#i like my literary mirrors and reflections

[blind-alchemists]

“Anyway,” Varric says then, always the easy conversationalist, “I hear you two have been doing good by Adan and the infirmary.” “Din has done more than I have, but, yes,” he replies, resting his staff against his shoulder so he can pull his hands into the layers of warmth his cloak provides. “It’s a bit hard to imagine someone as prickly as him healing people,” the dwarf admits. “You, on the other hand? You’re the tragic hero type, Chuckles. You help and you bleed and then you lament it wasn’t enough.” “I don’t think of myself as either tragic nor a hero, Varric,” Solas says to him. He had, once, but that time has long passed and now the words turn his stomach in knots. The dwarf might know nothing about him, but he is a story-teller, and he sees the parts of him he had thought to have buried long ago. Solas has not been a hero since he burned Mythal off his face, has not been a hero even when he was her champion, has not been a hero even in the war against the Pillars of the Earth. And tragic — no, tragedy is something only heroes are allowed to have. Monsters like him, wolves with six eyes and slavering jaws and maws big enough to devour cities, do not get tragedy. They get a miserable death. “Most don’t, in my experience,” Varric replies and moves past the awkward moments in their conversation with the smooth experience of someone who has done this for decades. “That’s the charm of them: They don’t know they’re the tragic hero. And they do not become bad; they are tragic because they are so infallibly good that it pains you, because you know what makes them such outstanding people will lead to them to commit their biggest mistake and once they realize what they have done, they’re already in the middle of the tragedy.” Solas swallows. “What happens then?” Varric looks at him. “The play ends, Chuckles,” he says wearily. “Maybe the hero dies, or maybe he doesn’t, or maybe he’s left weeping before the curtain falls, or maybe he’s crumbled into a pile of nothing.” He pauses, watching him up close, and an uncomfortable feeling settles in his chest. “Tragic heroes do not live happily ever after.” “Of course,” he muses, more to himself than the dwarf before him. He recognizes himself in the story-tellers words, and they’ve rang a little too true, but he’s long past the point where he might be either tragic or a hero. He raised the Veil, and destroyed the world, and slept, and now that he has awoken after a thousand years of slumber, he will tear down the Veil and do what he could not do last time: He will rid the world of the Evanuris whose sole existence will eventually lead to its ruin. A hero might have found another way, but he is a hero no more: He is Fen’Harel, the dreaded wolf, the mad trickster, the monster, the villain, and if this is what it takes to save the world, then he has no issue paying the price.

#dragon age fanfiction #series: walk the other way #wip #solas #varric tethras #varric has a lot of fun banters about his books + heroes + literature #anyway! #for Purposes solas takes the role of an anti-villain but him being a former tragic hero is just the kind of thing i dig #and. well. him denying himself a happy end is just part of his character. #i like my literary mirrors and reflections

[the-grey-hunt]

last year i talked somewhat about jonathan harker in the role of the gothic heroine, which seemed to go over well! this year i've decided to challenge myself to delve a little deeper and keep my literary analysis skills sharp (trying to keep away from anything revealed later than today's entry, for the new readers)

for context in the literary background i'm examining here, the female gothic (a term coined I believe in the 70s) is a lens of analysis for gothic literature which examines the role of women as expression of contemporary anxieties around women and their roles in society, particularly as mothers and wives. like many kinds of horror, political and social anxieties are deployed as supernatural forces with which to terrify the "ordinary" citizens.

jonathan, our ordinary man, is certainly faced with horrors—but in what way? sent by an older man, Peter Hawkins, jonathan enters a foreign landscape where he enters into the power of another older man, at a particularly vulnerable time where a loved one (Mina) is waiting at home but jonathan does not appear to be married. the horrors that jonathan faces are the same trials set up against gothic heroines: threatening older men with power over you, poised at a huge point of transition in your life, etc, etc.

the main argument against jonathan as a heroine is, I think, his job. His transition point right now isn't an impending marriage or that he needs one, but that he's just established himself as a solicitor and is meeting with Dracula for business purposes. however, I think how these are deployed as tools in the story, such as Hawkins almost transferring guardianship of his young employee/ward to Dracula (temporarily), still very much mirror the ways in which high-class social norms are deployed against gothic women. even the work jonathan does in the castle (talking to dracula about real estate) isn't in service of bolstering his manly prowess, but serves as a tool for dracula to distract him, and keep him from realizing that he is trapped and serving dracula's own will.

rather than being tried in a manly fashion by his strength or his wits being challenged, jonathan's gothic experience is of his environment and even his body being manipulated by the man meant to be a helping hand in a foreign land. when I say body people might think it's a little early for that, but it's happening—dracula keeps jonathan up late so he sleeps in, forcing him to acclimate to dracula's own nocturnal existence. when he gets a glimpse of blood, he attempts to take it from jonathan. even today, a few hundred years after dracula's social anxieties about women's bodies being trespassed upon by men other than the ones entitled to them, women may see echoes of their own anxieties about bodily autonomy.

Dracula also isolates jonathan socially. He makes jonathan mistrust his own ability to percieve reality (gaslighting, anyone, a story about a woman being manipulated by her husband?) by pretending that servants are in charge of the cooking and so on, when really it's just dracula keeping up a masquerade.

this comes to a head in the mirror scene, where jonathan's shaving mirror—an item he uses to attend to his appearance—ends up being a helpful tool which exposes the supernatural reality of what jonathan's up against. however, because dracula is still the one in power, he immediately gets rid of it, calling it "vanity". I recall the quote by John Berger:

You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting Vanity, thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure.

the ways in which jonathan is treated by dracula, and the ways in which he attempts to bolster himself against the threat (spying to see what dracula's really doing, seeing the lack of reflection by chance) mirror the highly gendered dynamics of the Victorian era which this book was written in the tail end of. perhaps purposefully subverting jonathan's gender as a further expression of the horror of dracula, stoker's work takes jonathan as a man secure in his position at home in england to being a manipulated, isolated, and precariously positioned figure subject to the whims of an abusive man while friendless in a foreign country

(and the essay on how race, ethnicity, and foreign versus home plays into this is a whole other post! racism effects gender too! it's not a mistake that jonathan is securely male at home but his gender is subverted abroad!)

#dracula daily #dracula #female gothic #jonathan harker #ok i have to stop myself here and do my actual homework

[mundivagantsoul]

✩ Bookshopist Moonboys✩

Part 1: Nerds, Dead Trees and Dust

Moon Knight System x Reader

A/N: Hi all! This is my first time posting my writing. I apologies for poor grammar and spelling, my only excuse is daydreaming throughout school when I was was supposed to be learning this stuff. If you have any feedback or comments please let me know, I'd love to hear from you! Hope you enjoy ♡

Warnings: mentions of violence (nature documentaries), coarse language, British lingo?

Word Count: 1K

Masterlist | Next ->

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Seated in the dim living room light with tea-steamed glasses, a certain chocolate-curled Brit scrolls aimlessly through job adverts until a particular post catches his attention

Full-time bookseller- The Old Town Bookshop

Taking a sip of his Earl Grey, Steven opens the listing, greeted with the classic rhetorical questions and enthusiasm only found in job adverts.

Love books? Are you a passionate reader who wishes to share your enthusiasm for literature with others? Come work at “The Old Town Bookshop”, where you can expand your literary knowledge and create a meaningful career with fellow book lovers!

“Living amongst books isn’t enough for you?” Marc quips from a small mirror placed deliberately on the desk's corner.

“I thought you cared about animals and the environment, and yet here you are, further supporting an industry that indoctrinates the destruction of their homes?” Jake nonchalantly adds from an adjacent mirror, oblivious to the surprised faces of his headmates.

Marc raises a brow, “Since when did you become an animal rights advocate?”

Jake shrugs, gaze subconsciously finding Viejita lazing on the lounge before returning back to Marc. “Dunno. Guess I actually pay attention when Steven puts on his nature documentaries”.

Marc mocks being insulted. “Oh I’m sorry, I just don’t find watching baby antelopes getting mauled to death entertaining”.

“Of course, you much rather maul people to death yourself”, Jake's voice mimics Marc’s, enticing a scoff from the latter.

“You’re one to talk Mr. I abuse wheelchairs and kidnap patients from psych wards and then murder them in the back of my fancy car”. 

Steven interrupts the dispute before it can get out of hand. 

“Bloody hell, Lads’ shut it! Look, if I’m being honest, I’m not gonna take animal ethics from either of you carnivores”, then adding, “And need I remind you two, you’re the reason we’re in this dire situation”.

It’s true, between Marc, Jake and Khonshu’s shenanigans, they’d managed to lose their only legal job, and unfortunately, being an ancient Egyptian deity’s ‘fist of vengeance’ doesn’t pay well.

Marc begins to grasp at any logic that means they don’t have to work amongst nerds, dead trees and dust. “Well… Jake and I aren’t avid readers, and the job description says we must be ‘passionate readers’”. 

“Well… I’d say with the number of ‘adult’ novels you read, you’d be classified as a passionate reader”. Steven states matter-of-factly, earning a snort from Jake and a finger from Marc.

“Look, capitalism exists, fish need feeding, and it’s either this, working at the laundromat on 6th, or grovelling for my old job back. You pick”.

Sharing a glance, they sigh, “Fine, we’ll work at your nerd hub”.

Triumphantly, Steven opens the application form.

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A weathered sign inscribed with “The Old Town Bookshop” hangs atop the quaint corner store. Parallel white arches and a broad window decorate its petite structure with morning sunlight reflecting off the seemingly fresh coat of indigo, enriching the buildings' otherwise aged aesthetic.

Breathing out a puff of warm air, Steven adjusts the strap of his shoulder bag, a nervous habit he’d picked up over the years. Peering at the lit window, he opens the door. Greeted by the homely smell of paper and ink, Steven gazes around at the array of books and colours, marvelling at the unexpectedly large floor plan. 

"Like the Tardis". Marc hums from the window reflection whilst Jake observes their surroundings, habitually checking for threats.

Strolling further into the store, a warm pressure rubs itself along his calf. Peering down, Steven’s met with honey eyes and golden fur.

“¿Gatito?” Jake chirps, seemingly forgetting about surveying the area.

The cat meows in return as if replying to Jake’s comment. 

“Great, now we’ll be covered in dust and cat hair”. Marc comments, trying to remain apathetic about their adorable feline coworker.

Kneeing down, Steven scratches the tabby’s head, earning a delightful purr from their new acquaintance. Checking the collar, ‘Dorian’ is engraved on a fish-shaped name tag. 

Dorian huh? Makes sense, you’re a pretty lookin’ fella. Steven observes before returning to the task at hand. 

Following the familiar monotonous sound of a sticker gun, the Brit finds himself walking towards the counter where, surrounded by a pile of new releases, you are busy at work. The boys take in your features, entranced as the morning light caresses your face, highlighting the soft beauty that adorns your profile. Eyes roaming over your features, they notice your slight frown of concentration and inaudible movements of your mouth. 

As Steven approaches the counter, your words become interpretable.

“How are we already getting Christmas and holiday content when it hasn’t even been Halloween yet?” you grumble, condemning whoever decided it was a suitable practice. “I swear if I start hearing Mariah Carey, I’m gonna…”.

Someone clearing their throat interrupts your malicious thoughts. As your head shoots up, you notice the fidgeting man in front of the counter. Shit. How long has he been standing there?  You think, face heating up at the possibility of him witnessing your moral decadence.

“So sorry to bother you love. I’m here for my shift? I was supposed to start today… I’m Steven, by the way”.

The realisation smacks you in the face like a flying stop sign. Crap, it is already 8 o'clock? Internally criticising yourself for losing track of time, you scramble for an apology. “Right- yes, Steven, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise the time”. Sticking out your hand, you introduce yourself. 

God, your name sounds as beautiful as you look, They simultaneously think.

A warm, calloused hand engulfs your own as Steven rolls your name over his tongue. “All good love happens to the best of us”.

You smile warmly, and suddenly, the prospect of spending 9 hours a day surrounded by nerds, dead trees and dust doesn't seem too bad.

Thank you for reading ♡

Also please go check out the fabulous @viejita-n-co who created Viejita! You’ll find a bunch of fanart and pictures of the boys too ♡

#steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight x reader #moon knight #moonknight #bookshopist moon boys

[the-crooked-library]

"You and I Have Begun to Blur"

This is eating my brain from inside, so here's the thing: one of my favourite aspects of Hannigram as a ship is their balance - the way they mirror and complete each other, functionally two halves of the same whole; but what is even more fascinating is that, in a literary sense, Hannibal and Will are, in fact, inspired by two opposing aspects of the same man.

It all begins (like many other things) with Lord Byron; specifically, the summer he spent with a group of friends at Villa Diodati in Geneva, and the dare, that each member of the group would write a ghost story - one of which was Dr. Polidori's The Vampyre. This novella, which introduced the vampire legend to Western popular culture, defined its archetypes for centuries to come; and as such, Polidori's Lord Ruthven, who was based on Lord Byron, became a blueprint.

He is dark, foreign, seductive, dangerous, hypnotizing, hedonistic, possessive; his relationship with the main character, Aubrey, is markedly homoerotic - and these qualities endure as the archetype is passed down the generations. From Ruthven, we get Carmilla, Dracula, Lestat - and, indeed, Hannibal Lecter.

From this:

To this:

he is still, recognizably, a Byronic villain. Whether he operates within an overtly supernatural genre, or a psychological thriller, he is still confident, dominant, manipulative, and always representative of forbidden (queer, interracial, extramarital, etc) desire and temptation.

However, The Vampyre was not the only piece written for the same dare, not the only piece that left a legacy within popular horror, and, most importantly for this context, not the only piece that featured a Byronic character. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein introduced a second such archetype into the gothic genre - inspired by her own understanding of Lord Byron; so, while her Victor Frankenstein shares the same dark hair and pallor as Polidori's Ruthven, there is an ocean of differences between the two.

Victor Frankenstein is a Tortured Genius. He is odd and wild, passionate, prone to isolation; a misfit from the start, always lonely despite the few connections he has, and never truly understood. His intellect is both a gift and the source of his ruin, and he is plagued, in equal measure, by both pride and guilt.

In both looks and character, he passes almost unchanged - from this:

To this:

Even centuries later, he is still the smartest man in the room, he is always tormented, and his counterpart is always a Monster. We see him pop up throughout horror media - as poets, composers, detectives - reflected in Edgar Allan Poe's Roderick Usher, Lovecraft's Henry Wilcox, or Spencer Reid of Criminal Minds. Unlike those of Ruthven's lineage, these people are usually either frail or sickly, socially awkward, uncertain of themselves except for a specific area of expertise, and their sanity commonly tends to be in question.

Despite such differences, though, all these characters are Lord Byron's legacy, weaving their way through history - on the page, on the stage, on the screen, it matters not. By the time they meet again in NBC's Hannibal, they are as separate as two entities can be - yet entwined more closely than any other genre would allow.

Frankly, it drives me feral.

There is so much here to unpack - they are a whole, and yet separate, each with his own archetypal history. Does something within Will Graham's bones remember Frankenstein when he stands in the forensic lab, surrounded by corpses?.. On the Doylist level, does that inform the acting - however subconsciously - in any way?.. Does Count Hannibal Lecter have Lord Ruthven's smile - or Lord Byron's?.. Does he know?

How much is reality?

How much is fiction?

How much is lost through interpretation? How much is remembered? How much does anyone ever really Know us, truly, when two of Byron's closest friends saw entirely different people in him?

I don't know. We can never know. What is evident, though, is that Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham are two halves of the same soul - and that this soul aches to be complete.

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #dracula #victor frankenstein #gothic fiction #gothic #gothic literature #literature #history #nbc hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal meta #hannibal analysis

[soulofapatrick]

Enchanted Pages - Jameson Hawthorne x Reader

Summary: Jameson joins you in the Hawthorne estate library

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: none

Notes: I hope the anon requesting Jameson likes this! It was fun to write!!

Y/N's POV

The Hawthorne mansion library is a sanctum of wisdom, a hallowed ground where the scent of aged paper and the soft whisper of turning pages permeate the air. The room is vast, its shelves towering like ancient sentinels guarding the knowledge within. The mahogany bookcases stretch from floor to ceiling, each shelf adorned with leather-bound tomes that seem to hold the secrets of centuries.

I sit settled in a plush armchair, my fingers delicately tracing the embossed spine of a weathered classic. The soft glow of antique lamps casts a warm hue on the room, highlighting the ornate patterns of the Persian rug beneath my feet. The crackling fire in the hearth adds a touch of comfort, its flickering dance a silent companion to the tales contained in the countless volumes that surround me.

My gaze sweeps over the library, absorbing the grandeur of literature that spans genres and eras. Shakespeare stands shoulder to shoulder with Austen, while the poetry of Frost beckons from a distant corner. History whispers from dusty tomes, and the works of philosophers, both ancient and modern, share space on these sacred shelves.

The sheer magnitude of knowledge captivates me, and a sense of awe settles in my chest. Here, in this haven of words, I feel a connection to the countless souls who sought solace, inspiration, and escape within the pages of these books. It's as if each volume holds the echo of the minds that once dared to dream, to question, to imagine.

I had choosen a book at random, its spine cracked but well-loved. As I open its pages, the scent of history mingles with the musky perfume of aged paper. The words transport me to another world, a realm where time is fluid, and reality is shaped by the strokes of a writer's pen.

Before I can really get into it, the rhythmic click of polished shoes on the library's hardwood floor interrupts the quiet symphony of the written word. A familiar scent wafts towards me, a subtle blend of cedarwood and a trace of old books—Jameson's unmistakable fragrance. Without looking up, I feel the magnetic pull of his presence drawing near. The rustle of pages and the soft creak of the chair next to me signal his arrival. Jameson, with his tall and lean silhouette, leans against the bookshelf. His dark eyes, reflecting the wisdom accumulated through countless narratives, are fixed on the pages before me. 

”Finding solace in the tales of the past?" he inquires, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. His voice, a velvety timbre, resonates with the same richness as the literary treasures that surround us. 

I glance up, meeting his gaze, and invite him to join me with a nod. Jameson gracefully moves to the arm of my chair, a place that feels both familiar and intimate. His fingers, cool and elegant, find a stray strand of my hair, wrapping it around his digits absentmindedly. It's a subtle gesture, one that transcends the boundaries of mere physical touch. Each twirl of my hair seems to weave a connection between us, binding us in a shared moment within the tapestry of the library. 

As he sits beside me, the warmth of his presence envelops like the embrace of a well-told story. The characters in the book come to life, their struggles and triumphs mirrored in the unspoken understanding between Jameson and me. The juxtaposition of the fictional world and the reality of his touch creates a beautiful paradox—a seamless blend of imagination and tangible connection.

Jameson's fingers, light as a whisper, move to ghost over my cheek. A shiver courses through me, a response to the delicate caress that seems to bridge the gap between fiction and reality. The characters in the book, once mere ink on paper, now witness a narrative unfolding before them—the story of two souls drawn together by the invisible threads of connection. His touch deepens, his fingers hooking under my chin with a gentle insistence that demands my attention. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he lifts my gaze, and suddenly, I find myself ensnared by his eyes—dark, fathomless pools of green that hold the weight of a thousand stories. Time seems to stretch, and the distance between our faces becomes negligible.

My breath hitches, caught in the delicate dance of anticipation. The paradox of our connection intensifies—the very real presence of Jameson Hawthorne and the fictional worlds we explore converge in this suspended moment. In his eyes, I see reflections of characters who have loved, lost, and found redemption, mirroring the silent tale unfolding between us. 

As our faces draw closer, the boundary between reader and character blurs, and I become a protagonist in a story that transcends the pages of the books that surround us. The library, once a haven of literature, transforms into a stage where the chapters of our own narrative unfold.

In the charged atmosphere of the transformed library, Jameson's voice, low and laden with an emotion I can't quite decipher, breaks the silence. "You don't know what you do to me," he confesses, his words hanging between us like a promise written in invisible ink. His fingers, delicately holding my chin, tighten ever so slightly, an anchor in this moment. In the depth of those fathomless green eyes, I sense vulnerability, a rare glimpse of the man behind the enigmatic exterior. 

The anticipation lingers, and then, with a tenderness that defies the rough edges of his life, Jameson leans in. His lips brush against mine, a touch so gentle it's as if he's unraveling the layers of his guarded self. The kiss is a revelation, a tapestry of emotions woven with threads of longing and a touch of sweetness that catches me off guard. 

I taste the rich complexity of him, a blend of desire and restraint, as if every stolen moment has led to this, a communion of souls beneath the watchful gaze of literary giants. His kiss tells a story—a story of passion restrained, of emotions laid bare in the quiet expanse of a library transformed into a stage for our intimate narrative. 

As our lips continue their passionate dance, each touch becomes a stanza in a poem of desire. The flame ignited by our connection dances through the chambers of my heart, casting a warm glow that reverberates through every beat. In this stolen moment, I become a keeper of Jameson's story, feeling the weight of the untold chapters that reside in the recesses of his being. The dance of tongues is a language of its own, a symphony of whispers and sighs that transcends the limitations of words. In the quiet library, our connection becomes a narrative, written not in ink but in the shared breaths and lingering echoes of our kisses. 

Then, with a tantalising slowness, Jameson pulls away. The separation is a breathless pause, and in that moment, I catch a glimpse of a blush colouring his cheeks—a rare vulnerability that adds another layer to the enigma that is Jameson Hawthorne. His eyes, still reflecting the fire of our shared passion, hold a depth that defies easy explanation. 

A tender smile curves his lips as he leans down to kiss the crown of my head. His lips press into my hair, a silent promise and a gesture that speaks volumes. The library, once a stage for the intensity of desire, now becomes a sanctuary of shared intimacy. 

He settles back next to me, the warmth of his presence a comforting embrace. A smile lingers on his lips as he presses them into my hair, and I feel the echo of our shared moment lingering in the air like the fading notes of a beautiful melody. The pages of the book in my hands wait patiently, as if knowing that our own narrative has become a story worth telling—a love story written in the quiet corners of a library that has witnessed the blending of passion, literature, and the tender moments that make life extraordinary.

                           ┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

TAGS: New Tag List Form

The Inheritance Games Masterlist

#the inheritance games #the inheritance games x reader #the inheritance games x you #inheritance games x y/n #the inheritance games fluff #the inheritance games smut #the inheritance games angst #jameson hawthorne #Jameson hawthorne x you #Jameson hawthorne x y/n #Jameson hawthorne x reader #Jameson hawthorne smut #Jameson hawthorne fluff #Jameson hawthorne angst

[aarontaylorsjohnson]

saw your posts and i felt like adding that not even the music critics are allowed to do their job properly because of her. she gets all the praise, high scores and awards because if she doesn’t, her deranged fanbase will come after everyone responsible for it. imagine being so full of yourself you can’t even take in consideration criticism that could help make you a better artist (if she even cares about that at this point lmao). instead, she calls this load of crap she pulled out “tortured poetry”. sighs.

forreal though. I have seen albums get absolutely punctured by pitchfork (excuse that flourish lol) that were as good or better than ttpd and seemed to get ranked as mid just for the sake of cynical elitism. 2 stars for things that i liked on first listen and would listen to again, that somehow had more inherent likeability than "ratty left me and i don't know how to measure out syllables in my lines anymore." the marketing and critical machine really indulges her self-aggrandizing, which could not be more apparent than in calling her b-side album part of an anthology. an anthology - I just looked it up to make sure my conception was right - is supposed to provide a reader access to a variety of works, and when I was in literary publishing you would include works by different authors who had distinct voices but reflected on similar themes. we only have her voice (and jack's and aaron's) across all 30ish songs. It's the musical equivalent of reading your diary aloud in front of a bunch of mirrors. words have meaning yanno? her biggest detriment to this day is the one-note perspective on albums like this, the lack of genuine diversity. it's all over her gray poem graveyard that she should not have dug up for public consumption

#anti taylor swift

[steadfastpetrel]

Worth Existing (or, Frank Webster Gives Keegan An Existential Crisis)

been busy this semester, but have a reflection comic I got away with making for an information history class! it's rambling, but i had some fun digesting my thoughts.

image descriptions from alt: The title page contains the title “Worth Existing, or: Frank Webster gives Keegan an existential crisis.” In front of a mirror, Keegan stands with their back facing the viewer as a reflection of them as a librarian looks back worriedly.

Page 1 features a sequential cartoonish sequence of Keegan’s head rolling and landing on his shoulders. He says: “Finding out how we’ve come to view our information society has been a ride. My pea brain can only fit so much, ideas only roll vaguely when I try to talk about what I’ve learned, but I’m at least seeing things from new eyes. More specifically…”

Dialogue continues on Page 2, 3 panels sequentially zoom in on a horrified Keegan. She says, “I’m seeing how much Frank Webster hates libraries.” The quote from the book she’s reading is as follows: “Moreover, library staff have benefited disproportionately from the establishment of these services, being provided with secure and pleasant (if not lavishly remunerated) employment. Why, one might ask, does the public purse need to support the likes of Agatha Christie and Jeremy Clarkson when their books are readily available for cheap purchase and their literary merit, still more their intellectual and uplifting qualities, are at best of minor significance. Such observations raise questions regarding the efficacy with which public libraries actually operate. It follows that a driving force behind their establishment and continued state support, the appeal to mitigate the inequalities of capitalism in the informational domain, seems to have been less than fully effective.” End quote.

Page 3 has Keegan looking with hands clasped, paused. They then look at the camera, asking “Did the dude just insult Agatha Christie?” The bottom has them lying on their bed, looking up at the ceiling in thought, saying “There’s something that just bugged me ever since I read that chapter. I never really understood the theory we talked about in class, it’s a skill I’m working on, but the weird beef he has with libraries at least gave me a vibe on ‘Hayekian Neoliberalism.’ And also how weird it is that capitalism got so far into deciding what’s worth existing. If the thing I wanna do with my life is worth existing.”

On Page 4, Keegan walks with his crutches as the dialogue continues. “I could go on for hours about all that sucks with Webster’s opinions! Of course I want the staff to ‘disproportionately’ benefit from their work. Unlike books, people have to eat! What’s ironic about Webster’s whole spiel about the efficacy of libraries is that he provides several examples of figures from his area heavily aided by libraries. Panels feature novelist John Banville, author Jeannette Winterson, and sociologist Richard Hoggart. Keegan continues and says, “And yet he goes on to be like…”

Page 5, a sock puppet speaks angrily: “People are getting free books and are hurting the poor bookseller! Libraries are stupid because it doesn’t miraculously fix the inequalities of capitalism!” To the side, the text says “Artist’s exaggeration. Don’t take this seriously.” Bottom panel contains Keegan pointing with her thumb at Frank Webster’s Wikipedia page. She says, “I wouldn’t be so hung up if this was some random guy, but considering this guy is so largely quoted and touted in my field of information sciences? Ouch obviously doesn’t cut how much all that stung.”

Page 6 contains an Asian man with a bun protesting banned books. The next panel contains a white woman with a turtleneck reading in a library as a winter storm brews outside. Keegan off-screen says, “While Webster calls libraries ‘censors of society,’ librarians are fighting vehemently against book bannings! And the way he says that public libraries are ‘captured by the better-off section of society?’ Like what, you’re going to ignore how libraries act as comfortable spaces for folks without housing during harsher months?”

On Page 7 a gavel bangs on a panel. “As if that’s not enough, publishers are suing libraries for distributing e-books, calling them ‘direct economic competitors’ when, if anything, they often support these publishers and their authors by buying multiple copies, hosting events and collaborating with local businesses.” As an example, the comic features a scene of a Black woman in a cardigan talking to a white cashier with a shaved head. She says to them, “I just read this at my library earlier and just needed to get my own copy! Can’t believe it took me this long to discover this author!” A panel below, a pair of hands scoops sand and watches it flow from their fingers. Keegan says, “I don’t know. Even in good company, it sometimes feels like the future is slipping through my fingers.”

Page 8 is a pillar of falling sand. Embedded in it is an Apple pencil, a floating feather, and a book. Keegan narrates, “As an artist and a writer, it’s wondering if I’ll be prioritized over a generative AI that doesn’t have to eat or sleep. As a birder, it’s wondering if the backyard visitors I always see at my feeder will end up as myths and taxidermied specimens. As a librarian, it’s wondering if the institutions I often called home will be felled by the swift axe that the invisible hand holds. It’s a weird feeling of perpetual free fall for a drop that is light years away.”

Page 9, Keegan is holding a book to the sky as they read it. They narrate “Learning is a language I’ve always used to make sense of the thoughts I’ve had swirling in my brain. Finding out ‘information capitalism’ was a thing was like learning about the leash that has pulled at my throat since I entered the schooling system. I am learning because I am not a person, but a tool to be put to a trade. The world around me whispers in my ear…”

“Feel wonder if you must, but don’t linger long enough to turn in something too late.” On page 10, Keegan lies on a grassy field looking up with the book on his chest. He narrates, “I can’t deny that’s a message hard to unhear. As of now, I don’t think I remember much before 2022 other than the grades I got.”

On page 11, a hand wipes a bathroom wall with a sponge. The bottom of the page is filled with floating bubbles. Keegan narrates, “This sounds silly, but I was in tears when I heard about the concept of degrowth this past week. It could’ve been the clorox I was using to clean my bathroom, but the toil of my body and mind must’ve come to some crashing conclusion when I listened past what we were assigned.” The quote goes, They’re essentially making the argument that if we stay on this growth path, the only end to that is, you know, our own extinction. They are not just saying it’s not possible. They’re also saying it’s not desirable. It’s the kind of life that you and I ultimately do not want. We don’t want to drown in just stuff. We want to have a life. We want to have time for each other. We want to have time for creative thinking and art and love and kindness.” The quote ends. It comes from Vox’s Blame Capitalism: Degrowing Pains and is spoken by Dirk Phillipsen.

On page 12, Keegan sits in the bathtub with a few tears. Narration goes, “It was just nice that someone smarter than me in this topic wants the same things I do. Time to live and space to breathe. I know it’s not a perfect solution, but it’s one of those moments that culminate to tears when you’re having a rough week. This time, it was the reminder that this doesn’t have to be all there is to it. That there were people echoing my heartfelt belief that the system that tears down those I love doesn’t have to stay.

Page 13. A frog and toad book. “One-sided beef with Frank Webster aside, this unit has bolstered my love for librarianship. As hastily made and rambling this comic went, I realize I feel this strongly because I love this field so much. Against all odds, even as the internet grew to commodify knowledge, libraries adapted to the best of their abilities for their patrons. Why should some British dude make me wonder if libraries will continue to exist? As depressing as learning about capitalism gets, it’s helpful to understand the hand that takes from you. To understand why and how I’ve always been hurt by the systems that be and make sure I can lighten the blow for those who come after. I’ve learned there’s a lot that can come out of being so sad and scared about the future. Sometimes drawing it out (even if you turn in a late assignment) reminds you that there’s still so much ahead. That, and the fact I should probably read Frog and Toad sometime. So, uh, I’m gonna do that now. Bye!"

The references page lists several sources: Frank Webster’s “Theories of the Information Society.” An article by Brewster Kahle called, “The US library system, once the best in the world, faces death by a thousand cuts.” An article by Rachel Kramer Bussel called, “How Libraries Help Authors Boost Book Sales.” And a podcast episode from Vox’s Today Explained hosted by Noel King, titled “Blame Capitalism: Degrowing Pains.” end descriptions.

#art #artists on tumblr #comic #information science #academia #studyblr #library #libraries #library science #image described #image description in alt #accessible art #long post

[r1-jw-lover]

Caine as John Wick's Mirror: A Somewhat Coherent Analysis

What is even a 'mirror' exactly, narratively-speaking?

A mirror character is someone who reflects the hero, usually by highlighting similarities, and is therefore used to help enhance the themes being explored in the story. They can share personality traits, values, skillsets, even goals and narrative arcs, but how the pair of characters differ in their approach to these commonalities is what makes this literary device so interesting.

Caine as a character in the John Wick universe is so fascinating to me (not many people are able to go toe-to-toe against the Baba Yaga himself) and while a lot of my fascination and enjoyment can be attributed to Donnie Yen's performance and his chemistry with Keanu Reeves, what I want to talk about is the writing of his character, and how well Caine served as a mirror to John Wick, the protagonist.

I think to analyse Caine as a character, we need to first look back at another character who most closely served a similar function as Caine towards John Wick: Cassian.

Cassian and Caine are the only two people in the John Wick movies who fought John Wick squarely in a one-to-one match as equals, and got a gracious send off by John in return. Neither of them wanted to or asked to be made an enemy of John Wick (in fact, it was John's actions that caused both men to pit against the Baba Yaga), but each of them took up their role within the story with much dignity and fairness, and in the end were rewarded with John sparing their lives.

Cassian provides lovely contrast to John in Chapter 2. He is the first to show us a character on the same playing field as John Wick who could sit next to the legendary Baba Yaga and share a drink and enjoy a conversation before Caine or anyone else did.

Cassian and John respected each other, knew each other's preferred drink and promised to make the other's death quick, but it seems that's all there is to their relationship, and the moment they stepped out of the Rome Continental all bets are off.

Their motivations are widely different at this point in the story, and Cassian as a character feels more like an obstacle in John's way that John had to face eventually.

Speaking within the confines of the individual movies that they first appeared in, I will argue Cassian from Chapter 2 aligns more closely with the Tracker/Mr. Nobody from Chapter 4 when it comes to his place in the overall narrative, and it is Santino who's on the same level as Caine, because Santino had history with John, asked John about his wife, knew John personally and was the reason John broke Continental rules and would eventually go up against the High Table.

To add onto this, Cassian more importantly serves as a greater parallel to Ares being bodyguards of the D'Antonio siblings with the way John left his opponent's knife in Cassian's chest and kept him alive because John respected Cassian vs John pulling Ares' knife out of her chest and letting her die because John couldn't respect Ares.

At the end of the day, John and Cassian are both men who were ultimately bound by their loyalties to Santino and Gianna respectively, whether that be out of a Blood Marker or out of a sense of duty.

On the other hand, the relationship between John and Caine is the literal heart of Chapter 4.

Yes, Caine has parallels with other characters too. He and Koji were fathers trying to protect their daughter if it meant throwing away their shared brotherhood, he and Mr. Nobody were pawns under the Marquis' thumb tasked with hunting John Wick, but these parallels take a backstage to the parallels between John and Caine.

They are retired hitmen who were forced back into their old life and pitted against each other in a duel to the death through circumstances out of their control. Neither of them had any love for the High Table, and neither of them wanted to hurt or kill the other either. They have the physical evidence to show of their past/present servitude to the High Table (John's ring finger and Caine's eyes), and in contrary to the Marquis' own evaluation of their character, both men had someone to live for, die for, and kill for.

Where they differ is that, one is driven by a sense of loss to remember his dead wife, and the other is driven by a sense of protection to keep his daughter alive. (It's interesting to note that Helen's death had nothing to do with the High Table at all whereas Mia was only alive thanks to the High Table's grace.)

This dilemma of choosing between their loved one and their past friendship is key to Chapter 4's theme of what it truly costs to obtain freedom. It reminds us that John isn't a perfect martyr for rebelling against the High Table with how much trouble and pain he caused to those around him, including Caine. But it also doesn't absolve Caine from the bloodshed he's responsible for despite his hands being tied by the Marquis, or the fact that killing his friend is wrong.

Caine: We are damned, you and I. John: On that, we agree.

I think that Chapter 4 introducing Caine early on in the movie, definitely much earlier than Cassian in Chapter 2, tells us how important Caine's role is to John's goal of achieving freedom and peace. (The most notable example is Caine helping John up the stairs of Sacre-Coeur after he got kicked down these very same steps by Chidi.) In the same vein, Caine wouldn't have gotten his happy ending if John hadn't made the ultimate sacrifice of saving his last bullet to shoot the Marquis.

Not only that, Chapter 4 also shows us several instances of genuine camaraderie and companionship between John and Caine underneath their antagonism, not just how well they worked together and understood each other when they had a common enemy in sight (first in the Berlin nightclub with Killa, and eventually during the sunrise duel with Marquis de Gramont) but also how much they cared for each other deep down.

John and Cassian are colleagues, but John and Caine are close friends. And I think that's why Caine makes for such a good mirror to John Wick, and is the one most deserving to send off John Wick for good in the final chapter of the franchise, that is until John Wick 5 comes along. :(

Tagging @evren-sadwrn, @chaoticgardenbread and @jotunvali02 <3 <3

#jw #john wick #jw4 #john wick 4 #john wick chapter 4 #john wick 4 spoilers #john wick chapter 4 spoilers #caine #caine jw #caine john wick #cassian jw #cassian john wick #keanu reeves #donnie yen #john wick analysis #character analysis #long post

[cluescorner]

Thoughts on Canto V

Spoilers ahead. Also, disclaimer that I did not play it but instead watched it because I really like the story but I don't play the game anymore. I do not think playing it through would have impacted my experience, but do keep that fact in mind and let me know if you think my feelings would change if I had played it.

OH MY FUCKING GOD I REALLY LIKED IT! The characters were solid (though there are some problems), the theme of hoping for the future and allowing yourself to discover it for yourself rather than holding onto the past, and there were some incredible fucking moments.

Firstly, Ishmael. She was pretty stellar throughout. Watching her slowly degrade into becoming a mirror of the very woman she sought to destroy was heartbreaking, I felt like she actually had a real arc this canto that helped her become a less burdened person, and some of her deepening bonds with the other sinners were awesome. I particularly liked watching her interactions with Outis because Moby Dick and the Odyssey/Illiad are the two literary works from Limbus that I know well, and based on that info it makes sense that they would both understand and annoy each other. The moments with Heathcliff were also incredible because they've always had a really cool dynamic. Ishmael's relationships with her crew were also interesting and I feel like that could have easily been the best part of this cant, but ultimately that didn't end up happening (more on that later). I felt like the sudden character development 'Oh the other characters are my friends and they are my compass' thing was a BIG JUMP especially for Ishmael, but it's not a bad idea. I think it just needed more time in the oven, let Ishmael interact with the other sinners inside the dungeon and have her work together with them to get through things. Fortunately, Ishmael's VA + the Mili song really carried that ending so I still wound up getting caught up in the moment regardless. Speaking of Ishmael's VA...HOLY SHIT WHATEVER THEY ARE GETTING PAID IT WAS NOT ENOUGH!! Singlehandedly made me like this Canto so much more than I otherwise would have. An incredible performance all around, stand out moments include but are not limited to: Her ranting at the pirates about them not knowing what shame is, the euphoric hatred in her voice as she fantasizes about finding and killing Ahab, the grief as she discusses Queequeg and the hope as she sees Queequeg again, and OF COURSE WHEN SHE GOES AHAB MODE! Bravo Jang Ye-na, you carried this Canto through its weaker moments and helped the best ones become my favorite moments in this game.

Next, Ahab. I liked her a lot, fucking awful captain woman who reminds me of my old pastors. GOOD JOB MAKING THIS A FUCKING HORROR GAME THIS BITCH SCARES ME! I wish we could have seen more of her (and maybe we will in the future) because what we got was incredible. I was expecting a shitty boss but instead got another fucking cult leader. Her design is also a solid mirror to Ishmael's, further emphasizing the point that they are becoming more alike as this stuff goes on AND making the moment where Ishmael breaks the cycle of hatred more impactful. She is an incredible mirror of what happens where you allow hatred to consume you entirely, and the VA really reflects that. The only complaint I kinda have is that she probably should have been a lot more morally grey than she was. I feel like we just kinda got Kromer version 2 in terms of the role she played in the story and in Ishmael's life, granted that might change in the future so I will be very happy to be wrong if that's the case. But after Dongrang, I was expecting something a little more sympathetic or at least nuanced than 'evil cult leader captain lady hates that fucking whale and will kill her crew and makes that abundantly clear'. Again, I do like what we got so I can't complain too much but still.

I LOVE THAT BIG FUCKING WHALE! SCARY FUCKING BIG WHALE COMETH! ELDRITCH WHALE!

The Indigo Elder is so fucking cool. I wish he were here for more than 3 minutes and actually had something to do. They really introduced a man by having him tear the arm off the guy who we were struggling to survive against, said he was a Color and that he killed another Calamity, teased this really cool plan, and then...he's just waiting outside presumably 1v1-ing the whale but we get to neither see nor hear about it at all. I hope he comes back and we can see him do cool shit, because we had an incredible set-up with mediocre pay-off.

Ishmael's crew...I loved them so much I wish they were in the Canto for more than 1 level. They should have been introduced MUCH EARLIER in order to have their deaths have more of an impact. We should have been in the whale for longer, even if it meant shortening other parts of the chapter, just for the crew. Because those are Ishmael's ties and these are the people who Ahab's hatred is robbing the world of. What we did get of them was very strong, but Starbuck and Pip got nothing in terms of character moment and time. Queequeg got a little bit more (by the way I love that Queequeg actually looked like the design team at least LOOKED at a Polynesian person, I'm so jaded from other gacha games that I'm thrilled somebody actually looks like they're from the culture they're inspired from. She looks like a buffer, female version of one of my Polynesian neighbors it's great.) and it made her feel a lot more developed. She was a solid adaptation of Queequeg and her relationship with Ishmael was so sweet. The moments we got of them together were some of the highlights and it made me really want them to manage to escape together. Of course that was never gonna happen, but still. I also don't like how we don't even see Queequeg and Starbuck die. Are we supposed to assume Ahab killed them to manifest the ego? Did we kill them? I see some criticism around the fact that they stood by Ahab's side at the end and wondering why they did that. And I get that criticism because it is weird, but also that's just kinda what cult leaders can do especially when they're the only reason you've been alive for however long + you're slowly being overtaken by BAD WHALE JUICE. I 100% buy that they chose to follow the Captain because the Captain is always right and even when She does horrible things Her understanding is elevated above ours. And if Her fight is our fight, then surely it is ok for us to die here.

I feel like this is also a criticism that only I care about but why is the story suddenly like 'oh revenge is bad don't do revenge'? Like, I get it revenge is bad and that was kinda the point of Moby Dick. BUT WE HAVE LITERALLY DONE SO MUCH REVENGE AND REVENGE WAS KINDA SINCLAIR'S WHOLE THING AND IT'S PROBABLY GONNA BE HEATHCLIFF'S! Why is revenge suddenly bad and 'oh no it makes you just like the other person' no it does not Sinclair did not suddenly become genocidal because he kept trying to murder Kromer. Is revenge only bad when it's successful? IDK, I just hate narrative inconsistency and this immediately jumped out at me.

Overall, I really liked this Canto! I have my problems with it, but they are relatively minor compared to all it does well.

#limbus company #limbus company spoilers #ishmael #outis #ahab #starbuck #queequeg #I love her so much #heathcliff #BIG FUCKING WHALE #the indigo elder

[diedikind]

jun wu in-depth character analysis

this is a repost from 2022 from my old acc which tumblr locked.

-

Jun Wu never understood what he truly wanted.

【“You’re right, I don’t understand,” Guoshi said. “It’s been so many years; you’ve been a god and you’ve been a ghost king. All that should be killed are dead, all that you’ve wanted is in your hands, so why are you doing this to yourself? What exactly do you want? What do you want to prove?”

Hearing this, a flash of confusion appeared on Jun Wu’s face. 】 (Chapter 240)

On the surface, it seemed as if Jun Wu wanted Xie Lian to follow his footsteps. After all, the first time Mei NianQing asked Jun Wu what he wanted, "[…] he said that he want[ed] [Xie Lian] to become his perfect successor. If there was anyone in the world who could understand him completely, it was [Xie Lian]. Once he succeeded, then [Xie Lian] would never betray him[.]"(Chapter 219) Indeed, Bai Wuxiang always told Xie Lian to "come to [his] side" (Chapters 187, 188, 189) Because when Xie Lian said "body in abyss, heart in paradise", it was like a stab to the chest for Jun Wu (in fact, "stab to the chest" is what the characters Zhu Xin, his sword, means; Xie Lian also pierced Jun Wu through the heart with Zhu Xin during their ultimate battle) because when Jun Wu's own body was in abyss, his heart could not be in paradise. He desparately wanted to show that he wasn't alone in this. How can anyone, even the most kind-hearted Xian Le, have their heart in paradise when their body is in abyss? How can anyone, having gone trough so much pain and suffering, not make the same decisions he himself did? Jun Wu needed Xie Lian to follow his path to validate himself.

But which self?

You see, that's the problem. Jun Wu didn't have a sense of self. "The God-Pleasing Warrior wore a golden mask, playing the role of the number one martial god of a thousand years who subdued evil: The Heavenly Martial Emperor, Jun Wu.”The real Jun Wu pleased the gods just like his impressionist did. Except when Xie Lian leaped to catch the falling Hong Hong'er, the mask fell off -- it stayed on for Jun Wu. Jun Wu kept wearing the mask, hiding his true face. He smashed all the mirrors in the Wuyong Palace, afraid to meet his reflection; he hated when anyone called him by his previous title after that. He never processed his emotions, releasing them into the early kiln, projecting them onto Xie Lian. The black ghost of Jun Wu on Yinian Bridge asked three questions: What is this place? Who Am I? What is to be done? The white ghost of Jun Wu is Bai WuXiang, wherein the characters WuXiang means "no face". He did not have his own face, his own identity, but that of others -- the human face disease. If the living people of Wuyong placed their expectations on their prince, then the deceased burdened him with their resentful spirits. He had always been for the people: when they adored him, he wanted to save them; when they despised him, he wanted to destroy them. His actions depended on external values. He had no sense of self. Jun Wu never knew what he himself truly wanted.

 His names were Jun Wu and Bai Wuxiang.

The dichotomy that is his identity caused him to go crazy. God and ghost. So much love and so much hate. Half crying, half smiling. The Heavenly Martial Emperor and the White-Clothed Calamity……

The Prince of Wuyong.

Perhaps only Mei Nianqing knew this side of him.【Xie Lian felt when he was addressing the other as "His Highness", he wasn't talking about “Jun Wu” nor “White No-Face”, but that young Crown Prince of two thousand years prior.】(Chapter 217) That young Crown Prince, covered his face up with a mask, protected his body in white armour, froze his heart beneath layers of Mt. Tonglu snow. Lest we forget that "The widespread backstory of 'The Heavenly Martial Emperor' in the mortal realm, his background, his literary references, his interesting hearsays, appearance, character…[were] all fake.”(Chapter 219) "Jun Wu" was the shell of a man. And oh, how Mei NianQing missed the real him, so much so that the characters NianQing means "miss you". The Guoshi of Xianle once told his disciple, “Remember: when humans ascend, they are still human; when they fall, they are still human.”(Chapter 68). In addition to hitting one of the central themes of TGCF head on, Mei NianQing was, in a sense, speaking about Jun Wu. Between all the forms -- god to ghost -- Mei NianQing appreciated the human Jun Wu most. He was the only person who saw him as human.

And perhaps that was what Jun Wu wanted all along.

The Prince of Wuyong could not stand being "accused […] that he'd changed, that he'd forgotten his heart, that he was no longer the Highness of the past. Those words truly executed the heart." (Chapter 218) And if you were wondering, yes, the characters used for "executed the heart" are Zhu Xin, the name of his sword. In the Kiln:

【White No-Face replied quietly, “With his appearance, neither man nor ghost, no one would treat him with sincerity, so staying in this world was suffering in itself.”

Suddenly, Xie Lian said, “Your Royal Highness?”

“...”

In that instant, Xie Lian could tell; that creature probably wanted to answer to that address, but he held back.】 (Chapter 199)

When Bai Wuxiang said "with his appearance, neither man nor ghost, no one would treat him with sincerity", he wasn't just talking about Lang Ying. He was talking about himself. Xie Lian called him by his previous title, and Bai Wuxiang wanted to answer. He didn't because he thought it was too late to turn back. He had already traveled too far down the path of destruction. Yet, when Jun Wu was finally defeated, "[Xie Lian] actually noticed a trace of relief on Jun Wu’s face, as if a heavy burden was let go. He couldn’t help but wonder—perhaps, to be defeated by someone, to end these relentless days of brokenness and madness, was possibly Jun Wu’s wish deep down." (Chapter 240).

That should answer our question -- which self did Jun Wu want to validate? On the surface, it seemed as if Jun Wu wanted Xie Lian to follow his path of destruction. Beneath it all -- perhaps unconsciously -- he wished Xie Lian could be proof that the Crown Prince of Wuyong wasn't so stupid in his dream after all.

He gifted Xie Lian Hong Jing, the sword that can reveal a ghost's true identity. He never bothered to repair the crack in his armour, the area where Xie Lian told Hua Cheng to attack. And when Xie Lian told him that the trick he used to defeat him was called Shattering Boulders on the Chest, Jun Wu replied, "Beautiful."

If Xie Lian gave himself three days to search for a reason -- the man who gave him the bamboo hat -- to not unleash the human face disease onto Yong An, then Jun Wu spent two thousand years trying to convince himself. In the end, Xie Lian became the man who gave Jun Wu the bamboo hat. Xie Lian stared right into the eyes of the abyss and offered a hand.

To quote Zhihu (a Chinese platform) users:

"Xie Lian is a ray of light in the darkness, and Jun Wu is the darkness with a ray of light in his heart. You and I are both born under the Ominous Star and die against the will of heaven. My inner demon is a raging fire, and your rebirth a torrential rain. For thousands of years, no one has been worthy to slay the hatred inside me except you."

"He is glad that Xie Lian beat him, which shows that Xie Lian's path is also feasible.

It works.

I don't have a chance to take that route but you can.

You did it.

You succeeded.

You can create a better world. "

"Jun Wu gives Xie Lian the black sword, and Xie Lian gives Jun Wu the bamboo hat.

I give you the sword that accompanied me when I was the Crown Prince,

You give me the hand that pulls me out of the abyss. "

"You want to use Xie Lian to affirm yourself.

You don't want Xie Lian to follow your broken path to affirm your current self.

Instead, you hope that Xie Lian will still stick to his heart after facing so many things, so as to affirm the Prince Wuyong back then.

In the rainstorm,  we receive a bamboo hat.

Good.

You are unlike me. "

#tgcf #heaven official's blessing #jun wu

[raayllum]

Anyway this isn't like an Official Literary Thing but I've talked with my old English profs about it / have been using it for fanon ATLA meta since like 2018 and thus thought it might be useful for others for meta / conceptualization purposes

Going to be using both ATLA and TDP as examples to help out, but let's dig into the concept of

primary, secondary, & tertiary foils

For example, the primary foils in both ATLA and TDP are Zuko-Aang and Viren-Callum, respectively. This is backed up by framing, plot arcs, what episodes and sometimes entire seasons are built around, etc. Zuko and Aang are both visually marked (scar, arrow) boys living in exile and unable to return home / to what they once knew, they are the main way the series explores concepts of destiny ("is it your own destiny or is it a destiny someone else has tried to force on you?" applies to Zuko as Aang's enemy and to Aang as a violent Avatar) and a plethora of other things, interacting in approximately 13/61 episodes in the series but having their bond/dynamic reinforced in many other episodes than that ("Bitter Work" and "The Storm" in particular).

Viren and Callum are very similar, being another antagonist-turned atonement arc and protagonist pair. S2 follows them operating in parallel (2x01 shutting a door in their face with magic/politics, engaging in dangerous behaviour in pursuit of magic but backing off in 2x04, reneging that choice and following through in 2x07, being faced with mirrors in 2x08, and getting magical upgrades in 2x09, even if Viren does so by embracing dark magic/Aaravos and being subsequently chained down, further while Callum has rejected it and unlocks the Sky arcanum, being subsequently freed). Season four and season five have merely cranked it up further by framing/paralleling S4 and S5 Callum further to Arc 1 Viren in framing, fears, and choices, as well as framing him in opposition to S4 and S5 Viren, allowing them to switch places, as Viren swears off all dark magic just as Callum opens that door back open within an episode of each other in S5.

However, these are hardly each other's only foil relationships, even if they are the most prevalent. This is where secondary and tertiary foils can come in handy.

For example, Soren has parallels to both Callum and Rayla. In arc 1, he and Rayla switch roles from a sworn protector turned killer turned back again, and a sworn killer sworn fervent protector, respectively. Soren and Callum are both greatly depleted in 2x07 thanks to following Viren's path (for Soren, it's escalating violence in a situation he can't win, and for Callum, it's dark magic) causing them to have big moments of reflection in 2x08. They are also both the older brothers who escape their fathers' mantles of dark mage and king, leaving those burdens uniquely on their younger siblings' shoulders of Claudia and Ezran. And Ezran is a parallel to Rayla of someone who is good hearted enough it gets them into trouble as well as their duties/devotion to world ("I have to go back home" + "I have to go after him" / "I feel like I'm letting everyone down" "I failed them, I let them all down" / "It's not fair you have to go through this alone" "I knew I had to be strong alone"). And of course, Callum and Rayla are big foils for each other as well, switching largely in the same manner that Viren and Callum do.

This is similar to how Aang also parallels Katara (cultural endurance, anger, and mercy) and Azula (elevated prodigy who creates resentment, freed and defeated by Katara from an icy confine) in ATLA, Toph parallels both Mai and Yue (who likewise parallel each other, all rich girls forced into a manner of repression due to their status and families, with various stages of breaking free & self sacrifice), and how Zuko parallels Katara (compassionate, sometimes hot headed, had to struggle more for their bending abilities) and Sokka (older brother to more 'talented' younger sister, missing mother and wanting to prove themselves to their fathers).

Typically when looking at plot and character arcs, primary foils are better indicators of how a character may swap with another or where they may end up, for ex: Azula and Katara are primary foils and this sets up both the Book 2 and Book 3 finales. In Book 2, Zuko chooses/helps Azula defeat Katara (and Aang), and Azula kills Aang; Katara, as her foil, is the one who saves him. Then, in Book 3, Zuko chooses/helps Katara defeat Azula, and then is also saved by her. Tertiary and secondary foils tend to be more complementary / help buff up theme for shorter episode arcs than series spanning stuff.

We see this again in S3 and S5 Callum and Viren, where S3 ends with Viren at his literal lowest and Callum at his literal highest, whereas in S5, they have the aforementioned dark magic trade off. You can also see this in smaller ways with characters like Rayla and Claudia (who I'd probably say are secondary for each other, but you really could make an argument for primary) switch in 4x09 and 5x09, with Claudia restoring Rayla's family to her whereas Rayla's defeat of Claudia is, in the mage's mind, why she ultimately loses her father / Claudia prioritizing her family over everything, whereas Rayla puts in the world first in S5.

Anyway it's fun and useful - who do you think certain characters primary, secondary, or tertiary foils are? Why would you categorize each one in each way, are there multiple of each? Etc, etc. It can also be very good for book planning with a large cast ;)

#tdp #the dragon prince #atla #the english major strikes again #writing advice #mini meta #nothing formal but. hopefully helpful word vomit lmao

[witch-manor]

Finding Voice Amidst Silence

When I finished reading Deborah Levy's memoir 'Things I Don't Want to Know' on my recently acquired Kindle, a profound restlessness overcame me. This wasn't a book to be simply read and shelved; it demanded reflection and action. The power of Levy's words left me yearning to pen my thoughts. The book, with its striking blue cover, had often appeared on various reading and blogging platforms. Interestingly, it became the first eBook I read on my Kindle Paperwhite—a thoughtful early birthday gift from my father.

Levy's memoir instantly ensnares the reader. Her prose, elegant and evocative, is like an oasis for the parched soul. The topics she explores are simultaneously unsettling and soothing, perplexing and enlightening, somber yet uplifting.

The memoir is an amalgamation of womanhood and writing. Levy masterfully interweaves personal history, political theory, and keen observations on the challenges faced by women writers in the 21st century. Framed as a response to George Orwell's 1946 essay "Why I Write," Levy's narrative, though echoing similar themes, adopts a more intimate and less overtly political tone. She navigates through the intricacies of being a female author in today's world, addressing identity, motherhood, and the struggle for recognition in a predominantly male literary sphere.

Levy's definition of contemporary womanhood resonated deeply: "As miserable as the twenty-first-century Neo-Patriarchy made us feel. It required us to be passive but ambitious, maternal but erotically energetic, self-sacrificing but fulfilled – we were to be Strong Modern Women whilst being subjected to all kinds of humiliations, both economic and domestic. If we felt guilty about everything most of the time, we were not sure what it was we had actually done wrong." This encapsulates the paradoxical demands and emotional toll faced by women in contemporary society.

'Things I Don't Want to Know' is more than a memoir; it is a mirror reflecting the multifaceted experience of womanhood in modern society. Levy's narrative is a beacon for understanding the inner workings of a woman's mind and the societal forces that shape it. This book is not just a read; it's an experience, an introspective journey into the essence of being a woman in the contemporary world.

#studyspo #studyblr #dark acadamia aesthetic #english literature #vintage book room #reading #booklr #bookblr #book quotes #bookworm #books and reading #book review #writeblr #writing #writerscommunity

[poimandresnous]

Lectio Divina and How That Looks in My Praxis

Lectio Divina is a Christian meditative practice within the mystical circles of the faith. It is Latin for “divine reading.” These more esoteric interpretations and scriptural practices were believed to stretch as far back as the 3rd century CE by Origen of Alexandria (185CE—253CE). The four-step method we know today was formalized by the Christian monk Gugio II in the 12th century. Not sure when the fifth step was added, but given that Gugio was a monk, I guess it makes sense why he would stop just at four.

So, when diving into wordy, philosophical texts such as the Dao de Jing, or Corpus Hermeticum, one may obviously want to pursue these texts from an analytical and intellectual perspective. While that kind of point of view has its time and place, it indeed “misses the mark,” so to speak, on what and how these texts should be read and experienced.  Now Hanegraaff proposes that early academics viewed the Hermetic corpora as nothing more than a “literary phenomenon” with no actual practitioners. This was obviously due to how these texts didn’t seem to have canonical views and that the texts do not display a dogmatic structure resembling something like Christianity or Islam. He proposes that there was indeed a Hermetic Spirituality rather than some modern example of a “school of hermeticism” with many students diligently copying notes. This is evident in the only known “Hermetic practitioners” we can name today: Theosobia, Zosimus, and Iamblichus. We indeed see that Hermeticism was just as practical and involved much praxis as philosophical thought.  I can’t say much about the scholarship in Daoism, but we have more evidence of Daoist praxis of which is heavily tied to Chinese folk magic.

From the beginning of my journey, I knew Hermeticism was right for me, it took me about a year to really settle into it and solidify my praxis around a Hermetic framework, so I wish to keep it that way. One thing I know that I, and a lot of other people I converse with, sort of mirror traditions and faiths that really embody what a Hermetic praxis looks like, as the evidence for what I have, as a Hermeticist, is that of the teachings of Iamblichus and Zosimos to Theosobia. We know philosophy and reading was prerequisite for Iamblichus in his apology of Theurgy in his Response to Porphyry, but mere intellection alone cannot raise us up to the gods and ultimately to the Platonic Forms. “…for it is not pure thought that unites the theurgist to the gods.” (DM II.11).  For Iamblichus, intellectual pursuits were not the primary goal to us to return to the gods.

To put that off the way, what are the four steps to Lectio Divina as established by Gugio II? They are as follows (Latin on the left—English on the right).

Lectio—Reading

Mediatio—Meditation

Oratio—Prayer

Contemplatio—Contemplate

And the Fifth step is Actio- Action.

I will link another article explaining these steps in more detail, under a Hermetic understanding, as the purpose of this musing is just to reflect on what this practically looks like in my practice. (See my Twitter page for the link).

Before I begin my Lectio, my readings, I start with a prayer. This prayer was gifted to me by a friend many months ago, and I have edited it since then. My version of the prayer is as follows:

O God, teach me gnosis so I may know you in all your holy forms. Grant me the essence of the Prophets’ understanding, the eloquence of their memory, and the quick comprehension of your archangels. O God, bless me with your light of wisdom and quick experience, liberate me from the darkness of doubt, and open the fates of your light, O God of the Worlds.

Likewise, here is a Taoist mantra to recite before you begin a Lectio Divina, translated by a friend from a Taoist Discord Server:

誦經密咒

貪羅鬱羅，符無蘇陀。太沖太極，陰陽抱和。

出有入無，鬼神莫測。出生入死，變化自然。

元始混炁，玄中之玄。上干有頂，下洞太淵。

誦之一徧，沈痾自痊。鍊魂育魄，真陽自全。

齋戒禮誦，萬過飛仙。無上密咒，萬神綿綿。

心中心咒，重得宣傳。貪羅洞盟，與道合真。

玉清上極，梵炁氤氳。分靈布炁，降注臣身。

形神俱妙，變化飛昇。一如令格，統攝萬靈。急急如律令。

English:

"Recite the secret mantra, (the name of the mantra)

The entanglement of desire and sorrow, talismans offer no aid..

Supreme void, supreme polarity, yin and yang embrace harmony.

Outward is being, Inward is non-being, ghosts and deities can’t find or predict it.

Outward is life, Inward is death, it's natural transformations.

Primordial chaos energy, the mysterious center of the mysterious.

Above, reach the celestial peak; below, touch the deep abyss.

Recite it throughout; ailments self-heal.

Refine the Hun, nurture the Po, true yang becomes complete.

Abstinence, chanting, transcend the mundane.

Supreme secret mantra, myriad gods abound.

The mind that stays centered and be with the mantra, will attain the state of legend.

The net of desires has holes, united with the true Tao.

Jade purity ultimate ascent, Silence energy pervades.

Share spirit and give energy, descend it down to my body.

Form and spirit are both wonderous, transformations soaring.

Unified like the command, encompassing myriad spirits.

Please follow my orders."

This prayer is only said with the purpose that I will be “divinely reading” a chapter from the Corpus Hermeticum or Dao de Jing.

After reading a chapter from either text, I will meditate on them. The way it is described within the Christian tradition, this looks like after just basely reading the texts, you revisit the quotes and passages that didn’t make much sense or the passages that resonate with you, and the goal is to explore those feelings that are invoked in the reading. Here, I employ an act of pondus, Latin for pondering. This stage of the Lectio Divina in my praxis involves much emotion and self-reflection brought about by revisiting and further pondering those chapters and passages I have just read.  

After my meditation, we enter the Oratio (prayer) step. I repeat the same prayer from above and further pray; since today is Tuesday, and I honor Anpu on Tuesday, I will continue with prayers in accordance with the great god of the scales. I observe a deity every day of the week, as this helps me keep my praxis more organized than praying to many deities every day. These prayers will include pre-written and informal ones to the god to help me further understand the words I have just read and meditated on.

Next, we come into Contemplatio. The way this looks for me is after reading a chapter and further pondering the passages that struck me as odd or true, I equip my shroud and gown, sit in the dark with earplugs, close my eyes, and meditate and sit with those words. So if I finish reading chapter 37 of the Dao de Jing, the terms and phrases I have underlined, such as: “Listen, with this unvarnished simplicity without a name, there will be no desires. Without desires, there will be peace, and all under heaven will be settled independently.” I will meditate on these words, silently reciting them repeatedly for 10-20 minutes.

When the rain noises on my phone alert me to return to my senses and close out the Cotemplatio stage, Gugio II would have me stop here. But like I said, there is a 5th step to this Lectio Divina Process, and I’m not sure when this 5th step was added. Regardless, I now enter the Actio phase. How does one put these words that we have effectively eaten, chewed, sat with, and digested into action?  This four-step process brings about a great humility of the heart and soul. So when one effectively participates in a “Divine Reading” as prescribed with the guidelines proposed by Gugio II, this great humbling leads to greater and more discoveries of the Self, I purpose. As I’m struck with a great sense of humility, I am called to act for myself and better myself. Let’s return to chapter 37 of the Dao de Jing, how to be “without desire” in the mundane, everyday world?  Whenever I’m struck with great passions and desires, whether positive or negative, I refer to the simplicity of reciting surahs and Hermetic maxims to help me return to a “desireless” state of mind. To what degree do I come “desireless”? Well… it’s not much. But the purpose here is to actively take our readings and intellects and apply them for something greater than ourselves, something ineffable and so transcendent it can’t be spoken of; for even the one who has come to understand The Great, i.e., God cannot speak on it. (SH 1)

#lectio divina #daoism #hermeticism

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

24-Karat Harrison | BODY BACK Update #3

THE WRITING UPDATE WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR (I’M WE)!

Let's chat chapter 3 of my literary fiction novella, BODY BACK! Harrison stares at himself in so many bathroom mirrors, gets down to Don't Cha (Pussycat Dolls), tries to forget the man he once was, reclaims himself through excess, & more! Post under the cut!

Logline: After an argument with his mother draws him much too close to the past, Harrison turns to Jeremiah to help him develop a gilded persona.

Update 1 | Update 2

BODY BACK taglist (please ask to be added or removed :))

@thelivingdeceased @writinglittlebeastss @cuntylittlesalmon @obssesedwithscandaledits @jaydewritesfiction @keira-is-writing @onomatopiya @dustyplotbunnies @euphoniouspandemonium @rowansghost @strangerays @rodentwrites @wildswrites @saltwaterbells

Random thoughts turn into...

A couple weeks ago, I was oversharing in my tags and in the process of doing so, came up with the phrase "24-karat harrison."

#I don't drink but I can positively say drunk rachel would 100% be just harrison like 24 karat harrison #actually going to get him to describe himself as 24 karat harrison in the next bb chapter fantastic this was a productive random thought

AND SO 24K HARRISON WAS BORN!

What does it mean to split yourself into two facets, one polished, one unpolished? What could you do if YOU were "24-karat" for a day? This phrase instantly shaped the entire direction of this chapter.

Also, as a poet, I cannot overlook how wonderfully "24-karat" and "Harrison" match each other. VISUAL congruency?? Syllabic harmony??? THE ASSONANCE?? He was built for this.

The plot

CW: this is the most *mature content* chapter I've written in BB so there are mentions of sex, drugs, and suicidal ideation.

"24-Karat Harrison" jumps right off the last chapter of BB where Harrison's stormed away from his mother after she drives him to Lonan's apartment (lol). He arrives at Jeremiah's place tired of who he is and in desperate need of a major change.

The chapter is split into two simple halves: scenes in Jeremiah's apartment, and scenes in a Las Vegas nightclub. How Harrison manages to get into so many shenanigans in these two locations alone astounds me! :)

Scene A:

Harrison turns up on Jeremiah's doorstep soaking wet from the rain. He's looking for a distraction :) & Jeremiah provides :)

Scene B:

A Haremiah pillow talk moment that ends abruptly when Harrison asks Jeremiah if he has Tylenol???? (romantic king /s)

In scene A, Harrison noticed Jeremiah hosted a party. Here, he asks him why he wasn't invited, and Jeremiah suggests it's because he seems too quiet to party

Scene C:

In an attempt to manufacture a more confident personality, Jeremiah helps style Harrison, complete with a fur coat and cowboy hat (horrifying).

Scene D:

Harrison retreats to the bathroom while he and Jeremiah wait for their ride to the club. He's not confident despite the new outfit and goes feral on Jeremiah's hair products, makeup, cologne etc. He finally sees 24-Karat Harrison in the mirror and is pleased.

Scene E:

At the club, Harrison and Jeremiah run into Biyu, Jeremiah's friend from Chapter 6 of Moth Work. His confidence is shot when she suggests he's quiet despite his new persona.

Scene F:

Harrison dances with Jeremiah, but is unable to shake Biyu's comments. He presses Jeremiah for validation, but Jeremiah wants to have a good night, not therapize the man he's seeing.

As Harrison continues to pester, Jeremiah reunites with his friends and is drawn into a (potential) group make out session. Harrison gets overstimulated.

Harrison flees to the club bathroom for reprieve when he again catches his reflection and doesn't recognize himself. His lack of recognition angers him--he's tired of seeing everyone in his face but himself.

A man--Perry--who is one of Jeremiah's friends, interrupts Harrison at the mirror to flirt. Harrison is agitated but drawn to him nonetheless.

Writing process & themes

I talked about how I structure chapters for BODY BACK in THIS post, but essentially, I orbit each scene around a particular theme.

I didn't really know what the theme of this chapter was until yesterday. I'd noticed I kept "repeating beats" throughout this chapter--particularly, Harrison analyzing himself in bathroom mirrors, which happens THREE times. At first, I thought I'd done something wrong because Harrison seemed to keep "backtracking" in narrative which made his psychology seem inconsistent.

By the time I got to the final reflection analyzation though, I realized THAT was the theme--bobbing between extremes when you're in the middle of an identity crisis.

What Harrison doesn't admit to himself in this chapter is that he's lost himself since he broke up with Lonan. The only Harrison he knows is the Harrison who chased Lonan across the country, put his needs above his own, etc. Now that Lonan's gone, Harrison doesn't know himself at all. This is why he reaches toward 24k Harrison, a caricature of himself painted in broad, unsubtle strokes--at the very least, he won't forget himself if he looks ridiculous.

But it doesn't work! This is because versions of who he "was" keep popping up. He can't help but feel like the vulnerable person he was when he was with Lonan.

Therefore, we really explore extremes in 24kH. Extreme pleasure VS extreme hollowness (Jeremiah kissing him in the doorway and then immediately walking away in scene A). In scene C he’s hot but he’s not. He wants to sleep with himself but he’s not desirable at all. He's alright with begging but wants to be begged. He wants to live a very specific life where he buys cowboy hats for livestock and eats ice cream with his hands but he also wants to die. He’s Jesus but he’s discarded bits of gold (THANK YOU for pointing that out @jaydewritesfiction!). He’s twinkling but he’s the dullest person in the room.

It took me a while to actually see I'd been doing that--purposefully creating contradictions in narrative--the ENTIRE chapter. Smh Rachel, good job with all those literary devices you didn't realize you were using.

This chapter took me a lot longer to write than I wanted it to (about a month), but it's also because it's SO long (7k, which is currently half the manuscript). I'm so happy with how it turned out though because its creation represents EVERYTHING I love about it: impulsivity, chasing highs, uncovering darker folds of you the longer you sit inside manufactured gold.

Music

Music was SOOO important in the conception and understanding of 24kH for me, more than usual! In fact, I've made a very specific playlist that is a track-by-track breakdown of the chapter (in order).

Here's a quick breakdown of each song & where they go in the chapter!

1. Nobody by Greyson Chance (studio version) - Backbone of the ENTIRE chapter!!!! Chapter starts with this song.

2. Hands by Greyson Chance - Haremiah make out ANTHEM <3. Also in scene A.

3. Hellboy by Greyson Chance - End of scene A where Haremiah gets... intense lol love <3

4. Fade Into You by Mazzy Star - This is on the radio while Haremiah gets DOWN. Start of scene B.

5. Aloe Vera by Greyson Chance - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song. Middle of scene B.

6. I Got So High That I Saw Jesus by Noah Cyrus - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song but it's getting sadder & more internal. End of scene B.

7. Nobody by Greyson Chance (live version) - CRITICAL song for this chapter so it appears twice!!! Live version is Harrison at the start of scene C.

8. Black Mascara by Greyson Chance - Harrison analyzing himself in the mirror ANTHEM (this song is also the backbone of this chapter). Harrison goes feral in the bathroom because he thinks he's better off when he does what he fucking wants etc.

9. I'm Too Sexy by Right Said Fred - Actually this is supposed to be the Shrek version :) so :) anyway self-explanatory. Rest of C.

10. Welcome to the DCC by Nothing But Thieves - Walking into the club anthem (scene E).

11. SexyBack by Justin Timberlake - Dancing and feeling real good about it (beginning of scene F).

12. Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls - SELF-EXPLANATORY don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like 24-karat Harrison (middle of scene F).

13. Sex & Other Drugs by Greyson Chance - Fleeing to the bathroom anthem (for sex & other drugs??? maybe; rest of scene F).

I also wanted to talk about the significance of the track Nobody because... it's this WHOLE chapter! I wrote this tag essay about it a couple weeks ago when I shared an excerpt where Harrison sees himself as a trophy while in the 24kH getup (excerpted later in the post):

#also there are many greyson chance easter eggs here #the trophy bit i've already mentioned is a reference to the live version of “nobody” #where he goes 'i'm not the trophy you think i am' #which is actually not in the studio version #ANYWAY the LIVE VERSION is a sad piano ballad of THAT #so anyway I love that the trophy line #was cut from the studio version but is in the sad piano version lol #don't know how to more articulately describe harrison's psychology in BB except for... that

The idea of "I'm not the trophy you think I am" really is the thematic crux of this chapter. Harrison KNOWS he's not good enough for Jeremiah. He also knows he wasn't good enough for Lonan. Everyone's looking at him like he's a saint somehow--to Lonan he was, only mattering when he was long martyred. Jeremiah sees too much good in Harrison, good that Harrison doesn't see in himself. At moments, Harrison IS confident. He IS the trophy. But then there are those sobering moments when reality hits him and he knows he just isn't (SAD). It's why he creates 24kH because HE could be good enough (and the truth is, he still isn't).

Excerpts

Jeremiah greets Harrison at the door lol:

Jeremiah might be the only man alive who’d open the door for someone as soggy as Harrison.

He’s shirtless and damp from the shower, a green toothbrush lodged against his gums. His heathered sweats drape low on his waist, bronze skin varnished with moisturizer. And Harrison likes this—a man mid nighttime routine—but what he likes more is how unstartled Jeremiah is when he grabs him by the hips and kisses him so hard, bristles jolt against his tongue. What’s he looking for in another man’s mouth—heavens, gods, a prayer? Fuck if he knows. What matters are Jeremiah’s chiclet teeth, Jeremiah’s healthy gums, the way in one gulp, they all become Harrison’s. And this is what normal is, yeah—Jeremiah a minty man ensconced by a bare tungsten bulb, Harrison his midnight lover, both of them in need of the other simply because they are here, alive, men.

Jeremiah gives Harrison whiplash lmao show him king!!!:

But in one dizzy breath, they’re separated, and the thought is gone as quickly as Jeremiah who slinks through his apartment like an unbothered shorthair, telling Harrison to lock the front door, to follow him to the bathroom.

Harrison’s ears buzz. He stares at the living room, wipes his mouth of foam, his lips tingling with menthol. Jeremiah hosted a party earlier. A game of parcheesi scattered on the coffee table, the kitchen sink teetering with mismatched cups, saucers. Cigarette butts pock a strawberry-shaped ashtray like seeds. Harrison salivates, tempted for a moment to filch around for one salvageable enough to relight. It’s only when Jeremiah calls his name that he shakes out of his stupor. But still, by the time he reaches the beaded bathroom door, he has to distract his mouth by digging his lips into the scalloped moulding.

Jeremiah crooks a brow at him in the mirror, then turns to the sink, spits. He’s gargling with mouthwash when he asks a question.

“What?” Harrison asks. His head hurts. Jeremiah would have a bottle of acetaminophen in his medicine cabinet, wouldn’t he?

Jeremiah holds up a hand as he swishes, rubbing at spats of toothpaste on the mirror with his wrist. He spits again. “You go swimming or something?”

Jeremiah is an ANGEL in the bathroom:

Jeremiah leans against the counter, haloed by one of three lightbulbs that isn’t blown out over the vanity. Harrison offered to replace them a week ago and still hasn’t done it, perhaps because the low light is more inviting, the way it cups Jeremiah like mist. Though maybe any lighting would be inviting to Harrison when he’s like this—in such high need of ravaging something.

Jeremiah wets his lips, glancing away with a mute smile before he looks right back. “Or is the rain really bad?” Harrison takes a step forward, and then another, another. Suzanna could be looking for him, calling everyone she knows in this city to help bring her son home. She won’t sleep tonight, and Harrison won’t either but for different reasons. In front of him, Jeremiah is as sunny as he is unaware, his curls plump around his ears, a man Harrison would like to undo with one look—to make beg, like gods make their believers do.

Lonan Clark behaviour:

“You’re like a wet dog,” says Jeremiah. A breath wheezes in his chest.

Harrison looks up at him. From this angle, bowed against another man’s body, he could look like a believer in supplication. Please go gently. Please spare my life. “Thank you.”

CUTE Haremiah interrupted by Harrison's terrible timing:

Now Jeremiah nuzzles into his ribs. He smells like soap and orange rinds, his tattooed skin downy under Harrison’s callused fingertips. He traces an empty fishbowl on Jeremiah’s arm with his pinkie, a half-finished anatomical heart with his thumb, a wobbly dandelion with his ring finger, the cherub guarding his elbow with his index. I love you, he could say. They’ve known each other for two weeks, hung out less than ten times, spent most of their time examining each other’s hands. But this could be love, right? Jeremiah’s made him breakfast every night he’s stayed over—peach French toast, hot muesli, black coffee. Every time they watch film noir on Jeremiah’s two-seater, they simply find each other’s hair and twirl, sometimes meet each other’s mouths and hover there, these clement weekend lovers.

“You got any painkillers?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah jerks against his skin, his nose knocking into Harrison’s shoulder blade. He hikes onto his elbow, brows furrowed like he’s about to say something when his eyes narrow on Harrison’s finger.

“You’re wearing my ring,” he says, leaning toward Harrison’s hand for a better look.

“Am I?”

If I were Harrison I would simply just forget about Lonan because JEREMIAH???

Jeremiah should paint his room sage. The cherrywood picture frames warrant it. In the corner, a gold mirror flares like Jesus’ spoked halo. Two crinkled issues of the New York Times on the vanity, an ivory sheepskin throw collapsed in the corner. Jeremiah exists here mid-motion—the condom wrappers on the hardwood leading to the mattress like Hansel’s pebbles, sunglasses spoked in a magazine rack, a used cotton ball stained with black nail polish on the windowsill. Harrison absorbs it all on his back like rapidly flattening dough. He could be part of this room, too. Last Monday, Jeremiah suggested he move in. “You can sleep in the bathtub,” he joked, but kissed the back of Harrison’s neck. He’d smelled bright like the leather polish he’d buffed onto his bomber jacket. “Or elsewhere.”

Jeremiah as a trophy & LMFAO tYLeNoL???

Now, Harrison weakly reaches for Jeremiah’s hair, winds a curl around his finger. Jeremiah is soft like brioche and as dazzling as a mirror ball. And what’s the difference between worshipping him and Jesus if they are both men? At least Jeremiah is here, a trophy in front of him.

“Tylenol?” he whispers.

Cont'd:

Jeremiah places a hand on Harrison’s face. In his eyes, Harrison is insufficient, an edge of a man. Perhaps it’s the headache or Jeremiah’s gentle concern, but after a moment, the feeling is so unbearable that he pulls away and buries his face in the pillow. The mattress springs when Jeremiah rises, and for a moment, Harrison feels suspended in air like a crucified Jesus above the altar. He doesn’t have a face, a body, a heart. He is just dust.

Harrison wants to be a spider so he can finally be a homeowner?? ok same:

He slumps back onto the bed, analyzing the popcorn ceiling when Jeremiah climbs in next to him. He slings an arm around Harrison’s bare shoulders, and they pass the joint back and forth, its scent rich like oregano. The smoke is delicate as a dissipating spider’s web, pale and gauzy like a curtain in morning light. As Harrison smokes, he imagines what it might be like to be an arachnid—the many homes he could make.

Harrison really knows how to ruin a moment pt. 5 bajillion:

There’s a damp spot on the ceiling that’s only visible when car headlights skirt past the building. Harrison’s meant to ask about it, but what would be the point now? It’s not like he could fix it—and if Jeremiah doesn’t look at the right time, he’ll never notice. “You didn’t invite me,” Harrison says.

Jeremiah jumps. From here, he’s a mere lump under the covers, the only physical evidence of him his warm breaths on Harrison’s stomach. “What?” he asks.

Harrison twists the joint, puffs. His tongue feels bloated like his jacket. “To your party.”

A pause. When Jeremiah next speaks, his voice is muffled by the sheets. “I didn’t think that was your scene.” He rests his cheek on Harrison’s sternum, and he’s heavy like the jacket too. “You know. Crowds.”

“What made you think that?”

Jeremiah burrows out from the duvet. Harrison knows he’s trying to look at him, but he’s caught up in the ceiling again, the way that patch ebbs like a candle’s flame. “You’re…”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremiah says, crossing his legs. “Meek.”

Harrison wants to laugh—meek like a lamb, a poplar, a monotonous prairie, a man’s whispered okay, a frail river, a piano’s high C played over and over and over and over and over again—but what comes out instead is a whimper. Jeremiah cups his face again, says something about good things, compliments, the power in mildness. He smells like baby powder now, plumeria—and why is that? He’s a man forever in change even in the simplest of ways, thriving in his evolution. Harrison’s favourite colour has been the same since he was four.

He holds Jeremiah’s jaw to shut him up. His eyes are flecked with topaz today, sienna tomorrow. If Harrison could touch God tonight. If Harrison could believe in something for just a minute.

“Make me feral,” he whispers.

COWBOY HAT??

Jeremiah starts with a new jacket. He’s made it clear that Harrison can’t go clubbing soaking wet, so they rifle through his closet and land on a fur coat that was last dry-cleaned months ago. It’s knee-length, the sleeves wide catacombs, the taupe fur brindled like Eliza’s tortoise-shell ring. Lonan’s ring, technically. In front of his standing mirror, Jeremiah unearths it from the garment bag like it’s a body, holds the hanger in front of Harrison so the fabric drapes off his chest.

“You like it?” asks Jeremiah, cheek pressed to Harrison’s shoulder blade. He’s laid out a tasseled button-up for himself that glitters like hematite in the light, and he’ll dazzle in it, of course—Jeremiah is built for this, the sharpened eyeliners on the bathroom counter, the dented cans of hair mousse, the nail file on the dresser, the ridged perfume atomizer he’ll mist himself with a moment before they leave the apartment. He is sleek beauty, a marbleized man ready to be polished, adored.

And what is Harrison, then? With the fur coat cinched against his body, he could be polished, too, couldn’t he? Sure, he isn’t a gilded icon, but maybe he sees Jesus in his face right now because he has the potential to be, or because at their cores, they’re both sad men. His hair doesn’t have to look like Suzanna’s, but instead like the young bark of cinnamon. And his eyes—they’re not his father’s but his own, an unmarred pool of teal. Maybe he’s a little rough where he should be suave, but that’s hot nowadays, isn’t it? Besides, if Jeremiah sees something angelic in that mirror, then yeah, Harrison could see it too. Forget his cryptic mouth, his hair that’s too long as Suzanna pointed out, his eyes and the way they’re wounded, not like a deer’s in headlights but like a deer’s in death. Forget the scar across his forehead, the way another man’s hands used to touch it not like it was lightning but a pathway to some better place. Sure, Harrison’s no Christ, no Jacob, no God—but why should he be? He’s here under the tungsten bite of Jeremiah’s chandelier, a man in shameless excess, eyes more spangled than this country’s flag. And he could stay here, couldn’t he? He could enjoy staring at himself, not like he’s bronze but like he’s pure gold.

Cont'd (this is so sad LOL):

He straightens, adjusts the fur on his shoulder. In truth, he looks too much like his mother, stands too much like his father, stares too much like Lonan. His hands aren’t soft. He’s got split ends. At best he smells like cigarette smoke, car exhaust, chlorine. But what does Jeremiah see? Maybe someone loveable yeah, maybe someone to cry over. For a moment, Harrison worries the answer is nothing at all.

And then a nose nudges against the back of his neck, Jeremiah muttering about Madonna’s new album, buying new razors, growing his own marijuana. In minutes, they’ll be dancing until the room spirals or until they’re extensions of the other, whichever comes first. And Harrison will love it all because he loves everything about his life—this new jacket, this new man, this face that isn’t a reminder of who used to look at it, this muggy room, this mirror like a portal he could almost step through, this breakthrough because he’s gold. He’s gold.

Harrison steps away from the mirror, presses a hand against his eyeball. He’s going to need another Tylenol. An Ibuprofen for the hell of it. What if Jacob never dreamt of God, made the whole story up? What if Jacob just wanted to run away with his livestock? Harrison could use livestock.

He turns to Jeremiah. “You got a cowboy hat?” he asks.

Harrison making out with himself because that's a normal thing to do:

Funnily, Jeremiah does have a cowboy hat. It’s aptly doused in cow-print, smells like plastic and mulch. In the bathroom, Harrison adjusts its stampede strings around his chin.

He leans against the counter, pressing his thumbs to his cheeks. He pulls at his eye sockets, his skin giving like a tablecloth twisted under the heave of roasted turkey. His eyes are rimmed in scarlet—how many times has he seen Suzanna with these eyes, and do her eyes look like this now? She’s probably looking for him, calling his name out in the night like it’s a prayer she knows won’t be answered. Would he take himself to bed like this? In thirty more minutes when he guzzles a vodka soda, his answer will be absolutely.

Harrison, he mouths to himself in the mirror. The bathroom is filmy or maybe it’s him—he’s in chrysalis, bloated in his own becoming or suffocation or whatever the fuck. The thing is, he doesn’t need a god and might be a king, but he’s also a man with a pounding headache. He tries again, his mouth shifty like cornmeal, like ash: Harrison. What do kings do when they get migraines? Buy a donut? Eat a saint? His eye sockets are vacant, his cuticles spinning into one another, hair sentient from the pool. Harrison. The walls smell like Jeremiah’s hair gel, Jeremiah’s fingerprints, Jeremiah’s latest cologne. In a minute, the paint could start peeling and Harrison could pick up the chips, tack them to his jaw like they’re gold stars or little HELLO my name is stickers. HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is. Harrison. Harrison. Harrison. He kneads his cheeks like he’s sourdough, pinches his eyebrows, goes: Harrison, sticks his fist in his mouth tries again—Harrison. Jeremiah knocks on the door, says something about leaving soon, a friend waiting on them.

Harrison sinks onto his elbows, hovering closer to his reflection. If he were another man, he’d kiss himself, right? Without a thought, he does, mouth glugging against the mirror. He doesn’t need any touch but his own—not Jeremiah’s, not Lonan’s. He’s a man in love with himself, right? He’s a good dancer, never burns pancakes, isn’t afraid of spiders. What’s not to like? When he pulls back, panting, his eyes are watery and he needs a drink now, a god to abandon, a lake to drown in, a coastline to paint, a mother to cry into, a Bible to burn, a guitar string to snap, a dragon tree to kill, a father to remember, a prayer to scream, a place to close his eyes and sleep forever.

He grabs Jeremiah’s eyelash curler off the counter, crimps his lashes so hard he pinches his skin. He doesn’t care. He’s yanking open cupboards and pulling out an eyeshadow palette, smearing silver pigment onto his eyelids, under them. He’s raking a wand of black mascara through his lashes like he’s the grass buried under leaves—like this is the only way to reveal himself. And maybe this is the way, spritzing himself in Jeremiah’s vetiver or orange rinds or baby powder. Harrison. He wants to punch his nose until he bleeds. He wants to kiss himself again.

0 to 100 all the way back to 0 babe:

Harrison meets his eyes in the mirror. Is he an animal? He must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. He could touch himself right here. Or not. He’s barely a man, staring at his face not like it’s his, but like it’s someone else’s. And how tired he is of that. Being a shadow.

He is the MOMENT:

Before he exits the bathroom, he studies his sterling reflection. He’s not who he once was. No Christ, no Jacob, no Jeremiah. And he shouldn’t be. Because he’s twenty-four karat, twinkling, not just otherworldly, unforgiving, untouchable, not just a god or a man—but a trophy at last.

Biyu puts Harrison in his place lmaoo:

By the time they cab to the club, Harrison’s so high he can nearly taste the neon lights. As they slot through the front door with other partygoers like flocking geese, he blinks at the rush of it all—the women comparing press-on nails by the coat-check, the men wearing vinyl and leather and glitter, drenched in cologne and sweat.

“You’re late,” comes a voice which should be familiar to Harrison, but under the thump of bodies, sounds as generic as a bag of baby carrots.

“Fashionably late,” says Jeremiah, his arm slung around Harrison’s furred shoulders. He pulls him close, toward the person, the woman, smells like sea salt, iron, a new set of rings flaring in the blue spotlights. “You remember Harrison?”

As if on cue, Harrison lifts his eyes to Biyu’s, Jeremiah’s friend from the restaurant. Tonight, she wears a gold cowlneck dress, her lipstick the colour of rust. And something’s different about her hair—the sides of her bob shaved, which is more of a relief than he’d like to admit. She’d looked alarmingly like Reeve when they’d met, moved like her, sounded like her. Maybe he’s too high to see it now, but what does it matter—a win is a win.

Harrison tips his hat, already searching for the bar.

“The quiet one,” Biyu says.

His eyes snap back to her. Her pupils are large disks, and if he squints, almost look like they’re pulsating. “What?”

“You were quiet,” she repeats.

Don't Cha!! ft. this:

Harrison dances because he knows exactly how to. To thready vocals, he lulls his arms through the air, drags his palm down Jeremiah’s chest when an electro version of Like a Virgin comes on. On the lighted dance floor he’s nothing but rattling limbs, inelegant turns, raunchy dips. Shifting atop his head: the cowboy hat. In his hand: a vodka soda topped with a maraschino cherry. Through half of Don’t Cha, he holds the red cocktail sword between his teeth like it’s a rose, nudges it against Jeremiah’s lip as they kiss, break apart, kiss again.

“Do you think I’m quiet?” he asks between a spin, his head unspooling like a cylinder of thread. The clang of drums spikes up his throat—soon, he’ll need a refill on the drink. More weed. A crucifix to snap.

Jeremiah twirls under Harrison’s arm, a magnetic man in his tourmaline glister. He could follow any man in this club home tonight with his silver nails, his exposed collarbone. “Kiss me again,” he says, sweating, his fingers hard around Harrison’s shoulders—half from his grip, half from his rings.

Jeremiah is really too patient:

This is what he needs, a consideration of fruit and the man in front of him, all svelte limbs, acidic mouth, sharp eyeliner. As he ducks to In Da Club and shimmies to Waiting for Tonight, he digs a palm into Jeremiah’s cheek—he’s solid like limestone, burnished as bronze, his eyes amber portals like a patch of quicksand.

“Did you tell Biyu about me?” Harrison asks. His head pounds, the music too loud, swelling in his ears like an inflating airbag. He should go back to the bar now. They’ve got whiskey sours, gibsons, margaritas. If he flutters his eyelashes long enough at the bartender, maybe he’ll get a little more than a free drink—that’s fine too. Kelly Clarkson sings about praying, breaking, and he could do both in the hands of someone who smells like blood oranges, tastes like Bible paper, stares like Jesus the moment before he performs a miracle, couldn’t he?

“Focus on me,” Jeremiah says, guiding Harrison closer by the hips, so confident as his wooden Mary bracelet jolts with the movement because he’s here in this blinking room, dancing because he’s twenty-one just like Harrison, because he’s electric, alive, because he’s blinding like noonday sun, steady as a fountain cycling the same water over and over, because he’s unashamed in this brisk light, shocking like the zip of battery acid on a tongue. He doesn’t need to try, melds into the bleating crowd like he’s part of it, and he is. He smells like pomegranates, tastes like cherries the next time Harrison kisses him—Chapstick? Cocktail?—and tomorrow, he’ll rise early for a shift at Greta, slip on his navy uniform polo, his makeup untouched despite everything Harrison will do to him tonight because he’s faultless, not quiet, hair precariously puffed, nails buffed to a glassy sheen. He and Biyu might catch breakfast at dawn, bond over their glittery eyelids, their intrinsic closeness, wonder over poached eggs if he’s worth it—graceless Harrison in this cowboy hat and smudged makeup, his jacket cuffs soaked with vodka soda, his head lolling to the insistent voice of Justin Timberlake.

“Biyu thinks I’m quiet,” Harrison says, knocking back the rest of his drink, his neck cracking. He wants to scratch off his face, replace it with someone else’s. “You think I’m meek. So what is it? Do I need to get a tattoo or something?”

Jeremiah glances around the club, his irises starred by a spotlight. What does he see when he looks out at the crowd? Perhaps he recognizes half of these people—from the way he ordered at the bar to the way he slunk so easily onto the dance floor, Harrison assumes he’s been here before. And maybe it’s not just that he recognizes everyone else on the floor, but that they recognize him in return.

Cont'd but with a lot more mouths:

“Did you hear what I said?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah’s eyes snap back to his, except there’s something hazy there, something tired. “What would a tattoo do for you?”

“I don’t know. Edge? I just think I could—”

And then Jeremiah’s turned away again, right into the arms of someone else—a tanned man with a dense mustache and olive eyes, the man going, “It’s been too long,” and Jeremiah going “It’s been too long,” their grins calcium white, flashing in Harrison’s face. He throws a hand up to his eyes, squints when a second later, the man pulls a woman toward Jeremiah, her hair cropped low and cotton candy pink. She kisses his cheek, says he looks ravishing, he looks like a comet on its way to ignite planet earth, and they’re all holding each other now, friends bopping to Gwen Stefani, admiring each other’s bracelets, thumbs, friends curving toward each other’s ears, kissing each other’s cheeks, each other’s mouths.

Harrison blinks because how many hands do they have now? Every second they seem to multiply—pink hair girl with four, Jeremiah with six. One’s tongue the other’s. Their fingertips fusing. The club fritzes around them like it’s confetti, the lights rippling into a Christmas bow and now there’s a redheaded man running his nose along Jeremiah’s neck, down Jeremiah’s shoulder, wrist, hand. Harrison had just done that back in his apartment, pinned chest-to-chest against him like a monarch fastened to a spreading board, and here Jeremiah is now, enmeshed in touch, in adoration because he should be adored—the men congregating around him now have their priorities straight. If they all got on their knees at Jeremiah’s feet, Harrison would understand. They aren’t exclusive, don’t even know each other’s last names, and besides, how can Jeremiah help how everyone magnetizes around him? Harrison can’t blame them. Jeremiah is illusory under the disco ball’s speckled light, his throat long, biteable, his eyes syrupy in his high. A woman takes him by the shoulder, but not just any woman—Biyu, and her eyes are pinched, analyzing, because she’s looking at Harrison, her glossy crimson nails on Jeremiah’s cheek, and she’s kissing him too now, her body joining the cluster, and it’s good, the way they all roll limbs to synth, the way they turn into each other’s faces and kiss, kiss, kiss. The music clangs, their mouths full of spit. The DJ says to hold your partners close, and they don’t have to. They are not simply together, not simply in chrysalis, but osmosed in their becoming.

Cont'd (GIANT sentence - CW: self harm)

A hand on Harrison’s elbow. He flinches and is surprised to see it’s Jeremiah who’s touched him. How did he get here so fast? Harrison expects a trail of blurry bodies to follow him, but where did everyone go? They’ve dashed from the club like embers scattering from a dulled fire, nowhere to be seen but dangerous anyway and weren’t they all just over there, under there, and are they lonely on the ceiling and how do they plan to get down and is it too loud in here and why is no one using their indoor voices and should he cover his ears and where is his mother now and how did Mary say I love you and did she ever dream of fleeing to Hollywood or speeding down the I-40 or telling Gabriel no and why does everyone worship a god who demands and calls it creation and what’s his name again—Harrison?—and when did his hands sprout from child to whatever he is now and should he dye his hair red, cut his wrists again and is it possible to be young and happy about it and is he still dancing, he’s still dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, and someone’s complimenting his silver eyelids and would he like them to touch him gently and is it hot in here to anyone else and does he taste blood or the ocean and is this what it feels like to die in holy light and Jeremiah’s right in front of him, unkissed, still as dark water, as Lonan in the night, and now he’s holding Harrison’s face, his rings cool against his skin, and he’s kissing him too, tastes like spearmint and chocolate lip gloss, rum and Coke, rusted metal—the mouths of everyone in this room and this isn’t so bad, how their bodies net into each other, how in one breath, Harrison’s teeth clack against Jeremiah’s, and in the next, clack against another man’s and then another’s, his stubble rough, mouth sour, a chandelier earring flailing against his cheek, and then through his ear, his hands wound into cinnamon hair and he could be kissing himself and maybe he is and doesn’t he want that, the floor gelid, the music like cotton wool, their pelvises threaded, the walls caving, their mouths locked, the floor lava, the room too bright, his headache like an earthquake, two pairs of hands rattling to the beat of this bursting room one moment, then clutched together as they follow each other to a dim bathroom.

This section was inspired by @dallonwrites' lyrics in narrative post!!! also soft Felix cameo <3

The room is electric purple, smells like grapes, sweat, flexes under Harrison’s shoes like a sandcastle collapsing, like a sinkhole swallowing a house. Bodies weave across the floor, someone lighting a joint in the corner, someone reciting Sylvia Plath into a paper bag, going, the happening of this happening, going, the earth turns now.

Harrison’s head pounds—he should’ve brought a blister pack of acetaminophen because at least then he’d have something to punch, or he should’ve punched out his own eye by now, disappeared with another man who isn’t Jeremiah and didn’t he try, and where is the man with cinnamon hair now? Harrison turns to look for him, but the room ripples with his movement, shirring in staccato clacks around him like a shaken rice maraca. He’d hoped he’d write his number on a man’s wrist tonight even though he doesn’t have a cell phone—he’d hoped he’d go home with someone who shouts the lyrics to Madonna’s Everybody in twilight’s stillness, a man who’d let the DJ shake him, a man who’d let the music take him. And he could do all of that with Jeremiah—Jeremiah who probably did those things at the party Harrison wasn’t invited to, Jeremiah who knows how to pass off frozen spanakopita as homemade because he’s a good host, Jeremiah who knows how to kick people out of his apartment with kindness, Jeremiah who’s built to be kissed, to be loved. And where is he now? In the artificial light, Harrison hunts for him too—but he’s not in the unhinging bathroom stalls, not in the teal grout, the running sinks, and maybe he never existed at all, missing like Jesus in the tomb—body gone, body gone, body gone.

Cont'd BODY BACK BODY BACK BODY BACK:

Harrison rubs his eyes. His ears still ring from the clatter outside, and he stands at the bathroom’s entrance like a child who’s lost his mother in the mall. Should he sit down? A group of girls form a ring on the floor, chant about Leos, Britney, men. Someone shuffles in past him, knocks into his shoulder by accident, apologizes over and over, their hands clutched against his face—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

He yanks away. Don’t touch me, he wants to say, I don’t want to be touched ever again, but by the time he’s located his mouth, his eyes pulsing to a hi-hat, his nose burning on a cloud of cherry smoke, the person’s gone too. He presses his fingers to his eyes, wishes for a soft bed, a place to land, but then he’s rocking forward, right into someone else.

At first, they just stare at each other. The man’s got the same look in his eye—something gilt, something feral, an identical fear in his mouth. Harrison blinks hard, and the man does too—not a man, actually, but his own reflection.

He approaches the mirror, jolts at the way he touches himself—more carefully than he’s ever been touched before. Who are you? he wants to say. He’d like to leave this place now, the club, Las Vegas, the earth. He’d like to buy himself a pet tarantula, run off a cliffside, eat a tub of ice cream with his bare hands. Why did he come here again? His mind is so quiet. This could be peace. But who is he? In Jeremiah’s bathroom he knew, but now there’s this stranger ahead of him, the person who must be him—someone’s chandelier earring grazing his jaw, the cowboy hat lopsided, mascara running down his cheeks even though he hasn’t cried. Where did you go? he mouths, but he knows. He’s disappeared also like Jesus in the tomb, his limbs vanishing one by one, his skin melting off his hands—body gone, body gone, body gone. He grabs his cheeks, panicked because he’s on fire, gold tossed into the crucible. He’s going to burn to ash. He’s going to need a burial soon. His face has been stolen, his breastbone and knuckles too. A month ago, someone spat him into a basket like his body was ripe for the offertory—body gone, body gone, body gone.

“Back,” Harrison says, nose grazing the spattered mirror. His chest swells, and maybe he is burning, and maybe he’s right here, hidden somewhere in the pinprick of his reflection. “Back,” he repeats. He isn’t thoughtful. He isn’t profound. Maybe that’s fine. He squeezes his tear-duct, sticks out his tongue. He’ll die eventually, let his body disappear, but not right now. “Body back, body back, body back.”

Cont'd ft. Harry-something (CW: mild violence):

“I know you.”

Harrison whips around. In front of him stands a redheaded man—the same redhead who’d held Jeremiah close on the dance floor, trailed his oily nose along his neck. He wears a pair of browline sunglasses, a black vinyl vest draped with silver chains. He holds a clove, its smoke clouding the ruby pinging off his ring finger, his mouth ghosted with what looks like red lipstick.

“What?” Harrison says, jumping when the bathroom door clangs open and in come two more women. He lifts his fingers to his mouth, pulls up a hangnail until it stings.

“I saw you out there,” says the man, taking a puff of his cigarette. “Harry-something?” He looks like a scarlet ibis, strangely translucent. “JJ’s friend.”

Harrison digs his fingertips into his eye socket. His head feels like it’s been cleaved with an axe. “Harrison.”

Redhead smiles, blows smoke into Harrison’s face. “What’d you say?”

“My name is Harrison.”

“I’m Perry,” he says, and Harrison wouldn’t give a fuck if his name was Matt Dillon or Rob Lowe or Nash Baker because he’s blowing smoke into his face again, his clove flailing like a dislocated finger. He gestures to Harrison’s outfit, nodding. “You’re like a one man show.”

Harrison covers his eyes. Maybe he can find a dark hole in this club to dive into, somewhere no one will find him again. “What does that mean?”

Perry’s smile falters momentarily, but then it’s back, all teeth, no lips. “You’ve got this flair. You ever been told that? Weird, but good, it’s—”

The second he purses his lips to blow out more smoke, Harrison grabs him by the throat, pulls him so close he can see a constellation of blackheads on his chin, feel his heart hammering.

Perry yelps, nearly losing his hold on the clove altogether.

Harrison arcs his jaw around his ear. He smells like orchids, freshwater. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Cont'd - Harrison is weird :)

Perry laughs, the sound strangled beneath Harrison’s grip. Smoke fumbles out of his mouth like worms. He really does look like a bird, which in this case, isn’t a good thing. “Noted.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

“You have a hand around my throat.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Well, I'll leave it there lmao!!! Sorry I subjected you to this man, but hope you enjoyed this gigantic update!

FIN. MAGNUM OPUS COMPLETE!

See you soon!

Rachel

#writeblr #writing #amwriting #writerblr #writingupdates #ohhhh harrison #this was so hard to write because of all his bad decisions but also SO FUN FOR THE SAME REASON #PLS TELL ME WHAT U THINK IT'S BEEN ME AND THIS CHAPTER FOR A MONTH ALONE I NEED VALIDATION <3 #next chapter perry gets his moped STOLEN (I wonder by who...) #bodyback

[thethirdromana]

Just how bad were 1890s bestsellers?

Inspired by this post, I was curious to know exactly what the competition looked like for Dracula and The Beetle. Bestselling doesn't always mean good (4 of the 5 bestselling adult fiction books in the UK from 2000 to 2010 were by Dan Brown) so I was wondering... just how not good?

Here are some bestselling books, mostly taken from 'Nineteenth-Century English Best-Sellers: A Further List' by Richard D Altick.

King Solomon's Mines by H Rider Haggard Published 1885, sold 100,000 copies by 1895 and 650,000 by 1925.

It is a curious thing that at my age—fifty-five last birthday—I should find myself taking up a pen to try to write a history. I wonder what sort of a history it will be when I have finished it, if ever I come to the end of the trip! I have done a good many things in my life, which seems a long one to me, owing to my having begun work so young, perhaps. At an age when other boys are at school I was earning my living as a trader in the old Colony. I have been trading, hunting, fighting, or mining ever since. And yet it is only eight months ago that I made my pile. It is a big pile now that I have got it—I don’t yet know how big—but I do not think I would go through the last fifteen or sixteen months again for it; no, not if I knew that I should come out safe at the end, pile and all. But then I am a timid man, and dislike violence; moreover, I am almost sick of adventure. I wonder why I am going to write this book: it is not in my line. I am not a literary man, though very devoted to the Old Testament and also to the “Ingoldsby Legends.” Let me try to set down my reasons, just to see if I have any.

This is the opening. King Solomon's Mines is lively and readable, but also profoundly misogynistic and racist from start to finish.

The Mystery of a Hansom Cab by Fergus Hume Published 1887, sold 377,000 copies by 1898.

Mr. Gorby was shaving, and, as was his usual custom, conversed with his reflection. Being a detective, and of an extremely reticent disposition, he never talked outside about his business, or made a confidant of anyone. When he did want to unbosom himself, he retired to his bedroom and talked to his reflection in the mirror. This method of procedure he found to work capitally, for it relieved his sometimes overburdened mind with absolute security to himself. Did not the barber of Midas when he found out what was under the royal crown of his master, fret and chafe over his secret, until one morning he stole to the reeds by the river, and whispered, "Midas, has ass's ears?" In the like manner Mr. Gorby felt a longing at times to give speech to his innermost secrets; and having no fancy for chattering to the air, he made his mirror his confidant. So far it had never betrayed him, while for the rest it joyed him to see his own jolly red face nodding gravely at him from out the shining surface, like a mandarin. This morning the detective was unusually animated in his confidences to his mirror. At times, too, a puzzled expression would pass over his face. The hansom cab murder had been placed in his hands for solution, and he was trying to think how he should make a beginning.

I've never read this but it seems great. Might need to download the whole thing from Project Gutenberg.

The Murder of Delicia by Marie Corelli Published 1896, sold 43,000 copies in its first year and another 52,000 when a cheaper edition was released in 1899.

As a writer, she stood quite apart from the rank and file of modern fictionists. Something of the spirit of the Immortals was in her blood—the spirit that moved Shakespeare, Shelley and Byron to proclaim truths in the face of a world of lies—some sense of the responsibility and worth of Literature—and with these emotions existed also the passionate desire to rouse and exalt her readers to the perception of the things she herself knew and instinctively felt to be right and just for all time. The public responded to her voice and clamoured for her work, and, as a natural result of this, all ambitious and aspiring publishers were her very humble suppliants. Whatsoever munificent and glittering 'terms' are dreamed of by authors in their wildest conceptions of a literary El Dorado, were hers to command; and yet she was neither vain nor greedy. She was, strange to say, though an author and a 'celebrity,' still an unspoilt, womanly woman.

Hi my name is Marie Delicia and I am an unspoilt womanly woman and a lot of people tell me I write like Byron (AN: if u don’t know who he is get da hell out of here!).

Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush by Ian Maclaren Published 1894, sold 256,000 copies by 1907.

... my thoughts drift to the auld schule-house and Domsie. Some one with the love of God in his heart had built it long ago, and chose a site for the bairns in the sweet pine-woods at the foot of the cart road to Whinnie Knowe and the upland farms. It stood in a clearing with the tall Scotch firs round three sides, and on the fourth a brake of gorse and bramble bushes, through which there was an opening to the road. The clearing was the playground, and in summer the bairns annexed as much wood as they liked, playing tig among the trees, or sitting down at dinner-time on the soft, dry spines that made an elastic carpet everywhere.

Some proper twee Victorian twaddle, now with added Scottishness!

-

I wish I could find out how many copies Dracula or The Beetle sold; all I can find is the same stat repeated that The Beetle sold more in the first 30 years of publication.

For the Jekyll and Hyde Weekly folks, that was a bestseller, selling 40,000 copies in the first six months.

#dracula daily #the beetle weekly #jekyll and hyde weekly #victorian literature #long post

[daincrediblegg]

💛🖤💕

💛: What is a popular ship you just can't get behind, and why? Ah there it is. Pandora's box. The Atom Bomb. It's Fitzier. You know it's Fitzier, I know it's Fitzier, we all know it's Fitzier. So here I will air my grievances. Because listen. Canon stuff? I love that shit. I eat that subtext up for breakfast. I cry about the cairn scene just like anyone else and it really is such a sacred scene to the show and I'm always going to be in love with it. It's really wonderful how well Francis and James' relationship holds up a mirror and a beautiful foil to Hickey and Gibson and in more of a queerplatonic way that I really deeply admire David Kajganish for putting all of this thought work into this series because it is so vital to the deconstruction of colonialist ideas that the historical event represents, not to mention the modern day implications on masculinity, and really pays homage to the gothic literary subtextual queer men who came before them. My main issues with it are how fanon has spun it into the end-all be-all of queer romance (which I've always been chronically allergic to since. forever), and admittedly (obviously) I'm a little bit more biased towards Francis in a way that is against a lot of the tropes that folks tend to spin in fitzier fics and art that I just can't get behind.

And before I go further, I want to preface the rest of what I'm about to say with this, because I know I have a lot of friends, mutuals, and followers who do ship it and I want them to know that this isn't reflective of them and that what I say I should hope to only be taken as pissing in the wind : because the world is hard enough to fucking live through right now as it is, and finding joy in anything they can is what I want for everyone. This one just isn't for me tho, and that's ok. But I've been given the opportunity to be a hater publicly and you will pry that out of my cold dead hands. Like ok. The main issue I have though is that I just want nice things for Francis, ok? James always gets all the emotional attention in this pairing and I'm sat here like... Emotional support for Francis, king? Mutual love and support during the breakdown of identity for Francis? Attentions to Francis' oppression as an irish man living in victorian england tonite??? Like. Call me crazy but I think he deserves to be with someone who doesn't fundamentally misunderstand him from the outset, someone who can still challenge him of course, and can challenge him in a lot of ways that he hasn't considered being challenged before, but still with an undercurrent of love beneath it, and someone he can be outwardly affectionate with as a result (because I KNOW he's capable of that). Like fighting for each other with love, rather than being outright antagonistic the way James is with him (and then subsequently the way it is woobified into enemies to lovers hate sex tropes. which again, sure. fine. can be fun sometimes. but. I'm sorry I have more wholesome gothic romance tastes in my own writing I guess. and that I also want better things for Francis. like. having sex with someone who isn't going to call him daddy or hates him. Like sorry has anyone -other than blanky of course- made him guffaw with laughter? made him comfortable enough to be truly honest with himself and raw and emotionally vulnerable? where he's not *just* giving someone else space to do that? that's what he deserves to me, and this ship just ain't hitting. case closed.)

🖤: Which character is not as morally good as everyone else seems to think? Edward Little. he's got that racial panic rizz that everyone else but me seems to like, but I haven't forgotten about the whole 'but what if they seek retribution' shtick that he had going on that contributes to why he lets toze get away with handing out arms later in terror camp. (I say this fully aware that my own blorbo has his own issues regarding the inuit folks that they interact with, but also he has a much more nuanced position in the narrative that makes it fun to get introspective about and it's much more complicated than just a flat line of typical time period shit. Ed is just. a bloke in an un-fun way. who needs to quit his job and go home. and also I would really like to think the real guy was much less of a wet rag irl than he was in the show (and from what I've read from may we be spared to meet on earth crozier actually respected him lmao). All this to say, it just doesn't turn me on)

💕: What is an unpopular ship that you like? Oh I have a lot of niche bastards that I really enjoy. Idk if we would call it super niche but Francis/Blanky I enjoy a lot. And there are TONS of others, a lot of which were pondered at the behest of the no longer with us kittensmctavish (RIP, but their fics are still on ao3 and I cannot recommend them enough), but we were talking a lot about a really cool Irving/Gibson canon re-write concept at one point that I thought was really neat and I still think about it every now and again. Also Irving/Koveyook. I think that it's really class.

ASK GAME: UNPOPULAR OPINON EDITION

#ask games #oh boy I can't wait to lose like 30 followers over this speecy spicy take lmao #I also got 2 more yellow hearts. I'll have to do different ones for those. but don't worry I'm a hater of all trades. #also there's tons of other unpopular pairings that I think are great. like all the fuckmaster blanky fics. god those are phenomenal