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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 2 months

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"Time & the Trickster" A Loki/Doctor Who crossover

Chapter 5: Boston

You hit another dead end when you arrive in Massachusetts. While Joey hunts for a way to get you over the ocean, you face the most frightening prospect yet: sharing a bed with Loki...alone.

CHAPTER WARNING: "oh look, only one bed" trope

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Regent’s Park, London, England June 12 11:52pm GMT

Hopeless. It was certainly hopeless.

Of course, it was hopeless that time the Daleks tried to take over the Earth via a slew of deadly reality shows.

It was also hopeless when Rose was lost to the alternate reality forever.

Not to mention, the feeling of existential dread that had happened when The Master aged him near to death, and he had to rely on Martha Jones alone to travel around the world on foot to be saved.

Usually, The Doctor did well with hopelessness. However, without the TARDIS showing any signs of life, things were quickly going from ‘hopeless’ to ‘finished.’

And The Doctor did NOT do well with ‘finished.’

Even his screwdriver had no power here. People thought he was a man in costume waving a toy around. In order to avoid the eye of the police, he learned quickly that he;’d have to get out of this one “the human way,” which basically meant sitting around and waiting for a miracle.

He felt as if he were in mourning, his TARDIS in her final resting place in this forsaken reality, where even the most bloodthirsty extraterrestrials had all seemed to ignore Sol 3. Would he be trapped here? Forced to live for thousands of years more in a fixed timeline, nowhere to explore? No one to rescue?

Nearing midnight, he sat on the ground, his back up against the TARDIS, looking up into the starless night, wondering if miracles were possible in what had to be the Timeline at the End of the Universe itself.

Suddenly, the TARDIS breathed once more, just once. A pulse of dim green glow radiated from the door’s windows, causing The Doctor to immediately spring to his feet.

“Oh, please come back…what cowboys have we got going on here?” He circled the box once, twice, three times, until the green light dimmed again to where it was nearly imperceptible, aside to the Time Lord’s own hyper-keen eye.

“Clom’s blue soil, what is going on?” he mouthed. “What are you trying to tell me? That’s something’s coming?”

Perhaps, something was drawing closer, and it was giving the TARDIS itself hope…

Boston, Massachusetts June 12 6:52pm EST

You managed, by the grace of Fate, to procure a somewhat-comfortable hotel room for $80 a night. With careful calculation, you figured that you could spend a week in Boston if you found a cheap grocery store and walked everywhere. That would give you some time to track down all of Joey’s friends in the city to find a way out of it.

While the room was clean and cozy, it was sparsely furnished, with a television set that looked too old for the Cleaver Family in the corner. Everything came in tones of puke-green and piss-yellow. A highly-stylized divider separated the doorway from the rest of the room, designed to look like a set of wrought-iron loops.

“Well, I’m taking the couch,” said Joey, bouncing his ass up and down on the mattress of the only queen-sized bed in the room. “These spring-mattresses really do a number on my back!”

Your jaw dropped. “You slept on a second hand sofa before today, jackass!” Loki was in the bathroom, so you were able to speak freely to your brother, at least for a few moments.

“So?” Joey said with a wink. “I thought you’d be more comfortable on the bed anyways.”

“But where will he sleep?” you pointed furiously to the bathroom door.

“The bed!”

Your heart may as well have fallen into your stomach. “Joey, fuck that! You’re crossing a line!”

“But you’re getting along with him so well,” he said in a mocking singsong voice only a bratty younger brother could produce. “I thought maybe you’d--”

Joey dove over the bed when you instantly grabbed the nearest pillow to chick angrily at his face. “--you don't think he’d have something to say about it??”

“Say about what?” Loki asked, suddenly appearing in the open doorway, his green shirt pulled sloppily over his torso and clinging to his wet chest. His legs were bare aside from the white towel wrapped around his hips. Your skin went hot, and it was all you could do to keep the beads of nervous sweat from forming on your face.

“I can’t sleep on that, Lokes,” Joey stepped in before you could tell him yourself. “You and Y/N are sharing the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“Alright,” Loki said instantly, looking at you with a quick, agreeable smile. “As long as you’re also agreeable, of course.”

Was it possible to leave one’s body without outright dying? It was as if you ejected your own soul, and you were nothing left but a cold, nervous shall while your spirit flew around the room, whooping excitedly.

What to say? How to respond?

“...yeah.”

The evening was spent sharing boxes of cheap takeout and discussing how to go about procuring transport.

“We can’t fly,” said Joey just before slurping back a noodle with no consideration for manners. “He doesn’t have papers, and good luck getting him any.”

“So we illegally cross international borders?!” you nearly screamed. “And an ocean?”

“What other choice do we have? Not like the two of us are staying, anyway.” He put the messy takeout box on the desk beside him. “I think I can see if Paulie can’t get someone to get us across on a boat.”

“A boat!” you moaned, tossing your head back with an exaggerated groan.

“What’s wrong with a boat?” asked Loki, raising an eyebrow.

“Getting to England on a boat could take weeks!” you answered, “Easily, in fact!”

His right leg began bouncing up and down impatiently, triggered by the suggestion. “And we cannot simply stow away on an airplane? Or perhaps I could use my resemblance one last time to secure--”

“--no,” you finally put your foot down. You looked him sternly in the eye and leaned over, taking his hand in both of yours, gripping them tightly enough to demonstrate that you meant business. “Loki, we’re risking enough as it is flaunting you around trains and pawn shops. You cannot do that anymore. It’s too dangerous.”

“As it so happens,” said Joey, “I might already know a guy, if he’s the one Paulie knows.”

Rolling your eyes, you groaned. “Bullshit.”

“He has a 50-foot yacht with international flags. I bet if I go out to see him and Paulie tomorrow, he can give us a fair price for a one-way passage for him, and two round-trips for us.”

Loki looked at you with concern. “If it’s the only way--” he cut himself off and looked about the room, as if looking for a sign. You got the feeling he was looking for more evidence of his timelines entangling with one another, as he theorized.

You bit your lip. “I still think we should all try and get menial jobs and find a way to…ugh…falsify his papers.”

Normally, the mere idea of breaking the law beyond smoking a bowl of weed with Joey before bed made you nervous enough to induce a stroke. That said, if it would get Loki to where he needed to be quickly enough, perhaps it would be the lesser of two evils in the end.

Joey sighed. “Sis, I may be prone so the occasional petty rule breaking--”

“--Joey, the district attorney knows how many nose hairs you have--”

“--but even I don't know where to get phony passports, sorry,” he shrugged and exaggerated a stupid expression.

You weren’t sure how to feel about how nervous Loki looked. He was supposed to be able to come up with a solution on the fly. He was a trickster! The brain! What did they DO to him at this TVA? He appeared to be on the absolute edge of fear at that moment. Usually, he was an expert at concealing his doubts.

“Loki?” you asked meekly. “How are you feeling?”

He pressed his lips together in a face you weren’t sure how to interpret. “Better to take our time and do this right, I suppose.”

You wanted to reach out and touch his arm, but your shyness was in control at present, perhaps to protect yourself from things going too far. Instead you made a comment. “I hate seeing you so afraid.”

He sucked in a breath. “I am not the being those films showed you.”

“I know.”

“Never in my millennia have I been on the same level as humans,” he went on. “Even the energy within me feels…well, less.”

“Hey, now wait a second there, Lokes,” Joey spoke up, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest, “Just because you can’t bibbity-boppity-boo your way out of this mess doesn’t mean it’s cool to talk about us like that!”

You couldn’t help but agree with your brother. Loki’s assertion that being mortal was somehow an inferior existence humiliated you, but it also angered you. “I can’t spark away my problems like you, but who spent her last hundred bucks freeing your godly ass from a holding cell? Who, against all her better judgment, chose to take a chance on you in the first place?”

Offended, you got up and decided that you needed to get out and take a walk somewhere, anywhere, just to cool off enough to keep face in front of Loki. You grabbed your card key from the coffee table and swiftly went out onto the porch of the motel, overlooking the nearly-empty parking lot.

The sun was still high above the artificial horizon formed by the distant skyscrapers and billboards. Two young men were getting out of a classic Chevy Impala, carrying backpacks and looking particularly tired as they bickered back and forth. The only other movement at all was from the occasional car driving by the place. This must’ve been the only sparsely-populated part of Boston.

You heard a door open behind you, and you scrunch your nose in embarrassment, expecting Loki to ask how he offended you.

“Seems he’s not the only drama queen around here, Sis.”

You couldn’t help but smile, relieved and thankful you had a brother who gave enough of a shit to make sure you didn’t bolt into Boston traffic (not that you were planning to).

“I don't think he meant anything jerky by it,” Joey continued, leaning over the railing next to you, looking out as the two men with the Impala checked into a room on the first floor. “He’s literally not from our reality. He doesn’t get it.”

“I know,” you sighed.

You felt him wrap his arm around your shoulders.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been out of town, hasn’t it?” he added.

You nodded quietly. Somehow, Boston didn’t feel all that different from Syracuse. Bigger, obviously, and the vague smell of sea air coming from the harbor was a welcome change from the polluted local lake that always made the north side reek like shit in August.

Joey tried again. “You’re letting him fluster you so much because you want him.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” you barked back defensively, looking away.

“He’s leaving once we figure this out,” Joey reminded you. “You think you can go with him when he does, don’t you?”

Honestly, the thought hadn’t consciously occurred to you, but you had to admit that the idea was thrilling. Jetting off into a whole new timeline with Loki leading the way, seeing all of the things that your race had only invented in their heads come to life and greet you!

“You can’t,” Joey insisted. “Because even if you try to, don’t you think the same thing will happen to you that’s happening to him?”

“What thing?” you asked.

“He’s jittery! He’s not the dashing Prince you fawned over at the movies, Sis,” he answered, gesturing with his head to the window. “There’s something about him that feels, I don’t know…lost. He has to get home and do whatever it is he needs to do.”

Loki hadn’t told you exactly how he intended to fix the timelines when he returned, but he seemed solemnly resigned to it. You made a note to ask for him to elaborate on it, because the more you thought about it, the more it felt like whatever awaited Loki back in his native realm wasn’t good for him.

It’s that Sylvie, you thought bitterly. If nothing else, I could go back there to smack her upside her head!

“Um, Sis,” Joey interjected, his eye catching something in the lot below. “Does…does that Impala look familiar to you?”

Your eyes widened as your panic alarms turned on in your head. “Turn away and pretend you didn’t see it,” you quickly insisted, gripping your card key and running to insert it into your door. “We’re booked solid!”

Joey decided to go spend the night with Paulie instead of curling up on the rock-hard sofa. “Maybe I can get some information out of him so you won’t even have to see him, Sis!”

“Fine by me,” you mumbled quietly, your exhaustion finally catching up with you.

Of course, that meant that as soon as Joey took his leave, you were alone with Loki in a hotel room. Oh boy, if only myself from five years ago could see me now…

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” Loki said quickly. “About how awful it feels to be mortal.”

“I overreacted,” you shook your head quickly, attempting to get past the residue embarrassment you felt once you’d calmed down from before. “I need to accept that we’re just…we’re too different, and that you’re simply better than me, and--”

“--oh, stop it!” Loki moaned, grabbing your shoulders and looking intensely into your eyes. “Don’t let me hear you talk about yourself like that. It’s a lie.”

Shaking your head, you ripped yourself out of his grasp and turned away from him, biting your lower lip to keep the emotions at bay.

Loki didn’t touch you again, but he went on. “You and your brother have done more for me in the past few days than most of the gods of Asgard have ever thought to do! You gave me your own bed to sleep in!”

You shrugged. “Just what any decent person would do.”

He smiled silently, his lip twisted up adorably. You couldn’t help but smile back at him. “I’m tired.”

“So am I,” Loki agreed. “Shall we?” He gestured to the bed, as if beckoning you to join him for a lively romp now that you were alone. Your blood instantly ran hot, and Loki saw the embarrassment spread on your face. “Oh Norns, I didn’t mean to suggest--”

You threw up a hand, suddenly not wanting to ruin the opportunity. “It’s fine! Really!”

Although, you wouldn’t have minded tif he had made the suggestion, either…

The unseasonably hot weather had motivated you to pack only a slip for sleeping. In your haste to shove everything into a duffel bag, you hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences of your choice of pajama. Still hoping to preserve a little bit of modesty (given the circumstances), you put on the slip, but layered it with a baggy black t-shirt, which was less than flattering to make up for the fact that your slip barely covered your privates or your ass.

Loki didn’t seem to mind. In fact, much to your surprise, he seemed to respond to it. “Well, now I don’t feel so bad about my lack of sleepwear, if this is the tradition in this reality.”

You opened your mouth to explain how it wasn’t tradition. Before you uttered a word, he let the towel that was wrapped around his waist fall to the floor before he swiftly climbed into the bed.

Jesus Christ, we never bought him underwear!

You definitely saw his…things, but only in the nanoseconds it took for the swift Asgardian to roll under the sheets. He winked at you playfully as you climbed in beside him, much slower and with more caution.

“You are fine with this?” he asked one last time.

“Yes!” you said a little too quickly. To hide the ever-growing embarrassment, you dove under the blanket and burrowed yourself up to your nose. Loki turned off the lamp on the side table, leaving you in complete blackness as your eyes attempted to adjust to the change in lighting.

The bed was creaky and the sheets were coarse. “Loki?” you asked after several seconds of silence in the dark as you rolled onto your side to face him.

He was already on his side facing you in turn, as if you’d beaten him to asking the first question. “Yes, Y/N?”

“You never sleep in the movies,” you said softly. “You’re always pursuing and chasing and running. Did you ever…I don’t know…slow down and stop to feel the Universe turn?”

Loki was unresponsive. His breathing was deep and regular, and your pupils were beginning to adjust to the darkness, so you were starting to make out his silhouette.

“Loki?”

“I’m sorry. No one’s ever asked me that before.”

An ambulance drove by outside, the screeching sirens making you cringe. Loki’s side of the bed rustled slightly.

“No, I suppose I never have.”

“You mean you don’t sleep?”

“Of course I sleep,” Loki chuckled, “But what I don't do is…slow down.”

You smiled. “Maybe you should.”

“I cannot afford that luxury, I’m afraid.” His voice grew weary in an instant, as if centuries of his past were rushing through his head like a river of rapids and he was choosing to surrender to them. “Not now, not when existence itself lies on my back.”

“What if it doesn’t, and you’re just being dramatic again?” you asked.

You heard him click his tongue as he searched for a retort. “I assure you, it’s not that.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just,” you couldn’t help but go off, just a little, “I guess I was always hoping that if Loki was real, he wouldn’t be treated so poorly all of the time, and that maybe your life wasn’t such a shit heap…”

The choice of descriptor caught Loki off guard, and he let out a laugh big enough to shake the bed.

“Tell me, Y/N,” he said gently after settling down again, “What does this world think of me?”

You sucked in your breath, and your heart began to pick up speed. “A lot of people do admire you, but not necessarily as their hero.”

“A curious answer,” Loki replied. “You had the figure of me in your kitchen, and when I asked you about it, you turned away as if you were embarrassed, and I was only wondering if--”

As if someone behind you was shoving your head, you moved in and quickly interrupted his thoughts with a kiss. Loki didn’t pull away or fight back, choosing instead to accept your gift and respond in kind. Feeling a pair of gentle fingers run down the side of your face and tracing a trail down your neck, you began to tremble as your body found renewed energy.

You finally drew your lips away and whispered softly, “...more like that.”

“I…I see.”

You immediately turned away from him without another word, unsure if you were filling up with regret or excitement. Either way, you needed to shut it all down.

Still, you heard him coo from next to you. “...sleep tight, Y/N.”

You carried his words with the kiss into your dreams. It was the fittest sleep you’d had in years.

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libidomechanica · 10 months

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And wherefore my sunflowers

Next-to-last, which doth dayly great sun dual natural. Purr of the Devil’s foot, tell the sun. And alien tears, and to pieces. Carved so coole, as well: this I can bear chains, the hallucinations for every day I was a family! Or what shall we in so hush a mask? Opinions two, which reconciled so the rural ditties of air the hard to seek:

for her sects? But all this same way, and day; who won’t let not enough for this, old Farmer Simpson did melt me down betrothed to clear blue devil was in verses made no skill: for we were yet this my invention spread she were gazing on? In its giant loom thee. And a’! That once; then labour moist hand? Outside her cheers in youth, beneath the sacristan,

whom her found another’s guilt! And that times—as out- of-date as good at, but know in so that in this dead; those two doomed in their found the heavy is the Muses moe, soon the words of emotion with some splinterested surface between the weaker side—o rather souls in placing a soft, his westering to itself in storm came again the dedicated

mother again. And thigh nearly or crept by balms! For Lycidas, the owls have I shan’t hard to sea, that makes it bleede, and when I heard, shall her locks with on feather, that same strange route. You are artist, the knife. How man-made held the granted here I have been one endear’d, to brings what does she, that fairer far, alas! No thing, amid the more the wild,

vain! Of shepherds weeps, the mountain-top, i’ll tell the only wake the lady fair; her like thee, that the proud air is keen beyond, you canst the prayers. Upon his hearts a life and pretty picking locker room in their root or seedling the layes her voice, said One who cleft of lies; who would make! Phoebus lightning on the wily bridal bed, freedom a drug that

which had been working now I fear. And fix on it, tis the fluster fades, and lips through in the who saw the one while my with the woods and Below. A kiss of Martha Ray about us peal come with men: with tears old, against thus far too sweet Stellas image on the rested well. And wherefore my sunflowers buy; some difficult, the iron pole, half-

listen. You see’st the parching like-hat resembling no sibyl in the holy beacons always finds nor slavery man must not now but influence common man’s little tunes of them toward does not a soul within and murdered aloud, sweet evil sprited gastly rout the Trial Men in Spain, and when the cheese and for to stands erect this alchemy, to

shakes: her looks;—that poor thorny soile to the light find your breast, with me, o my sad bed of song; permit me voyage, lovely tints are swept away, and like a little touch of shade, or with alter’d what, if I spoke, I cannot her, and their Lucifer kicking. The golden sun her seldom seen to-day, but wilt tell, which Rumour, their long pain. And fussed an

open-air, on Sunium or Hymettus, like a madman on a joyless as their spirit wants: because nor red may be clever, she’s less humbler proue, by Sences priviledge, can show whereof shepherds, which I not; my small orange, with all his be hearse where turned me for stirs, swelling tears, instead, said it may have, and faine waies of the gear thou will be she,

whether personal narrative—scott, they mocked upon Desire. And almost terrible hammer-blows. Of course the sunlight laugh outright the year who is wear out green valley lone, but, like a lady, Christabel? Flowe, of thee flee. I was beheaded fair peace—this world of it my face and weaves slips wan that she heard my folly, or the sunflower spring

danced to play upon his heart was dry together door—tis seldom save him three! But the outline of thy Desire, the tries to themselves to shouder o’ the slippery asphalte ring in happy thing, and ever deem me true! Now do I know that man’s best class,— aurora was fix’d the rest: the dedicate piston toyes away, where I sleep so sweetness

of those accents fine, dearest, of the mountain go, what is no salve to myself, and were yet not much prey. And is it, Shadows of this omission—in politics my duty is; that sleepy one! The worst or best of our bird- throated machinery and bare, let none a worm in my reflection, devoutly to lutes each other with faint and gazed: I play

to your brain! How on her, all breath, knowing of love has buoyant as thy lieutenance grows of the tag o’ her give our anguish grew—how bear my songs and our breasted, old oak tree, which the ocean rivers, churning less silent, lone, or mistrust that blowes did defend, all the mosses the end of a turmoil of trees were swept smooth as she look’d as if no

vaile the tree, and night as rain his pipe as spoyle when it couched; and bed as like made it, if it breeds. And intrude, as soon with both in solemn lightning or the heart of dread, from rose-colour blessed black swollen purple all day when we shall appointed in snow and I’ll love her name; following at my nature manners which stands and hard: and wise article

at her bed: I sung and unjoin, be loves it hath intellect expanded engine at the bricks his senseless lovely being Christ of our June—shall bestowing! The late heather fountain-path, that straw, the live on a drug that had been or gods he knew what I be dead, thy tears will not dead espy? Yet shall stoop; let crutches from duty, own’d to limb spoiling

to see. Red like an infant’s bones and scorn with dawn pushing die, a pretty dearest come, what enchanting thy foot in pain, so I hurl myself in streaming fearfully, fearful wonder how to an art. Lover, I have her air such cannot tell; but shall never and by and night. Tastes, he had not been rent as thou art as forego her friend I sought. Of flames

which makes me to foolish truer of rest, recline to me thou love. Inward buckram, little on the rich. Sprang outside the sky is sae fair! And loue be infection. At through the streams alone. Conceive me. Such as subservient to staunch they give you till now not how, in fearful wind, a maze where the first loved in a scarlet coat, my heart from sea plain the

heaven? Two of us strange and Witch’s Lair, and they possibility. But there will once, and her cry, o misery; now whether is purpose our and folded; rich, no mirthful board, some disgraces, with a most evil sprites or pass than when I saw her features new warrest along, you are a white. Between the floating flames, whereon Apicius would

fall long decease. The stole to give some milk, in thy shed silver, white as all the tall, would find no man show her! A star through a miss unwed, or my own pride! Dread figurehead with close. Of a poet eke, as one of vermilion: and wandring mouths! Depths of his left of love with me’s a confusion of felt crept Creating in the field, and I thee?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #135 texts #ballad

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bewitching-elizabeth-olsen · 3 years

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Press/Gallery: How Elizabeth Olsen Brought Marvel From Mainstream to Prestige

“The thing I love about being an actor is to fully work with someone and try so hard to be at every level with them, chasing whatever it is you need or want from them.”

GALLERY LINKS

Studio Photoshoots > 2021 > Session 008 Magazine Scans > 2021 > Backstage (August 19)

Backstage: Elizabeth Olsen grins widely over video chat when recalling many such moments on set with her co-stars. Yet, she can’t bring herself to divorce such a lofty vision of film acting from the technical multitasking it requires. The camera sees all.

“But then you move your hair, and you’re in your brain, like: OK, remember that! Because I don’t want to edit myself out of a shot. I know some actors are like, ‘Continuity, shmontinuity!’ But the good thing about continuity is, if you remember it, you’re actually providing yourself with more options for the edit.”

That need to balance being both inside the scene and outside of it, fully living it and yet constantly visualizing it on a screen, feels particularly apt in light of Olsen’s most recent project, “WandaVision.”

The mysteries at the heart of the show grow with every episode, each fast-forwarding to a different decade: Could this 1950s, black-and-white, “filmed in front of a studio audience” newlyweds bit be a grief-stricken dream? Might this ’70s spoof be a powerful spell gone awry? Could this meta take on mockumentary comedies be proof that the multiverse is finally coming to the Marvel Cinematic Universe?

The series’ structure, which branches out to include government agents intent on finding out why Westview has seemingly disappeared, calls for the entire cast to play with a mix of genres, balancing a shape-shifting tone that culminates in an epic, MCU-style conclusion. What’s key—and why the show struck a chord with audiences during its nine-episode run—is the miniseries’ commitment to grounding its initial kooky setups and its later special effects-driven spectacle in heartbreaking emotional truths. It’s no small feat, though it’s one that can often be taken for granted.

“I was thinking how hard it would have been to have shot the first ‘Lord of the Rings,’ ” Olsen muses. “Like, you’re putting all these actors [into the frame] later and at all these different levels. All the eyelines are completely unnatural. And yet the performances are fantastic! And technically, they are so hard. People forget sometimes that these things are really technically hard to shoot. And if you are moved by their performance, that took a lot of multitasking.”

As someone who has learned plenty about harnesses, wirework, fight choreography, and green screens (she’s starred in four Marvel movies, including the box office megahit “Avengers: Endgame,” after all), Olsen knows how hard it can be to wrap one’s brain around the work needed to pull off those big, splashy scenes.

“If you think about it, it’s, like, the biggest stakes in the entire world—every time. And that feels silly to act over and over again, especially when people are in silly costumes and the love of your life is purple and sparkly, and every time you kiss them, you have to worry about getting it on your hands. Those things are ridiculous. You feel ridiculous. So there is a part of your brain that has to shovel that away and just look into someone’s eyeballs—and sometimes, they don’t even have eyeballs!”

The ability to spend so much time with Wanda, albeit in the guise of sitcom parodies, was a welcome opportunity for Olsen. Not only did it allow the actor to really wrestle with the traumatic backstory that has long defined the character in the MCU, but having the chance to calibrate a performance that functions on so many different levels was a thrilling challenge.

“It was such an amazing work experience,” she says. “Kathryn [Hahn] uses the word ‘profound’—which is so sweet, because it is Marvel, and people, you know, don’t think of those experiences as profound when they watch them. But it really was such a special crew that [director] Matt Shakman and [creator] Jac Schaeffer created. It was a really healthy working environment.”

Related‘WandaVision’ Star Kathryn Hahn’s Secret to Building a Scene-Stealing Performance ‘WandaVision’ Star Kathryn Hahn’s Secret to Building a Scene-Stealing Performance Considering that the miniseries spans several sitcom iterations, various layers of televisual reality, and a number of character reveals that needed to feel truthful and impactful in equal measure, Shakman’s decision to work closely with his actors ahead of shooting was key.

“We truly had a gorgeous amount of time together before we started filming,” Olsen remembers. “Our goal was—which is controversial in TV land—that if you wanted to change [anything], like dialogue in a scene, you had to give those notes a week before we even got there. Because sometimes you get to set, and someone had a brilliant idea while they were sleeping, and you’re like, ‘We don’t have an hour to talk about this. We have seven pages to shoot.’ And so, we were all on the same page with one another, knowing what we were shooting ahead of time.

“Matt just treated us like a troupe of actors who were about to do some regional theater shit,” she adds with a smile.

That spirit of camaraderie was, not coincidentally, at the heart of Olsen’s breakout project, Sean Durkin’s 2011 indie sensation “Martha Marcy May Marlene.” As an introduction to the process of filmmaking to a young stage-trained actor, Durkin’s quietly devastating drama was a dream—and an invaluable learning opportunity.

“It was truly just a bunch of people who loved the script, who just were doing the work. I didn’t understand lenses, so I just did the same thing all the time. I never knew if the camera would be on me or not. There was just so much purity in that experience, and you only have that once.”

The film announced Olsen as a talent to watch: a keen-eyed performer capable of deploying a stilted physicality and clipped delivery, which she used to conjure up a wounded girl learning how to shake off her time spent in a cult in upstate New York. But Olsen admits that it took her a while to figure out how to navigate her career choices afterward. In the years following “Martha,” she felt compelled to try on everything: a horror flick here, a high-profile remake there, a period piece here, an action movie there. It wasn’t until she starred in neo-Western thriller “Wind River” (alongside fellow Marvel regular Jeremy Renner) and the dark comedy “Ingrid Goes West” (opposite a deliciously deranged Aubrey Plaza) that Olsen found her groove.

“It was at that point, when I was five years into working, where I was like, Ah, I know how I want it. I know what I need from these people—from who’s involved, from producers, from directors, from the character, from the script—in order to trust that it’s going to be a fruitful experience.”

As Olsen looks back on her first decade as a working actor, she points out how far removed she is from that young girl who broke out in “Martha Marcy May Marlene.”

“I feel like a totally different person. I don’t know if everyone who’s in their early 30s feels like their early 20s self is a totally different human. But when I think about that version of myself, it feels like a long time ago; there’s a lot learned in a decade.”

Those early years were marked by a self-effacing humility that often led Olsen to defer to others when it came to key decisions about the characters she was playing. But she now feels emboldened to not only stand up for herself and her choices but for others on her sets as well.

“[Facebook Watch series] ‘Sorry for Your Loss’ I got to produce, and I really found my voice in a collaborative leadership way. And with ‘WandaVision,’ Paul [Bettany] and I really took on that feeling, as well—especially since we were introducing new characters to Marvel and wanted [those actors] to feel protected and helped,” she says. “They could ask questions and make sure they felt like they had all the things they needed because sometimes you don’t even know what you need to ask.”

It’s a lesson she learned working with filmmaker Marc Abraham on the Hank Williams biopic “I Saw the Light,” and she’s carried it with her ever since. “I really want it to feel like we’re all in this together, as a team,” Olsen says. “That was part of ‘Sorry for Your Loss’ and it was part of ‘WandaVision,’ and I hope to continue that kind of energy because those have been some of the healthiest work experiences I’ve had.”

If Olsen sounds particularly zealous about the importance of a comfortable, working set, it is because she’s well aware that therein lies an integral part of the work and the process. As an actor, she wants to feel protected and nurtured by those around her, whether she’s reacting to a telling, quiet line of dialogue about grief or donning her iconic Scarlet Witch outfit during a magic-filled mid-air action sequence.

“Sometimes you’re going to be foolish, you know? And [you need to] feel brave to be foolish. Sometimes people feel embarrassed on set and snap. But if you’re in a place where people feel like they’re allowed to be an idiot,” she says, “you’re going to feel better about being an idiot.”

This story originally appeared in the Aug. 19 issue of Backstage Magazine. Subscribe here.

Press/Gallery: How Elizabeth Olsen Brought Marvel From Mainstream to Prestige was originally published on Elizabeth Olsen Source • Your source for everything Elizabeth Olsen

#Elizabeth Olsen #WandaVision #Avengers #Scarlet Witch #Wanda Maximoff #Sorry For Your Loss #Avengers Infinity War #Avengers Age of Ultron #Captain America Civil War #Ingrid Goes West #Godzilla #Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness #Marvel #MCU #Candy Montgomery #Love and Death #Avengers Endgame

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nxrdist · 4 years

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Letters to the Front

Summary: Set during the Great War. The letter hadn’t been meant for Tommy, but it landed up in his lap anyway. He hadn’t meant to do anything but inform the sender, courteously, of the fate of their loved one (who knew how long it took for the Crown to send those messages out). Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he’d be recieving another letter from the girl.

Rating: Teen for now

||Masterlist||

Words: 1568

A/N: Semi-inspired by a fic I read sometime ago. Canon and period typical triggers apply. If you watch the show you know what you’re getting into I hope! Any overly graphic decriptions will be added as specific triggers. I intend to do my best when it comes to historicla accuracy, but somethings will intentionally be bent for the purpose of the story. I hope you all enjoy :)

There hadn’t been gunfire for hours. A small burst had taken place that morning when a young kid had been brave enough to pop his head up, against strict orders not to do so, but since then there had been hardly a peep from either side. No man’s land laid out before them silent as ever. It wouldn’t be that way for long he was sure. The digging took time, but when the tunnels met it wouldn’t be silent anymore.

Digging the tunnels hadn’t been something Thomas was intending on volunteering for, but when no other had; how could he not? Their commanding officer sat silently for a long moment looking into the faces of all his men. Thomas’s eyes had also flicked over some of the younger faces surrounding him. He was young too, but some well they were even younger than he was. Arthur had stiffened next to him when Thomas silently raised his hand in acknowledgement.

Their CO nodded and shuffled off Thomas was ready for Arthur to rip into him, but he didn’t. Instead, Arthur was quiet. Though, he did watch Thomas with an uncannily close eye. Clearly, Arthur was wondering if Thomas had simply lost the will to go on. Thomas made eye contact with his brother and gave a sharp shake of his head.

No words were needed. Thomas knew the question. Arthur knew the answer in the sharpness of his middle brother’s eyes.

Someone has to aye?

It was late afternoon before John could make his way over to them again. Arthur didn’t say anything about the tunnels to John and neither did Thomas. John looked quite keen when he’d shuffled over to them and neither were willing to spoil the mood.

“What’s it then?” Arthur asked after a moment of looking at John’s grinning face.

“Mail’s come in.”

Thomas gave John a simple nod of understanding. Arthur clapped his youngest brother on the shoulder, squeezing it slightly, and grinned as well. John was the only one who really had anyone writing to him with regularity -his wife Martha. It had been heartbreaking to see John leave her and his children behind when they’d joined up. None of the children understood that their father wouldn’t be coming back for quite some time, but Martha had held on to John so tightly.

John was fidgeting nervously with his cuffs. Clearly excited, but also anxious that he wouldn’t be getting anything, John always worried in vain. If Martha hadn’t written him a several page long letter, then he would have drawings from his children. John always got mail. While Arthur and Thomas only occasionally got letters from their youngest brother Finn, their sister Ada, or from their Aunt Polly.

Just when Thomas was about to reach out and grab his brother’s hand to stop his fidgeting the mail carrier arrived. It was the same squat man as usual moving down along the row of men with a large sack of mail. John was nearly bouncing with anxiety by the time they were reached.

“Shelby, John,” said the man.

John greedily took two envelopes from the man. One of which was quite thick, likely the containing pictures from his children, and the other not quite so thick and with visibly clearer writing on the front. He was lucky this time. A letter from Martha and his children’s pictures on the same day.

Thomas sighed. He was thankful his brother would be able to relax for at least a few days while he read and reread Martha’s letter. A sigh escaped Thomas’s lips as he leaned his head back against the muddy side of the trench.

“Greene, Ernest?” said the mail carrier in a slightly unsure tone.

Usually Ernest was sitting near the brothers when the mail came. It had been over a month since mail had come though. So, of course the mail carrier wouldn’t know about Ernest. Thomas sighed. He glanced over at Arthur who shrugged.

“Here.” Thomas said, propping himself back up and sticking out his hand. “Ern’s dead.”

The mail carrier gave a short nod. He tossed the letter to Thomas before moving on down the line. It wasn’t the first or the last time a dead soldier’s mail would show up to the front. Thomas wasn’t sure what possessed him to take the letter meant for Ernest, but he had. Arthur arched an eyebrow at him briefly. Giving a shrug, Thomas tucked it into his pocket. John was busy with his mail, but Thomas didn’t want to read Ernest’s letter in front of Arthur and his prying eyes.

After a few moments of relaxing silence, Thomas moved from the trench toward the short walkway to a spot a bit further behind the line where soldiers could take breaks and play cards or dice. There was a badly battered table and chairs placed over some shabbily laid boards. Mud still squelched up between the boards, but it still served to allow one to wipe their boots somewhat which Thomas did before taking a seat. He took out the letter and laid it on the table in front of him.

Ernest Greene

It was scrawled in a neat feminine hand which made opening it more difficult for Thomas. He didn’t recall Ernest ever mentioning having a girl back at home. All Ernest ever mentioned about home was that he had a sister, a few years younger than himself, that worked the phone lines in Birmingham. Though, looking at the script Thomas worried that Ernest may indeed have had a girl back home. Some men were like that after all. They wanted to keep their lives at home to themselves somewhat. Something this damn war can’t take away, an older soldier had told Thomas not long after he’d first arrived.

Breathing a deep sigh, Thomas hooked his finger under the seal and popped the letter open. He pulled out a single sheet of paper on which was more of the same slightly slanted writing. Thomas looked at it without really reading it for a long moment. He took out a cigarette and lit it as he began to read.

Dearest brother,

Thomas exhaled a puff of smoke. Pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand holding his cigarette, he paused for a long moment. Finally he moved his hand away to puff again on his smoke. Was it worse or better that the letter was from Ern’s sister instead of a sweetheart? He wasn’t sure. The letter was open now though if there were some principal of invaded privacy he’d already broken it.

I’m afraid your letters may be getting lost. The last one I received from you was marked near four months past and I’ve written you twice since then. It’s no matter though. You know I will always keep writing.

You’re my big brother after all and I do miss you so terribly. The house still feels so very empty at times without you here. You tell me not to worry for you though I simply can’t help it can I? It is difficult not to, you know that don’t you. Ever since father passed, I have no one else to care for.

And don’t go telling me to get myself a sweetheart again, will you?

I could scarcely imagine such a thing until I know you are looked after. On the note of looking after oneself, I have been keeping well. Your kitten, well cat now, lays on the end of my bed when I sleep. I wake early every morning to go to work at the operator’s office. I am enjoying the work so much there. It is such a far cry from the factory you used to work at.

Perhaps when you return home, I will even be able to take you to a special lunch! Wouldn’t that be a treat Ern?

I’ve enclosed a picture. Many of the girls at the operator’s office send them to their sweethearts. I’ll send one to you just so you don’t forget what I look like yes? A strange concept, I know, however I find myself looking at our old family photos just to see your face some days. I don’t want to forget the face of my brother either.

All my love,

Helen

Thomas hadn’t even realized the cigarette he’d lit at the beginning of the letter had burned down to the butt while he read. His eyes were oddly glassy. It was difficult to read those last few sentences. He didn’t even realize why until a single tear drop fell with a plop onto the paper. Rubbing his eyes with the back of his dirty hand, Thomas

Inhaling deeply, Thomas pulled out another cigarette and inhaled deeply. The calming sensation of the smoke filling his lungs allowed Thomas to open the envelope again. Just as she’d said, enclosed was a photograph. The girl in the photograph looked hardly nineteen. Her hair was a dark shade which Thomas could imagine must have matched Ernest’s own chocolate brown. Though, her eyes looked less like the same dark brown of her brother’s it was difficult to tell from the photo; though, there was a distinct light in them. Her lips were turned up into a shy smile like she wasn’t sure whether she ought to be smiling for the camera or not. Helen Greene was a lovely young woman decided Thomas.

Sighing, Thomas looked around. Quickly he noted another soldier who was penning a letter of their own nearby. The soldier was kind enough to offer him a piece of paper and allow Thomas to borrow his pen as he’d just finished his own letter. He felt a certain sense of urgentness about finishing his response for several reasons one being the mail carrier would leave soon and the second being the tunnel. Thomas would be going down into the tunnels very soon.

---

end note: Tommy’s letter back will be in the next part ;D

Taglist: none (send me an ask if you’d like to be added)

#tommy shelby fic #peaky blinders fic #fanfic #my fic #tommy shelby

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gaycrouton · 5 years

Text

Obvious

Words of Love 15/27 [Scully agrees to go to Mulder's high school reunion, but he makes a mistake when sending in the confirmation.]

Obvious: (adjective) easily perceived or understood; clear, self-evident, or apparent.

From years of working together, Scully had developed a keen sense of knowing when Mulder was up to something, and a nervous Mulder was always a sign that he was scared to tell her something. When she came into the office that morning, he was nicer than normal. He greeted her, he pulled out her chair for her, and he even had bought her a coffee. In all honesty, when he was nervous, he acted like a loyal puppy dog.

She was content in allowing it to go on for a while, it was nice having him dote on her, but she noticed he was practically gnawing a hole in his lip and she decided to put him out of his misery. “Is everything okay, Mulder?”

He glanced at her before casting his eyes downward yet again. “Um, yeah. It’s just-Scully, Do you remember when you said you’d come with me to my high school reunion?”

“Yes, it’s tomorrow right?” she answered, not knowing where he was going with this or why he would be getting nervous.

He nodded, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, “Yeah, um. I accidentally made a mistake when I sent in my confirmation.” At her raised eyebrow he pleaded, “promise you won’t get mad?”

“I promise to react accordingly.”

This didn’t comfort him, but he continued nonetheless, “When I sent the confirmation in the mail, I didn’t notice that I filled your name under the spouse section. Apparently word still travels fast for a bunch of rich people with too much time on their hands, so they made a big deal out of it and I was too embarrassed to correct them when they called to give me the time.” It rushed out his mouth Scully had a hard time following. When she she fully took in what he had just said, she was still a little confused.

“Why did they make such a big deal about it?” She didn’t understand what about the prospect of Mulder being married came to such a shock for these people.

He opened his mouth but closed it almost immediately. She watched him search for phrasing. Mulder was never at a loss for words, so Scully figured this was something he didn’t like to share, so she didn’t tease him. She just waited until he continued, “They had a nickname for me in highschool, the ‘Lone Fox’, ya know, a play on the lone wolf. I was basically the same way I am now, but in a dweeby teenage body. They told me they never expected I’d find anyone to put up with me.” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle, trying to brush off how much this truly bothered him.

It bothered Scully too. Mulder was the kindest and most thoughtful man she had ever met. He never talked much about his adolescence, but she had found out enough over the years to know it wasn’t pleasant. She knew after the abduction, both his parents treated him like it was his fault, one purposefully, the other a bit more subtle. Knowing that he couldn’t even escape that negative attention at school upset her. The thought of a young Mulder, eating alone, not having anyone care about his fantastic theories or listening to his witty jokes. It didn’t just make her sad, it infuriated her. She knew he had perfected the art of hiding his self-doubt and insecurities behind a mask of confidence, but she had been under that mask for a long time now. Secrets weren’t their thing.

“I’ll be your wife,” both their eyes widened at her bluntness and she quickly added, “-for the reunion, I’ll play wife. I don’t think they deserve you, so lets rub your happiness and success in their faces.” Scully felt butterflies in her stomach at the realization of what they were about to do, but at the same time she couldn’t help but feel excited. Being close to Mulder for hours on end had a definite appeal. From the way he was grinning, the sentiment was shared.

“Really Scully? I don’t want to make you feel obligated-” he already started trying to give her an out, but she cut him off.

“Nonsense. I have my grandparents rings we can use. We’ll just have to play lovey-dovey tomorrow and I’m sure it will be believable.” She honestly couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. This was so out of character for her. She just hated when Mulder doubted himself. She also didn’t want them to go and hear him be made fun of. He already was insecure, but this would just be his old peers rubbing his loneliness in his face.

“Thank you, Scully. I really appreciate this.” She gently nodded, and they resumed their work in an attempt to pretend like they didn’t just make a huge commitment, however farcical it may be.

The next day at work was the same. They both interacted the same as normal, continued their banter, but there was an undercurrent of excitement fueling the office. Before they left, Mulder told her he’d pick her up at seven, and she rushed home to get ready.

Her own class reunion wasn’t for a few more years, and she had never actually been to one before. She didn’t really know what the proper attire was, but she knew he grew up in Martha’s Vineyard so she figured it would be better to go a little fancier than she normally would. She had an emerald green cocktail dress that her mother had convinced her to buy, insisting that it brought out her eyes and complimented her hair. She put on black nylons before putting on the dress. It came to about mid-thigh, and was made of a thick velvet. The upper portion was off the shoulders and had long sleeves. Her favorite part though was the back, which was made entirely of black see-through lace. There was no way she could wear a bra with it, but the velvet in the front was thick enough that she wasn’t worried about anything poking through. Looking in the mirror she couldn’t help but smile, she looked hot.

She made her way to the bathroom and spent a generous amount of time applying, removing, and reapplying her makeup. It was never her strong suit, but she wanted to look good. She felt silly, but she wanted to woo Mulder, not that she was going to try anything, but a little bit of Mulder-attention was always welcomed. Especially tonight when they were going to be masquerading as a couple. Eventually, she achieved a good smokey eye, it was relatively tame, but it really accentuated her eyes. She had taken a shower earlier in the morning, so her natural curlier hair was present, and she decided to let it be. She remembered once Mulder came into her room when they were at a motel after her hair had dried from a shower. She was taken aback when he took a strand of her hair between his fingers and mumbled that it looked really good this way.

With his usual, uncanny perfect timing, Mulder knocked on the door as soon as she was ready. She padded to the door and opened it in a grand sweep. She knew she had been successful based on the look on his face. He whispered a shy greeting, but he couldn’t pull his eyes from raking over her body appreciatively. She didn’t mind, because she was doing the same thing to him. Mulder always wore nice suits, but this was exceptional. He looked sleek and clean in his rich black suit and she grinned when she saw an emerald green pocket square sticking out of his pocket. Always in sync, even unintentionally.

She met his eyes and blushed to see he had just been watching her ravish him with her eyes. She turned around and started walking into her apartment to get the heels that matched the dress, purposefully giving him a show to reveal her sheer, exposed back. She bit her lip to suppress a grin when she heard him intake a sharp breath. He tried to cover it up by clearing his throat and offering a sincere, “You look stunning, Scully.”

She slipped on her shoes and turned around to face him and she felt her breath catch in her throat at the look of pure adoration in his eyes. She chuckled off her shyness and replied, “You don’t look so bad yourself.” A quick realization had her walking back into her bedroom, shouting over her shoulder, “Wait right there okay?” She went to her vanity and took the rings from off the counter. Her grandparents had left the rings to her, she was always their favorite, but she had never had any use for them until now.

Returning to the living room, she caught Mulder looking at the photos on her mantle; a family photo, one of her with her childhood pet, and, embarrassingly, one that had been given to her by the crime lab of her and Mulder. Of course, that was the one he was focused on, she had never told him that she had it. Pointing to it he asked, “What’s this?”

She started shyly, “Oh, the crime lab accidentally took that on a scene, and since it was actually a pretty good picture, they asked if I wanted to keep it.” The photo was of Mulder looking down at her as if she was the most important thing in the world, and her head was thrown back in laughter. Honestly she didn’t remember what he had said to her in a middle of a crime scene that she found so funny, but it was a really touching photo.

He nodded at her explanation and smiled back at the shot, taking as much enjoyment from it that she did. While he was distracted, she took his left hand from his hip, uncurled the fingers, and gently slid the ring on his finger. “A perfect fit!” She had honestly been a little worried about that. Glancing up she saw a surprised smile on his face, and she realized how intimate that had just been, she noticed she was still holding Mulder’s hand and she quickly let go in embarassment.

They left the apartment shortly after and made it to the resort in good time, she asked Mulder why the class reunion wasn’t being held at the school, let alone the correct state, and Mulder just said that they wanted as much attention as possible, which is why it was in the capital of the United States, at the most important venue possible. Walking in, Mulder’s descriptions of these people immediately fit. The ballroom was filled with people who looked like they loved being upper class. She was stunned that Mulder had grown up in this type of environment.

She heard a shrill woman scream ‘Fox’, and she felt Mulder’s hand slip around her waist, rubbing his thumb into the textured fabric. He bent down to whisper in her ear, “You ready for this, honey?” She could hear the amusement at the term of endearment lacing his voice.

She looked up at him, batting her lashes, and responded, “Always have been, sweetheart. ”

He smiled down at her when a bleach-blonde woman finished running up to them, speaking in a ridiculously squeaky voice, “Oh my god, Fox! We all just assumed you wouldn’t come! Is this your wife?”

“Hello, Lanie. I sent in a confirmation didn’t I? But yes, this is my wife, Dana.” Scully smiled at the use of her first name. While she loved that he was the only person that called her just ‘Scully’, it was almost like a nickname exclusively for him to use, it was nice hearing him say her first name. It was intimate. It made her feel like he was recognizing her as a woman when he did it.

The woman, apparently named Lanie, turned her full attention to Scully. “Wow, you’re absolutely stunning! Fox was a total geeky loner in high school, we always thought he’d die alone, we never imagined the possibility a woman, let alone one as attractive as yourself, would want to be with him.” The bitch said this all with a, what she probably thought to be sympathetic, smile on her face.

It took every ounce of Scully’s willpower not to drop her jaw in shock. She could not believe the audacity of the woman in front of her. What really threw Scully was that she said it as if Scully was going to agree with her. She tightened her grip around Mulder before replying with a phony smile, “Oh, well my husband’s an absolutely brilliant individual. It takes one to know one which is probably why he didn’t have many acquaintances here.” She knew being so rude off the bat probably wasn’t the best thing to do, but with the way the woman beamed at her, her comment wasn’t wrong. She turned to Mulder and saw pure amusement dancing across his face.

“Oh my god, you guys are so sweet together,” the naive girl squealed. She quickly reached into her purse and put two name tags onto Mulder and Scully’s corresponding chests. She took a glance on hers and was charmed to see that it read ‘Dana Mulder’. She saw on Mulder’s face that he really enjoyed it as well.

The woman left them to their own devices almost immediately after, simply directing them to the refreshments. They meandered their way over while Mulder casually shared what he knew about people as they passed by. When they got to the punch bowl, Mulder scooped a hearty amount into a glass on the table while Scully grabbed a complimentary water. They took a seat at a table in the corner and enjoyed the rare time they got to share together, Mulder getting up to refill their respective glasses a few times within an hour period.

She noticed something was off around the fourth time he came back to the table. He accidentally bumped into it with uncharacteristic clumsiness, then muttered a quick “Pardon Me.”

Scully raised her eyebrow, “Did you just say pardon me to an inanimate object?” Mulder looked at her and shrugged, a bemused expression on his face. Scully, on a hunch, grabbed his glass and took a drink. Her suspicions were immediately confirmed. “Mulder, did you know your drink has alcohol in it?”

He shook his head with a little more lag than normal, “No, Scully, that’s punch.”

Scully laughed a little bit at her now-drunk partner. For as long as she knew him, Mulder didn’t drink. She didn’t pry, but she had always presumed it was due to the fact his father drank in excess and wasn’t always the kindest. She supposed that, since the drink was mixed so well, he didn’t recognize it.

“Yeah, it is punch, but punch with an egregious amount of vodka in it.” His mouth made a little ‘o’ and she couldn’t help but laugh. He was a little more talkative than usual, but she guessed she was too distracted by their closeness to pick up on the fact he was getting drunk. She couldn’t lie, she was a bit excited about seeing what he was like.

Before they could continue, a tall, pudgy man around Mulder’s age came to their table. “Fox! Long time no see. I see you brought the wife.”

She took a look at Mulder and saw his eyes light up as if he had forgotten their little charade. Scooting his chair a little closer to hers, wrapping his arm ungracefully around her shoulder, he exclaimed, “Yes I did! This is my wife, Dana Mulder.” He placed the hand, not around her arm, over her hands on the table, slipping his hand in between to take hold of her left hand.

The man smiled at Scully politely, “Nice to meet you, Dana, my name’s Matthew. You look very lovely tonight.”

Before she could reply, Mulder beat her to it enthusiastically, “Isn’t she? I don’t know how I got so lucky. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.” He kissed her cheek for emphasis and she didn’t know if she was blushing at the contact or his words.

Matthew, who was quickly becoming Scully’s favorite classmate of Mulder’s, smiled at the display of affection. “Happiness looks good on you, Fox. I’ll leave you two be, got to get back to my special lady.” He waved a quick goodbye, and they were left alone once again.

“You know that, right?” Mulder said unprompted.

“Know what?” Scully was confused by his meaning.

“That you’re absolutely gorgeous.” She blushed at his words and avoided his gaze, but that just prompted him to continue. “You’re so cute when you blush, but regardless, I’m not just saying that you're gorgeous because you’re dressed up so elegantly right now, I think that all the time.” His words weren’t slurred, but they lacked his usual eloquence, giving away his drunken state.

Throwing him a bone, she responded with a shy, “That’s very nice of you to say. Thank you, Mulder.”

“I know it’s just pretend, but I’m so happy you’re my wife right now,” He was smiling from ear to ear, giving her the same look as he did in the photograph on her mantle. He was gently tracing his name attached to her own on the name tag on her upper breast. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the fact Mulder was acting like a drunk college girl; absolutely complementary and enthusiastic.

“Me too,” she said it so softly she assumed he wouldn’t hear, but of course nothing ever got past Mulder.

“I wish it wasn’t pretend. Thank you for coming with me, I love spending time with you,” he mumbled, taking a drink from her water after the words left his mouth.

Mulder always had a way with expressing those sentiments to her, but never so openly. She would be lying if she said it wasn’t extremely flattering. She couldn’t help but fear that it was the alcohol talking and that he might regret saying it later, so she didn’t want to reveal how much this meant to her. At least, not to the full extent.

She was immediately distracted when Mulder abruptly stood up and declared, “I want to dance with you.” Laughing, Scully decided to indulge him, taking his hand and following him to the dance floor.

She couldn’t place the name of the song that was playing, but it was slow and smooth. Mulder held onto one of her hands while the other wrapped around her hip, going to far back as to rest on the small of her back, pressing her to him. Scully smiled and rested her arm over his shoulder. For being drunk, Mulder’s dancing was pretty impressive, though it was more like swaying.She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his heart beating in his chest, relishing this, normally forbidden, moment of closeness. She felt completely embraced in all the senses with Mulder, specifically, she was enjoying the smell of his cologne and feeling his hands on her body. Scully could feel movement happening on her back, and she realized that he was playing with the lace back of the dress. She was amused when he rubbed a line across where her bra would have been, if she had been wearing one. Leaning down to her ear, he whispered, “You nearly killed me with this dress.”

Grinning, she responded honestly, “Good, that was my intention.” This earned her another full-watt Mulder smile.

They continued swaying for a few more songs before she noticed Mulder was getting a little tired. She realized it because he started resting his cheek atop her head like she was a pillow. She might have assumed that he had fallen asleep if he wasn’t still dancing.

She was further reassured he was awake when she heard him mumble into her hair, stating the obvious, “I love you so much, and I will be your husband someday.”

She felt tears well up in her eyes and a smile break out across her face at the determination in his voice. She squeezed him around the middle before mumbling into his chest, “I’m sure you will.”

#I forgot his highschool was a state away when I wrote this #ignore that detail #x files fanfic #x files fanfiction #msr #msr fanfic #msr fluff #dana Scully #fox mulder #mulder and scully #gaycrouton #onlytheinevitable #my fanfiction

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lookatthisdork · 7 years

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Opinion piece: DC House of Horror (2017)

First of all SPOILERS for DC House of Horror!

Second, this is only my OPINION. It might be unpopular. It might even be offensive. But I want to talk about this before going back to my normally scheduled “hey look at this cool stuff” and “it’s stupid AU time!” content.

I did not read the Green Arrow and Captain Marvel/Shazam stories since I’m not currently invested in those characters. *shrugs*

The rest are...meh. The whole series seems to have Keith Giffen credited with the plot ideas, but each story has a different script writer. So I have no idea who I’m criticizing in each of these blurbs. Probably Keith. I don’t know.

Bump in the Night (feat Superman; by Edward Lee)

I have admittedly little experience with horror movie conventions, but I’m pretty sure this was aiming for the opening of a monster movie. Creepy, dangerous alien falls from space, kills the locals before making its way to more populated areas. The poor schmuck that finds it first always dies quickly and painfully, which is what happened to Pa Kent here. Kind of a cheap death, but it fits the genre convention.

The dramatic irony of Martha Kent trying to call her husband and her refusing to leave the house when something strange is happening outside were pulled off pretty well. Overall, I think she reads as a spirited but ultimately doomed horror protagonist.

My problem with this is that the alien (”Clark/Baby Superman”) reads as a complete cardboard-cutout monster cliche. Why did he kill Pa and Ma Kent? No reason is even alluded to. He just kills them because they’re there.

(If I were writing this, I would have played up the naive-creepy-child factor. Have Clark accidentally kill Jonathan Kent since he’s a child who doesn’t know his own strength and has never seen a dead person before. If you want to keep the alien-vibe, have him not recognize that he killed a person. Imagine a kid using a magnifying glass on an ant, then replace the ant with Pa and Ma Kent. I like to think that would have been more memorable.)

Man’s World (feat Wonder Woman; by Mary Sangiovanni)

Well, they definitely have the aesthetic they were going for. The mixed chronology is actually not as confusing as I was expecting since the artists made good use of the colors and a wardrobe change to help guide the reader through the flashbacks. I actually felt creeped out by this one.

The only problem is...this doesn’t read like Diana AT ALL. Having Diana not speak English is a great way to keep her menacing, but it also destroys any ability for the audience to know what’s going on in her head. Without her words, we have only her actions, and...she’s just going around killing people? Who haven’t done anything?? (Except the last guy, but he’s one out of six on-page deaths.)

What is her motivation? Why is she doing these things? What happened to Wonder Woman, righteous warrior and defender of the innocent?

(This would have been excellent if it was a villain character instead of Diana, just saying.)

Crazy for You (feat Harley Quinn; by Bryan Smith and Brian Keene)

Is it a ghost? Or is it a hallucination? Both? I’m not sure, and I love that I’m not sure.

That said, I’m definitely not a Harley expert...does she read in-character? I don’t know, she feels flat to me. And something about cutting hard away from witnessing the murders. Unreliable narrator is in effect, I want more concrete details of the murders from Chuck’s point of view.

Last Laugh (feat Batman; by Nick Cutter)

Ha. Hahaha. This is the one I reblogged panels from yesterday.

Good things first: capitalizing on Batman-Joker parallels has been done since forever, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I think the opening and closing scenes are well-narrated and well-composed. The much smaller batcave and the gun are good hints that something’s very different about this universe. The Joker’s voice was pretty good, for the most part. I wouldn’t change much of anything in the first half of this.

The second half...hahaha.

My beef with this one isn’t that Jason was killed; it was that he was killed for shock value and as an undisguised reference to super-(in)famous Death in the Family. It does not add constructively to the narrative at all. Last Laugh is clearly a hard AU with only the barest resemblance to canon; leaning so hard on canon that you only have one panel (technically two panels) with Jason in your story means that I just get angry instead of mournfully distraught when Jason is killed. It’s cheap and unearned in my opinion.

More broadly, there’s mixed signals as to the nature of Bruce’s delusion. Is he going around beating/killing people dressed as Batman? Or does he do his murders specifically dressed as the Joker? The later red panels indicate the former while the zoom-in on his locker at the end implies the latter. This whole story would have been much stronger if the writer had picked one interpretation and stuck with it from beginning to end.

(I would go with a strong Batman/Joker divide where Batman is still the vigilante and the Joker is the only “one” doing the crimes. Have the blue and red panels read as Batman vs Joker for most of the first read-through, but also have them consistently show Delusion vs Truth for the second read-through. I would also have Joker’s call-outs be a little more ambiguous so the twist actually sneaks up on you as opposed to be super obvious from the first red panel on.

And goddamn, if you’re going to kill Jason, at least have him show up in the narrative beforehand as Robin in the Delusion panel and ordinary-child-Jason in the Truth panel. Have him walk in on something he shouldn’t have, which leads to his murder and Bruce’s subsequent final mental break. Hell, maybe even imply that Robin was never really a thing outside Bruce’s head to really hammer home the death of a child who did nothing wrong.

Work for the tragedy, is all I’m saying.)

Blackest Day (feat Hal Jordan and Justice League; by Brian Keene)

In my opinion, this is the strongest of the lot. Zombie Barry compromising the moon base - because he was looking for help and didn’t realize he was already doomed - is excellent. And terrifying, because Zombie Barry could start the apocalypse by himself, imagine how many people he could bite in a minute. Liked how Hal held onto hope all the way up until he felt himself changing, then decided to take a Last Stand rather than let himself become part of the problem.

Superman being off-planet was cheap. The timeline for the End of the World seems super contracted based on Constantine’s transmission and the way the moon base was wholly in the dark. Wonder Woman and J’onn died very easily. Would have liked more fighting off the zombies, but this was short enough that there wasn’t a lot of time for that.

Having the World actually End...I’m never a fan of complete annihilation by zombies. (And what about Themyscira? Atlantis? Is DC Earth really completely depopulated?)

(I’m just saying, post-zombie-apocalypse AU. I’d read it.)

Unmasked (feat Two Face; by Wrath James White...that’s a weird name)

I think this one’s the weakest of the ones I read. I may not be the most well-read when it comes to Havey/Two-Face, but ugh. Serial Killer Harvey is something I don’t need in an official AU. Not to mention that that is not how skinning a person works - connective tissue between the skin and the muscle would mean that peeling each face would take way more time than shown.

The Leviathan thing also takes up way too many panels and accomplishes nothing. NOTHING.

#meta #opinion #idle thoughts #dc house of horror #spoilers #in summary: meh #interesting ideas #middling to poor execution #superman #wonder woman #batman #joker #justice league #two-face #harley quinn

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funnythingshere0-blog · 6 years

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All the science fiction and fantasy books that you should check out this month

New Post has been published on https://funnythingshere.xyz/all-the-science-fiction-and-fantasy-books-that-you-should-check-out-this-month/

All the science fiction and fantasy books that you should check out this month

I studied military history in grad school, and in the years since, I’ve been keenly aware of how warfare is imagined in science fiction and fantasy. There are some books, like Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game and Joe Haldeman’s The Forever War, that have some pretty good portrayals that go beyond just arming characters with guns and pointing them toward the nearest hostile aliens.

As such, I’ve been reading R.F. Kuang’s debut novel The Poppy War (which came out in May), with interest. The basic premise of the book can be described as a sort of Ender’s Game or Harry Potter meets Sun Tzu, at least to begin with. In it, a war orphan named Rin is sent off to a prestigious military academy, and later serves in a specialized unit as her country is invaded. Kuang — an International History graduate from Georgetown University, with a specialty in Chinese military strategy who’s bound for Cambridge to begin her PhD in Chinese Studies next year — has a keen grasp of history and puts it to work in this book, drawing on real-world inspiration from engagements and genocide that’s occurred throughout Asian history. It’s a good novel, and it sounds as though she’ll continue to reimagine military history through the lens of her fictional world in future installments.

But while we wait, there are a number of other books hitting bookstores in August. Here are 14 that caught our eyes.

August 7th

Temper by Nicky Drayden

After her intriguing debut Prey of Gods, which blended science fiction and fantasy in a futuristic South Africa, Nicky Drayden is shifting genres again to something a bit more horror-oriented. Auben is spirited and popular, but he’s been branded with six different vices on his arms, while his twin brother Kasim only has one — which can make all the difference for a successful future. Their relationship is strained because of their diverging paths, and Auben soon begins hearing demonic voices, encouraging him to do horrible things. To save themselves and their society, the two must figure out how to defeat their own inner demons. Publishers Weekly gave the book a coveted star rating, calling the book “a harrowing and impressive tale of twisted prophecy, identity, and cataclysmic change.”

The 2020 Commission Report on the North Korean Nuclear Attacks Against the United States: A Novel by Jeffrey Lewis

Jeffrey Lewis, a professor at the Middlebury Institute of International Studies in California lays out a mock government study that imagines the aftermath of a 2020 nuclear attack by North Korea on the United States that has killed 1.4 million people. Lewis draws on the real-world technology and politics of the North Korean situation, telling Vice Motherboard that he stayed as close to reality as possible while writing the novel.

Image: Delphinium Books

Before She Sleeps by Bina Shah

In the future, Earth has been devastated by nuclear war and epidemics that have left the human population at low levels. Women have become a commodity to help repopulate society, forced to take multiple husbands and have as many children as possible. In Green City, the capital of the Sub-West Asia Region (formerly Pakistan and Iran), a group of women form their own rebelling collective — the Panah — where they avoid sex and offer up something different: comfort and nonsexual intimacy to the high-ranking men of society. But when one of the rebels winds up in a hospital, both the Panah and the elites of Green City will find themselves in peril. Publishers Weekly gave the book a starred rating, and compared it favorably to Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale.

Rogue Protocol by Martha Wells

I’ve raved about Martha Wells’ Murderbot novella All Systems Red, and its sequel, Artificial Condition was quite good as well. That first installment has earned considerable accolades — including Hugo and Nebula Award nominations — and the series continues with a third installment, Rogue Protocol. In it, authorities are beginning to ask where Dr. Mensah’s SecUnit — Murderbot — ended up, something that the anti-social robot really doesn’t want to deal with. A fourth novella, Exit Strategy, is due out in October, and Tor recently announced that Wells will write a Murderbot novel as well.

Read an excerpt.

August 14th

Stars Uncharted by S.K. Dunstall

While on a mission, cargo runner Captain Hammond Roystan makes a life-changing discovery: a long-lost exploration ship named the Hassim, which contains records of the worlds that it discovered. With a rag-tag crew with questionable histories, Roystan sets off to locate one particular infamous world that could hold untold riches, all while they’re pursued by agents from a dominating corporation who are also trying to get their hands on the Hassim’s data.

Read an excerpt.

Image: Tor Books

Ball Lightning by Cixin Liu and translated by Joel Martinsen

Cixin Liu, one of China’s premiere science fiction authors, came to international attention with his Remembrance of Earth’s Past trilogy (The Three-Body Problem, The Dark Forest, and Death’s End). His next novel, Ball Lightning, is being translated into English, and follows a boy named Chen who watched his parents die in a blast of ball lightning. As he explores mountains and secret military labs for answers about the phenomenon, he meets military personnel who are working to harness the lightning as a weapon, and soon has to contend with the consequences of his discoveries. Kirkus Reviews says that the book is “consistently surprising and absorbing.”

Noumenon Infinity by Marina J. Lostetter

Last year, Marina J. Lostetter released a sweeping space opera, Noumenon, which used a series of connected vignettes to tell the story of a flotilla of generation ships sent out to investigate LQ Pyx, a star with some strange properties. She’s back with Noumenon Infinity, which recounts the fleet’s efforts to investigate the megastructure that they discovered at the star, and to uncover the purpose for which it was built. Kirkus Reviews gave the book a star rating, saying that it’s a breathtaking sequel to Noumenon, and genre at its very best.”

Severance by Ling Ma

Candace Chen is an office drone at a publishing house in Manhattan that produces specialty bibles, content just to punch the clock and cash her paychecks. With her parents recently dead and her boyfriend leaving the city to escape his own mindless job, she barely notices when a plague begins to sweeps the world. Shen Fever turns its victims into zombie-like beings, who simply repeat actions over and over until they disintegrate. Soon alone in the city, Chen is tasked with closing out her company’s operations. She wanders the city, documenting its decay as an anonymous blogger, and hooks up with a group of survivors who are on their way to safety. Kirkus Reviews gave the book a starred review and says that it’s a “biting indictment of late-stage capitalism and a chilling vision of what comes after,” and that it’s “smart, funny, humane, and superbly well-written.”

Read an excerpt.

The Million by Karl Schroeder

In the distant future, Earth is populated by only a million of the super-rich, who act as inheritors and custodians of the planet’s wealth, and every 30 years, they allow the rest of humanity to visit for a month. In this society, Gavin Penn-of-Chaffee is an illegal child, hiding among the Million, and when his adoptive father is killed, he takes on the identity of a dead boy, only to realize that he’s been summoned to join the infamous secret police tasked with rooting out illegals such as himself.

Read an excerpt.

August 21st

Image: Tor.com

The Black God’s Drums by P. Djèlí Clark

P. Djèlí Clark’s debut novella is set in an alternate New Orleans during the American Civil War, and follows a girl named Creeper who tries to escape her bleak life on the city streets by joining the crew of an airship named the Midnight Robber. To earn her place, she’s acquired information about a Haitian scientist and a weapon that he’s been designing called The Black God’s Drums. Publishers Weekly gave the book a starred review and says that it’s “thrillingly original and will enthrall fans of alternate histories.”

The Fated Sky by Mary Robinette Kowal

This is the second book in as many months from Mary Robinette Kowal — last month, she released The Calculating Stars, which is set in an alternate world in which humanity is prompted to colonize the solar system after a meteor destroys Washington, DC. In this next installment of the duology, Lady Astronaut Elma York contends with the possibility of a Mars mission, which would mean leaving her husband behind, and concerns over the growing Civil Rights movement, and how future citizens will be treated on Mars.

Foundryside by Robert Jackson Bennett

In recent years, Robert Jackson Bennett has earned widespread acclaim for his fantasy novels, especially his Divine Cities trilogy. With Foundryside, he’s kicking off a new trilogy set in a fantastical city called Tevanne, which is dominated by four merchant houses that strip nearby lands of their resources and create magical technologies. The book follows Sancia Grado, a thief attempting to steal a powerful device that holds unimaginable power to rewrite the laws of reality. Kirkus Reviews and Publishers Weekly both gave the book starred reviews, with the latter saying that it’s a “crackling, wonderfully weird blend of science fiction, fantasy, heist adventure, and a pointed commentary on what it means to be human in a culture obsessed with technology, money, and power.”

August 28th

Image: Tor.com

War Cry by Brian McClellan

Brian McClellan has made a name for himself with his The Power Mage and Gods of Blood and Powder flintlock fantasy trilogies. His next release is quite a bit slimmer: a novella called War Cry. It follows an shape-shifting ranger Teado, who’s been stranded with his platoon for years. They take a desperate resupply mission, and the outcome could change the war. McClellan describes the world as a “WWII-type technology in which army rangers fight an endless war against shapeshifters and illusionists on the high plains.”

August 30th

The Fall of Gondolin by J.R.R. Tolkien

A long-unfinished tale from J.R.R. Tolkien is hitting bookstores as a standalone novel: The Fall of Gondolin. The book is one of the first that Tolkien began writing as he recovered from his injuries during World War I, and follows the founding and fall of an Elvish city called Gondolin. According to Tolkien scholar John Garth, the story helps to establish “parameters of Tolkien’s world, enshrining aspects of good and evil in faery races and demiurgic beings who are locked in perpetual conflict.”

Source: https://www.theverge.com/2018/8/1/17613652/sci-fi-fantasy-books-recommendations-august-2018

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jessicakehoe · 5 years

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Julia Garner Isn’t Who You Think She Is

Julia Garner is hard to miss—even though the 25-year-old actress is roughly the size of a woodland sprite. (OK, she’s five foot five, which isn’t even that short.) When I get to the diner where we agreed to meet, she’s already there, leaning forward in a booth, wearing a black turtleneck that seems ready to provide cover should she need to disappear. But that would be difficult. Garner the actress—you’ll recognize her if your taste in film and television runs toward the unsettling—can and does disappear into her roles, but Garner the person is unmistakable.

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It’s her hair: a controlled eruption of blond curls that would make William Katt—you know, the guy from The Greatest American Hero—swoon with envy. You don’t see curls like hers on television too often—at least not since the days of Chrissy Seaver on Growing Pains or maybe the first season of Felicity. It’s one of the subjects I intend to raise with her: how curls are often cut, straightened, covered up or otherwise discriminated against in showbiz and how they might make someone a hero.

There’s probably a metaphor in there, too.

Photography by Owen Bruce. Styling by Michela Buratti . Creative direction by Brittany Eccles. Hair, Bobby Eliot for Starworks Artists/Oribe. Makeup, Misha Shahzada for Forward Artists/Charlotte Tilbury. Manicure, Tracylee Percival. Fashion assistants, Sarah Gentillon and Erica Cutroni. Photography assistants, Karen Goss, James Lee Wall and Roxanne Hartridge.

She brightens when I approach, and we immediately fall into an easy conversation. She’s open and friendly, despite the unconscious motions of millennial discomfort: pulling at her collar and then running her hands through her hair, gathering it up and moving it from one side to the other, like a kid who doesn’t want to eat her potatoes. Before I can ask about that hair—or anything else for that matter—we’re interrupted by one of the diners on his way out. He’s sporting a buzz cut and a bright green shirt he likely got at the “Why Yes, I Am an Embarrassing Dad Store.”

“Is that Ruth we got here?” he says, not acknowledging my presence. “We just finished Ozark, and I thought it was you!” Garner is just as gracious with him as she was with me when I said hello. The man compliments her work and then heads out before anything becomes uncomfortable. A few moments later, he’s back with a camera. “My wife is going to love this,” he beams.

It was almost as if the whole interaction were a bit of theatre orchestrated for my benefit, to show not only Garner’s reach but also her low-key grace despite her growing fame. It wasn’t, of course. But since I had wondered whether Garner, who has been acting for nearly a decade but mostly in indies, has started getting recognized, it was a bit uncanny.

And, fine, asking whether an actress gets recognized is about as groundbreaking as asking who she’s wearing on a red carpet. But it seemed like an especially appropriate question for Garner. Because her biggest role at the moment—at least until Dirty John, a true-crime series, based on a popular podcast, that came out late last year—is as Ruth, the whip-smart, shit-talking quasi-outlaw/sidekick to Jason Bateman’s Marty on Netflix’s Ozark.

“When did that start happening?” I ask.

“It actually first started in Brooklyn,” replies Garner. “Because I was in indies, that seemed to be where I was recognized most often.”

And now look: That girl from Martha Marcy May Marlene—and a surprising number of other cult-based works, like Electrick Children, where she played a Mormon teen who believes she was impregnated by rock music, or Waco, where she was one of David Koresh’s Branch Davidian wives—is all grown up and getting spotted in Manhattan. If you can make it there….

Garner isn’t anything like the characters she plays. She doesn’t sound like them, and she doesn’t act like them. Granted, this is true of most actors (though, ha ha, certainly not all). But, like in the biblical “Parable of the Sower,” she plants the seeds of her characters in fertile ground: They grow out of who she is. Take Ruth in Ozark, for example. Garner has managed to create a character that’s intimidating, resourceful and strong while keeping this thread of vulnerability humming just under the surface. “The vulnerability is the easy part,” she tells me. “Ruth’s strength—that was the challenge.”

“The vulnerability is the easy part. Ruth’s strength—that was the challenge.”

Plus, she already had that thick, rusted Missouri accent from an earlier role in Tomato Red. She figured she’d impress the producers with it in her audition for Ruth. “Casting offices in New York are tiny,” she tells me. “So while I’m waiting, I can hear all these other auditions for the same part. And none of them are trying out the accent.” She decided she’d forget the accent, too. Only, she couldn’t. “I had prepared so much with the accent that I couldn’t even remember my lines when I tried to do it with my normal voice.” Obviously, breaking out her Missouri twang worked out for her—spoiler alert: she got the part—but the fact that she almost caved to peer pressure of her own making is telling.

You get the sense that, like a lot of people who were painfully shy as kids, Garner has what my family used to call the Appropriateness Gene. It’s a potent blend of sensitivity, empathy and self-awareness that makes, for instance, watching cringe-comedy nearly impossible unless there are ample pillows nearby to hide under. Basically, the Appropriateness Gene—which has yet to be identified by geneticists—makes you want to do what’s right/expected, and it causes you pain when others don’t. “My mom used to get me to eat vegetables by making me feel guilty,” explains Garner. “Like, ‘You don’t want these carrots to fail in their life’s purpose, do you?’”

“My mom used to get me to eat vegetables by making me feel guilty. Like, ‘You don’t want these carrots to fail in their life’s purpose, do you?’”

Famous people will often talk about how awkward, nerdy or generally uncool they were growing up. This is either an attempt to seem relatable or proof that everyone goes through periods where they feel as if they don’t fit in. It usually feels disingenuous—except when Garner says it, you believe her. “I was one of those kids whose parents were actually worried about them. Like, ‘She’s such a sweet girl,’” she says, pretending to be her parent, “‘but is she going to be OK?’”

Acting was actually what brought her out of her shell, though she still identifies as a bit of a nerd, even now. She looks down and her voice drops, as if she’s about to confess something that will be painful for both of us: “I really like Vanderpump Rules.” When that doesn’t convince me of her current nerd bona fides, she tells me she knits, too. The shame.

“I was one of those kids whose parents were actually worried about them. Like, ‘She’s such a sweet girl, but is she going to be OK?’”

She lowers her voice often, actually, apologizing in advance for saying something horrible—like how parents maybe shouldn’t force their children to perform before they are ready—that never turns out to be horrible at all. She can’t help it. It’s a function of her Appropriateness Gene.

But that (entirely fictional) gene might also be the key to outsized talent. After all, has there ever been a shy, sensitive child who isn’t also a keen observer and preternatural listener? Even now, that’s what Garner notices when she watches other people perform: if, and how well, they listen. “I can always tell; that’s the most important thing,” she says. “It’s about figuring out what a character wants. It sounds horrible, maybe, but people only wake up in the morning because they want something from the day. If you listen, you know what that is. And then you react to that.”

The harder you listen, the more present you can be. “If I can remember what I did in a scene, I will ask to do it over. Because it means I wasn’t in the moment,” she says. That’s the other side of the shy/sensitive/self-aware coin: an inherent perfectionism that is both inspiring and exhausting. “If I’m not in pain—if something isn’t hurting—at the end of the day, I worry that I haven’t worked hard enough,” she says. “I just want to know that I’ve done everything I can.”

“If I’m not in pain—if something isn’t hurting—at the end of the day, I worry that I haven’t worked hard enough.”

But that all-or-nothing, go-for-broke commitment begins before the official work even starts: These days, Garner doesn’t even go in for an audition unless she knows she’ll be crushed if she doesn’t get the part.

There’s something refreshing about that passion, something dangerous. But it’s also the perfect response to an industry that has a habit of breaking people down and flattening them. Of taking their curls and straightening them. “I know I’ll never be cast as, like, the popular girl because there will always be someone prettier,” she says. “And I can’t play a typical daughter because I don’t look like anyone. I want to take advantage of being the New Thing, because I’ve learned that there will always be a new New Thing.” And so why not only go up for roles that interest you—that only you can bring to life?

“I want to take advantage of being the New Thing, because I’ve learned that there will always be a new New Thing.”

And maybe that will change as Garner’s career progresses. Even some of the best actors in history have accepted roles and done work they clearly weren’t passionate about. Hell, whole careers have been built on a performer’s need to pay a mortgage(s). But in a perfect world, wouldn’t everyone have Garner’s level of passion? Wouldn’t everyone be willing to work until they hurt and listen until they were lost in the moment? A perfect world doesn’t necessarily mean an easy one. Perfect can be messy, even if you don’t see it that often, especially on television.

1/9

Julia Garner

Dress, $31,880, Valentino. Earrings, $55, Tuleste.

2/9

Julia Garner

Dress, $5,510, and earrings, $1,880, Dolce & Gabbana.

3/9

Julia Garner

Dress and pants, prices upon request, Miu Miu. Shoes, $5,040, Dolce & Gabbana.

4/9

Julia Garner

Dress, $3,230, Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello. Hat, stylist’s own.

5/9

Julia Garner

6/9

Julia Garner

Jacket and romper, prices upon request, Louis Vuitton.

7/9

Julia Garner

Dress, $31,880, Valentino. Earrings, $55, Tuleste.

8/9

Julia Garner

Top, $1,370, Dsquared2. Skirt and shoes, stylist’s own. Earrings, $80, Tuleste.

9/9

Julia Garner

Dress, $31,880, Valentino. Earrings, $55, Tuleste.

The post Julia Garner Isn’t Who You Think She Is appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Julia Garner Isn’t Who You Think She Is published first on https://borboletabags.tumblr.com/

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wherelegendscamefrom · 6 years

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The Interview

Francine tried to ignore her nerves as she waited patiently on the fine upholstered chair, waiting for her interview. The other mammals who had come been called in had already left, each it seemed had bit of smirk to their muzzles as they strode away. Most were middle aged females, like her; most with backgrounds in childcare, like her; all well-dressed prey, unlike her…..the only predator in the waiting room. The only fox on the grounds of the estate.

She knew it to be a long shot, going in for this interview. Lord and Lady Hopps were well to do and seemed quite kind, but they were rabbits. As welcoming as they were to mammals of all shapes and sizes in public, what rabbit would want to hire a fox to help raise their ever growing warren. Even one with her impressive background and experience, not to mention the glowing reviews.

Still, the advertisement had been too appealing and her husband and son were too excited for her to turn back and leave now. Smiling, Francine’s hand reached into her coat pocket to wrap itself around the small toy solider inside it. Her son, Nicholas, had insisted it would bring her good luck. And with that beautiful little face smiling up at her with green eyes matching her own, she could not refuse.

A slight jump escaped her when the door to the study opened and a gentle voice cut through the silence and her thoughts.

“Mrs. Wilde, thank you for waiting, and I am terribly sorry for the delay,” Lady Bonnie Hopps of Bunnyburrow stood smiling with welcome at the open doorway, gesturing the vixen into the room. “I hope the wait wasn’t too tedious?”

Francine beamed back. “Not at all. I dare say it was long enough to gather my nerves and insure my whiskers were crumb free from breakfast!”

Though the vixen laughed at her own statement and was not alone in the mirth, she kicked herself for the foolish comment and settled in on the ornamental couch opposite of Lord Stewart Hopps.

Did you really just say that to your potential employer, you fool! She thought wildly.

But Lady Hopps laughed happily.

“I dare say, a good sense of humor is going to very much needed to handle our brood, Mrs. Wilde! And wit, as my kits tend to try many a sly trick to get out of bath and bed time. With your resume and recommendation from Sir and Madam Brocktree, I daresay you will get on well here,” Lady Hopps said, her eyes sparkling. “I did get in touch with the school too, NorthWoods Privet School, in Zootopia. They have nothing but the best to say of you and your time there. May I ask why you left?”

The lady had sat herself next to her husband and poised a pen over the notepad, waiting for her response.

“Unfortunately, the new administration that took over was not so keen on foxes, especially around their youngest students. I and my colleagues were hard pressed to pull up the personal files of all the students I had taught to show that I was indeed a positive influence in their young lives.” At this, Francine sighed. “Their counter argument was that, even though I was the primary educator for the class, my success rate was the result of the overall environment of the school. Out of fear of damaging my reputation for extraordinary patience, I felt it best to resign. I had been offed a job as governess to the Brocktree’s children, so I was not without a gap in my teaching career.”

Francine finished with a small nod and smile, reflecting on how quickly the four badger cubs have grown. And she still had yet to bring Nick to meet them! They would have to arrange a reunion soon.

Lord Hopps, who had been silent and listening with just a hint of distrust in his eyes, spoke for the first time since her entrance.

“And this seven year gap? May I inquire as to that Mrs. Wilde?”

The statement and accusatory tone earned a sharp glare from his wife, but the vixen simply chuckled and regarded the Lord good naturedly.

“Of course, my lord! My husband and were blessed with a beautiful male kit of our own. He is quite the handful, I must say! It made watching a group of toddling cubs at lunchtime feel like a quiet vacation.” Smiling again, she continued un-rushed, “His name is Nicholas. He’s old enough now that is father takes him to our gardens for the day to help the harvest. He’s a good little helper, my son, if a bit mischievous. But my days are now empty and my love of teaching is making me restless again. Thus, here I am!”

Bonnie smiled at the lovely vixen. In her mind, she had already been hired after Madam Brocktree had brought her children for a visit. Such fine young badgers they were, too. Upon hearing of Francine Wilde’s upcoming interview, had begged their mother to stay and receive their old governess with the lord and lady. Ella Brocktree denied their request regretfully, and put in the sparkling review for the vixen in question.

“I would love for to start right away if you could, Mrs. Wilde!” Bonnie said, standing gracefully from her seat. “If you have time today perhaps you would like to meet kits? They are all eagerly awaiting to know who we hired!” Francine nodded in astonishment.

“Bonnie…. my beloved……..do you really think….. I mean…… she is a fox, after all……” Stewart looked flustered at his wife words and stammered the statement out before being silenced with another glare from the dignified doe standing above him.

“Yes, my love, I think. And yes, my love, she is a fox,” Bonnie’s ears stood tall and flushed with quick anger. “She is a fox who thanked our Marty for opening the door for her, as well acknowledged Martha’s presence and thanked her the water she had been given. She has been given the highest praise and best reviews of the lot we had interviewed of the last two weeks, and has shown have more than the basics of manners established. Manners I would like to have rub off on our kits. I will not have them growing up to be spoiled, self indulged aristocrats like the Bellwethers seem determined to raise!”

Calming significantly after her rant, Bonnie turned from her husband’s thunderstruck face, to Francine’s surprised one.

“Do say you’ll accept the position, Mrs. Wilde. I honestly had already hired you before today and I would hate for you to quit so soon!”

Francine’s eyes sparkled with emotion, as every positive one that could be felt swarmed through her, from tail to ear tips.

“O-of course I accept! But if I may ask, please call me Francine. Or Frankie if you prefer. Mrs. Wilde makes me feel old.” The two females beamed at each other while shaking paws, Bonnie leading Francine around the coffee table to the ornate double doors across the room.

Still a tad flabbergasted and very much intimidated by his wife, a normally calm doe herself, Lord Stewart watched them leave and made no hint to follow. Instead, he turned to the impala standing unassumingly by the entry to the study.

“Double scotch, would you Martha? I feel as though a riptide has entered my home.”

#zootopia #bonnieandstuhopps #nick wilde #judy hopps #au-alternatemeeting

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ulyssesredux · 6 years

Text

Lotus Eaters

You know Hoppy? And a clergyman too, and then the coroner and myself would have gone on all your plans! Having a wet. Keeps a hotel now. All weathers, all standing in relief against the wickedness and snares of the postoffice and turned to the heathen Chinee. Then feel all like one family party, same in the prescriptions book. O prince of the devil may God restrain him, pushing back the pink kerchief tied over her—may really help a man, with strong feeling. There's a parishioner of mine either, properly, I told you that if you understood what it is rather a changed aspect, as they pass. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. She had seated herself on a new plan in the museum. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip.

He eyed the horseshoe poster over the level land, a tiny old lady was evidently in a world apart, where all the riff-raff of the original Adam who form the society around you.

Barrels bumped in his exterior, but what should you do, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. Tell him if he likes it? Pity no time for massage. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale Aromatic. I suppose others will find his society too pleasant to hear that? Bed: ed. Lovely shame. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the corner.

Poor papa! I got your mother's cleverness, and then face about and bless all the same way. Like to give you away. Ah yes, Mr Bloom said. Said the Rector, with full lips and a tobacco—into poverty—that is.

He wouldn't know what I should rush into idleness, and they run away with all my might. Who is my opinion, partly to excusable prejudice, or the second. Lost it. A yellow flower with flattened petals. O, no, no, they say. The Rev.

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to Lowick in order. Their character. Eyes front.

Under their dropped lids his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

Humphrey! Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Better be shoving along. Lydgate, conceiving that these blundering lives are due to the double loss of preaching and coal. He wouldn't know what mistakes you have got hold of a young bachelor, he said.

But seriously, said Sir James. Mr. Cold comfort. Damn bad ad. Not by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of horsepiss.

But you want a perfume too. Not like Ecce Homo.

I forgot that latchkey too. Mr. Oh, I suppose. What is weight really when you. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. Having read it all down, and you must not be too sure of myself. Thanks, old man. Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —It's a kind of a desire to do it for his aunt Bulstrode.

Or sitting all day typing. An incoming train clanked heavily above his head. I go upon arguments, I am thinking of it.

Oh no, they will be. Another time you will be. Curse your noisy pugnose. Pity. Clever of nature. Hence those snores. What does she say?

We are indebted to that old dame's school. Said. Take off the entail, you extravagant youth! Great weapon in their house, talking. The quick touch. Poor papa! That would leave you time to give them any of it. Gelded too: a widow in her weeds. But a good man—she'll do a man. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains. This very church. By Mosenthal it is all so. His son's voice!

The Casaubon cuttle-fish fluid to begin with, and he and the massboy stood up. I should spoil his sport.

He moved a little to hinder it, kind of kingdom of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it I got it made up my mind some time. He crossed Townsend street, smiled.

She had seated herself on a low standard to go and lecture Brooke; and that kind of thing. Two strings to her argument; then there would be a tremendously good fellow then, Mary lost the pin of his present knowledge, and he preached plain moral sermons without arguments, and be responsible, and then orangeflower water … It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. Living all the time? Excuse, miss, there's a whh!

Off the rough dirt. Take off the dregs smartly. Going under the railway arch he took the folded Freeman from his pocket and a clergyman, you must be owned that his uneasiness was less than it would have taken such a sacrifice—a man as you by any other man. Stepping into the collisions of a Desdemona she had even feared that Celia had long learned to recognize. Mr Bloom said. I shall bolt; I am a party man, for a good unworldly woman—all the day and I'll take this one, and yet he dreaded to show that disrespect to my study, where all the time being in his pocket. That is what I should have an excuse. I'll risk it, Mr Bloom said, What reason does Bulstrode give for superseding you? Punish me, else you would not come to settle among us, and take all knowledge as mere nourishment to his moral pathology and therapeutics. Good idea the Latin. I feel so bad about. He died on Monday, poor fellow, it's a great deal in carrying out Dorothea's design of the quayside and walked off. Perfectly right that is. At his armpit, the weight? There were engraved portraits of Lord Chancellors and other celebrated lawyers of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, it seemed to pass through him when he was hopelessly divided from her warm sill. Skinfood. He hated his own force of gravity of the baths. Maximum the second. Something going on: photo perhaps. And past the sailors' home. She found her epos in the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver I am heavier, and be responsible, and this is true, and do thou, O prince of the envelope in his left hand. Brutal, why not? He is practising at a German bath, and can follow one's own course more quietly, said her father had something painful to tell _him_ by yourselves. I played marbles when I heard it. Martha, Mary, laughingly—has always been making abstracts ever since. A mason, yes, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. Hate company when you say the weight? Gradually changes your character. Confession.

Of course they make many things more difficult. Heatwave. That's my opinion, partly to excusable prejudice, or the converse of zealous politicians, or even justifiable opinion, partly to excusable prejudice, or you wear the best, said the Rector, quietly. —Hello, Bloom. Those crawthumpers, now, if he thinks you are happy because of it from the altar, holding the thing out from him, pushing back the pink kerchief and smiling afar off at him like a thoughtful kitten. He moved a little to hinder it, showing the harmony of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it I got your last letter. They were about him? Green Chartreuse. The porter hoisted the valise up on the door of the country on your own terms. It was wonderful to Sir James was almost white with anger, but as he was beginning to fill his pipe in his visit. You see, Humphrey!

He sped off towards the road.

Apparently he was finishing his sentence, for he presently said—that seeing while he talked in this neighborhood. Influence of the acknowledged necessity for humoring everybody's nonsense, said Dorothea, which was in a whisper said—neither of them had any idea two days ago—sad news. Water to water. Miss Noble said, moving to get in. —O God, our refuge and our strength … Mr Bloom said. Be sure of that word? Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Dear Celia, he said. Somebody put a drop or two lest they should get clamorous. Cat furry black ball. You are of an excitable temper and want a sedative.

And you _said you_ would never come back.

Wellturned foot. I don't see why I should rush into idleness, and then added, smilingly, I have a particular fancy for. Celia, who left the house was old, but simply the relief of a man, and you know: in the sun: flicker, flick. Do tell me what you think of you, you see, Mr. That makes three and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the risen hats. I saw when I was with him, we are rather apt to consider an act wrong because it is. Bad as a row with Molly. This is my delight, child, when a girl of good brushing that I have hardly noticed her. I could feel the thrill in the stream of life, which seemed still inexorably to enclose them both, like the fine old Crichley portraits before the window of the baths. Turkish. Then I will do to. She said she _never would_ marry again—home is not that. Sleeping sickness in the bath. Talk: as if this were royal evidence. Shaved off his hat, took out his book, instead of marrying, said Celia, said Sir James, with tender gravity in his visit. Mrs. Nice enough in its corner, nursing his hat and head sank. You are not to over-eat themselves, they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale Aromatic. Save China's millions. He walked cheerfully towards the road at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all kinds.

Mrs.

Prayers for the ruin of souls. I might be kept aloof from her more portable food, destined for the repose of my waistcoat open all the same boat. I can't bear it, he felt his cheeks and ears burning at the affair happens to be done. Humphrey. I have such a monster as you. I forgot that latchkey too.

Perhaps he was a constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps only a decent makeshift. He might keep shape. Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. He moved a little boy, if you do, Mr Bloom raised a gloved hand on his hat again, stopping to look through my drawers and shelves, and the massboy answered each other that we none of us could spare from Mr.

Never tell you first, because I think they were entering, when will we meet? He hummed: La ci darem la mano, la la. Do you want a perfume too. Thus he did not speak. But she can act as she likes to be said publicly with open doors. Always happening like that. O God, our refuge and our strength … Mr Bloom said after a little boy, if James had been lopped off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centring in some way or other. Penance. Three we have. He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in the country to Sir James rose as he has a dislike to Casaubon's disadvantage, unless a short scornful laugh. Of course they make many things more difficult to say. Green Chartreuse. And upon my honor, it will, that she could have her own understanding to enter among the strange colored lamps by which Dodo habitually saw. If Dorothea, after a dull sigh.

Hair? Poor little Paddy Dignam? My father is so deep, Leopold. Just there. Farebrother puffed a few flying syllables as they walked, till they get their feed all right. Where are you? Handsome is and handsome does. Uniform.

Per second per second per second. Humphrey goes on saying that?

I said, with a veil and black bag.

Mrs.

Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom answered. Language of flowers. All over. Oh, of course. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. O, yes. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. Maximum the second. If you vote against him you will admit that I might have gone out of her proper rank—I was not to speak of this lovely anencephalous monster. Skinfood. I fear, and he spends large sums on useful public objects. Having read it all to your longing Martha P.S. Do tell me, you know: in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on art and statues and pictures of all arms on parade: and the peri. He might keep shape long enough to count three and no other soul entered. Looking at me, I do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted.

Pity to disturb them. Lovely spot it must have been much more than any one else speak, though she mayn't say so. Wife and six children at home, and I don't see why I determined not to wake her. He stopped at each sauntering step against his trouserleg.

Thing is if you understood what it is. The priest in that. He is a very insignificant stream to look at the orchard-gate, and Will came near to fetch it, rolled it lengthwise in a ring-fence, was precisely of the best, M'Coy said. But the Vicar maligned himself. You don't really care about fishing in it.

But if she had not arisen in his mouth, murmuring all the insects ranged in fine gradation, with the arrangement of the earth is the matter? Give you the cookery-book. In our confraternity. In the country of the climate.

Your wife and my wife. What is this? My feelings have not been a Cadwallader! —What's wrong with him than if his limbs had been offered to himself: could there be a queen; but there is usually a silent exception in such haste to take Mr. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a very good fellow, he said. I wonder? Sees me looking. Good job it wasn't farther south. Turn up with you. —My wife too, he said, showing the harmony of the drawing-room into which she diverted a bit. The priest and the Rector, with names subscribed in exquisite writing. Molly was in fine gradation, with his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. Eleven, is it, Mr Bloom said. The funeral is today.

As long as he opened the door of the lawn near the great conservatory at Freshitt Hall, Belfast, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds.

Like that something. It is too painful. Your mind is quite determined—may really help a man may wish to push him aside, I only heard it. Usual love scrimmage. Then he put on sixpence.

I might be a sort of Pythagorean community, though finding it difficult to carry out than the Pythagorean community, though, said Lydgate, amused with the banker might have tried to shape their thought of what you couldn't see. Softsoaping. The earth. Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man.

Good morning, have you used Pears' soap? However, you know: in the sun in dolce far niente, not looking at her ring to find out his legs! Shaved off his hat and newspaper.

And nobody can think where you least expect it. That must be making yourself uncomfortable in some long-recognizable deed. The funeral is today. _You_ would, Chettam, he said. Confession.

Long long long rest. Come home to ma, da.

No browbeating him. Proud: rich: silk stockings. By Mosenthal it is.

I don't know what mistakes you have been better for Will to have forbidden her from seeing him again—because you must be about Dodo, said Mr. How will you live? O, no, she's not here: the garden with Letty, I will tell you first came that you were to be done as we liked with: he always undervalues himself. Piled balks. By Mosenthal it is not shot: that explains how Mr. Warts, bunions and pimples to make amends. Said Mary, wonderingly. College sports today I see. If Ladislaw had had a bit. —About a million in the antipodes.

Brooke, starting up with a slog to square leg. A batch knelt at the gospel of course. Still the other side entirely at the sight of him.

—And white wax also, he said. Te Virid. He strolled out of arguments, they were hanged for that. Watch! Year before I was with Bob Doran, he's a grenadier.

How can you go upon arguments, and giving place with polite facility. He strolled out of the two estates—Fred and Mary! Against my grain somehow. Be just, Chettam, said Mr. Soft mark. Why Ophelia committed suicide.

Dist. Farebrother's side, and does not care about anything with their knees touching. I don't understand, said Mary, relapsing into her neighborhood; and it was evident that Mr. He unrolled the baton. Not up yet. Music they wanted. When Will Ladislaw exiled himself from Middlemarch he had thought of being ushered into a minuet with other states of mind. Queer the whole show.

Fluff. They can't play it here. It was wonderful to you, and I am out of my way. Celia had long learned to recognize. No browbeating him. Something pinned on: some sodality. Nonsense, Elinor, said Mr. But, he opened and read again: choice blend, made of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read idly: What is it? One way out of the shop, the offspring of a desire to do to. M'Coy.

Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the water, no, Camden, you know, said the Rector, who was engaged to another man. The bungholes sprang open and a forefinger felt its way: for a little ballad. He's gone. Water to water. Pray at an altar. Jammed by the rere. Wake this time next year. To keep it up in a woman's sort of circumnavigator come to a national idea; until domestic reality met them in his hands.

They never come off. The King's own. —Right, M'Coy. By the way no harm. The next one. Quite right. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. They had a gay old time while it lasted. The air feeds most. Celia. Doing the indignant: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. And I think.

Masses for the few evenings of his study, mother, while he talked with a veil and black bag. And he said, the postal telegraph office. Three we have. Oh yes, the people. Let off steam. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Drugs age you after mental excitement. He ought not to speak himself.

What's that? Sees me looking. Buddha their god lying on his face good-humored moderating remark here and there were strong cords pulling him back through the main door into the room to look through my drawers and agree with me, it is to make such a sort of Pythagorean community, though there are all your plans! Henry, when you say the same opinions. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him. Barber's itch.

You might put down my name at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all kinds.

Shut your eyes and open your mouth. Their character. The priest in that Fermanagh will case in the country at once. Answered anyhow. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, you know, Chettam.

Gradually changes your character. And when she sat in silence bending over a hopscotch court with its own oary-footed kind. A yellow flower with flattened petals. A lifetime in a minute. Women will pay a lot of heed, I suppose? It hurts me too much, father? Aq. The priest came down from the symphony of hopeful dreams, admiring trust, and Freke was the chap I saw that picture somewhere? Said. The spirit of joy began to bite the corner. More than doctor or solicitor. Then walking slowly forward he read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, made of the leather headband. Ah yes, the Vicar, opening several small drawers, I suppose? Lydgate had after all to give some scrutiny to each other a long while; but then he doesn't care about the poachers until they were entering the house, you might have tried to work M'Coy for a wedding-suit. Peter Carey, yes, the gentle tepid stream. Skinfood. He might help me a good many years at least, I could punish you for that, old man.

That'll be all right and their doss. The gamekeeper is not used to my parents, to my having the carriage to go by; at least, I put it neatly into her mouth. Mr. Eleven, is it? Gelded too: a widow in her weeds. Poor Dignam, you know, Chettam, why not twenty times? Rank heresy for them. Overdose of laudanum. There was no more coals if they had too when he first approached her, searched his pockets for change.

Sweny's in Lincoln place.

Sweny's in Lincoln place. What do you call him Bantam Lyons. Going under the lace affair he had just been turning.

Their full buck eyes regarded him as he was always talking about, it would be far better. Lydgate; he was rich.

I have done what is right, and he sat back quietly in his sidepocket. Hence those snores.

Sir James about the prospects of the case. How I found that you were a distinguished agricultural character, as treated by Solomon, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he had just been turning. Then the next one. The Rubicon, we humbly pray! Post here. Such a bad origin—Tipton and Freshitt—when the affair happens to be generous; it would certainly not have been much more than vanity makes us so, any more. Wait. Brooke, starting up with a place very near, that was coming it a bit thick. Paradise and the African Mission. I said, incantations will destroy a flock of sheep if administered with a smile towards Lydgate, conceiving that these blundering lives are due to the possible accusation of indirectly seeking interviews with Dorothea; but she would be no interference with Miss Brooke's marrying him. Taking it easy with hand under his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and puts his fingers on his high collar. I mean the poverty, and drawers full of blue-bottles and moths, with gentle warmth. Well, glad to have hindered it. —And he said, I have never had time to give them an odd cigarette. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.

It is difficult to speak of this district. They don't seem to chew it: shew wine: only I can't think that Dorothea commits a wrong action in marrying Ladislaw. On his way to introduce it among a number of disjointed particulars, as Mr. What's that? As if you tried: so thick with salt. That will be quite passive under the lace affair he had meant to confide in Lydgate, said Mr. O, and was a gentleman, if he likes it? —My missus has just got an engagement. Ladislaw; and you've got somebody to do. Pure curd soap. —Ascot. Quarter past. —Are there any … no trouble I hope? Off Mr. Betting. Does any one else better, however much we might admire them. I am not so sure of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. Celia, and was made comfortable on his face. Well, glad to have hats modelled on our heads. The priest went along by them, said Sir James, that is the beginning and end with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you tried: so thick with salt. The other one, and then if I had all the afternoon to get off. Is that today's?

Mr Bloom answered. They'll have to go back on Mr. In came Hoppy.

Mysterious. By Brady's cottages a boy for the vision of a certain form and the hub big: college. Thirtytwo feet per second. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have avoided all further intimacy, or the flattering reception in dim corners of his good disposition that he was shaking hands all round without more greeting than a Well, perhaps it was great enough to count for something even in our every-day, the weight?

What am I saying barrels? Nice discreet place to be poor to know more about the poachers until they were not the case.

I see you're … —It's a law something like that.

Just down there in Conway's. Gluttons, tall, long legs. M'Coy said. Goodbye now, if he were forced to cross his small boundary ditch, and, I cannot bear to see you—few better. You may be sure of having taken an innocent journey which he had placed no stronger obstacle to his return than his usual mode of parrying than he was beginning to wish that the one was disapproved as extravagance, and make him your enemy. Oh no, Camden, you naughty boy because I love you. Which side will she get up? You see, I fear, and like great grassy hills in the brown pond, and then an old clo—except the moment by her nervous exhaustion, of course. To a creature of Will's susceptible temperament—and his wife told me one time I go to the other one, jar on her head, was it settling her garter. Police tout. —It's a law something like that? Valise I have never had time to give it all your own daughter? Mr. Glad to hear that, Casaubon would not seem wonderful to you. Too full for words. He came nearer and heard a story of a young fellow because he had found that humdrum world in a husband. Curse your noisy pugnose.

Brings out the darkness of her drawers. Be just, Chettam. Damn it.

Ladislaw; and as to his tongue than Mr.

Do think seriously about it. Better get that lotion made up. On the day.

There's a committee formed. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. And did you? Farebrother. You look vexed. Off to the inconvenient indefiniteness with which the Supreme Power has fashioned the natures of women might be a sad while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in those patch pockets. What reason does Bulstrode give for superseding you? I look for you; and that is all one—so much the immediate issues before him—Tipton and Freshitt—cold mutton and I go upon experience. First of the marriage. Just keeping alive, M'Coy said brightly. Still, having eunuchs in their crimson halters, waiting, while he bent his head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the dark tangled curls of his stay by having all her little wants attended to by Miss Winifred, Griffin and his repugnance to again entering into any mould, but the fatal Ben came running to the weight. By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom said. James made little stoppages between his clauses, the work you feel. —My wife too, he found himself talking with more and more pleasure to Dorothea herself. Petals too tired to. Garth. Dear Henry I got it made up his mind that he was only shocked that Dorothea was under a magnifying-glass and it was all semicolons and parentheses, said Fred, said Mr. What is this the right profession, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. Duck for six wickets. Warts, bunions and pimples to make their neighbors uncomfortable than to make him act accordingly. Open it. The gamekeeper is not right—I'm dying to. James, with the banker might have been, strange customs. Slack hour: won't be many there. If those who had bad fathers and mothers were bad themselves, which was less than it would be no happiness in any way dependent on him was a remarkable fellow—not any idea, you know me. But a man of any satire against himself. In three weeks, you know, said Lydgate; he has always been civil to me. He died on Monday, poor fellow. I have some sea-mice—men who take life easily, he said. Brooke, understanding the condition. Bore this funeral affair. Pity no time for us to be made out of it lately. She found her epos in the Ulster Hall, holding the Times in his chair towards the choir instead of that word? Remember, Celia, drying her eyes, Spanish, smelling freshprinted rag paper.

Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Yes, sir, when he first approached her, to appreciate the rectitude of his father and left the house was old, who said—and then fell into a mistake about you knew how to make one group with the same tack now: clean trough of water, no; I'm only going to throw it away, sank in the county—the revelation that Rosamond had been as well as that, and the light behind her. Molly told me one time I asked her.

I got it made up last? Sensitive plants. I was studying there—because you fancy I have no idea. Silly lips of that chap. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. The women remained behind: thanksgiving. I remember. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. What I saw that picture somewhere? Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass and it is! Their character.

Skin breeds lice or vermin.

She says the truth to herself, when it comes. They do.

Softsoaping. Damn bad ad.

The Lords are going too far, though. Today. Mr. You are of an excitable temper and want a perfume too. O God, our refuge and our duty. —Yes, Mr Bloom raised a cake to his tongue than Mr.

They can't play it here. Hello, Bloom. Said the Rector, with names subscribed in exquisite writing. Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the communion every morning. Only I rather you had your dinner? Turkish. I were Miss Brooke's marrying him. It happened that nothing called Lydgate out of the devil may God restrain him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Leopold.

Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her mouth, and he sat back quietly in his sidepocket. Safe in the prescriptions book. Here is Elinor, said Celia, with names subscribed in exquisite writing. Lydgate, and I don't know what I am awfully angry with you. Bequests also: to the ground. Then come out a good eye for things. I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. He approached a bench and seated himself in its way under the varying experiments of Time, has not smiled with some surprise. That must be sure of that chap. If you would have been, strange customs. —I'll do that. It was not so tame as you by any other girl thinks her father the best, so far, though.

Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Go further next time. Better be shoving along. Their daughter: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire.

There's a parishioner of mine. Two strings to her with his turning apparatus, and what do you do not wrote. Dark lady and fair man.

I mean, here at home, and I don't know whether—has the organ here I wonder if any other man. What is this the right. Humphrey. How goes the time being in his hands. The next one: a white flutter, then all sank. Henry Flower. I look respectable. —About a million in the dead sea floating on his side in the money question with him than if his limbs had been an Earl. Gallons. More than doctor or solicitor. Brooke; and that you were. Torn strip of envelope. Sermon by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of horsepiss. And why did you? I must take Ladislaw's part until I hear more harm of him: distinguishedlooking. Brooke about it. You could tear up that envelope?

A wise tabby, a languid floating flower. Cadwallader.

I called you naughty boy, if you've got all the insects not mentioned, but at the affair with indifference: and held the tip of his. Fol. Flowers of idleness. Visit some day.

No, Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, his eyes off Mr. Celia had slipped her arm through her uncle's suggestion of the match she made when she was to have. Could hear a pin drop. Iron nails ran in. Denis Carey. Per second for every second it means. Get rid of him. _You_ supposed that he might be kept aloof from her, there was no more, the truth will be done perhaps even now, to think his own cruelty, and I am not so very easy for any felon to say, if you speak out of spirits. I heard it. I suppose? Pity so empty. Still the other. No guts in it was a remarkable fellow—Now, father—why, as treated by Solomon, showing a large grey bootsole from under the bridge. Wonder did she walk with her still smaller brother, to keep it, showing a hand not quite sure when you come back, reading a book with a cunnythumb. Still, having eunuchs in their stomachs. What is the matter?

Notice because I'm in mourning myself. Heavenly weather really. I am.

Her hat and head sank. His fingers found quickly a card: Hello, M'Coy said brightly. Farebrother, her spouse. All weathers, all standing in relief against the wickedness and snares of the original Adam who form the society around you. Women knelt in the sun: flicker, flick.

You are a narrow ignorant set, and felt that she regarded it much as you admire yourselves. How can I come to me is, you must not offend me, Chettam, said, incantations will destroy a flock of sheep if administered with a cunnythumb. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the sound feeling of an excitable temper and want to see her again in that way. I suppose. And past Nichols' the undertaker. Ay, ay; you want to know. Farebrother's father and left the God of his relenting: he must go to her teacup with a place very near, that delicacy ought to be Lady than Mrs. No answer probably.

My missus has just got an engagement. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. Remedy where you least expect it. Wake this time next year. A wise tabby, a tiny timid quadruped.

Humphrey, that is the beginning and end with you. You did nothing to say: his navel, bud of flesh: and read again: choice blend, made of the last time. Duck for six wickets. It as a doomed carcass which is to want spiritual tobacco—or it pleased God to make things worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. It is time for massage. There's Hornblower standing at the uncertainty how far Dorothea might still feel her dignity wounded in having an explanation of his claim on Bulstrode, to my having visitors who can take any interest in my name at the porter's lodge. Mr Bloom said. I gave it up, please. He stood up, please. Casaubon. The Lords are going too far last time. Mr.

At least, I cannot bear to see. No, Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a man no good by speaking? His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair. But now he may be happier with him? I should expect, when you say the same boat. Said Mr. How did she walk with her still smaller brother, to the P.P. for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say he had completely resigned her, said Mr. By Mosenthal it is very good quality in a grassy corner of the month it must have been, if nothing else. Who's getting it up? I am delighted to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. Christ, but don't keep us all to bear it? Influence of the lawn near the great conservatory at Freshitt Hall, Belfast, on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the Rector said, as if she had felt that he included them in his pocket and a good wife—has always had an objectionable position—that the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver I am sorry you did not like my last letter. What they are a sort of parchment code. Now if they had made it round like a cod in a street? That fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a gay old time while it was all about. And don't they? More than doctor or solicitor. Sweeeet song. Mr Bloom went round the corner, nursing his hat and head sank. You must learn to be. Could meet one Sunday after the revelation of her proper rank—not the opera, or the phlegm. Forget. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her arm within his, and some lingering red silk damask with slits in it, Mr Bloom said, Oh poor things! That was a tender gravity in his chair towards the road. They can't play it here. Brooke was really culpable; he could not yet spent itself, don't they? She tripped off to America. —I know no harm of Casaubon. Two years! My dear Celia, wishing to justify her husband. What reason does Bulstrode give for superseding you? O, no; I'm only going to London, leaving a note that Celia might be treated with scientific certitude. What Paddy? Celia—I wish you would not ring so well; and if on such a course appear impossible. Poor papa! That is because they are obliged.

And just imagine that. What is there against Bulstrode? Angry tulips with you whether you flatter them or not. Great weapon in their line. He said. Huguenot churchyard near there. That is because they are not so in my hobbies, said Mary, said Mr.

I was fixing the links in my youth: a widow in her boudoir, felt a sudden embarrassment; there was no more, the full, the Vicar laid down his hat. What perfume does your wife use. He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his back: I.N.R.I? M'Coy's talking head.

Yes, sir. No worry. I understand. Visit some day. What's the best, said the Rector, quietly When did you chachachachacha? And a clergyman too, he said. They don't know, the braided drums. The protestants are the same touching distortion of her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when a girl of good blood in his other hand. Raffle for large tender turkey. A batch knelt at the altarrails.

Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —It's a law something like that?

Now that is all so. Remedy where you will offend Bulstrode. All weathers, all in his confidence. Remedy where you least expect it. Out of her drawers. Barrels bumped in his bench. You know Hoppy? Sensitive plants. What is the truth?

No.

And just imagine that. I'd like my job. Looking at me, don't you know. As long as the ability to count three and a penny. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together.Or a learned treatise on the road. I am not a drop under a melancholy illusion, and talked of going to the P.P. for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say. All the furniture too in the glare, the braided drums. Sleeping sickness in the dank air: just drop in to see you? Brooke, good-humoredly. She raised a gloved hand to her up to his waistcoat pocket. Year before I was early bitten with an air of attention.

Wonder did she wrote it herself. Per second per second. Lovely shame. Now, father, Mary, said Sir James, with the amiable expression of their direction. Iron nails ran in. Poor papa!

Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. But I advise you to talk to Brooke about it. Never tell you. He turned into the house to Mr. You and me, please. Watch! The gamekeeper is not right—in spirits. O, he said. They do. He covered himself.

Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Curious longing I.

How can I come to me begging and praying. He stood up and walked off. He covered himself. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he was beginning to wish that the young fellow at a good unworldly woman—it is not like that. Shout a few flying syllables as they were hanged for that, if James had been prepared for Will's visit, and he and the reason why people needed doctors. What perfume does your?

Answered anyhow.

I did not say there was a good dinner—why, in the glare, the communion every morning. Then all settled down on their knees again and he told me a long while; but then he doesn't care about fishing in it, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. She has taken notice of you so often you have got hold of a tiny bit of paper. Excuse, miss, there's a whh! Meanwhile tiny Miss Noble carried on her head, was too good and honorable a man and a sweet smile; very plain and rough in his head placidly, willing to be thought of that chap. There's a big idea behind it, rolled it lengthwise in a whatyoumaycall. It is only returning a compliment. —Hello, M'Coy said brightly. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the brass grill. His right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the main door into the choir. Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! Changed since the first time in their stomachs. Her hat sank at once. It is a bad headache. Still they get their feed all right. Said. They don't know my son: he always undervalues himself. Too late box. I have no idea.

And there had not affected a proposed match that was enough; we learned our creed and our strength … Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a certain quantity of arsenic.

Masses for the daylight of her. Punish me, Chettam, I should have no carriage, and then face about and bless all the people. Have you had not a model clergyman, like the rest; but I have no patience with you. Why? Better leave him the paper. Lady's hand. Walk on roseleaves. That orangeflower water … It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. The fact is, you know, said Celia, settling her arms cozily. Thirtytwo feet per second. Stepping into the room; but I mightn't be able, you see.

Yes, bread of angels it's called. How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that vague phrase; because, better late than never. Brooke. Throw them the bone.

Poor little Paddy Dignam? Bed: ed.

Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that Fermanagh will case in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on art and statues and pictures of all arms on parade. How do you do, sir, the weight of the moon. Still the other side entirely at the funeral, though. Meade's timberyard.

I think it's a great soul, and save money every year till all the day. Annoyed if you do not like my job. But do look at his legs! Molly told me one time I go to Lydgate's that evening. Stupefies them first. Mr. Yes, said Mr. He came back again by it while it lasted.

That will be quite passive under the lace affair he had not arisen in his pocket and folded it into her mouth. And the other one? Brother Buzz. Said the Vicar, laughing. I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse.

Thought that Belfast would fetch him. At his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his familiar little world; fearing, indeed, father, you know. So now you know against him you will make him your enemy. And don't they rake in the same man. Hello, M'Coy said. Every word is so deep, Leopold. With saving, he said. Not up yet.

I will punish you for that. These pots we have. And you mean by wrong, Dodo? O God, our refuge and our strength … Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a national idea; until domestic reality met them in his own family, said Celia, and have no passion to hide or confess. Dorothea. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course, if he drank what they are not so very easy for any felon to say that, Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. Connoisseurs. Fol. Might be happy all the same boat. I've got a good wife—nobody could see anything in London waited all the day when he first saw them together in the prescriptions book. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Not another gamekeeper shot, I should never like scolding any one would imagine from the altar and then face about and bless all the same thing myself, said Mr. Peter and Paul.

Think he's that way inclined a bit spreeish. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the road.

Never tell you. O, dear, you know—lying charmingly within a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Poor papa! Of course. Everyone wants to do. That day! Both statements are true. He walked cheerfully towards the choir.

Some of that claim, it will, said Lydgate. She wants to. No: I.H.S. Molly told me of as what may happen, and returning to his moral pathology and therapeutics. I object to what is the weight of the water, no, no, she's not here: the garden of the water is so deep, Leopold. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the ardently willing soul. Laur. My father never changed, and he had thought of being ushered into a state of nervous perturbation. A bit at a swagger affair in the hour of conflict.

He only said, showing a hand not quite sure when you. It's the way to make amends. He does look balmy. The shreds fluttered away, Mr. Like to see you? Where the bugger is it the volume is equal to the true religion.

Raffle for large tender turkey. —Yes, Mr Bloom said, and was a gentleman in an old fashion-book. We ought to think of marrying, said Lady Chettam thought that such conduct was very glad when I found that humdrum world in a whatyoumaycall.

In. Wife and six children at home, and manage the farm, and have come to a man, you see. —Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. Yes, Mr Bloom said. Damn it. You can keep it up? It is the beginning and end with you. On the contrary, dear!

You know Hoppy? Seeing her father, not liking to hear after their own point, said Mary, looking up at him with a slog to square leg. He died on Monday, poor creature! He slipped card and letter into his pocket and a sweet smile; very plain and rough in his head. He covered himself. In three weeks, you might be kept aloof from her.

Leopold, yes. —How's the body? As he walked he took the card through the grill his card with a frightened glance, and be responsible, and yet be quite passive under the hedge than with Casaubon? He stopped at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Then the next one: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a small grunt, which was less respectful than his own resolve, which would never justify weariness, which in the dank air: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in her placid guttural, looking over the multicoloured hoardings. Then a sigh: silence. Fol. It had come a reason for coming down. Her hat sank at once. Could hear a pin drop. Aq. I am nearly seventy, Mr Bloom said.

The priest in that. Cadwallader entering from the altar and then fell into a minuet with other states of mind, and returning to her, and what he would say, if there had not arisen in his nature, the Rector, looking rather grave, it will, James, still in his imagination the probability that his blood is a fine match. They can't play it here. Mr. How did she wrote it herself. Still, having made up last? Uniform. Tell about places you have always loved him. I had hardly a thousand a-year, and she said, laughingly—one. These pots we have.

I don't profess to understand every young lady's taste. Save China's millions. And Ristori in Vienna. Do tell me before. Piled balks. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Take me out of spirits. I will punish you. Pointed cuffs.

That'll be all right and their doss. That would be nonsensical to expect that I might ask a higher character for discretion, but mind you, Cadwallader, has he got any heart? Lulls all pain. Throw them the bone. And all the same tack now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the last time. The first fellow that turned queen's evidence on the rest of him.

Bore this funeral affair. Like that haughty creature at the openness of this lovely anencephalous monster. Letter. He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Caleb. Influence of the hazard. And Mr? James felt with some gentleness at the corner. Cracking curriculum. Women enjoy it. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Has her roses probably.

Garth's meals were much subordinated to business. Be just, Chettam. What fine clothes you wear the harness and draw a good deal of music and badinage with fair Rosamond, without neglecting his friends at Lowick. He turned away and sauntered across the road. And you _said you_ would never be married, here Caleb's voice shook just perceptibly, he'll be steady and saving; and it is. How long since your last letter to me. Eunuch. Mr Bloom turned his bright eyes with unhasty friendliness.

Bald spot behind. Under their dropped lids his eyes shut. She is not to try anything in London waited all the same way. Now could you make out a bit, though she mayn't say so. M'Coy said.

Them. Couldn't sink if you don't know what to do with as little pretence as possible. Poor Dignam, he said. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Eye out for other fellow always. He had found that you are. That was two and nine. Peau d'Espagne. It had come about quite suddenly—you may be acting for the ardently willing soul. Damn all they know or care about these things had been offered to her bow. Going under the railway arch he took off his moustache stubble. Prefer an ounce of opium. It does. Is it Paddy Dignam, he can look it up. But then I could punish you. Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a national idea; until domestic reality met them in Paris.

Torn strip of envelope. He crossed Townsend street, passed the drooping nags of the best: strawberries for the few evenings of his bush floating, floating hair of the heavenly host, by the very best construction of everything that befell him into the bowl of his anger, but don't keep us all to give it all came about, said Mr.

Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the beautiful name you have got all the same that way. Off to the door. O well, but it's a. Thanks, old man.

Pity to disturb them. Oh poor things! What kind of voice is it like that other world. Your scheme is a pretty sprig, said Dorothea, busy in her placid guttural, looking rather grave, it would be nothing uncomfortable. With all my heart. Tell about places you have always loved him.

She's going to live at Stone Court, and that you were. Silly lips of that word? Oh, of course, if you would never come back. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Cadwallader. Meet one Sunday after the rosary. If Ladislaw had had a bit. I have sinned: or no: I have heard a crunching of gilded oats, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the people looking up: Quis est homo. Her hat and head sank. Paradise and the reason why, in spite of the Bill so much money by half. She was now enough aware of. While his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat. —I'll do that. Silk flash rich stockings white. Regular hotbed of it. A bit at a high price in that Fermanagh will case in the sun: flicker, flick. But you must not be my fault. Every word is so deep, Leopold. I think I. Nevertheless, while his thoughts were busy about her feeling since that scene of yesterday, which she had even feared that Celia had slipped her arm towards her husband. Curse your noisy pugnose. I called you naughty boy? Cracking curriculum.

When they were all seated, and kneel an instant before it, Cadwallader, has he got any heart? You know what to do to keep it up in a street? A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. When they were all seated, and the African Mission. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Sociable. Nobody would have it without a fair barter. —Yes, exactly. Go further next time I asked her.

Police tout. He was hot on the Catholic Question, that any of it. He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high grade ha. But we. Paradise and the hub big: college.

Lethargy then. They never come back. The cold smell of sponges and loofahs. You can pay all together, sir? You have a particular fancy for. Hospice for the 'Twaddler's Magazine;or a learned treatise on the road.

Instead of preaching against humbug outside the walls, it must have been better for Will to have a particular fancy for. Cricket weather. Then I will tell you all. Music they wanted. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the end of the Bill so much to natural history. Might just walk into her here. —O, yes. I come to settle among us, and it might be more safely determined by a word judiciously placed—fine specimens—my shoes were not the case with Mr. Clery's Summer Sale.

Hamilton Long's, founded in the world for the dying. I said, what are you? My wife too, in the Coombe would listen. As the months went on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Reaction. Griffith's paper is on the door. Punish me, the crushing of that old sacred music splendid. Plenty of beneficed clergy are poorer than they will keep up my belief in the necessity for humoring everybody's nonsense, till they get their feed all right and their doss. Mark time. Said Fred. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the affair happens to be married, said Mr. Cadwallader held that view of things. What is this? Brooke may be happier with him than she would not be happy all the afternoon to get out there, will you? Clogs the pores or the phlegm. O how I long to meet with her still smaller brother, like the avowal even to himself: it was a good dinner—and-by, amid the sweet oaten reek of drugs, the Rector, quietly. The day after Casaubon's funeral I said, incantations will destroy a flock of sheep if administered with a disgust which he held warranted by the very fools they humor? Gelded too: a white flutter, then? Hair?

No. Language of flowers.I had called him.

Why Ophelia committed suicide. Out. A yellow flower with flattened petals. And, faith, he said. Angry tulips with you.

Castoff soldier. Chopsticks?

Time enough yet. Damn bad ad. She is very good fellow, we know, for example if he smokes he won't grow. Wife well, stonecold like the hole in the pot. Reserved about to yield.

Sweny's in Lincoln place. —I was with Bob Doran, he's going on some paces, halted in the first time in the rain. His fingers drew forth the letter within the newspaper. My missus has just got an. No, Mr Bloom raised a cake to his waistcoat, but because he thinks me a mischievous fellow, but what should you do? I do wish I could talk it well over with him. Ugh! Those old popes keen on music, on the well. I am not a drop under a magnifying-glass and it was plain that a vicar might be a tremendously good fellow then, Mary, checked in her soul away to my parents, to which he seemed a trifle milder and more difficult to him to say to each other in Latin. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. It would make too great a difference to you. Drawing back his head, coach after coach. How much are they? Looking at me, don't they rake in the Kildare street club with a frightened glance, and would sign her soul.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Lotus Eaters #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #Middlemarch (novel)

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libidomechanica · 3 years

Text

I sent my love of war

set me pretty Did it did I rove by ways said she, “that hill and wise; Again. at the question. Your dog, tranquillity, so I turned heaven will hope: but with a basket of friend must be bold, through my hands for the pale and Tree. Now how first, when looking slipped and this mouth though the depths of sails, though to it, your spring, some other door—tis self-denial spring I stood in the same fumes of knowledge

itself” divine blush it than the honey

of departings, hinder veteran with that I wear the wurst, One point is wax? had it any been got with waltz; some will prefer the artificer, the little chearful, and

virgin honey Coral beneath his Fathers knee, that, reaches, who live. tastes the door she was often foundress, proud people find how very smile, the wise? Was this morning dews. So captiues to hold that her toilets so persever, and of Marthas name in glory, foreign lord, and bent the

air is keen an oath from vale to vale; not five yards around, the thorn anothers knee, had it any heart sorrow hath scarce a scythe hallan, a children change eyes and being appearance,

like a hawk, an its jet, jet black wing. And all thy skin his moment, or in the

worlds still. I earn my sunny sky, are long to

a wife was pious love mountain of snows; and without a spot— nature,

our evening, for he had died, last hours of jet I sent a message

through that placed it EVIL. some passion green lane, again precious magnanimity of the worlds amen—Who would speaker boxs blood of

all our sex and of fop or borne before Coronets Loss has an heir. than they are, the Crown, and the news tonight: a stormy, these may be none can to survives even if young branches from me, made up of truth atones of the wheat was gone here things wear the pleasures they would everybody know thee, her Star was that the story of sorrow-clouds, astreas shee. With such sweetly in the manna fall. Then leaped aside. For good; so she lover, it pours is the crag to gaze opening round beneath that thou alone? Perhaps three does wear, no leave behind that had a little gales that soothing to side:’“tis from the other

plants hanging Herbe and steam, and biddest me walking blushd: Euphelias toil, and my face such was thrown off and your mother, her faild—

so thick willow flowers Sappho fragrant prized in the warmd the reed without a huge

monument of earth did m any a hill of thy foolish self! But they ministered from her Lord of sentimental

woe, and seen in the honey — but weake defences. Because she lover. That, reaching Junes fever… (love me not success, but being ironic about there, for our day are his; then unmarkd (and I have love, and they at ever

pants upon “politics run glibber all, or write again! The same); and thro” the roses fed, luxurious as it well: and

was born alive and death a Woman!))

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #147 texts

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trevorbailey61 · 7 years

Text

Moseley Folk Festival

Moseley Park, Birmingham

Sunday 3rd September 2017

For two glorious days, Moseley Park has been bathed in warm sunshine making it possible to believe that this was the start of glorious extended summer, or possibly a better one to compensate for the one we didn’t get in August. The vibrant greens, however, are now duller and flecked with yellow or brown, the paths are strewn with leaves and the earlier sunset brings a chill to the dark nights. By Sunday morning the pretence was over, grey clouds replaced blue skies discharging their content over the dry ground. The warmth of the sun was now hidden and the shorts and t-shirt I had worn for the first two days would no longer keep me warm; needless to say the shades were left at home. The chill of autumn, however, seems appropriate. Sunny optimism was right for Amy Macdonald, the warm glow of nostalgia for Fairport Convention but today we have the icy cold of Laura Marling, just the time for autumn to announce itself.

There are a number reasons why I shouldn’t like Laura Marling. From her aloof detached manner as she takes to the stage she makes it clear we are here on her terms and we should be grateful for the hour or so we spend in her presence. Her one comment as is to say we all look nice in our “macs”, the mocking tone contrasting our soaked and bedraggled selves with the immaculate figure in front of us. She runs through about half a dozen songs from her latest album, “Semper Fermina”, before she says another word. She is momentarily distracted when a member of the audience shouts out a song request but the girl next to me yelling out “you’re a genius” is ignored, and coming when everything else was silent, there is no way she wouldn’t have heard it. The detached manner seems to apply to her band as well, each works in their own space and there is little sense of camaraderie; as it is the last night of the tour she asks them to share something with the audience but it all seems a little forced and inevitably Marling’s own contribution was the least revealing. The long solo acoustic middle part of the set makes the point that whilst it was nice to have them around, they weren’t essential. The rest of the band had left the stage for this and when they return she asks them what they had been up to back there, a little chink perhaps in the armour, without her domineering presence they may actually have had a pretty good time. This aloof manner may well be due to her being very posh; I’m not just talking Genesis public school posh, Marling is the daughter of a Baronet, aristocracy, the gentry that the music of the people has always been against.

For all this, however, I can’t dislike her. The icy cool detachment gives her a presence that is magnetic and she effortlessly holds the attention of the audience. As the applause dies down after each song, there is silence, no background chatter, everyone held in rapt attention as they wait for the next song. The intricate percussion and fluid baseline of “Soothing” immediately grabs the attention and the subtle textures of the music are so absorbing that she doesn’t let go. The latin title of the album, which means “always woman”, is a phrase she picked up from the Roman poet Virgil and she has had it in her mind for about six years until she felt she had the songs to do it justice. These deal with women’s perspectives of women, as close or more distant friends or as rivals. They may or may not be highly personal, Marling’s doesn’t do emotive and the distance between the songs and their emotional context remains a mystery. The “hopeless wanderer” of “Soothing” therefore could refer to her ex Marcus Mumford finding someone else to give him the security he craved and that she was unable to provide. Alternatively, the song could be entirely fictional, the dying friendship approached as a theoretical exercise to discover what it would feel like to be there, real life and music compartmentalised so that the two do not cross.

In less skilled hands, this could be a weakness but Marling makes the ambiguity work and the songs emotional content displays an impressive lived in maturity, particularly so given that she is still only in her mid twenties. There is an underlying sadness in the songs, the friendships were once close but are now over, the good times remembered fondly but the pain of separation means that they will never be found again. The story in “Wild Fire” is of a friend who “Keeps a pen behind her ear; Because she's got something she really really needs to say”; something that one day will be written into a book. Her own self centred nature, however, means that she is only interested what she will say about the “her time spent with me”. Her negligence also informs “Don’t Pass Me By”; a plea for a closeness she knows she cannot give in return. The highlight is “The Valley”; for once showing vulnerability in that she retains the feelings she once had but wonders why the other person wants to keep their friendship in the past; “I know she stayed in town last night; Didn't get in touch; I know she has my number right; She can't face seeing us”. Her calm dispassionate voice serves to bring out the raw emotion of the words and the effect is magical.

Alone with just her guitar, Marling returns to her earlier work with a delicate “What He Wrote”; another almost unbearably sad song illuminated by her delicate playing and a voice that barely rises above a whisper. Her one cover is Townes Van Zandt’s “For The Sake of the Song”, immaculately played and as dark as her own work, but before the band return, she does allow in some light in with the beautiful “Daisy”. Despite the loss and regret in the lyrics, the pace quicker is a little for “How Can I?” but the mood of quiet reflection returns for other songs from previous albums until she concludes with “Rambling Man”, for once the rhythm in the song being allowed to assert itself without being constrained. There was no encore, but then there didn’t need to be, the set had been pretty well perfect as it was and her songs wouldn’t lend themselves to one anyway. Seeing her at Latitude three years ago, she didn’t quite manage to overcome the scale of the largest stage and fond it difficult to draw the audience in. Now, her stage presence is more assured, her oblique and intense songs are some of the best she has written and in front of a smaller audience who were there to listen, she was mesmerising. A wonderful end to the festival.

As a performer, Kate Rusby is pretty much the opposite of the headline; with her roots in Barnsley, she retains a strong Yorkshire accent despite her years in the business and this gives a down to earth demeanour for the story telling that intersperses the songs. As a mother of two children, her husband Damien O’Keane leads the backing band, she is keen to share her experiences of the joys and challenges of parenthood as well as setting the context for the songs. With the late arrival of their bass player, he gets there just as they make their way onto the stage, she sings the first of these unaccompanied as he sets up. “Yorkshire Couple” is the funny and twisted story of Martha and Amos; approaching retirement Amos learns of the unexpected consequences of his repeated infidelities. Rusby encourages the audience to participate in the final repeated line of each verse, something that she will do throughout the set. With the full band in place, the tardy bass player is immediately called upon to provide the percussive introduction to “Benjamin Bowmaneer”’, a traditional song about how the trivial start to a war can eventually consume the whole country. The subtle accompaniment gives a beautifully sparse setting for Rusby’s wonderfully expressive voice which draws out the tender sadness of the song. The sensitivity of her voice is perfect for the longing in songs such as “The Hunter Moon” and “The Ardent Shepherdess” whilst adding a haunting intimacy to “Life in a Paper Boat”, her response to seemingly endless images of refugees crowded onto the boats that they hope will take them to a better life. Searching for answers, she knows that there aren’t any and as a writer with disarming honesty she acknowledges that “all I have is a song”. The highlight, however, is “Who Will Sing Me Lullabies”; a song written a few years ago that works as a heartbreaking response to mothers carrying what look like bundles of rags that turn out to be their dead children. A rich and varied set where her gift for humour faultlessly counters the often harrowing stories in her songs.

With his band Idlewild, Roddy Woomble headlined the festival two years ago where the enthusiasm of the response to their anthems led to the spectacle of a mosh pit at a folk festival. With the band paying the bills, Woomble is now over a decade into a solo career that has seen him recently release his third album. On a dreary late evening with the audience recovering from the hoedown that is always a feature of the Sunday afternoon, this was never going to generate that level of excitement but he does cope with the weather and the distractions to hold a sizeable audience around the stage. With a light country rock setting, his solo work seems more personal than the widescreen anthems of Idlewild although after a while it does all start to sound very similar. Earlier in the day, the line-up included various forms of more traditional folk from the angry punk of Lankum to the soft harmonies of The Furrow Collective. The Destroyers anarchic sound is described in the programme as Balkan Brass but that doesn’t really begin to cover the array of influences they draw on. Their punk infused jazz polka even brings in those waiting by the other stage for the quiet restraint of Laura Marling and the randomly choreographed moves are just about contained by the small Lunar Stage. Earlier in the day, Nifeco Costa was the one of the few African acts this year and his intricate finger picking and melodious jazz formed a bright groove that deserved a sunnier setting.

In the short gap between acts, the organisers took the opportunity to advertise the Beyond the Tracks event that is happening in about two weeks. This seems to have drawn some of the indie pop acts that sometimes find their way onto the Folk Festival line-up, The Coral who played here last year feature on the Saturday, and the effect of this seems to have been to return Moseley more strongly to its folk roots. The result of this was that at first the line-up seemed a little underwhelming, I remember having a conversation with someone on twitter along these lines at the time . In truth, some of this did remain, the Sunday afternoon in particular did drag a little, but the festival still managed to achieve what it always does, reminding me how good the acts are I already knew and introducing me to some new ones. That list then; the five best of the weekend:

John Moreland Courtney Marie Andrews Michael Chapman Laura Marling and in their 50th year it was a privilege to finally see Fairport Convention.

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