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apple-grass-and-smiles · 5 months

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i get along without you some nights

Summary: Spending the holidays without someone you love is a strange, surreal, scary situation. Everyone handles it differently, everyone wonders about a different world, and, eventually, everyone makes it through the holiday. And then the next. And the one after that. And so on and so forth until things get at least a little better.

Six different characters, six different holidays, and six different ways of approaching not having someone they love to celebrate with.

OR: A Secret Santa gift for @y3ll0w-b3ntl3y! I hope this piece brings you some happiness/joy/laughter. You can either use the AO3 link above or read the fic below the read more!

A/N: Hello, my friends! Long time no see! This is a piece for y3ll0w-b3ntl3y as part of the Prodigal Son Secret Santa that whats-a-terrarium organized. Hopefully it’s a good gift! The title is adapted from “Almost (Sweet Music)” by Hozier because I was so desperate for a title that I actually googled “Hozier lyrics loss”.

This idea has been floating through my head since mid-November and has had a few different iterations. I lost a very, very close family friend this summer and have been thinking a lot about how people get through their first holidays without someone they love and this was born from that. The vignettes are roughly saddest first and they get more hopeful from there. JT’s vignette is just texts, which will hopefully be clear but if not, now you know.

TW: Mostly canon-typical things. Alcoholism, some depression. Jessica’s is the most graphic/intense and can be skipped as needed.

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The Christmas tree was already up when Martin was… (Jessica was still trying to find the polite term for it, trying different ones on) taken away. Normally Jessica insisted on no hints of Christmas in the home until the Thanksgiving dinner had been cleared from the table, but Malcolm had campaigned valiantly to put it up early. As per usual, Ainsley had joined in, asking Jessica to make an exception to her rule and then Martin had given Jessica that look, the one that had been crumbling her resolve since the day they met.

The tree was decorated as part of Malcolm’s family birthday party. Great aunt Mildred and Birdie and all the other Miltons covered the tree in ornaments from Chanel and Tiffany and made snide comments at the humble Hallmark ornaments Martin produced from his own meager collection. (Jessica had joked to Martin as he held her in his arms that it was not worth it to use an ornament hook to kill her family members. The irony was not lost on Jessica, no matter how much wine she drank.) The final result had been the definition of a Milton Tree. Nothing but matching ornaments, the kids’ handmade ornaments hidden in the back of the tree or so close to the trunk so as to appear invisible. The tree was perfect from the gold star to the Hermes tree skirt.

Jess hated it.

So she and Martin let the kids stay up well past their bedtime so as to un-decorate and re-decorate the tree, making it their own. Laughter had filled the home as Martin lifted Malcolm to put ornaments at the top of the tree and Ainsley skipped around the room with her fourth (fifth?) cookie, singing “Jingle Bells” at the top of her lungs. Jessica tried to capture the moment, to bottle it so she could reminisce on and sip at it like a fine wine.

Two days later, Jessica Whitly stood next to the tree while officers asked her questions and her husband became a stranger to her and she watched her children’s childhoods begin to melt away and all she could do was say no, I didn’t know anything over and over and over. The whole time the Christmas lights her husband had strung so lovingly around the tree with the precision of a surgeon (and The Surgeon) shone just to the right of her face.

Two weeks after the arrest and eight days before Christmas, Jessica was drunk because that was all that was left to do. Her kids were broken, her husband was the monster who broke them, she was the useless maiden who watched as it all happened and did nothing, and now she was spending more money on alcohol than anything else. Every happy moment she’d bottled up of her time with Martin and her children was ruined. And standing there, completely unchanged despite Jessica’s life having crumbled to ash, was the Christmas tree. It mocked her. Mocked her desire for a family, a partner, a happy life. It had to go. And her cocktail provided insight into what to do with the stupid tree.

It was only midmorning when Jessica began her drunken battle against the tree. Ornaments were thrown to the ground and shattered. She rubbed her hands raw trying to get all the pine needles off of the branches. She took a pair of scissors to the tree skirt until there was no hope of ever saving it. Custom ornaments celebrating her engagement, her wedding, Malcolm’s birth, her 5th anniversary, Ainsley’s birth were all crushed under high heels. For the grand finale, she pushed the tree to the ground and poured a generous helping of liquor for herself before dumping the rest on the tree. She had the lighter in her hand when Malcolm’s trembling voice cut through the haze, “Mom, don’t; not in the house.”

Jessica turned to see her children huddled together on the stairs, watching her. Ainsely was mostly hidden behind her brother but both looked at her with expressions she recognized from that horrible night. Expressions that showed surprise to discover that their parents were capable of such violence and destruction. And part of Jessica was broken that they would think that of her and another part was furious because how dare they compare her to the man sitting in a cell with more pending charges than she cared to count. Martin had always been the fun parent, the one who encouraged them to pester Jessica about breaking perfectly good traditions, like waiting to set the tree up until December first, and now, right before Christmas when there was supposed to be joy and peace in the world and her children were supposed to have not a care in the world, he was the lowlife who left Jessica to clean up after him.

She’d clean up after Martin, make the kids go to school in January, be sure their clothes fit, tell the chef what to make for dinner, go to the charity events so it was clear her family was thriving. She would get along just fine and make sure her children did too. But first, the tree had to go.

Jessica sent her children to their rooms. Then she set the tree and everything it symbolized ablaze.

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Dani’s 17th birthday was on the three-month anniversary of her dad’s death. She had just started to get to the point where she could go a day or two without crying and she had finally stopped setting the dinner table for the whole family. She had even remembered to ask for four tickets at the movies instead of five. Her heart was still a gaping wound but it wasn’t as raw.

Then her birthday rolled around, bringing with it a promise that her father would never be able to keep.

Her father had been taking her and her sisters on special father-daughter dates for their birthday for as long as she could remember. According to him, gifts were good but experiences were excellent. When she was five, he’d taken Dani to a carnival and let her ride the carousel as many times as she wanted. For her 10th birthday, he took her to get her ears pierced and let her pick out earrings that she knew were above her family’s price range, revealing the extra cash he’d been saving just for that occasion. For her 16th birthday, her last ever one with him, they dressed up in their nicest suit and dress, washed his dingy old car until it shined, and drove to the fanciest place they could find. They hadn’t even ordered appetizers before they decided that no place had a right to charge $100 for a house salad and snuck out to eat at the greasy spoon a couple miles away. Dani had spilled ketchup on her pale purple prom dress and she, her dad, their waitress, and the cook had spent 15 minutes getting it out. It had been perfect, an absolutely fitting end to a tradition Dani looked forward to throughout the whole year.

This birthday there wouldn’t be a father-daughter outing to the beach like Dani had planned. Instead she sat through a calc test where she knew none of the answers, ate a truly pitiful cafeteria attempt at spaghetti and meatballs, and hid in bathroom stalls to cry. When Dani had been out of her fifth period class for far longer than her bathroom hall pass allowed, the school counselor was dispatched to find her. Dani had never spoken to the counselor before her dad died but at this point they were on a first name basis. (Dani saw it as a good sign when the older woman introduced herself as Elle, short for Danielle. Something about their names fitting together like puzzle pieces made her feel safe.) Dani finished the day in Elle’s office, completing work that could have been written in Greek for all Dani knew.

Before her dad died, going home after school was usually a relief. Now it felt like walking into his funeral over and over. Her mom had tried her hardest to bring the Powell house back to life, adding colorful art with motivational messages and insisting on opening the windows to let in fresh air, even when it was raining and the humidity made Dani’s hair resemble a lion’s mane. But she had to go home, couldn’t dream of scaring her mom by being late, and at least at home she could sleep until tomorrow rolled around and it wasn’t her birthday anymore.

Even 10 years after her 17th birthday, Dani won’t be able to remember what happened after school that day. Pictures indicate that she had cupcakes and she had sat through her sisters and mom singing “Happy Birthday”. She doesn’t remember anything else. In fact, the rest of that school year and most of that summer are lost to Dani. Her therapist will say it’s a common way for people to manage grief, that the depression will ease with time, that all of it is completely and utterly normal. Dani figures it was her brain’s way of ignoring that her dad wasn’t there. Dad couldn’t be missing from her memories of her birthday if she had none.

Every birthday after that one hurts in some way, sometimes for the full 24 hours and other times for only a split second. Her 18th is full of anger at her dad for not being there. Her 21st involves her bawling while drunk in some random bar about how she wishes she could be with her dad, even if it meant not being around anymore. She writes a seven-page letter to her dad on her 27th, updating him on every detail of the last decade as if he were still alive. Her 32nd brings a sense of acceptance, of knowing that as much as she misses him and wishes he could be there as she blows out her birthday candles, she wouldn’t trade the life she has for anything.

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Edrisa had never spent the Fourth of July in the US until she was 26. Summer was the ideal season for her parents to do research in far off lands, which meant it was the season where Edrisa packed a couple bags and left home to follow them on their travels. But this year she couldn’t make the trip. Or, more accurately, she was purposely not invited on the trip. It wasn’t surprising that she had been excluded, but it still hurt.

She had always been closer to her parents than anyone else in the world. Friends were few and far between and even when she did manage to make one, she never felt as comfortable in her skin with them as she did in a hut in a random country with her parents. (And, yes, maybe she wasn’t giving her friends a chance to get close to her and, yes, maybe she wasn’t trying her hardest to make connections, but still.) The comfort meant she kept going on research trips long after she turned 18, kept running back to the safety of the trio that made up her family.

But then she told her parents she was hoping to be a medical examiner instead of pursuing internal medicine like she had originally planned. She hadn’t realized how much that original plan meant to her parents but her announcement led to a debate that grew into an argument before becoming a full-blown, knock-down, drag-out fight. That had been over her spring break in April and she and her parents hadn’t spoken since and it was tearing her apart.

Edrisa prided herself on her resilience though and so she planned to make the most of this first Independence Day in her home country. And if that distracted her from her parents’ radio silence, then that was a nice bonus. Edrisa had accepted every invite she got from various colleagues and coworkers, crammed her schedule full of pancake breakfasts, barbeques, block parties, and firework shows. She saw the same few scenes of Independence Day in four different places. She ate no less than five hot dogs throughout the day. By the end of the day, she had spent a total of 160 minutes watching fireworks. But no amount of hot dogs or fireworks or dramatic speeches could dull the voice in the back of her head that was wondering what her mom and dad were doing.

Had Dad gotten sick from sketchy water yet because he didn’t let it boil long enough? Had Mom found the scarf she wanted to buy to add to her collection? Were they seeing souvenirs and thinking of her? Which coworkers were they with? Darrell? Synthia? Nasir? That guy with the cool tattoo sleeves whose name Edrisa could never remember? Did they remember that it was the Fourth of July?

Edrisa arrived back at her tiny apartment far past her usual bedtime, Edrisa curled up on her couch, skipping between TV channels for something she could fall asleep to. By the time she stumbled on the fifth channel playing Independence Day (always that one speech; surely there was more to this movie than this one speech), she had accepted that the universe had clearly determined her entertainment for the night.

Edrisa settled in to see how the movie ended as one guy (the President? He was in a suit giving a speech and that seemed like enough of a context clue for Edrisa) delivered his, admittedly very moving, speech. “And should we win the day, the 4th of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day when the world declared in one voice, we will not go quietly into the night. We will not vanish without a fight.”

Maybe it was the actor’s delivery or the music or fate, but Edrisa found herself ruminating on the same line over and over: “We will not vanish without a fight.” It seemed absurd to compare her fight with her parents to humanity fighting off aliens, but good advice was good advice. Edrisa didn’t want to give up on her family. If she wanted to patch things up, to help her parents see why she didn’t want to work with living patients, to not have to suffer through another Fourth of July block party where she didn’t know anyone, she was going to have to put up a fight. And so she pulled up her e-mail as Will Smith did heroic things and wrote to her parents. She poured all the feelings she’d felt that day, all the melancholy and anger and grief and longing, into the e-mail, took a deep breath, hit send, and turned off her TV. (Edrisa will be well into her 60s before she actually sees Independence Day all the way through. She did have the President’s speech memorized more than 25 years before that.) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

February 14th, 2010-

Tally: Happy Valentines babe <3 <3

JT: Love you!

Tally: How likely is it that your sergeant is gonna let you off early today?

JT: -1000%

Tally: Did you try the “it’s my first valentines with my wife” angel?

Tally: Angle!

JT: Salazar isn’t going to budge. No seniority, no chance of going home early

Tally: But you’ll try anyway right…? (:

JT: Only because I love you. If you don’t hear back from me it’s because Salazar has sentenced me to work overtime for the next month.

Tally: Fingers crossed!

Tally: Anything?

Tally: It’s been 10 minutes, are you alive?

Tally: JT ANSWER ME OR I’M POSTING YOUR FULL NAME ON FACEBOOK!!!!!!!!

JT: He laughed me out of the room

JT: And now I’m on parking violation duty for the day

Tally: Sorry babe…

JT: Wish I could be with you ):

Tally: Maybe I could go and violate some parking laws…? What do you say, Officer Tarmel?

JT: This is why I married you

Tally: That and the fact that I’m nice enough to wear those heels you love to go and get a parking ticket

JT: your my dream girl ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanksgiving had always been Jackie’s holiday. Ever since their first Thanksgiving together, Gil and Jackie had agreed she would handle Thanksgiving and he would put together Christmas dinner. Jackie had taken immense joy in her perfect Thanksgiving dinners. As if by magic, she made sure the food was done cooking all at the same time, the turkey was never dry, and she had an apple pie so good she would print the recipe to hand out to guests.

The last two Thanksgivings before Jackie had passed away had been pale imitations of the ones they used to have. The first one, Gil ate some Chinese food while Jackie curled on the couch and nibbled at saltines because the chemo made her too nauseous for anything else. The second was spent in the hospital, discussing funeral plans because Jackie wanted to make sure Gil knew exactly what she wanted. The first Thanksgiving after Jackie died, Gil offered to work so another officer who had just had a baby could be home for the holiday. Gil worked a 13-hour shift, finding reasons to stick around long after he could have gone home. The second Thanksgiving, he went to DC to see Bright, hoping that being in an unfamiliar city would help stave off the sadness that he would never have a Thanksgiving with Jackie again. Bright had gotten called in for an emergency and Gil had spent the day wandering through the city by himself.

Gil runs out of ways to avoid Thanksgiving the third year. He has too much overtime so work is a no-go. Bright is back in New York. Gil doesn’t particularly want to travel at Thanksgiving again and definitely not by himself. He considered helping at a shelter but apparently the rest of the city has had the same idea because Gil was informed that no additional volunteers were needed.

He plans to approach the dreaded Thursday like any other. He’ll make a normal meal. He’ll watch a football game he had missed earlier in the week instead of the Thanksgiving games. He will close his curtains so that if a balloon from the parade somehow magically makes its way to his part of town, he won’t see it.

Gil’s in the middle of heating up canned tomato soup and making a grilled cheese when there’s a knock at the door. He opens it without looking through the peephole, hoping it’s the turtleneck he ordered to replace one that Bright destroyed earlier in the week. The shipping e-mail had said it should be arriving that day. Instead, he finds JT and Tally with four food containers. “It’s just the sides. We were going to bring some turkey but Tally says it’s inedible so…” JT shrugs as he places the food on the table and explains what is what. There’s creamed corn and mashed potatoes and Gil’s stomach rumbles despite his best efforts. The visit is very brief (Tally’s family is headed to their apartment and they need to clean up before anyone gets there) and the food is wonderful. It’s not Jackie’s, not by a long shot, but it’s different enough that it feels odd to compare them and that’s a blessing.

Gil has just gotten through half of his mashed potatoes when there’s another knock at the door. Again, he hops up, hoping to find his turtleneck on the other side. Instead, he finds Bright, smiling, with Ainsley and Jessica standing behind him. Gil has experienced a Whitly Thanksgiving once, many years ago. It’s just one step down from a black tie affair and Gil had spent most of the four-hour meal prepping to break up a domestic dispute between the various Milton relatives. It had been one of the most unpleasant holidays he had ever experienced and he had spent dozens of holidays working as a police officer, which always promised at least one tragedy.

Thrown off by seeing the Whitly crew instead of a FedEx employee, it took Gil a moment to realize that Bright was holding an entire turkey. His confusion must have shown on his face because Bright leaned towards Gil and, in a rather loud stage whisper, said, “I told Mother it made no sense to bring a whole turkey, but you know how she gets when she sets her mind on something.” Ainsley chuckled behind Bright and Jessica looked between both her children with a look of overexaggerated offense.

Gil’s manners kicked in after a moment. “Do you want to come in? I can’t eat a whole turkey alone,” he gestured with his hand to invite them in, but all three responded by shaking their heads.

“Thank you, Gil, but we can’t impose,” Jessica said in her tone that indicated there was no room for disagreement. “There’s no need to play host on today of all days.” The subtext was clear: I wouldn’t want to have to pretend to be okay on a hard day; I won’t make you. It was a kind thought but as he watched the little family walk back to the car, Ainsley and Bright joking with each other, Gil wasn’t sure if he would rather them stay or leave.

The turkey was delicious and Gil was nodding off in his favorite chair when the third and final knock of the evening came. Gil got up, again feeling the excitement of getting his new turtleneck because surely that’s the only reason someone would be at his door at 9:00 PM on Thanksgiving.

“You’re not my turtleneck,” Gil bemoaned as he opened the door to see Dani.

She scoffed, “Nice to see you too.”

“Sorry, I’ve just been waiting for the turtleneck-”

“You ordered to replace the one that got ruined in that fire Bright set?” Dani raised her eyebrows, proud of finishing his sentence.

Gil chuckled, “You and I may spend too much time together.”

Dani made her way into Gil’s living room, comfortable enough to not wait for permission. “I brought you something,” Dani said while extending her hand that held an opaque Tupperware. Her voice was tinged with nervousness; it reminded Gil of a kid handing in a test they thought they might fail. “It’s definitely not perfect and I don’t think I baked it long enough but hopefully it’s okay.”

As Dani spoke, Gil opened the container and was met by a smell so familiar and beloved that it brought a tear to his eyes. The smell was the perfect mix of apple, cinnamon, and nutmeg; a smell so connected to Jackie that Gil could have sworn she was in the room. He couldn’t resist tasting it, even though he suspected that Dani might still be talking, unaware that he had been transported to happier years. She was right, the pie could have done with another minute or two but besides that it was perfect. No one else had ever gotten it this perfect. He couldn’t even get it this perfect and he helped Jackie make her pie at least a dozen times.

“Dani,” Gil was fighting back the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him. “This is just right. How… How did you get it just right?”

Pulling a stained and folded piece of paper from her back pocket, with a look of surprise on her face, Dani responded, “Jackie gave me the recipe that first Thanksgiving, right before she got…” Right before she got sick hung in the air, unsaid. How many times had Gil seen Jackie pass out this recipe? And yet no one had ever made the pie correctly. What made Dani different? He unfolded the recipe like it was a precious artifact. Scrawled in Jackie’s messy handwriting in the corner was a note: Top secret! To make this correctly add apple cider syrup (about ½ cup). Love, Jackie.

Gil didn’t even try to contain his laugh. Of course, Jackie, his Jackie who was so competitive and always up to something mischievous, would never give out her full recipe, not even to him. And of course, Jackie, his Jackie who was endlessly compassionate and always looking out for people, would have the foresight to see that Dani would be the type of person to bring him pie when Jackie was gone. Even now, his wife was amazing him and making sure he had a proper Thanksgiving.

As Gil fell asleep that night, his phone buzzed. More out of habit than anything, he reached for it and found an e-mail. The subject line? “Men’s gray turtleneck delivery delayed to 1/31”. Gil groaned. Now if only one of his team members would show up with a turtleneck!

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Logically, Bright gets the value of New Year’s. It's a clear chance for a new beginning, a perfect time to reflect on the past, and, of course, an opportunity for one more party before the holiday season ends and everyone returns to their normal lives. It all makes sense in theory.

Theory isn’t reality and the reality of New Year’s has never met Bright’s expectations. New York on December 31st is always brimming with tourists who want to see the ball drop and make the city claustrophobic. Reflecting on the past year usually includes remembering a laundry list of mistakes and horror. Planning for the new year just results in people expecting something that never comes. And, to be completely honest, he has yet to attend a New Year’s Eve party that he didn’t regret the next morning. Nothing about midnight on January first makes anyone a new person.

Despite all of that, Bright’s loft was decked out for a New Year’s Eve party thanks to a bet. He had been so confident the janitor had killed their victim and JT had been equally confident Bright was wrong. So the bet was made: if Bright was right JT had to reveal the letter that came after the J in his name; if JT won, Bright had to throw a New Year’s Eve party. It had not been the janitor, but the janitor’s identical twin brother who killed the victim. Despite his best efforts to convince him otherwise, Gil ruled in favor of JT and now Bright had a party to throw.

Mother had, of course, taken matters into her own hands, insisting that there was no way Bright could throw a New Year’s party as well as her event planner could. He had tried to convince her that this would be a small party with just a few people from work and that it truly did not require an event planner who would charge at least $4,000. His efforts were in vain and now he could barely recognize his own home through the catered food, the enormous number of gold and silver decorations, and the pièce de résistance: a disco ball that was far too big for his apartment.

Perhaps it was fitting that he couldn’t recognize his home under the decorations. Life had become increasingly unrecognizable since that day in Vermont with Martin and the Woodsman. The day his father had tried to kill him and Bright had instead murde– killed his father. (His army of therapists had been working diligently to help Bright change the way he spoke about the event; shifting from Bright murdering Martin to Bright having defended himself. It was a very slow process.) Bright didn’t recognize himself most days and his safe spaces had dwindled rapidly. There was court and mandatory time off and 72-hour holds and so much therapy. There were hard conversations to be had and confessions to be made and apologies to be given by the dozens. Now, still far from okay but no longer on the edge of insanity, Bright was facing a completely foreign idea: a new year without his father.

Martin Whitly would not see a single second of 2022.

Malcolm Bright would get to see all of them.

Malcolm had never had a year without his father. Never had a chance to see what he could be without Martin. Never even considered that one day he wouldn’t feel torn between Claremont and the real world where people were sometimes cruel but mostly kind. Maybe Bright didn’t buy into the idea of New Year’s because he’d still be carrying his trauma and demons and flaws whether it was December 31st, 2021 or January 1st, 2022, but it did seem worth celebrating a year where he would only carry the ghost of his father, instead of the real thing.

So, despite the party being entirely over-the-top, Bright made the most of it. He laughed with his friends, played party games and lost at all of them in spectacular fashion. He ate some food that wasn’t licorice and Dani literally applauded him for it. He got to hold JT’s baby who smiled at Bright and for a moment he enjoyed being with someone who did not find him strange or odd or shattered through with trauma. Kisses and hugs were shared at midnight and it felt like maybe beautiful things were beginning.

By the time 2:00 AM rolled around, it was just Bright, sitting on the floor, his back against his front door. The loft was a disaster and Bright was certain it would take years to de-glitter the space. The sirens outside were loud and more frequent than normal and if he squinted, Bright could see snow falling lightly outside. He leaned his head back against the door and released a long breath, thinking about how this year, as ridiculous as it was, felt different, felt lighter. It was enough to make him laugh. The noise bubbled up out of his mouth involuntarily and startled Sunshine awake from her perch just a bit above Bright’s head. She chirped indignantly, as if scolding him for waking her up. It made him laugh even more. He apologized to her and pulled himself up to start heading to bed.

“Happy new year, Sunshine. I think it’ll be a good one.”

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A/N: For a person who has only just started using emojis in the year 2023, not using them in Tally and JT’s text was shockingly difficult. I hope you enjoyed seeing me flex my very limited memory of emoticons. Also, I googled secret ingredients for apple pie so if you make one with apple cider syrup and it’s bad, it’s not my fault.

Also, I’m sorry to all my Ainsley fans; on hour six of writing so she did not get a vignette. (Though there’s totally something to be said for a piece about Ainsley at Halloween.) Sorry that she’s the only main cast member who didn’t get some love.

Thank you for reading! If you’re someone who is going through holidays without their loved one, I’m sending you hugs, warm blankets, and your favorite beverage. I hope this maybe brought a bit of catharsis or hope. May all of you have a wonderful 2024, full of loved ones, good food, and lots of pleasant surprises. And most importantly, may 2024 bring us the miracle of a season 3!

#psonsecretsanta23 #prodigal son #and I am not tagging all the characters that are in this but they're mostly all there #didn't Tumblr use to have a horizontal line you could put in your text so you don't have to type ----- to separate sections?#did I imagine that?#silence emily #have fun with this; I wrote it in 6 hours with no breaks after thinking about it for at least 2 months #grief man. it's crazy

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inkskinned · 8 months

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the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

#writeblr #warm up #this is longer than i wanted i really considered removing that part about myself and what i went thru #but i think it really fucking bothers me that EVERY time i talk about being an artist #ppl assume i just like. had the skill and ability to drop everything and pay for grad school.#like sir i grew up poor. my house wasn't a safe space. i gave up a FREE RIDE TO LAW SCHOOL. for THIS. bc i chose it.#was it fucking hard? was i choosing the hard thing?? yes.#but we need to stop seeing artists as lazy layabouts that can ''afford'' to just ''sit around and create''#when MANY - if not MOST - of us are NOT like that. we have to work our fucking ASSES off. hard work. long and hard work #part of valuing artists is recognizing the amount we sacrifice to make our art. bc it doesn't just #like HAPPEN to us. also btw it rarely has anything to do with true talent.#speaking as someone with a chronic condition i hate when ppl are like u have it easy. like actively as i'm writing this my hands r #ACTIVELY hurting me. i haven't been posting bc my left hand was curled in a claw for the last week #this isn't fucking luck. after a certain point it's not even TALENT. it's dedication & sacrifice.#''u get to flounce around and do nothing with ur life'' is a narrative that is a direct result of capitalism #imagine if we said that about literally any other profession.#''oh so u give up 10 yrs of ur life to be a doctor? u sacrifice having a social life and u get SUPER in debt?#u need to work countless hours and it will often be thankless? well i wish i was that lucky''#we should be applying that logic to landlords ONLY #''oh ur mom and dad gave u the money to buy a house? and all u did was paint it white and rent it? huh.''

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