's an effort given I've spent years training my voice to be high when I wanted something from people since mine was too low to be as quickly helped as the prissy tea kettle sounding girls, of course the years of manipulation would bite me eventually. I always hated that voice. "I need to wash, um, two loads of laundry."

"Do you need a dry clean?" Asks the burly desk lady, her hair braided back in a frizzy mess that said she probably didn't care much about work appearances and her tone suggesting she didn't really care about work. I shake my head 'no'. "Then pick a machine and just let me know if you need change." 

"Oh. Okay. Thanks." I walk over to the wall that obviously has machines with wet clothes and soap tumbling in them and want to scream at the lack of signs. I survey the room, finding that there aren't really many people in here, thankfully. One woman sits on her phone in a waiting chair, charging it in the wall and speaking about as loudly about her divorce as it takes to let the whole entire room know her life story. A man strikes out with a red head a couple machines down from me, and an Asian lady who might be the manager talks with one of the employees apparently about the detergents. I pick a machine near the end and set my backpack down on a miscellaneous chair at the last machine. All of my binders are bundled up and shoved unceremoniously in the bag. I grab my wallet out and go to figuring out starting up the machine before I take them out, zipping back the backpack. 

Living in a house where either your grandma or your father do all of your laundry (mostly because they insist) is feeling much less convenient as the feeling of intimidation from trying to figure out a new basic skill sets in. I stare blankly at the space beside the laundry machine, feeling fog set in, when the beep of the woman on the phone's laundry being done sets me off I jump, my heart thudding erratically in my chest. I don't know why I feel this way, and I can't find a rational way to deal with it. I try to do the breathing and focus thing but with nothing to focus on I panic, I dig my nails into the skin just under my wrist, grabbing my hoodie to try and hide it underneath as I claw at myself. It helps me. I feel dizzy but after a moment I'm back on the ground, almost like getting off something unstable for the first time in a while. My mind felt like it was still thinly veiled but I find myself able to lean against the washers. Shaking my head, I nod at my reflection, fixing my t shirt and going to figuring out the laundry. When I get it together, tossing everything from my backpack and quickly shutting it seems more discreet and I contemplate only doing one load just for the convenience of it, but I decide against it thinking about my lack of a job and money to replace for that. The machine turns on with a loud sound and I shut my eyes against it. Feeling physically sick I hastily take out my headphones again from where I've shoved them into my backpack's pocket and begin playing a song from Quietdrive, thinking the guitar and easily placed sexual lyrics will help me take my mind off my mental breakdown. The seats in the 'Landrymat' are cheap but they aren't as uncomfortable as I thought. I sit with my legs up weirdly crooked in the seat, looking around to see if anybody will care about it. The red haired girl from earlier is looking my way but her expression doesn't look irritated so I ignore it. The air is clean smelling, and the chemicals burn my nose, but it's all something to focus on as I zone out, inconsequentially digging my nails into my skin again, my hoodie wrapped inconsequentially around my hands like I was trying to bide off the cold. I feel alittle less stranded with the music blasting. It drowns out the other sounds. It takes a little while for my darks to be done, and I find myself way too intrigued by the fact you could never tell what the mass of black fabric is. It looks so inconsequential when it feels like if anybody saw it, knowing what it was, it would ruin my life.

I remove the clothes and set them in the dryer, taking a secound to pick the right cycles and having to google it to be sure, then put my lighter binders in for the same cycle. Feeling eyes on me, I turn and glance around the laundromat. The manager is nowhere to be seen and the employee is sweeping, the woman on her phone is talking to the man from earlier, and the red headed girl is staring at me. I turn to glance at the counter, and turn back to find her still watching. 

I check my chest, making sure my shirt is on right and you can't see my binder through it or peeking over the top. I haven't said much since I got here and since I know my voice is the least passing thing about me I find it difficult to pinpoint what could be wrong with me. Is she really clocking me? Or trying to figure it out maybe? The girl doesn't seem deterred by the fact I've noticed her staring at me and I can't tell if I find that more unsettling. I get a strange vibe off her, almost like I've met her before, maybe a few times. My head tilts to the side as I study her. She has tan skin, and I can tell she doesn't use as much lightener as most Asian girls. Her face and eyes remind me of a wolf (and I'm not sure if that's crazy to say but) despite her not coming off as intimidating at all to me. Something about her's intriguing, and I find myself wanting to talk to her. She's dressed in all guys clothing, stuff you could probably find after a few minutes of digging through the small grungy punk section of Walmart or the closet of you dad's old teenage bedroom, but she wears it like a model on one of the magazines on the table. Her makeup is carefully done and her eyes are piercing as the stare into mine. "D-Do you need something?" I question, being conscious about my voice as I hear it waiver with nerves. I figure either she'll let me know where I know her from or maybe my saying something first will keep her from outing me, even if there aren't that many people in here. I don't think my heart can currently take being called out as trans* or gay.

Her eyes cut from mine to something behind my head and I turn around with an eyebrow raised in question. In the top right corner to the room is a little TV monitor playing the news on mute. Headlines role over the screen as they talk about the state of the world. I knew things have been bad, but the newscast for the day just seems to be 'The world is fucked pretty well' and I'm shocked at how little I've heard people talk about change despite even the holiday season's passing by. I turn back to find the girl grimacing at the screen. She looks down at me then shakes her head, "No. Nothing at all."

I make a face, closing the washing machine I hit start. She doesn't stare directly but I still catch her looking. "The world's pretty shit for just past the holidays isn't it?" Mentally, I kick myself for talking. If she chose to leave alone why wouldn't I let her? 

She looks at me and nods slowly. "Yeah," she says, "Yeah it is. I don't think anyone gives a fuck." Her worlds hold a specific malice and she grits her teeth, looking back at the screen like she's thinking of someone specific. "Did you really think they would? Are you really into rights or something?" I realize that's a stupid question. "I mean, um, like activist work? Specifically."

She shrugs. "Yeah, no, but I guess you could say I work closely with someone-" she stops herself, "who has a pretty good hand in this business."

"You work for weather station?" I ask.

She smiles, shakes her head. "No. Don't worry about it, I'm probably just over reacting as always. Thinking people have more power than they have. Nobody was gonna pay attention to this," she gestures to the screen and crosses her arms, "anyway."

"Well maybe it'll blow over with at least as little damage to people as it can manage."

"Yeah, I doubt it." She goes up to a machine and pulls out her dry clothes, beginning to fold them for a wicker basket.

I look down at my phone, my mum's texted me and I groan inwardly as I text to let her know I'm okay. "What about you?" I hear the girl ask. 

My eyebrows furrow. "What about me?"

"What do you care about?" She asks. 

It's a strange question. What do I care about? "I guess the environment."

"You guess?" she pauses.

"I mean, yeah."

"That's not a lot of caring." She continues to fold her things into her basket without looking at me, reminding me of an old movie scene. "There's no passion in you guessing."

"I guess-" I stop, then shrug. "I don't care much about a lot of things right now." I admit. Something about the girl's demeanor changes, and I try but I can't read her expression. She seems weirdly different then and I try and find a time when I may've seen her like this. "That's a sad way to live. But I guess I get it."

I shrug awkwardly, shifting my weight on one foot. "I just can't find that passion I suppose."

"You know supposing is just guessing with a different style?"

"I'm surprised someone else does."

"Well. My advice. Find something worth fighting for. Fast." The jokingness fades from her eyes and she suddenly looks very serious, her tone almost a warning.

"Okay." I say. "I'll work on it."

"Good." She smiles, grabbing her basket and heading for the door. "I suppose I'm just not gonna get a name after that." I turn back to my wash and see there's still five minutes to wait for the dryer.

"It's Rosé." I hear a girl say. Turning around, I see the red head walking away without getting an answer from me. "Scorpious," I doubt she heard me. 

When I'm done with my laundry I'm happy to fold my binders back into my backpack without incident. The laundromat is only a short walk and an even shorter bus ride from my house, but considering the fact that the next bus is an hour away I take my phone out and do the next best thing.

"Hey, George. You wanna get pizza with me? I'll pay if you drive."

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