#look I hate art and philosophy we have nothing to talk about except those nice curtains you found in a thrift store

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 10 paragraph xvii

Going down in the cage elevator we were suddenly encased in stillness: grinding of gears, creaking of pulleys. Outside, the weather had cleared. “Come on,” Boris said to me— nervously glancing up the street—he had his phone out of his coat pocket —“let’s cross, come on—” “What,” I said—we just had the light, if we hurried—“are you calling 911?” “No no,” said Boris distractedly, wiping his nose, looking around, “I don’t want to stand here waiting for the car, I’m calling him to pick us up other side of the park. We’ll walk across. Sometimes some of these kids push shots that are a little too big,” he said, when he saw me looking anxiously back in the direction of the townhouse. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.” “He didn’t look fine.” “No, but he was breathing and Horst has Narcan. That’ll bring him right out of it. Like magic, have you ever seen it? Throws you right in withdrawal. You feel like shit, but you live.” “They should take him to the ER.” “Why?” said Boris reasonably. “What will the emergency people do? Give Narcan, that’s what. Horst can give it to him quicker than they can. And yes— he will come to puking himself and feeling like stabbed through the head, but better there than in ambulance, BOOM, shirt cut open, mask jammed down on him, peoples slapping his face to wake him, laws involved, everyone very harsh and judgmental—believe me, Narcan, very very violent experience, you feel bad enough when you come round without being in hospital, bright lights and everyone very disapproving and hostile, treating you like shit, ‘drug addict,’ ‘overdose,’ all these nasty looks, maybe not letting you go home when you want, psych ward maybe, social worker marching in to give you the big ‘So Much to Live For’ talk and maybe on top of it all, nice visit from the cops—Hang on,” he said, “one moment please,” and started talking in Ukrainian on the phone. Darkness. Under the foggy corona of the street lamps, park benches slick with rain, drip drip drip, trees sodden and black. Sopping footpaths deep with leaves, a few solitary office workers hurrying home. Boris—head down, hands thrust in pockets, staring at the ground—had got off his call and was muttering to himself. “Sorry, what?” I said, looking at him sideways. Boris compressed his lips, tossed his head. “Ulrika,” he said darkly. “That bitch. That was her that answered the door.” I wiped my brow. I felt jittery and sick and had broken out in a cold sweat. “How do you know these people?” Boris shrugged. “Horst?” he said, kicking up a shower of leaves. “We know each other from years back. I know Myriam through him—I am grateful to him for introducing us.” “And—?” “What?” “On the floor back there?” “Him? That fell?” Boris made his old who knows? face. “They’ll take care of him, don’t worry. It happens. They’re always fine. Really,” he said, in a more earnest tone.

“Because—listen, listen,” he said, digging me in the side with his elbow. “Horst has these kids hanging around a lot—changes a lot, always a new crowd—college age, high school age. Rich kids mostly, trust fund, who might want to trade him some art or a painting they took maybe from their family? They know to come to him. Because—” tossing his head, tossing the hair from his eyes—“Horst himself, when he was a kid, you know —long time ago, nineteen eighties—he went for one year, or two, to one of these fancy-boy schools around here where they make you wear the jacket. Some place not too far away. He showed me it once, in a cab. Anyway—” he sniffed—“boy on the floor? He is not some poor boy from the street. And they will not let something happen to him. Let’s hope he learns his lesson. Many of them do. He will never be so sick in his life after he gets that shot of Narcan. Besides, Candy’s a nurse and she’ll look after him when he comes to. Candy? The brunette?” he said, digging me in the ribs again when I didn’t answer. “Did you see her?” He chortled. “Like—?” He reached down and drew a fingertip above his kneecap to simulate the line of her boots. “She’s terrific. God, if I could get her away from that Niall guy, the Irish, I would. We went out to Coney Island one day, just the two of us, and I never had such a good time. She likes to knit sweaters, can you imagine that?” he said, looking at me slyly from the corner of his eye. “Woman like that—would you think she is woman who enjoys to knit sweaters? But she does! Offered to make me one! She was serious, too! ‘Boris, I will knit you a sweater any time you like. Just tell me what color and I will do it!’ ” He was trying to cheer me up but I still felt too shaken to talk. For a while we both walked with heads down and there was no noise except the two of us clicking along the park path in darkness, our footsteps seeming to echo forever and beyond the city night enormous around us, car horns and sirens sounding like they were coming from half a mile away. “Well,” said Boris presently, throwing me another sideways glance, “at least I’ve got it figured out now, eh?” “What?” I said, startled. My mind was still on the boy and my own near misses: blacking out in the bathroom upstairs at Hobie’s, head bloody where I’d hit it on the edge of the sink; waking up on the kitchen floor at Carole Lombard’s with Carole shaking me and screaming, lucky it was four minutes, I was calling 911 if you didn’t come to in five. “Pretty sure of it. It was Sascha took the picture.” “Who?” Boris glowered. “Ulrika’s brother, funny enough,” he said, folding his arms across his narrow chest. “And two boots make a pair, if you know what I mean. Sascha and Horst are pretty tight—Horst will never hear anything against him—well. Hard not to like Sascha—everyone does—he is friendlier than Ulrika, but our personalities never came together. Horst was straight as string, they all say, till he fell in with those two. Studying philosophy… set to go into running the dad’s company… and here you see him now. That said, I never thought Sascha would go against Horst, not in one hundred years. You followed all that in there?” “No.” “Well, Horst thinks Sascha’s word is gold but I am not so sure. And I do not think the picture is in Ireland, either. Even Niall, the Irish, does not think it. I hate that she is back, Ulrika—I can’t say plainly what I think. Because—” hands deep in pockets—“I’m a little surprised Sascha would dare this, and I dare not say it to Horst, but I think no other explanation—I think whole bad deal, arrest, blow-up with the cops, all that, was excuse for Sascha to make off with painting. Horst has dozens of people living off him—he is far too gentle and trusting—mild in his soul, you know, believes the best of people—well, he can let Sascha and Ulrika steal from him, fine, but I will not let them steal from me.” “Mmn.” I hadn’t seen very much of Horst but he hadn’t seemed particularly mild in his soul to me. Boris scowled, kicking at the puddles. “Only problem, though? Sascha’s guy? The one he

set me up with? Real name—? No clue. He called himself ‘Terry’ which was not right—I don’t use my own name either but ‘Terry,’ Canadian, give me a fucking break! He was from Czech Republic, no more ‘Terry White’ than I am! I think he is street criminal—fresh out of jail— know-nothing, uneducated—plain brute. I think Sascha picked him up somewhere, to use for shill, and gave him cut in exchange for throwing the deal—peanuts kind of cut, probably. But I know what ‘Terry’ looks like and I know he has connections in Antwerp and I am going to call my boy Cherry and get him on it.” “Cherry?” “Yes—is my boy Victor’s kliytchka, we call him that because his nose is red, but also because his Russian name, Vitya, is close to Russian word for cherry. Also, there is famous soap opera in Russia, Winter Cherry—well, hard to explain. I tease Vitya about this programme, it makes him very annoyed. Anyhow—Cherry knows everyone, everything, hears all the inside talk. Two weeks before it happens—you hear it all from Cherry. So no need to worry about your bird, all right? I am pretty sure we will sort it all out.”

“What do you mean, ‘sort it out’—?” Boris made an exasperated noise. “Because this is closed circle, you understand? Horst is right on the money about that. No one is going to buy this painting. Impossible to sell. But—black market, barter currency? Can be traded back and forth forever! Valuable, portable. Hotel rooms—going back and forth. Drugs, arms, girls, cash—whatever you like.” “Girls?” “Girls, boys, what have you. Look look,” he said, holding up a hand, “I am not involved in anything like that. I was too close to being sold myself as a boy—these snakes are all over Ukraine, or used to be, every corner and railway station, and I can tell you if you are young and unhappy enough it seems like good deal. Normal-seeming guy promises restaurant job in London or some such, supplies air ticket and passport—ha. Next thing you know you are waking up chained by the wrist in some basement. Would never be involved with any such. It is wrong. But it happens. And once painting is out of my hands, and Horst’s—who knows what it is being traded for? This group holds it, that group holds it. Point being—” upheld forefinger—“your picture is not going to disappear in collection of oligarch art freak. It is too too famous. No one wants to buy it. Why would they? What can they do with it? Nothing. Unless cops find it—and they have not found it, this we know—” “I want the cops to find it.” “Well—” Boris rubbed his nose briskly—“yes, all very noble. But for now, what I do know is that it will move, and only move in relatively small network. And Victor Cherry is great friend, and owes me big. So, cheer up!” he said, grasping my arm. “Don’t look so white and ill! And we will talk soon again, I promise.”

#boreo #the goldfinch #the goldfinch donna tart #donna tart #boris pavlikovsky #theodore decker #theo decker #boris x theo #theo x boris #finn wolfhard #ansel elgort #oakes fegley #aneurin barnard #the goldfinch book #book #books #quote #quotes #lgbtq #lgbtqia #lgbtqia+ #lgbt #gay #gay ship #gay ships #otp #mlm #the goldfinch quotes #the goldfinch quote #boreo quotes

[shinssoliloquy]

WHO? WHAT? WHERE? WHY? HOW?

5 Questions you should ask anyone when they’re starting off a project made from the basis of ego and tenacity. I’m really not a particularly smart person, But I’m smart enough to know how dumb I really am.

I’ve always been itching to do this. Twitter was never a great way to display my thoughts and writing on grounds that by limiting characters your characters by tweet you’d either get into long threads of diatribes that likely no one will even read or you’d have to space out your thoughts and mince words in order to fit to these said limitations. Obviously it’s not a bad way per say to fully flesh out your thoughts but there’s obviously some downsides and you won’t be fully capable of fulfilling those quandaries, much so espousing on your thoughts and opinions to the fullest extent. I could write a book but I’m not knowledgeable enough feel like my thoughts are worth putting into a non-fiction book. I could join discord servers but I don’t know a wreath of people who even care. I could still talk off into the Twitter void but that’s only for short bursts at a time, any ideas or subjects I’d like to elucidate or spell out would just get lost, all my themes would shoot off into the negative space that is a twitter timeline regardless of if they’re worth revisiting or not.

But of course, would it even matter if people do care or they don’t. People live off making Youtube videos and content based on themselves because they assume people actually care about whatever benign thought or creative pursuit they’d have in their head. It’s not up to me to judge if my thoughts are worth putting out there but I guess the reason people use social media is to give a voice to the voiceless, have anyone out there a chance of their own success, But how does that affect content input though, How does impact your very own mental psyche. This is a conversation for another post and it’s far from a topic I’ll have any meaningful outlook on, just from my own experiences as an outsider looking in.

WHO?

I always fancied myself a writer more than an illustrator. The whole crux of my need to learn how to draw was from the idea that “hey no one wants to draw my webcomic ideas on something awful or whatever internet messaging board I was using at the time that’ll date this post when I look back on it when I’m 40, I’ll learn how to draw then and show everyone I can STILL MAKE IT” Then I started drawing and never really looked back. Within the few years or so since I’ve made that discovery I never really focused on my writing, much less my creative writing. I’ve had few instances where I’d try to light up my spark by blog posting was making other short lived wordpresses and blogspots where I can peruse and write for a short while until I get bored and go back to drawing everyday. Of course two particular things happened in which I’ve gotten that spark back, to an extent. 1. The corona virus quarantine happened and I was stuck with nothing to do, I dropped out of school to go to a new college out of country that hasn’t really happened yet and aside from my retail job I haven’t had a good outlet for where to put my creativity too. So I ended up just drawing more but also, reading off some books off my backlog. I’ve always been interested in philosophy and non-fiction since reading Kant and Hume at age 12 and Now rediscovered it because of quarantine. Really I’ve always been a better writer or story teller than anything else but efforts to light up that energy in me has been fruitful and I’ve relegated to being another artist in the pile of artists who’s only personality is that they “like art”. Which made me realized how much of a better self sufficient and self respecting the writer can be rather then the animator. Illustrations are fleeting, words stick with you. Of course greats work of art exist and will always exist. Beautiful paintings can grip me just as much as a good work of philosophy can, But lately beautiful paintings have been disgruntled and disavowed from public schema. If you want to provide good art for people to see, use hashtags and make fast fleeting content for people to consume easily and forget about. Such is the way of social media and how they grip you to keep using their products, It’s not a revolutionary idea but it’s a concept that ends up working. In a way I’d like to counteract this by making fast fleeting content but also putting in forth ideas and writings which I can consider good but we’ll see how that ends up panning out. My goals as an artist is for another topic entirely but really I need a way to practice my non-fiction writing skills and having a blog where I can just go on and on about pointless shit is good exercise. 2. I’ve stopped communicating to people that would point me to a direction in life I didn’t really need to go through and because of that I took a detour in my mental stability and mental development, really it wasn’t good for me. but because of that I was able to keep track of where I need to go and have removed all elements in my life that can allow me to find different paths and know where I’ll truly be. I could also just talk to people about these kinds of stuff but it’s hard to really find people who I can talk about the stuff I want to talk about with and nothing really beats writing a whole diatribe about whatever comes to your mind at the time. Why do I have a lot on my mind? You’ll hear that story in another time but it’s MOST likely an autism thing.

WHAT?

Look at section: Who again but to summarize and clarify what I mean. Content is fast fleeting and non-self actualizing, people don’t want ideas they want content, They need personalities to leech off and see themselves in instead of being creatives themselves. As someone who makes art and wants to make more art It’s hard to really judge if my art is worth it for the algorithm or if it’s worth it to bring in audience retention. Not to mention most people who use social media are kids, and the only way to grab kids attention is to play to their interests, play into their already corroded brains by playing onto their synapses, Not to imply I dislike it per say but more so that I feel that certain audience can somewhat affect your creative output. 

WHERE?

I made a Medium account last month after reading an article on Luxury Communism. It was a fine article but what I got out of it was how good it seems to use Medium to communicate and write articles like these, Until I realized that really it can only be used for more academic pieces and while sure I’d like to do that one day something more lowkey and personal was what I really needed. Hence a tumblr, originally a blogging website before being used to oxidize internet discourse and internet creativity in general, was a perfect outlet for these kinds of posts. I’m actually used to using tumblr for one and can edit and know my way around doing these sorts of posts and the archive feature is good if I ever want to look back on old posts as opposed to Twitter. I can use the ask feauture to take requests or have feedback on my posts in a more concise manner. Unlike Medium or Wordpress I can easily hide certain posts or even the entire account if I wanted too and I won’t be seen or be recommended by the algorithm because I won’t even put tags on these posts. If you know where to find me you know where to find me. Although I do think I’ll make this public at some point I atleast need to know if I’ll even use this or if I’ll even keep making the same kinds of posts as I’d want too.

WHY? 

I’ve already explained why you knucklehead, but I guess here were some of my inspirations to make a writing blog. I could list actual writers or twitter personalities or internet reviewers with blogs I can talk about, for example Yahtzee Crosshaw, Film Crit Hulk, Or even the elusive Andrew Hussie when he had a wordposts and while those people were instrumental to my development as a writer and artist I can’t say they were my full inspiration for making this.

Back in 2016, I was introduced to the Procrastinators’ Podcast by consuming Digibro content and having her podcast be linked at the end of one of her videos. I’ve since started concurrently watching her podcast and while I’ve always sucked into Digi’s cult of personality I’ve started appreciated her other friends in the podcast too, everyone except Nate. One of those members I gravitated too was MunchyWearsTinyHats. He was only one year older than me but I could still see myself in him and in effect appreciated him more than anyone in the podcast. We both seemingly grew up watching and reading the same shit, Homestuck, TF2, He introduced me to Nuclear Throne which because one of my favorite games and we both had the same appreciation for Hussie, Sam Hyde (sadly) Performance art, weird abstract art bullshit and of course My Little Pony. If I actually joined RFCK who knows what would’ve happened but that’s just my take. Of course a surface level description of Munchy aside, as someone who consumed everything he was in, I Lived my life vicariously through him and to all the members of the Procrastinators’ Podcast to an extent even though we both became completely different people as we reached our 20s. Currently he’s 20 and I’m less than a year away to being 20. But I feel as if our paths have drifted far enough that I can properly say I became a whole new different person to who I was in 2016. I still have appreciation for MLP, Homestuck and Minecraft and all the weird media shit me and him consumed. Back then I even modeled my art and persona to look like his too, It was a whole thing. Of course all of these posts and videos and personalities are very very out of date and they don’t reflect the content I consume or even the type of person I am now. I had a friend who also liked the PCP, well it was more like a love-hate relationship I feel but it was nice having someone who I could talk about the PCP with since at this time they were the only people or content creators I was consuming, what’s less said about current pcp the better. She’s always told me, I feel sorry for people who model their lives around these content creators and take advice from them since they clearly don’t know what they’re doing. And while I agree with her to an extent, I wouldn’t go as far as to discredit these artists accomplishments since they seem fulfilled with what they’ve made of themselves, not like we’re doing anything different or are any different to them. It’s about trying to live in a world with your own meaning in it and you can’t do that but disparaging the careers of grown men you don’t even know. Again topic for another day but I guess with this blog I’m always copying and ripping off some of their ideas for myself. In 2019, Munchy made a Tumblr where he’d detail and do the same thing and post blogs or writings he’s made or opinions he’s had, It hasn’t been updated in a year and a half but if it isn’t broke, don’t call the gas company asking for a refund. I even stole his alliteration with Shinsuke’s Soliloquy and Munchy’s Manuscripts, Shinsuke being my real God-given name. Of course the posts on his tumblr are really incredibly out of date and downright stupid and I’ll talk about them on their own on a seperate post since I feel like he really just didn’t know what he talked about and they’re baseline at best and wrong at worst. Regardless he still planted the seed of me as a person to make my own blog and talk about random bullshit.

HOW?

Obviously I will still tweet out stuff on my private twitter, Obviously I will still make art. Right now I’m making my own comics and writing a few short stories that maybe? I’ll put here I’m not really sure. Just depends on if they’re worthy on being posted since I’ll make a short story collection with them instead. Maybe I’ll continue the favorite character writing, maybe I’ll make my own picrew. We’ll see and no doubt these promises will become out of date in a week or two. Rather than the right of the moment malaise of tweeting around bullshit and sending it quickly I’ll use this for more concise text, something that I can sink my teeth in and tap away for what like 5 hours or so? Beats the essays i’d be doing but it doesn’t help that I am typing this in total silence, and I guess those essays will just be posted here. Do people post their school essays like they post their poems or their artwork for school? If you want to use my ask blog then it’s right there if you want a topic for me to talk about or just ask me a regular question. I’m bringing back tumblr asks to it’s real purpose. And of course, the only thing sure about me, is that nothings for sure.

#shinsscripts

[hiekkis-blog1]

Sun god Prompto

This is a FF XV/Percy Jackson Au no-one asked for. I was listening to Prompto’s voice actor Robbie Daymond reading The Trials of Apollo, The Hidden Oracle, and I came up with this silly Au. Listening to that voice being vain, self centered and whiny was wayyyy too fun. 

Not betaed, all mistakes mine. Also, apparently I can’t write anything in this fandom without turning it into promnis. Rated T.

Sun god Prompto

“How is he doing?” Gladio voiced their common concern when the doctor left their shared bedroom. Ignis was unaccountably silent and Noctis was guilt ridden, leaving the shield to speak.

 “He’s had a severe electric shock, yet he has managed to escape severe burns. I suggest that you keep an eye on him for tonight. He should wake up sometime tonight or tomorrow at the latest. If he doesn't wake up by mid-day, bring him to the hospital. He'll need an IV for nourishment. However, I doubt things will progress that far." Doctor didn't mention that a recent surge of daemon and magitek attacks had filled the hospital to full capacity, and they really didn't have time or space for a patient who absolutely didn't need to be there. "I've seen a lot worse burns on the power plant workers. Your friend should be fine with some rest. Full extent of his possible neural damage is impossible to say while he hasn't regained his consciousness. We'll do a checkup in the hospital just in case."

 “Thank you, doctor." Ignis managed to say.

 "How did you say your friend got injured?" doctor queried. They had somehow avoided the specifics earlier, when they had returned to Lestallum and Leville after a hunt gone horribly wrong.

 "A hunting accident with some coeurls" Ignis replied.

 They had been fighting against a pack of vicious coeurls when the magiteck troops had joined the fray. The fight had dragged on and on until Noctis had managed to attain some godly help from the Astrals. They had been relieved when they had seen the Fulgurian's silhouette loom in the sky, but their reprieve had turned in to horror when, in addition to magiteks and monsters, the thunder god had attacked their gunner. Prompto had been sprinting though the fight when the lightning bolt hit him square in the chest and had expanded all around him, killing all their enemies. Ignis had run to his boyfriend’s side while the earth was still blackened and crackling, elixir on the ready. The fight was over, but Noctis had been too shocked to do anything. Even an elixir hadn't done more than a first aid. Prince's best friend didn't regain consciousness and Gladio had to carry him back to Regalia. Noctis had broken all speed limits while driving them back.

"He's going to be okay?" Noctis asked, hating how weak his voice sounded. He hadn't meant for the Astral to blast his friend. Usually only his spells did that and they never did this much damage. The Astrals were supposed to have a much better finesse with this kind of thing! They had never targeted his friends before.

 "I can see no physical reason why not. As I said, just give him some time. He got shocked so recently that it is a miracle if he wakes up before tomorrow anyway." The doctor left after making them promise to bring Prompto in tomorrow, when they would be better prepared to receive him at the hospital. Ignis was unhappy with the result, even though a very small voice in his head that was always on top of their monetary situation was pointing out the tiny bright side. He didn't want to think about money when his loved one needed medical attention. But his elixir had helped, right? That was why there hadn't been any physical damage and doctor could be so relaxed. She had said it. No any visual physical damage and exhaustion wasn't any news when it came to relying on healing items. Prompto was just resting.

 *  * *  *  *

 Apollo woke up feeling miserable. Everywhere hurt and he had a splitting head ached. On the positive side, he was in a soft, queen sized bed, and he had someone in the said bed with him. It was dark, so the headache wasn't aggravated by more light. He turned around to see a man, taller than he was, with a tawny hair and beautiful face, had draped his arm around his waist. Well, this certainly an improvement to the last time he had been exiled to be a mortal. Maybe his father truly loved him for allowing him such a companion from the very beginning of this punishment.

 There was a rustling noise coming from another bed he hadn't noticed earlier. In the dim light he could make out the shapes of two more young men. Bigger one had some truly spectacular inkwork in his skin. He would be more than happy to experiment and explore everywhere on that fine sculpture of a male anatomy. After all, he loved the arts. Maybe these men were muses in male form? He would have to find out later.

 Carefully he slipped out from under the arm holding him loosely. Or tried to, at least. The arm around him tightened, holding him tighter against a nicely toned chest. This was off to a good start! He turned around to give a languid kiss to a stranger in his bed.

 "Hello gorgeous," he muttered when the man answered his kisses, held him closer, then jerked back.

 "Prompto? How are you feeling?" the man asked, retreating a bit and scrutinizing him.

 "Hush, I’m feeling fine. Let me taste those lips." Apollo leaned back to kiss him. Man was certainly handsome and had his priorities in order. It had been a while since a mortal's first words had been over his welfare. Oh yes, this was certainly an improvement.

 Except the handsome stranger drew back and help him at arm’s length, his shiny green eyes suspicious. "What are you doing? Noct and Gladio are in the same room with us."

 "Doesn’t bother me" Apollo smiled lazily. "They can join us in pleasure if they so please."

 "You're not yourself." the man reached for the nightstand and took a pair of spectacles that had been resting over it. He scrambled out of bed and lit a small lamp. Soft glow filled the room and Apollo could admire his reluctant lover. They were lovers, right? But why would they be wearing pajamas if they were? The other man must be shy then, due to the other men's sleeping presence.

 "You’re up to speed fast. Are you shy? I can make them sleep undisturbed until the morning if that's the case."

 “Prompto. In the name of The Six, what the hell is wrong with you?” Now spectacled man pulled away. He sounded angry. That couldn’t be. Finding a half-naked sun god in your bed shouldn’t be upsetting, it should be joyous. Apollo stretched lazily and sat up.

 “It’s like you said. I’m not the usual habitant of this body. I’m Apollo.” His declaration made his companion dumbstruck. Naturally, now that they knew who he was, they’d be awestruck and provide him with pleasing sacrifices and offer to fulfill his every whim. Curious, the man didn’t get on his knees, but sat on the bed and put his hand very gently on his forehead.

 “The doctor never mentioned any psychological problems as a side effect.” He mumbled in a quiet voice. Apollo felt humiliated and slapped the hand away.

 “I’m the god of sun, arts and healing. I can assure you, I don’t have a psychological disorder.” He rose from the bed as gracefully as he possibly could, only trip over the cover that was laying on the floor. He could feel his cheeks burning from embarrassment. “I see my presence upsets you. Let no one say I’m not gracious or sensitive. I’ll be in the bathroom while you can collect yourself.” So saying he rose from the floor and left the room. He felt shaky and dizzy. What had this body been doing?

 Light bulb showed a pathetic small bathroom. No gold or fresh flowers anywhere. What a dump. Apollo washed his face and reached for a towel hanging from a railing over a bath tub. He peered at the foggy mirror.

 Slowly he let the towel drop and leaned over to watch closer, wiping the fog away from the mirror. This couldn’t be happening.

 *  * *  *  *

 In the other room, Noctis and Gladio woke up to a blood curdling scream. Both stumbled out of the bed battle ready, summoning weapons and looking for the threat. Had the MT’s attacked the hotel? Was Loqi on their trail? Ignis was already running to the bathroom, and yanked the door open to find shirtless Prompto covering his face and staring wide eyed at the mirror.

 “NO! DON’T LOOK AT ME!!!”

 “Prompto!” Noctis barreled inside. “Man, are you all right? What happened?”

 “DON’T LOOK AT ME, I’M HIDEOUS!”  Everyone froze, not believing their eyes. Prompto sobbed. “I have a face and body of a monster. These blemishes are everywhere!” Noctis was amused by his friends problem, mainly because he was so relieved to find his best friend had finally woken up.

 “Dude, you’ve always had freckles. Iggy loves them.” A cough from the advisor. “Why are you freaking out? It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

 “Then this ‘Iggy’ has a remarkably bad taste. This body is hideous! It’s short and has a flab instead of my eight pack! It still has ZITS!!!” Prompto had leaned over the sink and wailed again as he saw his visage. One of those spots was definitely a red spot. “And will you look at these arms? These are not the arms of the best archer in the universe. They are way too weak!” Gladio had joined them and looked at the blonde wailing at the glass.

 “Knock it off blondie. You know how we react to false alarms.” Gladios’s voice was harsh. “This isn’t a right time for your sudden drama.” Prompto made a rude humph sound.

 “Like expected from a son of Ares.” Gladio’s face turned in to a grimace. He never talked about his dead father and didn’t appreciate his dad being called names. Even when he didn’t understand the reference. “And these scars! Stretchmarks are just as unacceptable as flab. Despicable!”

 “Scars are just another kind of memory…” Ignis tried to quote Prompto’s own philosophy back at him, but he sounded angry. Only Noct had heard Ignis that angry. Ignis has balled his hands in to fists, trying to hold on to the last shreds of his self-control.

  “Dude, why are you talking like a videogame character?” Noctis beat Gladio for an answer.

 “He has been acting out of character ever since he woke up. I think we should take him to hospital sooner later than later. Maybe the lightning bolt triggered a schizophrenia or there must be some other reasonable explanation.” Ignis turned to Noctis, pointedly not looking at his boyfriend.

 “I’m not acting out of character and I don’t need to go to a hospital! I doubt this little backwater town has a hospital of such renown that any of my children work here.” Propmto huffed when Ignis ignored him. “Silly mortals, who do you think I am?”

 “Until this night, we thought you were our friend.” Gladio growled. “Who do you think you are?”

 “I am Apollo. The sun god. Patron of music, archery and healing.”

 “That’s a character from the Percy Jackson games.” Noctis recognized. “Knock it out, Apollo was always so annoying.”

 “What!?” Apollo squeaked, indignant. “You have a game of Olympian gods and it’s named after a demigod? No, no, no! It should be The Amazing Adventures of Apollo.”

 “Noctis, pray tell what is going on. You seem to be only one understanding his nonsense.” Ignis was pinching the bridge of his nose.

 “It’s a RPG. Main character is this dude, Percy, who finds out he is half a god and he goes to this camp Half Blood, where everyone is a demigod.” Noctis’s sleepiness evaporated when he started talking about his games.

 “That place exists. My children have been trained there.” Apollo commented but was ignored.

 “Basically, the game is about his adventures when he tries to save the world from destruction. Trying to make all the selfish and arrogant gods cooperate isn’t easy. It’s like they want to die.”

 “HEY!” Apollo protested.

 “Are these so called gods The Astrals?” Ignis inquired.

 “Nah, they’re make believe. They’re called god’s of Olympus and they are like a really big, crazy family. Their leader is Zeus, a thunder god. Kind of Like Ramuh except he likes to have kids with all weird creatures.”

 “Can we please not talk about my dad’s sex life? Or call my whole my family make believe while were at it?” Apollo whined. “This mortal thing is way too embarrassing to begin with, you don’t have to try and make it worse with your ignorance.”

 “Do you think this is because of the lightning bolt?” Gladio asked Ignis and Noctis, completely ignoring the whiney blonde.

 “Definitely, we need to get him to hospital as soon as possible. He could be danger to himself at this point.” Ignis declared. “We should take him now.”

 “But what if he is right and this actually is Apollo and not Prompto? Is it possible that the Fulgurian could have changed them?” That led to a long argument between the three of them. Ignis refused to entertain even slightest possibility, that his boyfriend’s body had just changed the hosts. Noctis pointed out that Apollo was also a god of prophesy, and he really could use some help with one. Gladio asked Apollo to prove his godhood so they could solve this. That led to Apollo punching Gladio’s shoulder and then freaking out that his super strength was gone. He had also bruised his knuckles with the punch and Ignis ended up dragging him to the Hospital in the middle of the night.

  AN: I have no idea where I’m going with this one, if this will stay as a one shot or morph into a longer fic. If you like it, let me know! I’m also open for prompts for this one. 

#ff xv #percy jakson universe #horrible mashup AU #promnis #i've got no idea what i'm doing

[tackyink]

This one is sad, but I think things will look up from the next part onwards. Lots of setup until now.

Nothing is crueler than children who come from good homes

Another thing I learned, sometime before my encounter with the hospital ghost, was that Satori and Yu weren’t on the best of terms.

I’d said before that Yu had only been at the hospital when I woke up, and he didn’t show up any other day. I chalked it up to him having school, and if I had been in our parents’ shoes, I wouldn’t have wanted him around anyway. A hospital was no place for a kid.

I should have guessed by my mother’s reticence to speak when I asked about him that something was off, and little by little it became clear why.

My parents didn’t waste any time in finding me someone to help me study while I was out of school. I had class with two different tutors, morning and afternoon, from Monday to Friday, and though I was supposed to be taking piano lessons twice a week, my parents decided to set those aside until I was able to regain more urgent abilities. My routine, then, became a study marathon during the weekdays, only interrupted to go to doctor check-ups, while my father was at work, my brother at school, and my mother did household chores that never seemed to end.

My parents were kind, serious people. My mother had that stubborn determination of people who set a goal for themselves and never let go, and my recovery was her new goal. When I was not busy studying, she took me out to show me the streets near our home, my school, the train station, the shops. She helped me make flashcards for all the kanji I needed to memorize. She was there to ingrain in me manners that I had never been taught and rescue me when a well-meaning neighbor stopped us on the street to ask me how I was doing and I inevitable stumbled over my words. And she did everything with an unbreakably polite smile and a firm resolve.

As for my dad, I only saw him in the evenings. He didn’t give an approachable vibe. He wasn’t talkative, had a severe expression, and mostly spoke to us only to ask how our day had gone and give advice. The longest I saw him talk was one day at dinner, when he got into a philosophical discussion with Yu I couldn’t follow due to my limited vocabulary – and had I had it, I wasn’t sure I would have been able to, anyway. As time went by, I got the impression that he cared deeply for his family, but he didn’t know how to express it very well, as it was the case for many men of older generations. His way of showing affection was showing interest in what we did every day, even when the most consequential thing I had done was walking alone to the convenience store, he listened like I was telling him the most interesting story in the world.

He was strict and I never saw him crack a joke, but he treated us with the utmost respect. He was the textbook prototype of a family head, and he took on the role as if it was second nature to him, though when I think about it, I suppose it must have been taxing to be so restrained all the time.

And then there was Yu.

I thought he wasn’t talkative either, at first.

I was wrong. He just didn’t talk to me.

This went on for weeks, and while it was bearable when the whole family was together, it was extremely uncomfortable when Yu and I had to be in a room alone. He had perfected the art of ignoring me at all times, and only broke his silence when I addressed him directly.

I had to stop that situation, if only because it was fueling my anxious tendencies. For weeks, I didn’t know how to approach the issue. My opportunity came one Sunday afternoon, when I found him playing chess by his lonesome in the living room. He had a book on his lap, and checked it frequently in between moves.

I remembered doing something similar as a child, but I never put much effort in it. Playing alone bored me to death, and I didn’t have anyone to play with at home. My parents had been too busy with work, and my grandmother didn’t know how to play. I learned soon that all my attempts to rope somebody into playing would be useless, so I stopped trying.

Yu was a completely different kind of beast. When something grabbed his interest, he didn’t let it rest until he knew all its ins and outs, and chess was no exception.

He didn’t lift his eyes from the board, but he was aware that I was looking at him, and he asked in English, out of habit, “May I help you?”

I got startled. “Not really,” I said awkwardly, but I thought this was a good chance to try to speak to him. I didn’t lose anything by trying, except a few years of life. Boy, was I nervous about talking to a ten year old kid. “Isn’t it better to play against somebody?”

“Evidently,” he said with distaste, still looking at the pieces. “But I don’t see anybody available here. Do you?”

A ten year old kid that could be somewhat intimidating, in a pedantic kind of way.

“I could if you wanted,” I said hesitantly. “I’m not good at it, but it would be better than knowing your own moves ahead of time, right?”

The look he gave me was identical to that of the eleven year old I had once tutored when I told him that pink had been a manly color in the days of yore. “You?”

I was taken aback by the edge in his voice. “Yes?”

“You don’t know how to play.”

There was venom dripping from his voice. I didn’t know what Satori had done for him to be so resentful, but it had to be bad. Kids don’t hold grudges for weeks unless they’ve been seriously aggravated.

“I wouldn’t be offering if I didn’t know,” I shot back. I was not going to be intimidated by a runt.

His eyes were fixed on me, judgmental, and those few seconds felt like an eternity. Then he lowered his gaze back to the board and said, “Feel free to join.”

It was evident that I wasn’t wanted, but turning down his offer at this point would have been far ruder than sitting uncomfortably for a match.

“Do you mind being black?” He asked, looking at the pieces he was setting on the board instead of me.

“Not at all.”

The match that lasted all of five minutes before my king was cornered. He stopped several times to check his book, too. In another situation I would have been jealous of his brains, but I found too dang funny that someone almost a third of my age was destroying me at chess.

Even though I had never learned to play as I wanted, it was really fun to try to figure out what his strategy was, catch how a set of moves worked so I didn’t fall into the trap again. And I did fall, but I didn’t care. We played match after match, and save a few notable exceptions, I started to stretch their length gradually.

I sucked really bad, but that didn’t stop me from having the most fun I’d had since I had landed in this world.

By the time we were interrupted, it was getting dark and our mother was watching us from behind the doorway in astonishment. I was sitting with my back to it, so I didn’t notice until Yu looked up at her.

“Is something the matter?”

“Oh, no! You two keep playing. Dinner will be ready soon.”

There I went, feeling awkward again. Like I had crossed a line I didn’t know existed. And when I turned around, Yu was watching me again with that same judging stare, but I didn’t feel any hostility coming from him this time.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Why are you doing this?”

I didn’t know what he meant. “Playing with you?”

“Being nice to me. Is this some sort of scheme?”

Holy shit. What was the relationship between these two? How strained it had to be for Yu, no matter how smart he was, to be asking that?

I had to say something, but there was no adequate response to such a question.

“Why would I do that?” I asked, avoiding his eyes.

I had been an only child. I didn’t know how siblings were supposed to act, but I had assumed these two had gotten along more or less like my friends’ brothers and sisters did. It was now clear that I had been wrong.

“You always make fun of me. You never care about anything I do.”

The words hurt like a stab, even knowing they weren’t meant for me, not really. But if I had to live with this family, if I had to have a brother while I found out what had happened to me, we both deserved better than this unending tension.

I thought, in a way, that since I had robbed him of his real sister, it was my duty to be a decent one for him. And if that entailed making up for whatever had happened between Yu and Satori, so be it.

“I don’t remember,” I said earnestly, eyes downcast. “But that’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

Yu’s defensive stance dropped, likely because he had been expecting me to attack him, not apologize. “You are sorry?”

I looked straight at him. “I am.”

He was at a loss for a few seconds, but he hadn’t been swayed when he spoke. “Empty words. You are saying you don’t remember.”

“No matter how I acted, it was bad enough to make you hate me,” I replied. “So I am sorry. I’m not asking you to forgive me, but you don’t need to avoid me. I’m not going to make fun of you again.”

Call it an excuse to feel a little bit better about myself, if you want, but letting him be at ease at home was the least I could do for him.

He readjusted his glasses in a nervous gesture that concealed most of his face, and this time he sounded shy when he spoke. “I don’t hate you. You’re my sister.”

And then, it was I who didn’t know what to reply. It was very much like me to let a kid leave me fumbling for words.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. What I wanted to say was that I was not her sister, but I had to try for both of our sakes.

Something changed that evening. Yu was less standoffish from then on, asking me to play with him, helping me willingly when I got stuck with my homework. In turn, I asked him about what he studied, and found out that he had a liking for linguistics and philosophy even then. We started to go book hunting together, he for specialized manuals, I for everything that I needed to get up to date with what I was supposed to already know.

One time, as we made our way back with bags full of books, he remarked offhandedly that it was like I was a different person.

And once again, I didn’t know what to reply.

Satori kept a diary. Part of my self-imposed homework, for which I felt like a disgusting person, was going through it to learn about her. 

At first I wasn’t able to read a thing. As I got used to her handwriting and my vocabulary expanded, I was able to find out many things, one of which was made obvious constantly.

Satori was deathly jealous of Yu, and felt her parents were ignoring her in favor of him, so she was taking out her frustration on him. And from what I could understand, she felt guilty about lashing out at him, but she didn’t seem to know how to manage the situation, and neither did her parents. Satori needed attention, and her parents weren’t the warmest.

She did well at school, at the club, in her afterschool lessons. To her, they were favoring him just because he did better. But she couldn’t catch up to him. Satori was bright, but she was no prodigy child, and at some point she gave up trying, and her grades started to slip.

I didn’t get all this information from the diary, per se, but I was able to piece the picture together from years of conversations at home.

On one of the last used pages, she had written that maybe it would’ve been better if she hadn’t been born.

I closed that diary and decide that I wouldn’t read anymore. I hid it at the back of a desk drawer, under a box, and tried to forget about it.

Satori had never seen the faces of her parents when she was at the hospital. She had lost her life thinking she wasn’t wanted, and I could only hope that there was a way to let her get it back.

And if that happened… What would that mean for me? Would I just die if she reclaimed her body? Fizzle out of existence, since I didn’t belong in this world to begin with? If everything could be reverted to how it was before the accident, would I go to my old life without looking back?

The question had been in the back of my mind since I had learned I was living in Mushiyori and who my brother was. Of course I wanted my family and friends back, but did I want my life as well?

Again, I pushed that question aside, perhaps because I feared what the answer would be. And, in any case, there was no use in overthinking something that might not happen.

#yyh crappy indulgent SI

[magnoliasandbeardedtooth]

talk to me aboot 20th century art movements pls.....

I hope you like vaguely informed, opinionated distaste cause I have a whole lot of it

20th century art movements are all about a break from tradition, right?? expressionism, cubism, futurism, the whole idea of modernity is to develop past or break away from established, classic rules and standards of the art world. Some chumps made some exclusive art club and the people who made art that differed from that club’s standards weren’t allowed in. So they said “fuck it” and made their own clubs

except NOW, they get to have their OWN set of crazy strict rules and exclusive clubs, which is the EXACT SAME ENVIRONMENT they were trying to dismantle in the first place. Now THEY get to be at the top, and suddenly all those standards and the exclusionism is just fine. Now that they’re at the top, THEY get to be the ones who make the rules, get famous, and sell their art of exorbitant prices. They didn’t dismantle or destroy the establishment they hated, they just replaced it

And when you’re at the top, leading the art world, what’s the point of trying to “break tradition?” NOTHING. Because now YOU’RE the tradition. There’s nothing “revolutionary” about following whatever art movement is popular at the time. Like, honestly:

Not to mention that a lot of art, the “best” art, is some of these movements is ugly as fuck. I recognize that making it look like they do takes skill, but that almost makes it worse. Matisse spent over a year making that painting with the red figures dancing in a circle. Over a YEAR to paint 3 colors, no depth, and anatomy as lumpy and discordant as possible.

I think that, before anything, before any meaning or strange purpose, art should look pleasing. Maybe not to the person, but at the very least, to the eye. Art should be made, to the best ability of the artist, to be fun to look at. That’s the WHOLE POINT of art, to be LOOKED AT. If its not meant to be nice to look at in some way, what’s the point?? The only reason for art to be purposefully UNpleasant is for the discomfort value, but again, the discomfort value doesn’t mean ANYTHING if that art is the popular standard.  

I saw a post recently about someone who’s daughter was making art by splashing paint over some paper. They showed her Jackson Pollock (not from 1920, but relevant), and said “This guy paints like you do, and he’s really famous.” And she looked at it, thoroughly unimpressed, and said “My colors are prettier.” And you know what??? That little girl was correct.

I don’t know who they thought they were fooling, but using nothing but the boldest, blockiest colors don’t look good. Neither do clay orange, swamp teal, and patchy purple. Like, what is supposed to be good about this????

Which brings me to another thing, abut how AAAAALLLLLL of the nudes are women, and despite being lumpy and awful the artists still SOMEHOW managed to make them idealized. HOW IS IT that while their arms and legs look like playdoh, they still have perky boobs and pretty crotches????

I stand by the idea that most art is just glorified pinups, but like, at least when the anatomy looked less grotesque, they could pass it off as being a “tasteful nude.” In these movements, its just so obvious how much they wanted to paint naked women.

I know my tastes are my own, and I think most of this is because I’m in a required 20th Century Art class where I’m forced to appreciate this shit. Plus, after having taken a couple other classes with this professor, its pretty obvious that this art period is his favorite. The way he teaches this class reminds me of the awful philosophy teacher I had once, teaching all this subjectiveness as gospel that will enlighten us all. This class is the only one where I have to write more than one paper. This class is the only one where we actually read the writings of the artists (from a book he said he has to keep replacing because he reads it just that often), and the only one where the exam format is different because he is including those texts in his exams.

And lemme tell you, those writings are a fucking trip (warning for nasty imagery and solid racism):

“I had hardly spoken these words when suddenly I spun around with a drunken lurch like a dog trying to bite his tail, and there all at once coming towards me were two cyclists, wavering in front of me like two equally persuasive but contradictory arguments. Their stupid dilemma was being disputed right in my way … . What a nuisance! Auff! … I stopped short and–disgusting–was hurled, wheels in the air, into a ditch … .

“Oh! Maternal ditch, almost to the top with muddy water! Fair factory drainage ditch! I avidly savored your nourishing muck, remembering the holy black breast of my Sudanese nurse … . When I got out from under the upturned car–torn, filthy, stinking–I felt the red hot iron of joy pass over my heart!”

-F. T. Martinetti, “The Foundation and Manifesto of Futurism,” 1908

Like????? What the fuck???????? I guess this is about the development of futurism, but these are the kind of ideas I need to respect and revere all of a sudden?????

So now I have to write 2 papers on art I don’t like to look at, from artists I hate, for a teacher who had a PhD in liking this stuff. Papers, might I add, that are around the length of this post, but can I write about how I don’t like this entire movement????? No!!! I have to pick out of this pile, study how to see anything redeemable in it, and slog out pages of consideration and praise.

Which, by the way, is another thing I hate. If your art is so mentally inaccessible that people have to write books on how to SEE A PAINTING because they aren’t looking at your art right, maybe that art isn’t as awesome as you think it is

I’m tired of having to analyze the stuff that is so incredibly fake deep, I’m tired of struggling to look at paintings. I just want to look at some art and enjoy it

#speaks #Anonymous #I'm just #so upset

[wickedbaggins]

2016 In Review - Games

Wow did I not finish much. But here they are!

Ladykiller in a Bind - This here visual novel is probably game of the year for me. This would mean more in a year where I hadn’t failed to finish nearly everything I started, but still. It’s funny and dirty and drawn with skillful personality (for those who dislike dirty, there’s now a Christmas sweater mode, although I’m not sure how much that’s really going to help). What makes it especially memorable is the hard-dropped relationship insights and the neat-o conversation systems. I love that you can hold out for a better option, I love that you have to negotiate suspicion. Christine Love is a game designer I admire, but I’ve found her work a little heavy and strident in the past. This mingles a few difficult themes with a lighter touch and also jokes. And, y’know, sex. I enjoy the side stories more than the main romances, but good stuff all around. Just don’t expect a treatise on consent or anything as carefully lecture-like as Hate Story. It’s a sex comedy first.

Undertale - Maybe should be my game of the year, it’s something, it really is, this beautiful, surreal, unnerving little game with skeletons and cow-dudes and jokes, jokes!! But I am really bad at bullet hell and my frustration with the mechanics made it a very nearly miserable experience for me. Still worth it, though. When it goes all late-stage what-the-hell Earthbound, totally worth it.

Solstice - Another runner-up for game of the year. Moacube’s latest is beautiful and fascinating, a lovingly nuanced and complex murder mystery with a whole lot of character-driven philosophy stuff. It’s a little short and opaque, but every moment is wonderful.

Tyranny - Half of it threatens to be Obsidian’s most interesting game (and that’s saying something). The other half is tediously under-developed. The good stuff is wonderful, though. Your party may not have any quest lines to follow, but they, like most of the characters, are fascinatingly awful people, except when they’re not, and then it’s even sadder. The dialog ranges toward the rich, dense. I could’ve personally gone without the combat and just wandered around talking to people and hovering over the green footnotes. Next time, Obsidian, next time.

Baldur’s Gate Enhanced Edition - I finally dragged all the way through it. The high points are really high, as in Sarevok’s got some actual depths, Durlag’s Tower is a great dungeon, and it was terrific to pretend to be a cat while robbing that one guy. The rest of it is fine, but maybe I’ve played one too many games with real time with pause. I just couldn’t get into the combat, and if you’re story-moding your way through that, it is an awful large part of the game to be disengaged by.

Baldur’s Gate Siege of Dragonspear - The new expansion! There’s more line-by-line writing than in Baldur’s Gate and it really ain’t bad, but the story bothered me a lot from a thematic perspective (our opponents had perfectly good points and were needlessly villainized) and was railroaded in such an obvious way as to be frustrating. I don’t expect a lot of choice and consequence in a Baldur’s Gate, and the game as a whole was fine, but I wish the greater amount of text had done it more favors.

Pillars of Eternity - White March - Pillaaars. White March is neat. A little more polished than Tyranny, if not quite as compelling. The new companions were good (up golems, man) and the worldbuilding exquisite as always. I think a lot of folk didn’t get around to playing it, though, as I still have achievements on my showcase everyone should’ve gotten by now.

Witcher 3 - Heart of Stone - I think I finished it this year. I think! Neat expansion, more focused and interesting for my tastes than the bigger Blood and Wine (which I still haven’t finished). Terrific villain, a lot of great weirdness, the guy I was supposed to redeem (and I guess did) was a loser, though, and his wife needed a little more— something.

The Shivah - Early Wadjet Eye game. The first? Very short, but good. Depressed rabbi solves a murder. Includes conversational boss battles with rabbinical answers and some theology. One of those things where I don’t agree with the protagonist’s perspective (we don’t need to), but he’s presented with a lot of nuance and personality. 

It’s Spring Again - You can finish it in ten minutes and it’s only challenging if you’re two, but beautiful. Everything’s done up in dense patterns. Sun, tree, dirt. Snow is beautiful, fall is beautiful, it’s all beautiful.

12 Labours of Hercules - A click-click-click time management game with a tiny touch of opacity, but mostly just nice, colorful fun, not too taxing. Prettily designed. I enjoy that Hercules doesn’t do squat 90 percent of the time.

Sorcery, Part 1 and 2 - I had a hard time with these games, which is sad, because they seemed up my alley. They’re nifty, the writing is good, the art is charming, but some of the gamebookiness in 2 I found frustrating and arbitrary. Missing one piece early on was enough to make the game unfinishable at the very end, or near enough. I have 3 and 4 left to play, which everyone is very glowing about, but I’m hoping for less old school “guess what, you never looked in the right place at the right time and now you don’t have that telescope!!” Rewinding can only help so much.

OZMAFIA!! (one route) - I got so excited by the art and the premise, but this was just dire. Maybe dire’s too strong a word, maybe, but all I can remember of it is a staccato, confusing sense of time, thinly drawn characters and— that’s it. The big sin is that it’s dull.

Little Lily Princess (two routes) - The crime is I’ve only done two routes. Hanako’s work is always very solid, and this light yuri take on A Little Princess is immensely charming. My problems with it are the problems inherent in the source material, but the game manages to wring some legitimate pathos from these relationships without feeling quite too sweet.

Psycho Pass Mandatory Happiness (one route) - Man, I know I need to get more than one of at least a half-score of endings here, but I found this really disappointing. Can I really expect too much of the creator of Madoka? Can I? The premise (your ability to exist in society is predicated upon your ability to perform mental health) is killer, but, man, I just didn’t care about anyone. I know from personal experience that writing a purely thinky narrative risks turning all your characters into cyphers, and Psycho Pass suffers hugely from this. I’m not sure the pleasures of the thinky bits are worth it.

One Way Heroics (bad end) - Cute little harried-retro thing where you have to outrun the Nothing— well, the darkness, anyway. You outrun the darkness to kill the dark lord. I’ve finished, but I haven’t won. Premise prompts some lovely bleakness. If you do defeat the Dark Lord, is there even anything left to save, or has it all been devoured behind you?

Epistory - Typing Chronicles - You’re a cool gal who rides on a cooler fox. You, the player, get to type a lot for the sake of murdering murderous insects. It’s appealingly designed and fun, even if the story is a bit of a nothing. It’s a typing game, y’know?

Planetarian - the reverie of a little planet - Short little weeper from Key. A good test of whether you dig their style or not. I do, if not passionately. Post-apocalypse thing about dude rediscovering wonder after finding a still-functional robot in a planetarium. The star bits are pretty darn effective.

This Book is a Dungeon - Cool, if cludgy game book with some entertaining bad endings. It’s cludgy because it has no real save system and making a mistake means replaying, replaying, replaying.

[jeannesutton]

What I liked reading this year

via GIPHY

I have a lot of thoughts about the books I didn’t like reading this year. But I'm not bothered committing them here.

There's an opening scene in an episode of Fraiser with he and Niles come home from a restaurant and Daphne, I think, asks them how the meal was and one of the men says perfect except for one thing. She then says something along the lines of that being exactly the way they like it, and sure enough, they extrapolate. I think I watched that scene anyway. 

However, saying some books I read were perfect except for one thing is very generous. Too generous. So, instead, here are a few things I’ve read the past eleven or so months I really enjoyed or thought about long after. 

The Rules Do Not Apply by Ariel Levy 

I was talking about miscarriage with a friend earlier this year as I was writing a feature about pregnancy loss. It was eye-opening and the phone interviews I conducted were… I can’t say fierce emotional tennis as it implies I experienced a fraction of the trauma the women who kindly gave up their time and privacy did. It was tough, and if you are an editor who commissions article with an intent to horrify and shock, try and facilitate some talk therapy for your writers. 

I was telling my friend some of the stories I was putting in the article and we talked about how men aren’t really clued into a lot of what women are expected to go through. I said, flippantly, “The only miscarriage guys we know know about is Ariel Levy’s.” 

It wasn’t a nice thing to say, because Ariel Levy is a human being, and the article she wrote a few years ago for The New Yorker about losing a wanted pregnancy on assignment in Mongolia is earth-shattering. But I was trying to get at my assumption that certain men need to have issues communicated to them by publications of grand record before they give a shit. “We need a New Yorker abortion or New Yorker pay gap,” we joked. 

This memoir was a pick for my book club, and I gulped it in days. Which isn’t a usual habit of Book Club Jean. The book expands on the New Yorker essay, which comes late enough in the text, and looks at Levy’s keening marriage, biological clocks, and forgiveness. From the opening chapters, where Levy recounts how your twenties and thirties becomes a biological battleground, I was there. I’m witnessing a lot of change and shifting among the women I know. Scrolling Instagram after a bank holiday gives me a heart murmur. I imagine it only gets worse. 

This, from the preface, got the highlight: “Until recently, I lived in a world where lost things could always be replaced. But it has been made overwhelmingly clear to me now that anything you think is yours by right can vanish, and what you can do about that is nothing at all.” 

You can make plans, but the idea of perfect alignment is the shakiest ground.

Dirty Duet by Laurelin Paige 

Paige’s romance novels could be described as taboo, so if you need smelling salts after a Starz show maybe don’t. I think her writing is amazing and her female characterisation- flawed, fucked up, self-aware, grown-up – is in a league of its own. 

The plot starts out love triangle-ish, there’s a lot of focus on the heroine’s career – my catnip, and it’s super dramatic. Trigger warning, this one deals with rape fantasy as a way to overcome trauma. Sabrina Lind is a college freshman with a thing for a fellow student, a very wealthy good-time guy. His older best friend is her TA. Something criminal happens. Then something unethical. Years later they all end up working together in a massive advertising firm and it’s very clear no one has gone to therapy. 

The first book is called Dirty Filthy Rich Men, which might give you a bit of a pause if you’re new to this sort of genre. But we’re living in a country where there is an athlete’s memoir on bookshelves around the country called Gooch. I think that should be a national conversation. 

Oh My God, What a Complete Aisling! by Emer McLysaght, Sarah Breen 

I cried in a hotel room and on an Aircoach reading this book. It’s so kind, so lovely. 

Scribble Scribble by Nora Ephron 

Being a fan of Nora Ephron isn’t a character trait, although the way some people go on you’d swear I’d have to give you first dibs on bone marrow if we’ve read the same books. Late last year I got around to watching the HBO documentary about her, Everything is Copy, and went back to her writing. This time I read beyond the personal essays and looked at her articles on media and the machine – the Scribble Scribble part. It sort of changed my life, philosophy, perception. She really didn’t give a shit. We talk a lot about she used pain and made great films, but I enjoyed exploring the critiquing claws. To be honest, letting all her writings permeate, I’d say if we met she’d have hated me.

I don’t think we have her sort in Ireland. We have people who report on media, social media users make healthy and necessary critiques of the Irish Times opinion article choices. But we don’t have Nora. Which is a pity, as during freefalls there are some great stories. But then, you could argue, are we too small a country for such behaviour? Can you get away with true honesty?

Here is some of her scathing typing on People magazine back in the day:

"I have nothing against short articles, and no desire to read more than 1500 words or so on most of the personalities People profiles. In fact, in the case of a number of those personalities—and here the name of Telly Savalas springs instantly to mind—a caption would suffice. I have no quarrel with the writing in the magazine, which is slick and perfectly competent. I wouldn’t mind if People were just a picture magazine, if I could at least see the pictures; there is an indefinable something in its art direction that makes the magazine look remarkably like the centerfold of the Daily News. And I wouldn’t even mind if it were a fan magazine for grownups—if it delivered the goods. But the real problem is that when I finish reading People, I always feel that I have just spent four days in Los Angeles. Women’s Wear Daily at least makes me feel dirty; People makes me feel that I haven’t read or learned or seen anything at all. I don’t think this is what Richard Stolley means when he says he wants to leave his readers wanting more: I tend to be left feeling that I haven’t gotten anything in the first place. And even this feeling is hard to pinpoint; I am looking at a recent issue of People, with Hugh Hefner on the cover, and I can’t really say I didn’t learn anything in it: On page 6 it says that Hefner told his unauthorized biographer that he once had a homosexual experience. I didn’t actually know that before reading People, but somehow it doesn’t surprise me.”

Those thoughts, they echo what I hear people say about certain internet personalites at the moment. You could tailor the above about a lot of them, just minor edits, and it could nail so much. Some might find it skin crawling that I equate social media accounts with magazine, but I would do that IRL. They have advertising, they are publishing, they have an audience. Some boxes are ticked.

Nothing they say surprises me. 

You’ll find Scribble Scribble in an anthology of Ephron’s writing, Crazy Salad & Scribble Scribble.