#how to very politely tell someone that actually contrary to what vibes i may have been giving. i do not want to see you again.

[charlestrask]

man this SUCKS

#i dont know how i keep accidentally leading people on . this sucks #how to very politely tell someone that actually contrary to what vibes i may have been giving. i do not want to see you again. #literally every time i try something with someone during it im like ok. cool. this is going fine. and so im like sure ok we can see #eachother again. because at the TIME i was like ok cool this is fine. #and then IMMEDIATELY when i get home my brain always does a 180 and is like actually. #you need to be a hermit you need to be a monk you need to retire within yourself and only be best friends with yourself forever. #and i form a small hatred and fear of seeing that person again. even though it was FINE!! #wait. okay. beginning to understand what people mean when they say commitment issues. i am like a small frightened dog. #AUGH! NO i dont want to go over to your house at 8:30 PM. IM ALREADY GOING TO BED!! IVE RETIRED FOR THE DAY!! #also beginning to realize that i just genuinely dont want to be in a relationship. which is good i guess. now how do i fucking tell her 🤬🤬 #* #argh.

[archival-account-2]

i’m caught in your limbo. | mikazuki munechika [headcanons]

❛ 𑁍 pairing: mikazuki munechika x reader

❛ 𑁍 scenario: in an modern au; cities, skyscrapers, and bright lights - the whole trifecta

❛ 𑁍 warning: have ya'll seen my floofy fluffs? this is definitely like that; a beautiful sword only pining over lovely you

❛ 𑁍 note: i have no regrets going on a run finding my chill jams; i found a handful of beautiful ones but this one reminds me of a soft daddy from tkrb; poor, poor, poor, poor heart of mine (and yours); inspired heavily - heavily - by “on my mind”, sung by maximillian

🡪 you were like a miracle that flashed before his very eyes.

🡪 like, the very first time he saw you, he was practically petrified and he couldn't move or feel his muscle. 

🡪 are you an enchantress or something? 

🡪 because all he had ever done on that very day was thinking of you in his mind.

🡪 of course, he had no idea who you are at first. 

🡪 you're not of the company's employees. you don't dress up like one, though, you have somehow access into the building. 

🡪 he was almost freaking dying to find out who was the enchantress that suddenly diverted his attention from all else. 

🡪 he believed he's under a spell but he's not about to admit that to anyone. the man has a reputation to protect. he cannot be suddenly seen as someone who suddenly became indicted with 'puppy love'.

🡪 so for the next days (i give it fourteen days), he was all cool, calm, and collected for the most part of the day. sure, he would see you coming by almost every day; wearing a cute white button-up dress shirt with a flouncy, waist-hugging skirt that reaches down to your knees. don't even start on the shoes. he found your hell worn pink doll shoes adorable. 

🡪 that was when one of the workers, (w/n), noticed his constant presence whenever you drop by and give them their orders. 

🡪 you see, (w/n) is your regular costumers during after work hours and because of the partnership between the two of you, you somehow comply to even deliver orders for them. 

🡪 (w/n) became fond of the favor you're giving them and it became some sort of a habit now.

🡪 now, one day, mikazuki's sneaky employee whose name was (w/n), decided to test the waters if they're seeing the real thing or not. 

🡪 that little shi- by their "grace and eloquence", they "accidentally" placed their order with the "wrong" office address. 

(y/n): wait... why is the office address new? did you gain a new one or something?

(w/n): you could say that. but it's only temporary. a renovation is going to happen and the heads want us to move in advance.(

y/n): on the very top floor?

(w/n): does it look like i even have a choice?

🡪 anyways! you prepared (w/n)'s usual orders on an amazing friday afternoon. since it's the weekend tomorrow, you got them the sweetest, savoriest pastry. also, the safest decaf coffee. you know (w/n) hates being wasted on a good night with caffeine. 🡪 once you get inside the building...

🡪 there he was... mikazuki munechika.

🡪 oh, sweet lord... his face when he realized you're going to the elevator. you usually drop by in the first floor but you can be seen sometimes in the fifth floor where (w/n) was working but rarely. but very, very, very, very, very, very rarely.

🡪 you slipped out the access card (w/n) handed you two weeks and swiped it to the beneath the buttons. then you're going up. 

🡪 to the topmost floor.

🡪 where mikazuki's office was residing. 

🡪 yes, (w/n) sent you there. 

🡪 when the elevators opened, you were shocked. 

🡪 this is (w/n)'s office? aren't they just, you know? common employees? why is their office is fitting for a king of the company? 

🡪 one sway of your head was enough to make your heart jump. 

🡪 you're in the actual ceo's office. ceo's office. 

🡪 well... um... 

mikazuki: excuse me, pretty madame, but you might be in the wrong place right now.

🡪 you swore you almost threw your life away into the trash bin.

🡪 you're facing the most handsome, most gentle-looking, softest man to ever live.

🡪 his eyes? they were glinting with warm kindness and welcome, but you could also tell that there's a twinge of playfulness in them. as if they're beckoning you to say more and that he'll make sure his answers are concise, light, and flighty in the most sophisticated way. 

🡪 good lord... the lovely golden rings around his pupils... you swore you might as well are facing the son of the living moon. 

🡪 the fringes of his lovely-looking black-blue locks... they were handsomely dangling over his eyes and you have a small urge to quietly brush them away so that you can feel the texture of it. (of course, you held yourself back out of courteousness and politeness). 

🡪 he was exceptionally tall. you could tell by how deep he's bending his body downwards so that he could give you a sincere look. 

🡪 he didn't give off the vibes of a power-hungry, highly ambitious ceo.

🡪 he just felt... soft. like, really, really, really, really, soft.

(y/n): i... i believe so... i'm here for (w/n). they ordered this and... yeah.

🡪 your dignity is slightly dented now but would someone know about it? except for the dashing man with moonish qualities, no one. 

mikazuki: i'm sorry but (w/n) requested a day-off today. they aren't here and won't be here until next week's tuesday.

🡪 boy, were you played... 

🡪 played like a ball. 

🡪 oof. a big off. 

(y/n): but... but...

🡪 you could only idly look at the paper bag you prepared. you did it effortlessly but you gave it importance. what now?

mikazuki: may i?

🡪 well... who's gonna eat that anyways? 

🡪 it's just gonna be a waste - your effort, time, and hustle. 

🡪 so you did the right thing (at the moment).

(y/n): yes, you may.

🡪 mikazuki accepted the paper bag and glanced at the contents. 

🡪 so... 

mikazuki: please, i mean no offense, but are you a delivery girl, madame?

(y/n): on the contrary, i own the bakery. i'm the manager and baker. i own (b/n).

🡪 mikazuki widened his eyes. 

mikazuki: you manage a bakery that started with the (l/n), madame?

(y/n): it's passed down to me, so it's natural i would manage it. 

mikazuki: my family loves that bakery that we finance it starting from my grandfather.

(y/n): good sir... what's your name?

mikazuki: mikazuki munechika. ceo of the solomoon stocks. and yours, good madame?

(y/n): (y/f/n)

🡪 oh crap.

🡪 you share the same name with the girl he used to pine over.

🡪 wait... that was you.

🡪 and is you. 

🡪 so in the end...

🡪 after all this time...

🡪 he was still pining over you? the same you he was pining since god knows how long? 

🡪 oh, good gosh, after you moved, he never thought you would have the most magnificent glow up. sure, he believed that resemblances remain throughout the human lives but... 

🡪 you're a different story and he could have sworn the nostalgia suddenly hit him like fucking truck. 

(y/n): oh! mika-kun? i-is that really you? you looked more handsome from the last time i saw you! you've grown!

🡪 formalities were the thrown away. 

🡪 you stood on your cutest tippy-toes and patted taller man's head as if he was some sort of a pet.

(y/n): goodness you've grown so tall! i can't even pet you anymore... i used to be the taller one between us. but i guess... this change is also good. 

🡪 this poor man's heart felt like it's blast itself away from his chest and out of the milky galaxy.

🡪 but the calmness matters most.

🡪 calmness. matters. most.

mikazuki: yes, i have to agree this change is most agreeable. 

🡪 he smiled. gosh, when was the last time he smiled with the nostalgia tugging his heart strings?

🡪 way too long.

mikazuki: because i can now do this.

🡪 this attractive-looking man went for the warmest hug he could ever give you and you immediately melt into it like butter on a hot saucepan. 

🡪 you never thought you'd meet your oldest best friend again but you thank your lucky stars that you did. 

(y/n): i don't mind this.

🡪 you mumbled into his shirt and gently pulled away. 

(y/n): so... are you gonna eat that?

🡪 you motioned at the paper bag mikazuki was idly holding.

mikazuki: i am. but, on the contrary... how about we schedule an appointment?

(y/n): please talk in a normal language, mika-kun.

mikazuki: shall we meet in 77th street tonight, after my work hours? i have an appointment with a certain individual and i cannot postpone that meeting without a valid excuse. of course, it will be just a brief meeting, but we can leave as soon as we're done. 

🡪 77th street is where all the lavish establishments were settling, by the way. 

(y/n): sure, mika-kun? er... how about eight? so that i won't be in the way.

mikazuki: make it seven-thirty and it would be a date. 

🡪 have i forgot to mention he's smooth? that's a mistake on my part.

#mikazuki munechika #munechika mikazuki #tkrb #touken ranbu #tohken danshi #mikazuki x reader #munechika x reader

[doomedandstoned]

Meeting Bomg, Doom-Drone Legends from Ukraine

~Interview by Billy Goate~

Doomed & Stoned continues our week of epic interviews with a long overdue conversation with the great Ukraine doom-drone band BOMG, who have been desamating stages and blowing out amps since 2010. During that time, Nikolay Temchenko (guitar), Yuriy Temchenko (bass), and Anton Khomenko (drums) have put out two mammoth LPs, an EP, and a split.

I first got turned on to BOMG's sound with the record 'Polynseed' (2013), which released the year that Doomed & Stoned was founded. I recommend starting there if this is your first exposure to the mighty trio from Kyiv.

Bomg have been gradually drifting in the direction of full-on drone metal, executed in their own authentic and compelling way, as we're about to discover as we drill into 'Peregrination' (2020) -- which we reviewed last year and Robustfellow has recently reissued.

Give ear...

You state that BOMG means “vagabond” on your Bandcamp page. Can you elaborate on how the name ties in with the band’s history and core identity?

It’s an abbreviation literally meaning “with no particular place of living”. Funny thing is that its’ meaning is degraded in common use (like “bum”), but when it was incepted (60s – 70s in USSR) those who were stigmatized by it were better off going elsewhere than being part of the regime, taking it as a positive. This became somewhat of a short-lived movement even. We think that despite being prone to misunderstanding in every way, it fits the overall vibe. Blessing and a curse. But frankly, the name is a secondary thing at best.

How would you describe your distinctive sound, to someone who has never encountered it before?

Basically, trying to elaborate and add to “Black Sabbath spaghettified” idea. We try to squeeze out any possible amount of low frequency, volume, distortion and effect saturation to the instruments, not necessarily designed for it. As of similarities and influences, it’s 60s-70s heavy psych, proto-metal and proto-punk, 80s - 90s continuation of it (doom metal, stoner/desert rock, sludge, drone doom), besides that – dub, ambient, prog rock, experimental music, field recordings and whatnot.

Peregrination by Bomg

Your new album 'Peregrination' is an explosive bombshell, massive in every respect. When was the concept for the album born?

The first track was almost ready in 2011, we played it at our first show. As of concept, it started to take shape somewhere in 2013-2014, most of the lyrics were written back then. Then it took years to “grow.” First, we tried to make it so each track would fit one side of LP, but it seemed kinda compressed and landed too quick. Then we decided not to confine it to any time limit but each track landed itself around 40 minutes, so we made sure it evens out like this in final recording.

Tell us about the recording process involved. We’re very curious about instruments, gear, amps, and the general studio environment in which it originated.

Each whole track was recorded live (took roughly four weeks for four tracks), then layered with two additional guitars. Synths, field recordings, vocals were added afterward.

Gear: we used two Tank amps (Orange/Matamp clones) made from old soviet broadcast amplifiers and Tesla Disco 240 for guitar and bass (wish our Sunn concert bass was alive at that point, but it just burns transistors when turned on – we couldn’t find an exact schematic for it, even photos of the exact amp on the web, seems like it’s from some transition period).

The drums are '70s Rogers 13”, 16” toms and 24” steel shell bass drum from '50s-'70s (mass-produced for political celebrations, weddings and funerals), coupled with Meinl hi-hats, Paiste Rude China and Zildjian Mega Bell.

Guitars used were early '00s Gibson SG Standard, '72 Musima Eterna Deluxe and ’69 Musima Record; and ‘70 Cremona Violin bass.

Pedals: Poltava fuzz-wah, Noname “flanger” that is actually phaser for bass; Tesla Vrable fuzz-wah (the seller told us that his uncle was under KGB investigation for just having it), Noname dist (most likely a ProCo Rat clone), Vox wah, Boss BF-2, Lel’ parametric EQ, Lel’ digital delay, Boss dynamic wah, Roland Space Echo for guitar.

Recording equipment: Two '70s Oktava ML-19 for overheads, '50s-'60s Oktava ML15 and ML16 for room and various dynamic and condenser mics for everything else into Pro Tools, then later in mixing/mastering stage partly routed through mixer and cassette deck using beaten up cassette for analog saturation and vibrato.

Long story short, we tried to use most of the stuff we got in our studio, and at this point, it’s hard to remember every detail of the process. Referring to the environment, it is compiled of numerous weird gadgets which got to us throughout years, most of which were collecting dust somewhere for decades, and have a history (an entire topic by itself) we’re always asking for. And when used, they tell a story which then leaves a mark in recordings for sure. That was a hell of a fascinating process.

I noticed you had lyrics for each song on 'Peregrination,' but the singing doesn't seem discernable. Are there indeed vocals and, if so, how can I hear them?

Yes, there are vocals. They appear on low volume as reverberated and somewhat oscillated notes, more like presence; on high volume, you can hear words with 1-5 kHz correctly dialed in (on most audio equipment these frequencies tend to be excited, so lowering EQ at this range brings clarity), it appears as a whisper in a loud, saturated mix. Also, we added subtitles on YouTube, so you can know for sure where to find vocals. The point was to make them recognizable only with intent.

Talk about the album art. It seems there is hidden symbolism there, is that true?

It’s some sort of a window that leads to four areas, which are the visualized soundscapes to each track. There were no particular symbols, but the thing is that they fill in the picture as it is set - like a hallucination, which is often a well of meaning where symbols change and multiply interpretations, at the same time being just momentary blobs of form.

The process of making this album cover involved many iterations of drawing, running through GAN networks, editing the result to achieve the effect of a captured hallucination, close to the exact one. When hardwiring symbols directly into it, they would be eaten up by hallucinating AI. So by randomly forming a resemblance of shapes, things started popping out where they fit the most contextually - weird stuff. It’s a common thing in art to throw “open for interpretation” on everything, but this one might be.

What is the concept behind each "hobo" symbol and track on 'Peregrination'?

So, the first one means being quiet and alert, seeing what’s going on. The second one is a sign of a trolley – hopping from one soundscape to another, time travel. The third one – safe camp; it may be confusing when applied to the lyrics, but the position that is stated there facing the object is some sort of a “safe camp”, ground to stand on. The fourth one means “don’t give up”, even if applied in both meanings of this phrase to track. But the symbol references may lack context without diving into tracks.

I'm sure our readers would be most happy if you were to illuminate the meaning of each of the songs on your new album.

Well, it’s like trying to create a soundtrack to some introductory ontological theories (pretty blank, sterile stuff), realizing their intensity. Here uneven-numbered tracks touch on mind ontology, even-numbered - on reality ontology. Not diving into details too much, let them hang there.

I. Electron

Peregrination by Bomg

it's no light of star it's a light of mind walking thru a dream electron shamanism

"Electron" is covering the theme of mythical perception akin to humans and the discovery that put a dent into these beliefs. Variation on a Tunguska story, mythos surrounding Tesla, how people mythologize all around.

II. Perpetuum

Peregrination by Bomg

Across desolations Caravans astray Sand covered roads Forget old ways

"Perpetuum" goes more into sci-fi territory: endless cycles of dead and born-again civilizations, the Great Filter caused by cosmic events or beings themselves, and how we just might unknowingly observe such things staring at the sky.

III. Paradigm

Peregrination by Bomg

Giant web built and set in lines It works when mind reflects Leaving us with all the fears Or letting them disappear

"Paradigm" is based around the tendency of the mind to confine itself into some set of ideas, building a higher fence while thinking it broadens the space. Thinking of one thing while it is the opposite, fear of the structure collapsing while an event like this would alleviate any sort of fear. But breaking a paradigm usually leads straight to the next one, to which the same attributes apply. And keeping this notion brings a safe distance to it.

IV. Emanation

Peregrination by Bomg

Now the opportunity is To see the universe spinning Emit structures boundless Round its' endless borders It's the very first the very last small moment In periods of endless time When the structure merge infinite To manifest as something

"Emanation" goes somewhat contrary to the second one - a reality that may be started at some point, complicates itself, and never is truly repetitive. Also thoughts on subjective existence and the point of it, maybe being an instrument of the Universe to explain it to itself. Speculation on whether or not consciousness flows from one state to another, as energy does, returning to its inception or scattering across until equilibrium, or even said results being the same thing. And the uncertainty of these things that are left to be answered while we as beings, it seems, are just left to fade away.

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#D&S Interviews #BOMG #Kyiv #Ukraine #doom #metal #doom metal #drone #sludge #atmospheric doom #Robustfellow #Doomed and Stoned

[butterflydm]

The Untamed Rewatch (ep 10)

Previous Episode | Index | Next Episode

There's a lot of plot movement in this episode! Plus not one, not two, but THREE of WWX's antagonist parallels feature in it, in addition to the partnership parallel of SongXiao. Very exciting for me. ❤️

Xue Yang is revealed on a roof. There are… there are a lot of important roof moments in CQL. I also just straight-up love the composition of this shot, it has a lot of depth. There's Xue Yang on the roof, the hanging bodies in bright red under him, then Lan Zhan and Wei Ying in the foreground.

So… Xue Yang is a terrible person but a really great character. Here, though… ah. The man in black waits on a roof, standing elevated over the bodies of his victims and ready to challenge the people who are here to call him to task for his crimes, then a hero dressed all in white flies in to challenge him. From the point of view of the cultivation world, that's the story that started to (was supposed to) happen during the fight in eps 31-32.

Xue Yang and Wei Wuxian are only superficially alike. Their hearts are very different. But that's one of the themes that I enjoy — how differently things look when you only see them from the outside. Visually and on the surface, WWX & LWJ match up to either Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen or Song Zichen and Xiao Xingchen. But once you scratch the surface, it becomes more clear that WWX's heart is nothing like Xue Yang's.

I love that WWX wants to stand back and observe before acting, here. Contrary to what might be assumed about his impulsive nature, he's very perceptive and strategic, and it's enjoyable to watch that here. He acts to level the playing field, then stays out of the fight to assess the fighters and when he does act, it's very calculated. This is one of the things that makes him a good teacher way later on, I think.

I also like that we see Xue Yang appreciates WWX's skills and more whimsical approach to things. So, one of the things that separates WWX from Xue Yang is that WWX has a sense of perspective and proportion (...actually, now that I think about it, this is also one of the things that separates WWX from MY/JGY, though in a different way). Like, one of the reasons XY is fun to watch is that he's generally always having a good time even in situations when it's extremely inappropriate. Whereas that may be what LWJ thought about WWX when he first met him, but he realized there are things (moral and ethical things) that WWX is quite serious about and doesn't joke over.

I also love the mutual admiration society that goes on after Xue Yang is captured, and Xiao Xingchen says nice things about our kiddos and then Lan Wangji turns it around and says nice things about him back. It's polite but it's also very sweet.

Xue Yang laughing over the hypocrisy of the honored cultivators — another WWX/Yiling Patriarch parallel moment there.

We also get another early moment of Lan Zhan currently refusing to do a thing that he will do with all his heart in the future, which is hold Suibian for WWX.

And then we get more detective work from WWX & LWJ — searching Xue Yang, realizing that the evidence no longer points to Xue Yang still having the Yin Metal, WWX working through his thoughts about it out loud. I really do love the partnership vibe.

I also have feelings about Jiang Cheng on one side of WWX, LWJ on the other side. They're in pale blue outer robes of slightly different shades, but the color underneath is very different and matches their clan. The color choices for the clothes on this show feel very deliberate, so while I might read the wrong things into it, I don't think I'm wrong for reading into it at all.

Xue Yang and WWX's outfits are so similar. Really, the main differences are WWX having red accents and Xue Yang having gold ones. But the main colors and silhouettes just… yes. The conversation here, about personal vs the wider picture, is a reoccuring theme as well. Because those things are hard to separate — the personal grudges affect the world as a whole when people with power are the ones with the grudges (again, a theme that will come up with JGY). Xue Yang doesn't have political power, but he has a skill and knowledge set that are useful to people in power, so he has more freedom to do terrible things and get away with it than something without those skills and knowledge would.

Meng Yao and Nie Huaisang are here! 

I do love this for Nie Huaisang's characterization — he was hesitant to come when it was just him and just a few young cultivators his own age, but once he has some serious backup, he immediately came to help. He does want to be helpful but he knows his own strengths.

We get the second mention here of Nie Mingjue being known for being forthright and honest with his judgements (Lan Xichen had mentioned it previously). It's something he's widely known for, it seems.

...I hadn't remembered that Wei Wuxian had said his bit about himself and Lan Zhan working together out of like-mindedness in front of Nie Huaisang and Meng Yao. I remembered Jiang Cheng, of course, but I hadn't remembered the other plot-important people who heard that said. The show really does set up this specific dynamic where the people who are involved in the main plot are all very aware that there's a special bond between WWX and LWJ. And Jiang Cheng's reaction is also in front of Meng Yao — I'm sure that he remembered this moment in the future, when he was poking at Jiang Cheng's ego-related issues about WWX. Because just like he did in front of Nie Huaisang in the earlier episode, here WWX separates himself out with Lan Wangji specifically, excluding everyone else from their partnership.

I love this lovely moment of validation that WWX gets from XXC, where XXC says that Baoshan would be happy to know him if she had the chance to meet him. And, again, I love that the person connected to WWX is the LWJ parallel. This is one of the moments when CQL just feels like a show that… even though many sad or terrible things happen in the story… the show wants to give these characters moments of kindness and absolution. It just feels very… affectionate. The show feels like it was made with real, genuine love and sympathy for the characters. That's one of the things that I like best about it, honestly. It feels tender, even in the hard parts. It wants to be kind.

Nie Huaisang really does admire regal gentleman. He was all admiring over LWJ, and now he's the same over XXC and Song Zichen. And I also absolutely love how much this meeting affects both WWX and LWJ. WWX is the talker, so he gets the lines about how he wants to have that kind of life, but we can tell LWJ is just as deeply affected by how he watches them leave. And I assume the show already knew it couldn't actually show WWX and LWJ as full-on cultivation partners in the end, so they used this as a way of showing us that this is the path (being partners together) that they're both starting to desire, and they trust us to do the math at the end of episode 50.

Meng Yao is the one who passes along the information about the Wen Clan demanding every great clan to send at least one 'direct disciple' (important? full-fledged? family? I'm not certain of what it means exactly, though Nie Huaisang says he's the only one for the Nie clan, so family seems likely) for training. I love how WWX immediately takes this opportunity to say nice things about the Lans. He whined when he was there, but now that he's not in Gusu anymore, he's already nostalgic over it. Oh, honey. 

So, Meng Yao must already be formulating his plan to… hmm, go undercover? Play both sides? He's always looking for opportunities to advance himself. I feel like we can safely assume that. He's already been rejected by his father and is probably trying to think of ways to prove himself in order to get the public recognition that he wants. Those are the assumptions I'm currently making.

WWX is so thrilled to addressed directly by NMJ, wow! Look at that smile. Then NMJ says nice things about him and Jiang Cheng, and WWX is just over the moon. Cute, cute, cute! Meanwhile, NMJ addresses LWJ just as 'Wangji' like LXC does, so they know each other a lot better. Yeah, unless I get contradictory info, I am on the 'NMJ went to the Cloud Recesses and he and LXC became good friends and this is part of why LXC thought to suggest a similar idea to his brother' train of thought.

Then we have the sentencing of Xue Yang. It's interesting that we see both WWX and Meng Yao react similarly to Nie Mingjue wanting to immediately kill Xue Yang, though I'm not sure if Meng Yao would have spoken up if WWX hadn't — he might not consider his position secure enough to do that. Once WWX makes the initial argument, Meng Yao backs him up, but, yeah. I'm not sure if he would have made the initial argument himself.

Ah, it makes me quite sad, honestly, to see Nie Huaisang, Wie Wuxian, and Jiang Cheng being so admiring of Meng Yao's arguments. Because Meng Yao really did screw himself over. He was talented and smart and capable of winning admiration from others, but he was so focused on what he didn't have that he couldn't see what he'd already achieved. He threw away a good position with a good family in hopes of winning recognition from someone who didn't even deserve an ounce of admiration.

But I do… understand why he felt like it wasn't enough? Because even though he had won admiration from strong cultivators, many people still looked down on him for being a "prostitute's son" and he didn't have enough power to make that stop (as we see in the next scene). And I do think that's… I mean, that's what it was about for him (I mean, that and his incredible ability to hold onto a grudge no matter what. that's also a factor). Just trying to get enough power and enough reputation to make the whispers stop. And there's never enough power for that. No matter how much power he amassed, it would never be enough. Becoming the actual leader of the entire cultivation world still didn't give him the power to make people not judge him for his parentage, and he wasn't, for whatever reason, capable of being like LWJ or WWX and saying 'screw reputation, I want to do what's right'. And so he trapped himself into a doomed cycle that elevated him up higher and higher but then inevitably led to his own destruction. A tragedy, yes, but one built by his own hands.

Still, you know, I watch that scene with Meng Yao and the guard captain and I'm like. okay, yeah. I get why he killed the guy and tried to frame him for Xue Yang's escape. It was awful and he shouldn't have, but I understand the motivations. Just having to be polite and give out a customer-service smile, over and over, to people who are disrespecting you (and your mom)… it's exhausting and soul-killing.

Hmm, when WWX first crosses over to stand next to LWJ, the timing felt a little random, but then I realized it's connected to the whole thing he's been stressing since the Yin Metal trip started.

He sees himself and LWJ as the partners on this, and everyone else is a little bit on the outside.

I like Nie Mingjue's facial hair — it does a good job, I think, of displacing him forward in time compared to the rest of the cast, and making them all seem like agemates compared to the slightly older NMJ. I like his whole character design, tbh.

Oh my god! WWX suggests here turning a piece of Yin Metal into a weapon. Which is. Exactly what he does later on. He literally suggests right here the thing that he does later on that wins the war. Huh.

Another important rooftop scene — WWX goes to sleep on the roof over LWJ's quarters, instead of sleeping in an actual bed. These ridiculous boys with their ridiculous crushes, I swear. And LWJ is already falling hopelessly in love with him. My heart overflows. They are so incredibly, ridiculously romantic and I will never recover emotionally.

I like the confrontation between Wen Chao and Nie Mingjue. There's a lot of tension in the scene. In terms of the antagonist characters, Wen Chao isn't my favorite but he is very sharply defined and I feel like I get a good sense of who he is as a person. And we get the introduction of Wen Zhuliu here, as someone who can go toe-to-toe with this Sect Leader that our protagonist characters are all impressed by and respectful towards. So that setup works for me really well. And it's very telling of Wen Chao again as someone who talks big but likes to send in other people to fight his battles for him.

Most of the Wen sect wear black and red in equal amounts, while Wen Zhuliu is mostly black with just a hint of red accents… like WWX does in this episode. I've talked about this character comparison briefly, I think, and it'll come back later but — Wen Zhuliu plays the second fiddle to the direct son of the sect leader, despite being clearly far more powerful a cultivator, but he believes he owes a debt to the family for taking him in so he suppresses his own potential ambition or choices for the sake of the sect. Now, this is not what WWX does, but it's the situation that WWX is in, or very similar. But WWX chooses to act against the interests or orders of his sect when it conflicts with his ethics.

And I note —  in this time of crisis, WWX instinctively gives Jiang Cheng an order and it's followed. And WWX is his head discipline, it makes sense! But that's also a habit that can be hard to transition out of once Jiang Cheng becomes Sect Leader in the future. Like, even if everything with the Wens hadn't shaken out this way, they still might have come into conflict due to WWX being a natural leader.

The mess of Meng Yao getting caught killing the guards and trying to lie his way out of it, then throwing himself in front of Wen Zhuliu's sword, then WWX challenging Wen Chao and everyone hearing that his brother, Wen Xu, is off to destroy the Cloud Recesses… it is a lot, though the pacing of the scene works for me. It's just that a lot of things are piling over and over on the characters (oh, and we get Meng Yao noticing and being concerned about Lan Xichen after he hears about Gusu).

Hmm, so the final scene with Meng Yao and Nie Mingjue. It does… ah, echo for me with how Meng Yao ultimately dies, with regards to how he acts with Lan Xichen in their final scene. Here, he tells Nie Mingjue that meeting him means he has no regrets. At the end, he will tell Lan Xichen that LXC being willing to die for him is 'enough'. In both cases, there's a sense of… Meng Yao knows there's a good chance he might actually die here, so I feel like he's doing his best make to try to make it so that at least this person will carry him with them the rest of their life, that he will impact them by his death. Which ties into his deep, deep desire to matter. Nie Mingjue dismisses it as — the viki translation says 'this little vanity' — but. I mean, it's easy for a sect leader to dismiss someone else's desire to be seen as important? Nie Mingjue has never been unimportant a day in his life. This doesn't excuse Meng Yao's actions, of course, but, I do think dismissing something that is clearly the cornerstone of someone's life doesn't lead to understanding. And Nie Mingjue does want to understand why, but I think his and Meng Yao's lives are just so different that the gap was just too wide to bridge with the tools that he had at his disposal.

I do think that both Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao are clearly emotionally marked by this confrontation/breakdown of their previous relationship. I didn't know either of the characters very well in my first viewing, so I'm just… I'm a lot more emotional about this scene now than I was the first time.

Next time: Lotus Pier! Excited to be seeing it again for the first time in the rewatch. And all the painful/fascinating family dynamics.

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#mdzs meta #cql rewatch #wangxian #the untamed | chen qing ling #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wei wuxian | wei ying #lan wangji | lan zhan

[companionjones]

Friends Made Along The Way

Requested by: @damedevon

Request: This is the second request in case you don't want to do the first one :)  NCIS universe: Reader, genius level IQ that is a talented artist (painting, sculpting, all the things) is brought in to consult on a case. (S)he meets Spencer and they hit it off, talking about cultured literature and time period specific art and history.

Fandoms: NCIS, Criminal Minds

Pairings: Spencer Reid x NCISAgent!Reader, Platonic!BAU Team x NCISAgent!Reader, Platonic!NCIS Team x NCISAgent!Reader, Specifically Platonic!Gibbs x NCISAgent!Reader

Warnings: Extreme descriptions of blood and gore

Author’s Note: This takes place around season 5 for both NCIS and Criminal Minds. Idk if that lines up chronologically, sorry if it doesn’t.

*******

    “We got a case,” informed Gibbs as he headed to his desk for his gun and badge.

    Yourself and the rest of your team moved to gather your individual things and meet in the elevator.

    Gibbs gave more details about the case. “A former marine was found dead outside a Cheesy Cheese.”

    Timothy McGee asked, awkwardly, “Uh, Boss? Don’t you mean Chuck E. Cheese?”

    “Does it look like I know the difference, McGee?” Gibbs returned.

    The younger agent was clearly uncomfortable. “No, Boss. It’s just...I didn’t--”

    Ziva’s voice was as sly as ever. “It’s best to stop now, McGee.”

    As you headed out of the bull-pen, you opened your mouth to say something.

    DiNozzo cut you off instead. “L/n, I swear to God, if you make one more Shakespeare reference today, Ziva’s driving to the crime scene.”

    “Tony,” you rolled your eyes, “How could I possibly make a reference to the Bard from this?”

    All DiNozzo had to do was give you a look.

    “Fine, I’ll shut up,” you sighed, exiting your team’s area.

    Abruptly, Gibbs turned and stopped you. “Not you.”

    “What?” You were shocked.

    Gibbs gruffly explained, “Fornell called. Apparently, a friend of his wants you on his case. It’s ten miles out.”

    Forgetting your usual respect for your superior, you groaned.

    Again, all it took was a look.

    “Yes, sir,” you childishly agreed.

***

    “Excuse me, Agent Aaron Hotchner?” I’m Agent Y/n L/n, from NCIS.” You stuck your hand out when the man confirmed his name.

    He took your offer, and shook your hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.” The senior FBI agent spent the following few minutes explaining the details of the case to you.

    So far, three murders had been committed. The odd thing about the murders was that the killer was recreating paintings by an artist from the 1800s by posing the victims how the muses were posed in certain paintings. You had read about the strange murders in the paper.

    “Gustave Courbet,” you named the original artist. “I realized that after the first murder. I didn’t think it was going to take you guys this long to figure it out.”

    Hotchner knew not to take your words personally. “That’s why we called you in. We need an expert on Courbet on this case.” He noticed an agent from his team walking up to where the two of you were in the living room of the apartment/crime scene. “This is Dr. Reid. He’s the one on our team who recognized the pattern in the first place.”

    The younger man greeted you by giving you his first name. “Spencer.” He then admitted, “I don't shake hands.”

    “Oh, okay. Call me Y/n,” you politely offered.

    Another agent was making his way to the three of you. Two female agents and an older male agent were trailing behind him.

    The darker-skinned agent smiled. “We’re very proud of our Dr. Reid, here. Kid has an IQ of 187.”

    “You’ve got me beat, then,” you admitted, turning back to Dr. Reid. “My score is 186.”

    Everyone seemed pretty blown away by that. You could tell it was rare that the team came across anyone that was as smart as their resident genius.

    You never liked the term ‘genius,’ especially when it was used on you. On the contrary, you mostly kept your skills under the radar. Except for a few literary references here and there, you rarely talked about your smarts. Actually, you never really got the chance to.

    The rest of the agents on the team introduced themselves, and Hotch explained, “We’re the BAU at the FBI. It stands for--”

    “Behavioral Analysis Unit. I know. But here’s an acronym you guys probably don’t know-NCIS. It’s where I work.”

    Hotch obviously knew what it meant. He was the one who called you in. You got a marine vibe from Rossi, so he probably knew, too. They weren’t the kind of men to just blurt out the answer, however. The rest of the team seemed to be having trouble with the acronym.

    Spencer was different. “Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” he said almost immediately.

    “Good! It’s rare someone just knows that. I’m assuming you don’t have any prior connections...Maybe you do know what you’re talking about.”

    You noticed a prolonged look Agent Morgan gave Spencer. Spencer furrowed his eyebrows, and moved his gaze elsewhere. You didn’t understand the exchange.

    Hotchner began, “Okay,. Now that introductions are out of the way, we were hoping you could take a look at this crime scene.”

    Two minutes later, you were two inches away from a body. The poor woman was a hunched over in a chair. She was a brunette, and looked to weigh about 200 pounds. Like the other victims, she was dressed in middle class mid-1800s clothing. The chair she was in was next to a spindle. She had some raw wool wrapped around a distaff sitting on her lap. You swallowed hard when the thought crossed your mind that it almost seemed like she was sleeping.

    Agent Jareau (she preferred the nickname JJ) informed you, “She was found early this morning by a mother and daughter returning from a trip. This apartment is theirs. They don’t own a spinning wheel.”

    Rossi continued, “We got a positive I.D., her name is Suzanne Welling. No relation to the family that live here.”

    “I hope the daughter is young. There’s more of a chance of her forgetting this tragedy when she gets older,” you quickly added that last part when you realized how harsh you sounded. You never broke your studying of the remains.

    JJ confirmed, “The girl’s 4 years old.” It was a tone you could tell clearly was a mother’s. You wondered how many kids she had. You also hoped your words weren’t too harsh.

    “The painting this is based on is The Sleeping Spinner, painted in 1853. It looks like he’s going in chronological order.” You dragged your index finger over your bottom lip. It was a thinking habit you had.

    Emily Prentiss, the other female agent on the team, inquired, “Why do you think he’s male?”

    “The first painting--er...murder.” You straightened up onto your feet. “The Wounded Man, originally painted in 1844. It’s a self-portrait. A lot of Courbet’s early works were. The killer sees himself as Courbet. The first muse--victim probably looks like the murderer.”

    A new voice entered the room. “Unsub.” It was Spencer. “Unknown suspect. We call our suspects unsubs. You can, too...if you want to.”

    “...Unsub.” You smiled slightly while you tested out the name for Spencer.

    He expressed the same sentiment to you.

    The rest of the day was spent working the case. It was explained to you that the team would usually split up with some of them heading to the local police department when first arriving for an assignment. It was just how things worked out in that particular instance that the whole team went straight to the crime scene.

    Soon enough, you found out Spencer was the agent who spent most of his time in the local police stations. You were the agent who spent most of your time with Spencer.

    “What’re you up to, Agent Reid?” you asked with a somewhat playful tone.

    He had been pinning a map to the board you and the BAU team had borrowed for the case. He started marking it up. “I’m making a geological profile of the area. We usually see if the locations of the crime scenes give us any clues to where the unsub is living or where he might kill next.”

    “At NCIS, we do the same thing to see if we can find out where the killer lives--”

    Spencer distractedly corrected you, “Unsub.”

    “Unsub. But we don’t really have cases where we have to predict where the unsub may strike next.”

    The young FBI agent reasoned, “It’s crazy, but you get used to it. Soon, it’s just another part of life.”

    “I don’t think I would want to get used to this kind of stuff.” You couldn’t help your mind from drifting to the deceivingly peaceful form you had observed earlier that day.

    For a moment, Spencer stopped his efficient actions. He was thinking. “... ‘Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me. The Carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.’ Emily Dickinson.”

    “She looked at death like it was such a peaceful thing. Like it was a new beginning.” Your tone was more bittersweet than you had ever heard it sound.

    He turned toward you. Spencer headed for a seat next to yours at the conference room table. “Maybe that’s what it is: just another part of life.”

   “We investigate death everyday...but we never talk about what comes after.”

    The young man smirked slightly, “They obsessed over it enough in the 1800s. Is there even a need to think too much about it anymore?”

    Surprisingly, that got you to laugh. You and Spencer Reid sat there in the conference room, laughing about your elders’ morbid curiosities.

***

    “Happy Monday,” you greeted as you descended the stairs into the basement.

    Gibbs looked up from his fifth boat-in-progress. “Happy Monday, L/n.”

    Similar to everyone else on the team, Gibbs had a unique relationship with you. You hadn’t known Gibbs as long as he’d known Ducky, but the two of you were very close. However, you didn’t think you’d ever be as important to him as Abby.

    Anyway, you and Gibbs had a standing arrangement for dinner every Monday night. It was never anything fancy, nothing with Gibbs ever was. Dinner with the senior agent usually consisted of two orders of Chinese food in his basement.

    “Making slow progress with this one, aren’t you?” you questioned, referring to Gibbs’ latest woodwork.

    He responded, “Doesn’t matter how long it takes, as long as it’s done right.”

    “Yes, sir,” you chuckled. You pulled out the meals while Gibbs set up a makeshift table and chairs.

    About ten minutes later, your boss interrupted what you though was your usual, comfortable silence. “You seem preoccupied.”

    “I am,” you admitted, “It’s the FBI case.”

    He looked you over, then went back to eating. Then, Gibbs easily stated, “It’s not just that.”

    You stared at him hard, trying to come up with something else to say besides the truth. You sighed and repeated him, “It’s not just that, but this isn’t your area of expertise.”

    Once more, all it took was a look.

    “It’s a guy, Gibbs. A cute, kind, and smart guy.” You met his gaze because you expected that that would be enough for him to back off.

    Jarringly (for you, anyway), Gibbs didn’t give up. He continued to stare is Gibbs stare right into your soul.

    “Agent Spencer Reid,” you gave in, revealing the boy’s name. “Has a higher IQ than me...Eh, he has 187. I have--”

    He gave your score for you, “186.”

    “So, it doesn’t really count.”

    Gibbs chuckled, then agreed, “No, it doesn’t.”

    After about an hour, dinner was done. You headed home, but not before mulling over the fact that you had just talked romance with Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Maybe you were closer with him than you had previously thought.

***

    The next morning, you were woken up at 5 A.M. with a phone call from Hotch. At first, you were concerned as to why you weren't notified earlier. You launched out of bed and began to quickly get dressed. Hotch grew hesitant. He didn't seem to want you to go to the crime scene. You didn’t know why. You insisted that you were a federal agent just as he was, and that you had every right to be at any crime scene that had to do with a case you were legally working.

    On your way to where the BAU was, you continued to think about the team. They apparently took you in as one of their own after just one day of working with you. It reminded you of your connections with your almost-family at NCIS. You didn’t mind it, and you were actually warming up to the idea. The only thing you had a problem with was when it interfered with your job. Hotch did that when he tried to keep you from a crime scene. You knew he was trying to protect you, but you were wondering from what.

    The newest crime scene was an abandoned warehouse. Spencer was standing outside, on the phone with someone as you pulled up. When you got out of your car, he handed the phone to Agent Morgan.

    Morgan smiled to himself as he walked away. “Baby, how you always bring such beautiful light in this world is beyond me...Love you, sweetheart.”

    “Who was that on the phone?” you inquired.

    Spencer answered, “Penelope Garcia...Our technical analyst.”

    “Co-workers are allowed to date each other on your side?”

    That last question made him smile. “Nope. And they’re not dating.”

    “...Huh.”

    “Huh indeed.”

    Sighing, you then cracked your neck. “Alright. In we go.” You brushed around Spencer and headed toward the entrance of the warehouse.

    You were surprised when Spencer took hold of your shoulders and stepped back in front of you.

    He seemed as concerned as Hotchner, if not more. “Listen, Y/n. Remember that conversation we had yesterday? You said that you didn’t think you ever wanted to get used to the death that we see. Y/n, there’s a lot of death in there.”

    “No one in this hemisphere can tell you what the unsub is aiming for in there besides me. If we catch this guy, it’ll save everyone from more death than what could be in there.”

    Still, Spencer didn’t let you go.

    “...Please, Spencer.”

    The boy gave you a look that reminded you of a puppy. He stepped aside.

    A few steps later, you were inside. Turns out, a few steps were all you could take. Fifteen people. Three of them were children. It was a long time before you were able to breathe again.

    When you did take a breath, JJ and Emily were at your side. Not that you were complaining. You would need someone to steady you if your knees buckled.

    Hotch came up to the three of you. “This is why I didn’t want you coming here, L/n.”

    “...I’ve never seen a massacre like this...” You still weren’t sure you could remain on your feet.

    Rossi approached. “Do you need to leave for a second?”

    “The Preparation of a Dead Girl...and/or Wife...all the public knows is that it was released sometime in the 1850s,” you slowly breathed out the words after you swallowed. With your knees shaking, you made your way closer to the scene. “He put rods in them to pose them correctly compared to the painting...They were still alive when he put the rods in place.”

    It was hard for you to understand how, but you made it through the rest of the day. Everyone in the BAU could obviously tell you continued to be affected by the most recent crime scene, and you hated that they were all walking on eggshells around you. The bottom line was that you didn’t let it affect your job, and you didn’t see why everyone was treating you differently. Okay, maybe you did see why. It was the same reason why Gibbs let Abby ramble on about the little things sometimes. Family. You were already part of the BAU’s family.

***

    Later that night, you were back home. Your apartment was small, but you didn’t mind. You still found a way to fit all the books and art supplies you wanted in your home.

    There was a knock at your door.

    “Hiya, Spencer,” you softly greeted. You left your door open for him to enter through. You returned to your seat at your pottery wheel. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep working on this while you’re here. It centers me.” You got quieter. “...It calms me down.”

    For a moment, Spencer was silent. “How long have you been in the field?” His question was gentle, unaccusing.

    “Do people get annoyed when you profile them in social situations, Dr. Reid?” Your tone didn’t hold any malice, either.

    He smirked, “All the time.”

    It was your turn to be silent as you resolved to answer Spencer’s question. “Gibbs and I first met when he and his team were working a case at the University I taught at. He came to see me for some time after that. Most of the time it was to use my intellect on other cases he was working...I’m quite proud to say I was one of the few friends he had outside of the agency. Well, until I joined the agency.” You paused as you chuckled. “He recruited me back in ‘03, and I’ve been with the team ever since.”

    Spencer waited. He could tell you weren’t finished.

    “Only...,” you sighed, accepting that you couldn’t hide the following fact from him. “I’ve only been allowed at crime scenes for about a year or so. Gibbs is fiercely protective of me, and it took me years to get him to let me into the field...Man, I hope he doesn’t find out I acted today. He would never let me see a dead body again...not even in Ducky’s autopsy.” You said that last part more to yourself.

    He smiled at you from his chair. “I think you acted perfectly fine today, Y/n.”

    “Betcha Agent Rossi didn’t think so,” you chuckled, “He was read to dodge my vomit when I showed up today.” You stopped talking for a moment when your mind jumped back to the bloody warehouse. “...Your team doesn’t think I’m fit to be in the field.”

    Spencer almost matter-of-factly stated, “They don’t think that.”

    “Well, what do they think?” The vase you had been working on was thrown off balance on the pottery wheel. You set to work fixing it.

    The male agent never moved his eyes from you. “They care about you, Y/n...I do, too.”

    You were thankful you had your craft to focus on, it helped you hide your smile. “I know that, Spencer...I know that.”

    Spencer stayed for the next few hours. Nothing physical happened. You eventually put away your pottery and broke out some wine. The two of you spent the night talking about arts, literature, and maybe other things that the two of you needed to discuss.

***

    The following day, you made it to the local police station by 7 A.M. You first stop was the conference room where Spencer was already studying the map as closely as the last time the two of you had been in that room.

    “Did you even sleep last night?” You inquired as you set your things down in one of the chairs.

    As expected, Spencer barely glanced in your direction as you found a seat for yourself. He was already too immersed in his work. “I actually kind of slept in today...I have you and Walt Whitman to thank for that.” Surprising you, Spencer glanced over his shoulder and caught your gaze.

    His inside joke got you to throw your head back in laughter. “Alright, Spencer. Here’s what I want you to do.” You hurled yourself out of your chair, and moved to stand next to the young agent. “I want you to explain this map to me. You don’t even have a key for it.”

    Spencer shrugged, “It’s easy enough. These are parks, these are obviously areas of water, and this right here is a Chuck E. Cheese, so these marks mean places entertainment--”

    “What?”

    He pointed to a part of the map that was less than five blocks away from the second crime scene. “This mark right here is a Chuck E. Cheese. Which means--”

    “No Spencer, you don’t understand. NCIS had a body at a Chuck E. Cheese. There can’t be too many of these in this area. This is very close to the second crime scene, but not close enough that it would make sense for the unsub to still be on foot. What if the unsub was walking home and the former marine saw the weapon? The unsub has used the same gun in every killing. He would have to take it home with him. The unsub could live in this area!” You drew a circle with your finger of a quarter mile radius around the second crime scene.

    Spencer didn’t agree. “I don’t know, Y/n. All of this seems highly circumstantial. Couldn’t this all be a coincidence?”

    “There are no such thing as coincidences,” you shook your head.

    It was enough to get Gibbs and the rest of the team to work with the BAU on the case. Within the hour, most of your NCIS family were present in the local police department.

    Hotch greeted Gibbs with a handshake. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Gibbs. I wish it could be under better circumstances.”

    Gibbs nodded, “The feeling is mutual, Agent Hotchner.”

    “Your Agent Y/n has proven to be very impressive.”

    There was a blink-and-you-miss-it twitch of the lips for Gibbs. For half of a moment, he smiled. “That’s why I recruited them.”

    Meanwhile, you were still in the conference room with Spencer. Tony, Ziva, and McGee had joined the two of you. You were explaining the details of he case to your three coworkers.

    As usual, Tony got off topic as soon as he could. “So, Agent Reid” Tony was nose to nose with the uncomfortable FBI agent, “you’re just a hybrid of McGeek and L/n, aren’t you?” He sniffed the air. “I think I smell a bit of Palmer on you as well.”

    Spencer looked anywhere but Tony. “I don’t know who Palmer is.”

    “He’s our medical examiner’s assistant, Spencer,” you clarified, “Tony, what the hell are you doing?”

    Ziva tried to help you out. “Leave the poor kid alone.”

    Suddenly, Gibbs entered the room with Hotch. The rest of the BAU were behind them. Before Tony noticed their presence, Gibbs was already behind the movie expert. Tony received a slap to the back of the head.

    Gibbs leveled voice suggested, “Yeah, Tony. Leave Agent Reid alone.”

    Tony grimaced, “Yes, sir.” As he moved to the conference room table, Tony passed by you. He whispered in your ear in his usual, quick way, “You’ll be the dominate one in the relationship.”

    Naturally, you were mortified by his words. How had he figured out so quickly what was going on between you and Spencer? Was it really that obvious? Was it distracting from the case? You hoped it wasn’t. You glanced around. No one seemed to notice Tony’s exchange with you. Except for maybe Gibbs, whom you could’ve almost sworn that he’d shot a knowing smirk in your direction.

    Hotch directed, “Agent L/n, could you tell everyone what you’ve put together?”

    "NCIS’s victim was murdered less that five blocks away from the BAU’s second crime scene. Eleven of the fifteen victims in the fourth crime scene were taken from the same quarter mile radius.”

    Emily Prentiss added, “All of our earlier victims were from all over the state. Do you think our unsub is devolving in that he can’t wait long enough to go too far to find his victims anymore?”

    “Yes,” you agreed, “It would also explain how Colonel Wilfred, the victim from NCIS connects to the other murders without reflecting any of Courbet’s paintings.”

    JJ, suddenly got a notification on her phone. “There’s been two more reports of missing individuals in the same area. Both were white women in their twenties...about 220 ponds...they look like our second and third victims.” She looked worriedly from her phone to you.

    “The Hammock and The Sleeping Spinner...,” you whispered the second and third crimes to yourself in order. “...He could be going after Young Ladies on the Banks of Seine. It makes sense with his running chronological theme. The reason why they look so alike with the previous victims is because it was rumored Courbet used his sisters for a lot of his portraits. Out unsub might be trying to replicate the likeness in Gustave’s muses.”

    Hotch directed, “Alright. We may have some time to save these two women. Spencer, stick with the geographical profiling. Rossi, Prentiss, canvass Jones Avenue through Tenth Boulevard. JJ, Morgan, take Damien Road through Johnson Street. I’ll stay here and run point.”

    Gibbs instructed his own team, “Y/n, stay here and work with Reid. McGee, Tony: Dischem through Clark. Ziva, you and I will take Harren to Williams.”

    With the whole police department, along with most of Gibbs and Hotch’s team canvassing, it was likely the unsub’s house would be found within the following few hours.

    Meanwhile, you and Spencer were back in the nearly empty police station. The two of you were in separate conference room chairs, and you both were staring at that map. It had delivered an extremely helpful break in the case, but it seemed to have done all it could. Hotch was in another room with the police captain, so you and Spencer were left to your own devices.

    That was, until a secretary came running into the conference room. “Help! We need help!”

    Both you and Spencer launched out of your respective seats.

    “What’s wrong?” Spencer asked, alarmed.

    The secretary elaborated, “A girl called the tip line. She sounds terrified. She claims to be Samantha Hawford, one of--”

    “the missing women,” both you and Spencer finished with the secretary.

    “Connect us, please,” you requested as calmly as you could.

    She silently nodded, and quickly left the room.

    Seconds later, a line lit up on the phone in the conference room. It turned out to actually be Samantha. She was hysterical, but you eventually got her to calm down enough to communicate.

    Earlier, she had stolen the unsub’s phone, and she was waiting for a safe time to call the tip line she had seen a lot on T.V.

    While you encouraged Samantha to keep talking, Spencer called Garcia. She traced the phone call for the two of you.

    A minute later, you knew where Samantha was. You were on your way out with Spencer when Hotch gave you his blessing to go. It was obvious neither you nor Spencer were going to wait for Hotchner’s agreement.

    You and Spencer were able to get to Samantha's location in fifteen minutes. Which was good because five minutes into your journey, the unsub found Samantha and hung up the phone. You prayed the unsub kept her alive long enough for you and Spencer to get there.

    When the two of you did arrive, the unsub was about to stab the other girl with the first metal rod when you and Spencer found them. He had both the girls tied up as he prepared to stab them with the metal rods and shoot them in the heart.

    At first, Spencer tried to talk him down. It was obvious that it was going no where.

    “I can make sure the world knows of your works of art,” you suddenly lied, surprising yourself. “People took pictures of your crime--masterpieces. They could be hung anywhere and everywhere. You could become even more famous than Corbet. But let me tell you: if you hurt these two girls, no one will ever know who you are. Not your name, and not your face.”

    Chillingly, there was hope in the killer’s eyes. As you’d guessed, he looked a lot like Gustave Courbet himself. You could see why he wanted to use Courbet’s image to make himself famous.

    Eventually, you got the killer to turn over his weapons, and turn himself in. You cuffed him yourself. By then, your team, the local police, and the BAU had arrived. You turned the killer over to the local P.D. The two girls were crying as they thanked you profusely for saving them. You tried to push their attention away from you. It didn’t work too well.

    Once all the chaos was over, you were back at the police station, gathering your things.

    Hotch addressed you, making you turn around. “Agent L/n.”

    “Uh...Yes, sir?”

    His whole team was with him. “We would like to thank you for your work on this case.”

    Morgan complimented, “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

    “Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” you reasoned, “I mean, you guys have Spencer. He probably would've figured things out just as fast as me.. Well, almost as fast  as me.”

    Spencer smiled in a way that was contagious. “Don’t try to brush this off, Y/n. You know how important you are.”

    Hotch continued, “That’s actually what we wanted to talk to you about. You’ve shown promising capabilities as a profiler, and we want you to know that there’s a place for you on our team.”

    “Wait. On your guys’ team? In the FBI?” You were nearly in shock. “I...I don’t know what to say.”

    JJ offered, “Well, we would really like it if you agreed.”

    “...I can’t. I’m sorry guys, but NCIS is my home. They’re my family there. I mean, honestly, in these past few days, you guys have kind become my family to, but I don’t think I could leave NCIS. At least not right now.”

    For the first time, you saw Aaron Hotchner truly smile. “It’s alright. The job’s here for you whenever you want it.”

    “Thank you.” You were sincerely grateful.

    Thee rest of the team left, but Spencer hung back.

    “You know,” you sweetly took his hand in yours, ”my not joining has nothing to do with you.”

    He squeezed your hand in his. “I know, but it would’ve been nice to see you more often.”

    “I guess we’re going to have to make it work as is,” you smirked.

    Keeping his gaze on your intertwined hands, Spencer chuckled. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

    Slowly, you leaned in to kiss the boy.

    At first, Spencer kept his hand in yours. Then, he moved both arms around you, pulling you in close.

    Your hands were o his chest, but you soon snaked them around his neck to get lost in his hair.

    Okay, so you were beginning to regret your choice not to join the BAU just a little bit.

***

    Before you went home that night, you went back to NCIS. Spencer had to go back to Quantico to get some paperwork done, so you couldn’t spend the night with him. You decided to go back to NCIS to do the same thing.

    “Y/n! Y/n, Y/n, Y/n!” Right outside the elevator doors, a certain adorable forensic scientist was waiting for you.

    Practically catching the incoming woman, you tried to keep her steady on her feet. “Hi, Abby! How’ve you been?”

    She was almost vibrating with excitement. “I’m completely fine. It’s you I wanna know about! How were Fornell’s friends at the FBI? Were they mean? They treated you nicely, right?” Abby continued on with the onslaught of questions until you got to your desk.

    When you sat down, you looked up to Abby as you searched your mind for a way to tell her you needed quiet right then.

    Gibbs beat you to it. He had been sitting at his desk. You only noticed him when he gathered his few things to leave. He stopped by your desk and explained, “Abby, it’s late and they’re tired. Leave them alone.”

    With a quick, slightly intimidated glance to Gibbs and a “Sorry, Y/n,” and wave to you, Abby was gone.

    However, Gibbs stayed behind a bit longer to knowingly ask, “So, you didn’t take the job, huh?”

    “No,” you tiredly smiled, “I’m staying right here, boss.”

    It was then that Gibbs did something that he very rarely did. He returned a smile. “Good,” was his final statement before Gibbs left for the night.

***

    In the end, you made sure the killer’s name was never released to the public. You didn’t want anything to be given to the distributed criminal mind. However, you knew that some name needed to be given to the person behind the painting-based murders. You just expected it to have something to do with Gustave Courbet himself. You didn’t expect the previously unknown subject to be called The Chuck E. Cheese Killer. The nickname ended a pizza franchise.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it! If you would like to read more, I have more fics over on my page. You should go check it out. Also, REQUESTS ARE OPEN. I take requests for one-shots, multi-chapters, headcannons, and preferences. No smut, please. I write for a variety of fandoms. If you’re wondering if I write for a specific fandom, please ask me. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you.<3

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(Behind the scenes stuff)

Proofreader: @girl-of-many-faces

Crime scene #1 here

Crime scene #2 here

Crime scene #3 here

Crime scene #4 here

What would’ve been crime scene #5 here

#ncis #ncis x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #gibbs x reader #hotch x reader #friends made along the way #companion jones #Matthew Gray Gubler #mark harmon

[tchaikovsky-at-midnight]

part II: livin’ out your dreams

welcome back to my modern!au & coffe shop!au /barlyle/

as always unbeta’ed, I’m not a native speaker

enjoy it and if you have ideas/wishes/ for how to continue/critique/compliments - please tell me!

title from “Livin’ Out Your Dreams” by Jimmy Cicero

_____________________________________________________

part I

It was not a great week.

Philip caught a cold two days ago. Today it is Friday and he should stay in bed. Of course, he doesn’t. First of all, he needs the money, the coffee shop provides. Secondly, he is not a fan of lying around and being unable to do anything. After his first two sneezes he got practically banned from theatre. Now he is on his way to the coffee shop. He persuaded Charles to let him work, as he felt so much better than before. He really didn’t.

Once in the shop, he feels relieved. The cosy room makes him feel at ease. He is greeted by Lettie, who twists her entire face in one of concern and disappointment.

“Why aren’t you wrapped up in a blanket, with a ginger tea and some nice tv show on?”

“Because I need to be occupied. My mind drives me crazy when I’m sentenced to ‘rest’.”

“Well, stay away from me with your germs.”, Lettie banters.

Philip snorts. And promptly has to pull out a tissue. Being sick is truly awful. He is relieved when Lettie goes to fix some armchairs into their right order. He does not need to be interrogated more. It is true; he can’t stand to not do anything. There might also be another reason to him coming back early. This has obviously nothing to do with a certain costumer.

He snatches his apron from the small wardrobe and puts another script beneath the counter. Before he was kicked out of the theatre until he was healthy again, he took a copy of the next contemporary play with him. Lettie and he share another short coffee break before his shift starts and talk about Letties last performance at a small club, which often offers unknown artists to take the stage.

Lettie shows him a video W.D. recorded for her. Her talent awes Philip every time and he promises her to come to her next performance. She tells him to ‘better do so’ and then she is out of the shop.

Philip takes a deep, content breath and turns the music a bit louder. He has a good feeling about today, he couldn’t have dealt with another useless day at home. It felt like staying at home made him even more sick and desperate. Not that he was desperate. For what would he be desperate?

The door opens. Ah, for this, Philip thinks. And immediately bites his tongue. These thoughts are not helpful.

He dares to look at the man that approaches with confident strides.

“Philip! I missed you the last two days.”, Phineas states. For a second Philip thinks he might lean over the counter again to greet him with another kiss to his hand.

“Yeah I got sick, so...”, Philip explains suddenly. He wants to hold Phineas’ gaze but these eyes make him all fluttery inside. He forces himself to dim down to a more polite than exited smile. No hand kisses, no over-exitement. He wouldn’t ‘get his hopes up’.

Phineas’ eyebrows shoot up, nearly to his hair line. Anne was possibly right about him being a ‘showman’, he is very expressive. Philip’s smile becomes shyer.

“That’s terrible, do you feel better then? If not, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, it’s fine. But thank you.”, Philip says. He hasn’t expected such a strong reply from the man.

“Now that you mention it, you look a bit pale.”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Well if you say so. Get well soon. And maybe get me a cappuccino too.”, Phineas grins.

Philip sighs exasperated and mockingly bows. It might be his sickness, but he feels more able to chat freely today. He hopes he isn’t impolite while doing so, but Phineas doesn’t seem to be someone who is restrained himself.

“Do you come here so frequently because you are a friend of routine, or are you just really fond of our cappuccino?”, he asks amused.

Phineas takes off his coat, but doesn’t move over to his usual window seat. Instead, he stays at the bar, pulls a stool closer to sit right in front of Philip. He props his elbows up on the counter and rests his face in his hands. This gives him somewhat dreamy vibes, Philip can’t really place. He imagines himself looking a bit like that when he gets nostalgic. Or generally happy.

“Neither. Or both, if you want. I came for the caffeine and stayed for the barista.”, he has the nerve to wink at Philip, like he did when they parted the first day.

“Corny. Cheesy. Absolutely unacceptable. Although I get that Anne is pretty amazing.”

Philip teases. He knows how to joke, after all. He always felt safer playing the funny, flirty guy. It wasn’t usual for him to be on the receiving end. Fair enough, a lot of times when pretty women talk to him he tends to be a little blind, mainly, because he doesn’t care. He adores his co-workers and the people at the theatre, but there is no one who gains his attention for long.

“Oh, I agree. Although I’m more of a guy for the other side.”

“That’s good. I mean. Uh. Whatever floats your boat.”, Philip doesn’t bother to stifle the groan at his absolute stupidity. Silently he puts the cappuccino on the counter. It is again decorated with an ornament, this time it shows a swan.

“To whatever floats my boat.”, Phineas quotes gleefully and toasts his mug to Philip.

“I am almost afraid to drink that, this thing is too precious.”

“No, please. Besides, I can only do the flower and this swan, so you can get them again.”

Philip shrugs and avoids looking at Phineas. The compliments are nice, but if he can’t think fast to water them down with a joke, he is a bit lost.

“Don’t sell yourself short, it takes attentiveness to do small, lovely gestures like that.”

“Thank you.”, Philip answers honestly.

Phineas finally takes a sip and nods satisfied. Right then two new costumers enter the shop. Philip shoots Phineas an apologetic look and shuffles over to his checkout. The two women place their order to take away and Philip takes onto them. After the women paid and left, Philip returns.

“The redhead was flirting with you, sweetheart.”

Philip sends him a questioning glance. Whether it refers to the pet name or the statement itself? Who knows, Philip doesn’t. Thinking about it, the name doesn’t annoy him too much.

“Nah, she wasn’t. Was she?”

“Definitely.”

“Huh, inconvenient for her.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup. But I wasn’t accidently harsh, was I?”, Philip asks. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone because he can be with his heads stuck in the clouds. He looks around the shop and decides, as he puts some cash into the register, he can take one of the blueberry muffins.

“No, you were delightfully nice and polite. Maybe that’s what she liked.”

“Maybe.”, Philip repeats carefully.

“Yes, that or she thought you are ravishing.”

Philip nearly dropped the muffin.

“Sorry, this might not be the right word for you. Do you like captivating better? Or, no. You are more classy that way, aren’t you? Your word is of course gorgeous.”

“Shut up.”, Philip mutters, but he feels an awkward smile on his face regardless.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, forgive me.”

Contrary to his statement, Phineas looks greatly satisfied with what he’s done. Philip once again doesn’t know what to think. This man asks too much all at once from him and his poor, sick mind.

“Yeah, sure. But you know what, that’s okay. I can deal with gamblers.”

“I’m not a gambler. I am an honourable, self-employed gentleman.”, Phineas answers and salutes with an imaginary hat. Somehow it is not hard for Philip to picture this man with some imposing piece like a top-hat. It would match his look. Although Philip could see this fooling around could go on and on, Phineas’ answer makes him curious now.

“What do you do then? If I may ask.”

“Of course you may. I got the best antique store in the city.”, Phineas states prideful.

“That’s actually pretty cool.” And something that fits this strange man, Philip thinks. He imagines him in a crowded shop, filled from bottom to top with old, used, strange and unique things. There’s probably one unbelievable story after another hidden.

“It is. You should come over one day; I bet you’d find some interesting objects.”

“Without a doubt.”, Philip agrees. He tries not to think about meeting the man outside his safe place, which is the coffee shop and what would be different. Probably nothing. Or everything.

“Then that’s a deal. Here, take this.”, Phineas reaches into the breast pocket of his shirt and hands over a filigree worked business card. Philip thumbs over the writing, he can feel the stamped letters. It reads: ‘Barnums Antiques – Fortune always favours the Brave’ followed by an address and a calligraphic signature: P.T. Barnum.

“Okay. I’ll definitely stop by.”, oh you will? Philips speaking is apparently faster than his thinking. Regardless, he plans to go through with this. Even if it wasn’t for Phineas, an antique shop promises to be fascinating.

He takes a bite of his muffin just to be occupied. Phineas sips on his cappuccino, but his eyes linger on Philip, he can feel it. Then the shop doors open once again. Philip hastily swallows the crumbly bite down to greet a costumer. Turns out, it isn’t a costumer at all.

“Hello, mother. What are you doing here?”

Mrs Carlyle steps into the coffee shop. Her heavy perfume spreads over the coffee aromas. The long, whitening hair is neatly pulled into an up-do, closed up like her whole attitude.

“Philip. I wanted to contact you. As you don’t answer your phone, or your door, I saw no other possibility to reach you.”, she states clearly annoyed. It reminds Philip why he doesn’t answer her calls.

“Well, you found me. What do you want?”, Philip repeats himself.

He doesn’t want to talk to his mother. She has never been what he wanted her to be – supportive, loving, understanding. She hates his ‘potential’ going to waste. She hates that he quit college. But a mother isn’t angry, no, she lets him know that. A mother is disappointed.

Before she can answer him, he has to pull out another tissue. Right when he thought he might get a bit healthier, feeling positively entertained through his chat with Phineas, his sickness hits him.

“I want you to get your head out of the clouds and bring honour to the family.”

She states with a demanding tone, that leaves Philip stunned. Disbelieving, he shakes his head. Then a sound erupts, which he first thought came from himself. Turns out, it was a thoroughly ridiculed Phineas, who swings the tea spoon around exaggerated, that came with his drink.

“Which century do you think we are in, madam?”, he asks with a challenging smirk.

Mrs Carlyle does not find that amusing. She clicks her tongue derogatory and doesn’t spare the provocative man another glance.

“It’s fine, Phineas.”, Philip soothes. It’s the first time he uses the man’s name.

“Mom, please, we’ve been over this.”, he tries to argue, “I like my jobs and where it might take me. This job gives me safety and working at the theatre is fun. You know fun, right?”

Phineas chuckles at that and gets a sharp stare from both Carlyle’s. Mrs Carlyle clears her throat and presses her lips together. She steps closer to Philip, before she swiftly turns around. At the door she stops again and gives her son a stern look.

“Fine, but you don’t have to come home again. You could have been successful, make money and be a leader. Not spend your time with...these people.”, she leaves.

Philip sighs drawn out and leans against the bar. He doesn’t know why his mother pops up every now and then to remind him, what he could be – should be.

“You know, it’s not fine.”

He looks up to see Phineas already glancing back. His amused, defiant attitude has vanished. Another sigh leaves Philips lips and he shrugs. He places the half eaten muffin next to his stuff under the counter, he lost his appetite.

“It’s not worth the fight. I know she’s disappointed, I am not the striking manager, lawyer, or whatever is ‘appropriate’ for the family.”

“You come from some noble, old family then?”

“Kind of. My father is somewhat important in finances, but who cares? I don’t and for them, that’s the problem.”, Philip explains shortly.

“Yeah, yeah. Traditions and honour, I get it. Poor little black sheep you are.”, Phineas answers. He is back smiling, but Philip sees the sympathy.

“Rebel of the family, woohoo.”,  Philip agrees wryly.

Phineas laughs at that and lifts his nearly empty mug to toast to him.

“That’s good. You do like you do, Philip. If they are narrow-minded it’s their own loss.”

Philip likes that conclusion. He smiles and shrugs once again, this time a bit more at ease.

“Thanks. And I’m sorry she kinda insulted you.”, Philip excuses her inappropriate behaviour.

“Don’t worry. Happens to me more often than it doesn’t.”, Phineas reassures him.

Although this doesn’t reassure Philip at all. Questioning he looks at the older man. Sure, Philip saw he wasn’t your inconspicuous average guy you pass on the streets. And he might be pretty bold, but Philip can’t believe being different was still such an issue.

“Uh, sorry for that. You don’t look like someone who get’s pushed around.”

“Well, I’m not 15 anymore, I don’t get pushed around. But you know, people judge. They love to do so and why the hell not, as long as I can live peacefully.”

Philip smirks and tips his head to the side, plainly looking the man up and down. Checking out-no.

“You also don’t look like someone who fancies a ‘quiet, peaceful’ life.”

“Oh, I don’t? What do I look like in your opinion?”

Think fast. Philip bites his lip, unsure, whether to share his first thought. ‘Whatever’, he decides when he leans over the bar, closer to the man who gazes intensely at him with that infectious smile.

“Adventure. Fun. Like nothing is impossible.”

If it was even possible, Phineas’ smile got more shiny and appealing. Appealing? Rather: charming. Wait, what.

“Why thank you, Philip. And may I add, you look, like you could use some fun.”

“Excuse you?”, Philip grins.

“I think you heard me just fine. Drop by.”, he suggests and points at the business card still resting on the counter between them.

“Keep the change. And that attitude, it suits you, sweetheart.”, Phineas lays down another $10 note.

“You need to stop doing that.”, Philip smiles, but puts the money aside.

“Which of it?”, Phineas asks with a sly grin and grabs his coat and walking stick.

“Just get out.”, Philip laughs. Phineas complies with a wink and leaves the door backwards, keeping his eyes fixed on Philip.

When he is out of sight – after a last ridiculous waving through the window, which Philip reciprocates with a heartfelt laugh – Philip closes his eyes.

“Oh god.”, he states and shakes his head at himself. He starts to admit he might be totally falling for this dorky man. There goes his ‘not getting his hopes up’.

#the greatest showman #greatest showman #barlyle #fanfiction #modern au #coffee shop au #pt barnum #philip carlyle

[rilenerocks]

I wonder if all people are born equipped for life’s passions. And if they are, is the capacity for them the same for everyone? Does everyone start out with a genetically determined amount or is there an infinite level that is sometimes achieved and sometimes not, depending on what happens to each of us? I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about this. Some people seem like they’re boiling over with passion and others act so subdued that it’s hard to know if they’ve every experienced a single moment of that powerful sensation.

I think passion has lots of different connotations, both positive and negative. Some passions are conscious and others lurk below our mind’s surface. They can be enriching and growth-inducing or deleterious and damaging to our health. Passion can be enthusiasm and avid devotion. It can be overwhelming in both rage and love. It can be intense sexual attraction. It can be vehemence and anger. Probably it’s combinations of a wide range of feelings and this can be very confusing. I know that I’ve felt all types of passions ever since I was a little kid.

When I was about five, I got a chameleon. I loved it so much I squeezed it to death. What a horror. I was way too young to understand the implications of the potential for destruction associated with a positive feeling. But I learned more and more about that as I grew up. My parents told me I was born loving everyone and everything and that people loved me back. My mom said she was afraid someone might steal me, most particularly my dad’s sister, someone she detested. My older brother told me he first remembered being truly happy when I came along. Sad for him but good for me. I did love so many things with a passion. I loved my parents. I loved warm milk. I loved animals. I loved fudgsicles and chocolate popsicles. I loved playing outside. I loved school and school supplies, especially crayons, erasers and glue. So I guess I started out with my fair share of passions.

  As I got older, I extended all that passionate love to people. I loved my friends. I started to love boys. I loved sports and movies. I loved justice. So much passion. It wasn’t long before I started getting knocked around by reality. Reality was that just because I loved what I loved didn’t mean that I was going to reap big returns on my passionate investments. I loved school but after 9th grade, it mostly bored me to death and as I went off on my own to learn, my grades tanked. I had just enough natural talent to take me into college but nothing about that structure worked any better for me at that level.

  Then I realized that the just world I dreamed of may as well have been in a galaxy far, far away. The disappointment from that discovery ignited my negative passions which are still going strong today. Always something to be furious about and to fight against. Fuel for my engine.

  I loved participating in sports but that brought me negative attention. I wanted to be an attractive girl but my youthful participation brought me the nickname “moose” which had a profoundly negative effect on the joy I found as an athlete. In my junior year of high school I cut 60 PE classes and as a senior, had to make them all up, two for one, in order to graduate. On swimming days, I was soaking wet on and off for hours. But I still loved sports although I became more of an observer rather than a participant. I still have my swimming but at one point I dreamed of smashing home runs and spiking volleyballs for a long time. I made it back to volleyball as an adult, playing while pregnant. Maybe that vibe is why my daughter turned out to be an exceptional athlete in a time that was somewhat kinder to women than the days of my youth. Although not yet kind enough.  But let me stay on track here.

I was a passionate friend and potentially a passionate girlfriend when I was a kid. I fell in love easily. And I stayed there. There’s another component to my particular brand of passion – loyalty. My husband and my kids always told me I was the most loyal person they ever knew. That’s probably a fair assessment. Once committed to someone, at least in my own mind, if not in actual practice with the person I’ve sekected, I stayed put. I’m hard to get rid of once I’ve made my choices. Despite the fire that burns in me so frequently, I’m not the type to flame out. My burn is slow and long-lasting. A lot of disappointment and pain have to happen before I walk away from someone. I guess it’s fair to say that I have personal standards of how people should treat one another, my rules, for sure. But I’ll bend and accommodate for a long time before I give up on a person. Over the years, I’ve developed what I call my permanent list. I have occupants on that list who said or did something egregious enough so that I know I’ll never forget it, at least as long as my brain is functioning. But for the most part, that list is of those individuals who are beyond my forgiveness. I know that’s not a very politically correct attitude in current culture. Forgiveness is a real thing advocated around me. Being unforgiving is supposed to be bad for you, toxic and unhealthy.

Your Greatest Strength

1

Social intelligenceBeing aware of the motives/feelings of others and oneself; knowing what to do to fit into different social situations; knowing what makes other people tick.VIRTUE CATEGORY: HUMANITY

24

Forgiveness Forgiving those who have done wrong; accepting others’ shortcomings; giving people a second chance; not being vengeful.VIRTUE CATEGORY: TEMPERANCE

I took a personality trait test from a Yale-sponsored class a few months ago. You answer all these questions and a list of your character traits ranked from best to worst is generated. My best trait was emotional intelligence, followed by loyalty and my worst was the inability to forgive. Sounded right.  And it works for me. Michael was always trying to get me to let things go and be more forgiving. He said my hot rage and grudge holding was going to damage me physically. Well, look who’s still here and who isn’t? I’m living on the terms that suit me.

I guess I got the most bashed around emotionally by my first serious college boyfriend. I thought I was going to marry him. The truth is, I thought I was going to marry everyone I ever loved, going all the way back to when I was five years old. But this was the first genuinely reciprocated love I’d felt as a grownup and despite warning flags about not being ready and immaturity, I was convinced that if I fought hard enough, I could make this happen, even with evidence to the contrary popping up regularly and painfully. We were together on and off for three years. One morning after feeling that we’d had the best night of our life, I woke up to him telling me that we needed to break up and that things just couldn’t work. I was astonished, hurt and enraged. As he made his way out of my apartment, I followed him into the street, screaming at the top of my lungs that he would never find anyone who loved him the way I did and that he’d regret this decision for the rest of his life. My roommate and another friend dragged me back into the house as his metallic blue Chevy Hornet pulled away.

The fact is, he did figure that out later but by that time, I’d mostly recovered and was with Michael with whom I spent the rest of his life. Sadly, not the rest of our lives. Michael helped me rebuild myself and to believe that I could trust someone and reestablish my belief that a lifelong positive passion was possible. I’d already figured out that I could hang on to my negative passions about feminism, politics, economic justice, the health of the planet and the like. But I wasn’t sure about people. One of the places I put my positive passions was to sports, both teams and individuals. I could afford to invest myself in those without personal disappointments that had left me flattened and despairing. I picked my loyalties and stayed with them. I had favorite teams and players. I watched everything, football, basketball, hockey, swimming and became an Olympics junkie. As time went on I added tennis and soccer. I still remember the uniform numbers of those individuals who for whatever reason, won my heart. Jean Beliveau, #4 – Montreal Canadiens. Doug Mohns, #11 – Chicago Blackhawks. Doug Buffone, #55 – Chicago Bears. Fred Biletnikoff, #25 – Oakland Raiders. I could go on and on. A lot of my friends were surprised that I was so into sports, as many of them, particularly the contact ones dominated by males, seemed in direct conflict with my feminist politics. But I didn’t care what it seemed like. My personal passionate commitments had  cost me a significant amount of emotional angst. I think I was born with a fairly deep reservoir for giving but I’d come to realize that when I put myself out there, I’d best be prepared to be doing it because I needed to for me and not because of what I expected in return. I’d had a lot of disappointment from family, friends and lovers. With sports, the worst that could happen was that your favorites could lose. The pain threshold for those things was tolerable for me, easier than all the personal disappointments. At least, it always had been for many years. When the silent switch happened, I really wasn’t aware of it at all. I’ve only just figured out that my lines had gotten blurred below the surface of my consciousness because of what life dealt out to me. I was too busy in the living of it to recognize that I’d set myself up for a whole new undoing.

  So these sports. As a Chicagoan and a southsider, I loved the White Sox. I branched out and embraced the Cubs. I was a hockey fan and I sat with my dad as he agonized over DePaul’s basketball team. Except for golf, I’d watch almost anything. Eventually, tennis got my attention. I watched the women, Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Steffi Graf and of course, finally Venus and Serena. I admired their skills and grit. But I always loved the boys and most particularly, the ones who behaved well, rarely had tantrums or broke their rackets and in general, seemed to play against that spoiled brat type. No John McEnroes or Ilie Nastases for me.

  I liked the cool Swede Bjorn Borg, who played like a smooth machine. After him, it was Pete Sampras, who was just a kid when he started and had a long 14 year career, complete with those beautiful serves and the tenacity to keep playing after vomiting on the court from sickness and dehydration. The civilized guys. I made an exception for Jimmy Connors sometimes because he had high entertainment value. There were a few Australians thrown into the mix and the Croat Goran Ivanisevic who had sporadic talent but took forever to win the big tourney. But in the middle of Pete’s reign, Roger Federer appeared on the scene. And that was all she wrote for me.

  Federer broke into the big time as a teenager and was kind of a punk for awhile. But the tragic car wreck death of his Australian coach when he was 21 was a life changing event for him. Between that and his relationship with his older girlfriend who eventually became his wife, he pulled himself together and became who he is today, a brilliant champion, a genuinely loved public figure and a generous philanthropist. In short, my favorite tennis player.

  Federer’s been playing for 21 years. I’ve watched him countless times and always enjoyed his grace, elegance and tenacity. For most of those years I watched him and the other players during the four major tournaments, the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon and the US Open. There was a lot of other tennis happening off my radar, many tournaments and point systems for rankings. I didn’t really care about that stuff. I was happy with what I saw, read articles so I had some idea of the background for the majors, and was generally content.

When Michael got sick seven and a half years ago, that was where I was at. As we processed his disease and what we knew would be a limited future, I was trying to get a handle on interests that would distract me from the constant pressure of anticipating death. Michael liked tennis too and had played for years as a young man. Often we watched matches together. But as time went by and we rode the waves of anxiety, I started to seek out more and more information about tennis. We’d switched cable tv providers and the Tennis Channel was included in our package. I realized that there were all kinds of tournaments and that Roger participated in lots of them. He was famous for holding records in places that had never crossed my radar. And we had a DVR. I started taping everything. When I had nothing to do, I started watching more tennis. I liked other players but Roger was the one. As the months of Michael’s illness progressed, we both labored under the strain of wondering how much time we had left to enjoy our life. Sometimes I drove my reserved husband crazy, wanting to talk through everything all the time. He was in treatment, often tired and in need of rest. I had lots of time on my hands but I wanted to stay nearby, soaking in every minute of life with Michael. So I turned to the box where Roger waited in the DVR. He was such a joy to watch. Healthy, easy and an amazing contrast to my precious guy who was carrying such a huge load. Over time, I decided that who needed a DVR when you could set an alarm and watch a tournament live from Australia, China or the Middle East? We didn’t really have a normal routine or schedule any more so I could make my own hours. As years went by, Federer’s wins or losses began to affect me more and more. The worst time came in 2016 when he sustained a knee injury while bathing one of his kids. He decided to withdraw from the professional tour for months while he rehabbed thoroughly and tried to decide if he could return and play at the championship level again.

  I was worried about it but at the time I was really focused on the stretch of good health Michael was enjoying so we took advantage of an excellent fall and traveled a lot. I had concerns about some signs of immune system letdown in Michael but as late as December, 2016, we were in our happy place at Starved Rock and life seemed even and predictable. Unfortunately that languorous period was short-lived. By the first week of January, Michael’s behavior was unusual. His appetite was diminished and he had some odd moments when he wasn’t making a lot of sense. We went in to see our oncologist who did some bloodwork and ordered a scan. Everything came back clean. So on we went. Things got stranger and stranger. I began to believe that there was an occult return of Michael’s cancer and began a nagging process that drove him nuts. He wanted to leave well enough alone and I didn’t. We began bickering. Right around the same time, Roger was getting ready to emerge from his medical exile and enter the Australian Open.

As days went by, Michael’s behaviors became odder and odder and I kept dragging him back to the doctors. Meanwhile, Roger was winning match after match. I was up in the night, watching him in real time and trying to avoid arguing with Michael who was annoyed with me. The doctors kept finding nothing. On January 29th, 2017, I had the pleasure of watching Roger win his first major since being injured.

On January 31st, I prevailed upon Michael to let me bring him to the ER to see if we could get him a brain MRI, the only test he hadn’t had. By that night we had the dreadful diagnosis of carcinomatous meningitis, a rare manifestation of certain solid tumors that’s becoming more common as people survive their original cancers for longer periods of time. We were devastated, Michael even more than me as he’d believed the continuing positive reports while I knew something was terribly wrong. We had a 32 day siege in the hospital and then I was able to bring him home in early March. The median survival time for this disease was 4 weeks from diagnosis. Michael hung on for almost seventeen.

  Meanwhile, the French Open began close to the end of Michael’s life and I continued to watch through June 11th. I remember thinking how ironic it was that Roger’s playing bookended the last months of Michael’s life. When July came, along came Wimbledon. I watched all of it and Roger emerged victorious. That highlighted my summer of preparing for the celebration of Michael’s life which was planned for December. When that was over, I stared down 2018, trying to figure out what to do with myself. I started this blog on January 1st. I was in the midst of planning my 50th high school reunion and also wanted to do a little traveling.

  I finally landed on the Western-Southern Open tennis tournament in Cincinnati, a chance to see Roger in the flesh for the first time. As he was getting older I figured I’d better get that bucket list item done. Additionally, the Laver Cup, Roger’s creation was happening in Chicago, at the same time as my reunion.

  I bought tickets to that as well. Both events were wonderful and I was so glad I went. Roger won some and lost some and I felt satisfied. But as time passed I found watching him, especially when he lost, to become more and more stressful. I was aware of the negative feelings but not sure what to do about them. Each match got worse and worse. This was not supposed to be my relationship with sports. I was irritable, frustrated and hostile. I could barely stand being with myself. When my son was around he tried to be comforting but I was basically so obnoxious he’d wind up leaving me to my own devices. I started thinking really hard, going back over the seven and a half year history of Michael’s disease, death and this mourning period. A lot has happened to me during that time. I spent a lot of emotional capital during those years. I spent an extraordinary amount of love on my marriage, so much that I often wonder if I can love anyone or anything new ever again. Even a pet. And then just this past week in the midst of an ugly US Open for Roger, I recognized what I’m referring to as a silent switch. Somewhere back there, as I recognized that my time with Michael was running away, I put a lot of my heart into Roger, a sports guy who was supposed to be a distraction, not someone personal. As his fortunes ebb and he gets closer to retirement I realized that my outsized reactions are more like living through an intimate loss instead of just watching an athlete’s life come to its normal conclusion. I realized that I’d transferred some of my feelings about Michael’s absence to a weird anticipatory despair about Roger’s career coming to an end. How bizarre is that? Probably not very. Roger’s trajectory is another ending, a metaphor for what I’ve been coping with for a very long time. I didn’t recognize exactly when it happened but I know it did. And acknowledging the inappropriate outsized reactions I was having helped me see the need to face this metaphor for what is – a familiar road twisted into an inappropriate level of importance. It’s time to set it back in a more normal place. Ironically, during this week of internal probing and exploring, I’ve been outside in my garden a lot. I had no trouble identifying two adult butterflies, feeding, still strong but battered by predators, perhaps by wind. But still living out there in the world. I was aware that I identified with them. No silent switching in this case. Awareness is hard and often mysterious. I’m going to keep going after it. It’s better than living in the dark. 

      The Silent Switch I wonder if all people are born equipped for life’s passions. And if they are, is the capacity for them the same for everyone?

[rilenerocks]

I wonder if all people are born equipped for life’s passions. And if they are, is the capacity for them the same for everyone? Does everyone start out with a genetically determined amount or is there an infinite level that is sometimes achieved and sometimes not, depending on what happens to each of us? I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about this. Some people seem like they’re boiling over with passion and others act so subdued that it’s hard to know if they’ve every experienced a single moment of that powerful sensation.

I think passion has lots of different connotations, both positive and negative. Some passions are conscious and others lurk below our mind’s surface. They can be enriching and growth-inducing or deleterious and damaging to our health. Passion can be enthusiasm and avid devotion. It can be overwhelming in both rage and love. It can be intense sexual attraction. It can be vehemence and anger. Probably it’s combinations of a wide range of feelings and this can be very confusing. I know that I’ve felt all types of passions ever since I was a little kid.

When I was about five, I got a chameleon. I loved it so much I squeezed it to death. What a horror. I was way too young to understand the implications of the potential for destruction associated with a positive feeling. But I learned more and more about that as I grew up. My parents told me I was born loving everyone and everything and that people loved me back. My mom said she was afraid someone might steal me, most particularly my dad’s sister, someone she detested. My older brother told me he first remembered being truly happy when I came along. Sad for him but good for me. I did love so many things with a passion. I loved my parents. I loved warm milk. I loved animals. I loved fudgsicles and chocolate popsicles. I loved playing outside. I loved school and school supplies, especially crayons, erasers and glue. So I guess I started out with my fair share of passions.

  As I got older, I extended all that passionate love to people. I loved my friends. I started to love boys. I loved sports and movies. I loved justice. So much passion. It wasn’t long before I started getting knocked around by reality. Reality was that just because I loved what I loved didn’t mean that I was going to reap big returns on my passionate investments. I loved school but after 9th grade, it mostly bored me to death and as I went off on my own to learn, my grades tanked. I had just enough natural talent to take me into college but nothing about that structure worked any better for me at that level.

  Then I realized that the just world I dreamed of may as well have been in a galaxy far, far away. The disappointment from that discovery ignited my negative passions which are still going strong today. Always something to be furious about and to fight against. Fuel for my engine.

  I loved participating in sports but that brought me negative attention. I wanted to be an attractive girl but my youthful participation brought me the nickname “moose” which had a profoundly negative effect on the joy I found as an athlete. In my junior year of high school I cut 60 PE classes and as a senior, had to make them all up, two for one, in order to graduate. On swimming days, I was soaking wet on and off for hours. But I still loved sports although I became more of an observer rather than a participant. I still have my swimming but at one point I dreamed of smashing home runs and spiking volleyballs for a long time. I made it back to volleyball as an adult, playing while pregnant. Maybe that vibe is why my daughter turned out to be an exceptional athlete in a time that was somewhat kinder to women than the days of my youth. Although not yet kind enough.  But let me stay on track here.

I was a passionate friend and potentially a passionate girlfriend when I was a kid. I fell in love easily. And I stayed there. There’s another component to my particular brand of passion – loyalty. My husband and my kids always told me I was the most loyal person they ever knew. That’s probably a fair assessment. Once committed to someone, at least in my own mind, if not in actual practice with the person I’ve sekected, I stayed put. I’m hard to get rid of once I’ve made my choices. Despite the fire that burns in me so frequently, I’m not the type to flame out. My burn is slow and long-lasting. A lot of disappointment and pain have to happen before I walk away from someone. I guess it’s fair to say that I have personal standards of how people should treat one another, my rules, for sure. But I’ll bend and accommodate for a long time before I give up on a person. Over the years, I’ve developed what I call my permanent list. I have occupants on that list who said or did something egregious enough so that I know I’ll never forget it, at least as long as my brain is functioning. But for the most part, that list is of those individuals who are beyond my forgiveness. I know that’s not a very politically correct attitude in current culture. Forgiveness is a real thing advocated around me. Being unforgiving is supposed to be bad for you, toxic and unhealthy.

Your Greatest Strength

1

Social intelligenceBeing aware of the motives/feelings of others and oneself; knowing what to do to fit into different social situations; knowing what makes other people tick.VIRTUE CATEGORY: HUMANITY

24

Forgiveness Forgiving those who have done wrong; accepting others’ shortcomings; giving people a second chance; not being vengeful.VIRTUE CATEGORY: TEMPERANCE

I took a personality trait test from a Yale-sponsored class a few months ago. You answer all these questions and a list of your character traits ranked from best to worst is generated. My best trait was emotional intelligence, followed by loyalty and my worst was the inability to forgive. Sounded right.  And it works for me. Michael was always trying to get me to let things go and be more forgiving. He said my hot rage and grudge holding was going to damage me physically. Well, look who’s still here and who isn’t? I’m living on the terms that suit me.

I guess I got the most bashed around emotionally by my first serious college boyfriend. I thought I was going to marry him. The truth is, I thought I was going to marry everyone I ever loved, going all the way back to when I was five years old. But this was the first genuinely reciprocated love I’d felt as a grownup and despite warning flags about not being ready and immaturity, I was convinced that if I fought hard enough, I could make this happen, even with evidence to the contrary popping up regularly and painfully. We were together on and off for three years. One morning after feeling that we’d had the best night of our life, I woke up to him telling me that we needed to break up and that things just couldn’t work. I was astonished, hurt and enraged. As he made his way out of my apartment, I followed him into the street, screaming at the top of my lungs that he would never find anyone who loved him the way I did and that he’d regret this decision for the rest of his life. My roommate and another friend dragged me back into the house as his metallic blue Chevy Hornet pulled away.

The fact is, he did figure that out later but by that time, I’d mostly recovered and was with Michael with whom I spent the rest of his life. Sadly, not the rest of our lives. Michael helped me rebuild myself and to believe that I could trust someone and reestablish my belief that a lifelong positive passion was possible. I’d already figured out that I could hang on to my negative passions about feminism, politics, economic justice, the health of the planet and the like. But I wasn’t sure about people. One of the places I put my positive passions was to sports, both teams and individuals. I could afford to invest myself in those without personal disappointments that had left me flattened and despairing. I picked my loyalties and stayed with them. I had favorite teams and players. I watched everything, football, basketball, hockey, swimming and became an Olympics junkie. As time went on I added tennis and soccer. I still remember the uniform numbers of those individuals who for whatever reason, won my heart. Jean Beliveau, #4 – Montreal Canadiens. Doug Mohns, #11 – Chicago Blackhawks. Doug Buffone, #55 – Chicago Bears. Fred Biletnikoff, #25 – Oakland Raiders. I could go on and on. A lot of my friends were surprised that I was so into sports, as many of them, particularly the contact ones dominated by males, seemed in direct conflict with my feminist politics. But I didn’t care what it seemed like. My personal passionate commitments had  cost me a significant amount of emotional angst. I think I was born with a fairly deep reservoir for giving but I’d come to realize that when I put myself out there, I’d best be prepared to be doing it because I needed to for me and not because of what I expected in return. I’d had a lot of disappointment from family, friends and lovers. With sports, the worst that could happen was that your favorites could lose. The pain threshold for those things was tolerable for me, easier than all the personal disappointments. At least, it always had been for many years. When the silent switch happened, I really wasn’t aware of it at all. I’ve only just figured out that my lines had gotten blurred below the surface of my consciousness because of what life dealt out to me. I was too busy in the living of it to recognize that I’d set myself up for a whole new undoing.

  So these sports. As a Chicagoan and a southsider, I loved the White Sox. I branched out and embraced the Cubs. I was a hockey fan and I sat with my dad as he agonized over DePaul’s basketball team. Except for golf, I’d watch almost anything. Eventually, tennis got my attention. I watched the women, Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Steffi Graf and of course, finally Venus and Serena. I admired their skills and grit. But I always loved the boys and most particularly, the ones who behaved well, rarely had tantrums or broke their rackets and in general, seemed to play against that spoiled brat type. No John McEnroes or Ilie Nastases for me.

  I liked the cool Swede Bjorn Borg, who played like a smooth machine. After him, it was Pete Sampras, who was just a kid when he started and had a long 14 year career, complete with those beautiful serves and the tenacity to keep playing after vomiting on the court from sickness and dehydration. The civilized guys. I made an exception for Jimmy Connors sometimes because he had high entertainment value. There were a few Australians thrown into the mix and the Croat Goran Ivanisevic who had sporadic talent but took forever to win the big tourney. But in the middle of Pete’s reign, Roger Federer appeared on the scene. And that was all she wrote for me.

  Federer broke into the big time as a teenager and was kind of a punk for awhile. But the tragic car wreck death of his Australian coach when he was 21 was a life changing event for him. Between that and his relationship with his older girlfriend who eventually became his wife, he pulled himself together and became who he is today, a brilliant champion, a genuinely loved public figure and a generous philanthropist. In short, my favorite tennis player.

  Federer’s been playing for 21 years. I’ve watched him countless times and always enjoyed his grace, elegance and tenacity. For most of those years I watched him and the other players during the four major tournaments, the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon and the US Open. There was a lot of other tennis happening off my radar, many tournaments and point systems for rankings. I didn’t really care about that stuff. I was happy with what I saw, read articles so I had some idea of the background for the majors, and was generally content.

When Michael got sick seven and a half years ago, that was where I was at. As we processed his disease and what we knew would be a limited future, I was trying to get a handle on interests that would distract me from the constant pressure of anticipating death. Michael liked tennis too and had played for years as a young man. Often we watched matches together. But as time went by and we rode the waves of anxiety, I started to seek out more and more information about tennis. We’d switched cable tv providers and the Tennis Channel was included in our package. I realized that there were all kinds of tournaments and that Roger participated in lots of them. He was famous for holding records in places that had never crossed my radar. And we had a DVR. I started taping everything. When I had nothing to do, I started watching more tennis. I liked other players but Roger was the one. As the months of Michael’s illness progressed, we both labored under the strain of wondering how much time we had left to enjoy our life. Sometimes I drove my reserved husband crazy, wanting to talk through everything all the time. He was in treatment, often tired and in need of rest. I had lots of time on my hands but I wanted to stay nearby, soaking in every minute of life with Michael. So I turned to the box where Roger waited in the DVR. He was such a joy to watch. Healthy, easy and an amazing contrast to my precious guy who was carrying such a huge load. Over time, I decided that who needed a DVR when you could set an alarm and watch a tournament live from Australia, China or the Middle East? We didn’t really have a normal routine or schedule any more so I could make my own hours. As years went by, Federer’s wins or losses began to affect me more and more. The worst time came in 2016 when he sustained a knee injury while bathing one of his kids. He decided to withdraw from the professional tour for months while he rehabbed thoroughly and tried to decide if he could return and play at the championship level again.

  I was worried about it but at the time I was really focused on the stretch of good health Michael was enjoying so we took advantage of an excellent fall and traveled a lot. I had concerns about some signs of immune system letdown in Michael but as late as December, 2016, we were in our happy place at Starved Rock and life seemed even and predictable. Unfortunately that languorous period was short-lived. By the first week of January, Michael’s behavior was unusual. His appetite was diminished and he had some odd moments when he wasn’t making a lot of sense. We went in to see our oncologist who did some bloodwork and ordered a scan. Everything came back clean. So on we went. Things got stranger and stranger. I began to believe that there was an occult return of Michael’s cancer and began a nagging process that drove him nuts. He wanted to leave well enough alone and I didn’t. We began bickering. Right around the same time, Roger was getting ready to emerge from his medical exile and enter the Australian Open.

As days went by, Michael’s behaviors became odder and odder and I kept dragging him back to the doctors. Meanwhile, Roger was winning match after match. I was up in the night, watching him in real time and trying to avoid arguing with Michael who was annoyed with me. The doctors kept finding nothing. On January 29th, 2017, I had the pleasure of watching Roger win his first major since being injured.

On January 31st, I prevailed upon Michael to let me bring him to the ER to see if we could get him a brain MRI, the only test he hadn’t had. By that night we had the dreadful diagnosis of carcinomatous meningitis, a rare manifestation of certain solid tumors that’s becoming more common as people survive their original cancers for longer periods of time. We were devastated, Michael even more than me as he’d believed the continuing positive reports while I knew something was terribly wrong. We had a 32 day siege in the hospital and then I was able to bring him home in early March. The median survival time for this disease was 4 weeks from diagnosis. Michael hung on for almost seventeen.

  Meanwhile, the French Open began close to the end of Michael’s life and I continued to watch through June 11th. I remember thinking how ironic it was that Roger’s playing bookended the last months of Michael’s life. When July came, along came Wimbledon. I watched all of it and Roger emerged victorious. That highlighted my summer of preparing for the celebration of Michael’s life which was planned for December. When that was over, I stared down 2018, trying to figure out what to do with myself. I started this blog on January 1st. I was in the midst of planning my 50th high school reunion and also wanted to do a little traveling.

  I finally landed on the Western-Southern Open tennis tournament in Cincinnati, a chance to see Roger in the flesh for the first time. As he was getting older I figured I’d better get that bucket list item done. Additionally, the Laver Cup, Roger’s creation was happening in Chicago, at the same time as my reunion.

  I bought tickets to that as well. Both events were wonderful and I was so glad I went. Roger won some and lost some and I felt satisfied. But as time passed I found watching him, especially when he lost, to become more and more stressful. I was aware of the negative feelings but not sure what to do about them. Each match got worse and worse. This was not supposed to be my relationship with sports. I was irritable, frustrated and hostile. I could barely stand being with myself. When my son was around he tried to be comforting but I was basically so obnoxious he’d wind up leaving me to my own devices. I started thinking really hard, going back over the seven and a half year history of Michael’s disease, death and this mourning period. A lot has happened to me during that time. I spent a lot of emotional capital during those years. I spent an extraordinary amount of love on my marriage, so much that I often wonder if I can love anyone or anything new ever again. Even a pet. And then just this past week in the midst of an ugly US Open for Roger, I recognized what I’m referring to as a silent switch. Somewhere back there, as I recognized that my time with Michael was running away, I put a lot of my heart into Roger, a sports guy who was supposed to be a distraction, not someone personal. As his fortunes ebb and he gets closer to retirement I realized that my outsized reactions are more like living through an intimate loss instead of just watching an athlete’s life come to its normal conclusion. I realized that I’d transferred some of my feelings about Michael’s absence to a weird anticipatory despair about Roger’s career coming to an end. How bizarre is that? Probably not very. Roger’s trajectory is another ending, a metaphor for what I’ve been coping with for a very long time. I didn’t recognize exactly when it happened but I know it did. And acknowledging the inappropriate outsized reactions I was having helped me see the need to face this metaphor for what is – a familiar road twisted into an inappropriate level of importance. It’s time to set it back in a more normal place. Ironically, during this week of internal probing and exploring, I’ve been outside in my garden a lot. I had no trouble identifying two adult butterflies, feeding, still strong but battered by predators, perhaps by wind. But still living out there in the world. I was aware that I identified with them. No silent switching in this case. Awareness is hard and often mysterious. I’m going to keep going after it. It’s better than living in the dark. 

      The Silent Switch I wonder if all people are born equipped for life’s passions. And if they are, is the capacity for them the same for everyone?