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fanficmoi · 5 years

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The Fool By The Seaside Chp.2

Paul returned to the coast everyday after that, desperate to see the man, the creature, again. But he wasn’t there for the whole week that followed the encounter, or the week after that, or the week after that. He grabbed every book he could find on the library about sea creatures and there he found the word, a world he’d always thought to be fantasy and yet would never again be perceived as so in Paul’s mind. Mermaid. Or rather, merman. The book told him that they were part human part fish, and that they often appeared to sailors on their voyages at sea. It spoke of their beauty and how they used it to lure those sailors to their deaths. But Paul couldn’t believe that, yes the creature had been scary but Paul had touched him without his permission. The creature had probably never met a human before! The books spoke of encounters mermaids had had before with humans, often about how enchanting they were and how disappointed the men narrating the stories had been when they found out that they were fish from the waist down. Paul scoffed at them, how could people be disappointed at such a remarkable aspect? Paul knew he wanted, no needed, to see it again. To feel it under hand, to be able to take it in in detail and be able to appreciate every inch of its beauty.

Paul was desperate, he was irritable and nobody could figure out what was wrong with him. But he couldn’t tell anyone, the boy was Paul’s secret. The creature had sang to him. Surely that meant something, it had too.

It was with this thought in mind that it struck Paul. An idea to get the creature to return. Paul would sing. Yes, he would sing a song and hope for the creature to hear it.

And so that’s what he did one day. He brought his guitar to the beach, something he rarely did due to a fear that it would get wet or get covered in sand, and started to strum out a soft tune he’d been working on for some time.

One day, you'll look

To see I've gone

But tomorrow may rain, so

I'll follow the sun

One day, you'll know

I was the one

But tomorrow may rain, so

I'll follow the sun

He closed his eyes and let his heart take over the song, the wind caressing his fair face.

And now the time has come

And so, my love, I must go

And though I lose a friend

In the end you will know

Oh-oh-oh

One day, you'll find

That I have gone

But tomorrow may rain, so

I'll follow the sun

So focused was he that he didn’t hear a body come out of the water, with its head tilted and eyes wide in confusion and wonder.

And now the time has come

And so, my love, I must go

And though I lose a friend

In the end you will know

Oh-oh-oh

One day, you'll find

That I have gone

But tomorrow may rain, so

I'll follow the sun

The song ended there, and Paul sighed in content, the first he had felt in a while. The atmosphere had relaxed, the waves and seagulls seemed muted, and Paul could feel himself beginning to lay down for rest when a voice made him snap up.

“Don’t stop.” It said.

Paul sat up in a flash and blinked his eyes as he took in the sighet before him. It had worked! The man was there, his body from the waist down hidden from view with the water. Paul stared in amazement as he took in every detail. The man’s skin seemed to almost shine as the evening sun struck it. He was still wearing the necklace with the blue stones, and Paul could see a gold armband on his left bicep with some engravings he could not decipher.

The creature spoke again, “I like your song.” Its, His, voice was different as he spoke than when he sang. It was rougher, more nasal, and yet still enchanting.

Paul finally dared to open his mouth, “I, that was it. The song ends there.”

The creature looked down at the water, the looked up again. “You have another?” He asked, “Another song?”

Paul found himself nodded, “Sure, loads.”

The creature, the merman, smiled. But it quickly faded as he saw Paul flinch away from his teeth. He sank down in the water, feeling dejected.

Paul cursed himself, “It’s okay, I’m sorry.”

The merman’s eyes looked at him without actually moving his head up. He then offered a nervous, close mouthed smile and said, “Song?”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Paul said with a shy smile of his own. Then he started to sing.

I've just seen a face,

I can't forget the time or place

Where we just met.

She's just the girl for me

And I want all the world to see

We've met, mm-mm-mm-m'mm-mm

Had it been another day

I might have looked the other way

And I'd have never been aware.

But as it is I'll dream of her

Tonight, di-di-di-di'n'di.

Falling, yes I am falling,

And she keeps calling

Me back again.

Paul stopped and looked at the merman. He found him smiling with his eyes closed, a serene look on his face. After a few seconds of silence, he opened his eyes and looked at Paul with a confused look.

“Why stop?” He asked.

Paul shrugged, “Sorry, I just...I was looking at you.”

The creature seemed flattered, he looked down with a smile.

“My name is Paul, by the way.” The human spoke as he put down his guitar for a moment, not really caring about the sand anymore.

The merman tilted his head, “Pole.” He said.

‘Pole’ laughed, “No, more ‘Powl’ like.”

“Powl, Paul.” The creature said.

“Yes.” Paul nodded and the merman smiled, proud.

“You have a name?” Paul asked him, curious as to what kind of name a mermaid would have.

“John.”

Oh. Wow. “John?” Paul asked in an incredulous voice, “John!?”

The creature frowned and moved away, “Why wrong?” It sounded offended.

Paul sighed, “I’m sorry. I just, John is a rather common name.”

John frowned, “Not at home. I only John in school.”

Paul decided that he probably meant ‘school’ as in group of merpeople. Like fish. And he was curious, “Are there many of you?” He asked.

John smiled a grand smile, “Yes! Many of Merrow.”

“Merrow?” Paul asked, “You mean merpeople? Half fish?”

John looked offended again, “We not fish, we Merrow!”

“Right, sorry.” Paul said, embarrassed. “So how come you speak English?”

The merman relaxed, “Aintín taught me English.”

“That a friend of yours?” Paul asked as he got closer to the water, slowly so as to not spook the merman.

John frowned, “Aintín family.”

Paul frowned, “Aintín, is she your mum?”

The merman looked down, suddenly sad looking. “No. Aintín not mam.”

Paul raised a worried eyebrow at the sudden change of mood, “Sorry. You have a mum?” Maybe merpeople didn’t have mums, how would that even work?

John sighed and grabbed at his necklace, “Mam away.”

Oh. His mum had left him? Well shit, looks like crap parenting extended to the sea. “I’m sorry.” Paul said, then spoke again. “My mum left too. Well, she died.”

The creature looked up at him in shock.

Paul continued, looking away from his companion and into the horizon, “It’s just me, my brother, and my dad now. It’s not that bad, we get by.”

There was silence for a moment. Then John spoke up, “Uncail dead too.”

“Aintín and Uncail? Are they your aunt and uncle?” Paul asked, it would make sense, the words were practically the same.

John nodded, “Yes. Aintín is mam deirfiúr.”

“Is that sister? Deirfiúr?” Paul guessed.

“Yes.”

Paul drew his knees up and laid his crossed arms there, “Do you have any...deirfiúr?”

John nodded, “From mam and other Merrow. Not athair.”

Paul frowned, trying to connect the word. “Athair? What is that?”

John also frowned, and went silent as he searched his brain for the correct word. “Patir, aita, otets, fatha?” He asked, “Fatha english?”

Paul nodded, “FathER.” He corrected with an amused smile.

“FathER.” John repeated, then smiled back. His teeth were on display but Paul didn’t flinch back.

The two were silent for a few minutes, just looking at each other. Once again Paul felt himself be drawn in by the others eyes, there was something entrancing about them and he couldn’t think of any other thing he would rather be looking at. Or wait, he could.

“Can I see it?” He asked without thinking.

John tilted his head, “Eet?”

Paul swallowed, “Your...tail?”

John didn’t respond, but his eyes widened and he sank further down.

The human was quick to respond, “I won’t hurt you I promise! I just...I need to see.” Paul’s hand was raised in a calming manner, “I need to see I’m not insane.”

John hesitated for a minute before saying, “Rock.” And he sank down into the water.

Paul did nothing for a minute, until he understood what the merman meant. He stood up, grabbed his guitar and walked closer to the large rock. He left his instrument far from the water and walked back to the water. He waited for a few seconds and then got in the water. It reached mid-thigh but he would walk steadily enough, he finally reached the patch of sand behind the rock and sat there, waiting.

Finally, the merman’s head emerged from beneath the water. His eyes were wary and wide in what appeared to be fear.

Paul smiled, “I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.” He extended a hand. “It’s okay.”

The merman gave a shy smile and slowly a hand raised from underneath the water and rested on Paul’s own. The human’s breath caught. The hand had a blue tint to it, it was webbed, and he had sharp nails that could be called claws. It was wet and cold, yet so incredibly breathtaking. The fingers were thin and seemed longer that would be considered normal, but they were certainly not ugly. As John rose further, Paul could see that he had fins on his arms, a gorgeous light blue color mixed with silver. Now that the merman was so close, Paul could see that he had gills on both his neck and to the sides of his chest. He saw the latter close as they left the water and then saw John chest expand as he breathed in deeply.

Just before jumping into the sand John stopped and looked at Paul, “Promise?” He asked.

“Promise.” The human breathed.

Then with a splash John was in the sand next to him, his upper body a few paces behind Paul’s so more of his tail could be seen. At his almost feminine waist, John was sporting a belt made of a thin silver cloth with blue stones much like his necklace’s making jingling sounds as hemoved. And the tail, oh the tali. It was long, incredibly so, it had to be at least a meter and a half, thought Paul was tempted to say it was two meters total counting the fin part of it. John had no belly button and the scales started to appear mid waist until they completely took over. Paul kept expecting to see an indent between what would be two legs held together but there was none. There were two short fins to the side near the end of the tail until finally the caudal fin took over.

Oh it was gorgeous! The same blue-silver of the arm fins, the tail shined as the sun hit it. And the caudal fin had four parts, rather than the expected two. It was still touching the water, but Paul had a clear view of it. As it ended, it turned near transparent but it was still blue at the beginning, until the colour faded.

Paul couldn’t speak out of sheer awe, but John took his silence as a sign of disillusionment and hurried to speak, “Tail longer than most in school. I, I clean tail every night. Tail colour rare in school.”

Paul saw the merman curling his tail up and quickly said, “Please don’t!” Causing the merman to stop and tilt his head. Paul continued, “It’s beautiful.” He looked into his companions dark eyes and said, “You’re beautiful.”

The merman looked into Paul’s eyes with wide eyes, feeling himself getting hot, something inexplicable being cold blooded as he was. He extended his tail again, this time laying it closer to the human.

Said human didn’t look away from his gaze immediately, but did so eventually and went back to admiring the tail. The merman didn’t look away from the other’s face.

Paul suddenly dared to raise a hand but first he asked, “Can I touch it?” At the alarmed look he received, he continued, “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

The other’s chest was raising up and down rather rapidly, he had always been told stories of humans that stole mermaids scales, leaving them to die. But Paul wouldn’t would he? He was nice, he had sang John a song. Songs were signs of affection. Plus, the human had promised, and promises were unbreakable. Slowly, he took a deep breath and nodded.

Paul smiled and carefully moved a hand closer to the tail, he could see it tensing so he was very gentle as he laid a hand in what would have been the thigh. He heard the other’s breath hitch and looked up to see if he had hurt John, but to his surprise found him with his eyes closed and an expression of pleasure on his face. Paul smiled and slowly started to move his hand up and down the appendage, enjoying the texture. It felt different from skin, but it wasn’t rough. It was very smooth and not slimy like he had expected.

He was completely entranced by the activity that he didn’t stop until he heard a whimper come from the merman’s lips. He looked up in worry but was shocked by what he found. The creature’s head was thrown back, his eyes shut tight, and his mouth a wide open. He looked...aroused. It was a delectable sight.

Appalled by the thought, Paul jumped away from the merman and stood up. John’s eyes opened and his head snapped to look at Paul, his head tilted in confusion. He too had been surprised by his feelings of pleasure coming from the touch, but it only made sense! Paul had been rubbing his tail, clearly he knew what he was doing to John. “Paul?” He breathed with a wobbly voice.

Paul couldn’t handle the tone and shook his head as he moved away from the rock and into the water.

“Paul?” The tone was more alarmed now, and John was sitting up straight now. The merman frowned and stretched an arm out, “Paul.” He said. Surely the human wasn’t leaving? Not after John had trusted him and let him touch his tail. Not even other Merrow touched each other’s tails. It was a sign of ultimate trust, and John had let a human he barely knew do it.

Paul just shook his head at him and turned away, walking towards where he had let his guitar.

“Paul!” John jumped into the water and got closer to the beach, he could feel the sand touching his chest and tail.

But the human didn’t look back at his merman, and ignored the following cries of anguish from the creature.

John felt rejected, he could feel his eyes getting wet so he quickly went underwater and swam away from the beach. He couldn’t believe what a fool he had been! Of course Paul had only wanted to feel something exotic, he didn’t care about John or what the touches had meant to him. Plucsheadáinín.

#the Beatles #beatles #mclennon #fanfic #beatlesslash #slash #fic #my fic #paul mccartney #john lennon

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fuzzysparrow · 2 years

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Who was Vesta Tilley?

Vesta Tilley (1864-1952) was an English music hall performer and one of the most famous male impersonators of her era. Typically playing fops, dandies or principal boys, Tilley became England’s highest-paid woman of the 1890s. Born Matilda Alice Powles, she started performing under the name Vesta Tilley in 1878. Tilley was a diminutive of her real name, Matilda, and Vesta referred to the Latin word for “virgin”.

Tilley typically performed as a dandy or fop, but also embraced other characters, such as clergymen and police officers. By the 1880s, Tilley was the favourite performer at music halls. Her favourite character was Burlington Bertie, a young aristocratic man who aspired to a life of leisure in the West End of London.

When Tilley first began acting, music halls were a place for gentlemen only. Her biggest fans, therefore, were men, but during the 1870s women were permitted to attend performances too. The majority of these women delighted in Tilley’s shows, enjoying her sense of independence. Protests for women’s rights were underway, and Vesta Tilley became a prime example of a woman succeeding in a man’s world.

When the First World War began in 1914, concerts became less frequent, but Tilley continued to act and sing where she could. Tilley organised charity events where she performed dressed in military uniform and encouraged young men to enlist in the army, earning her the nickname “England’s greatest recruiting sergeant”.

#Trivia #Vesta Tilley

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aswithasunbeam · 6 years

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Without You, Part I

[A Finding Forgiveness Except]

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: When the Alexander and Eliza lose Philip, it feels like the world should stop spinning. But life goes on, and they have to find a way to keep going... (Except from my much longer story, Finding Forgiveness, though these four chapters can stand on their own)

Warning: Major Character Death

November 1801

“You seem distracted,” Robert Troup noted. He was leaning far back in the chair opposite Hamilton’s desk holding a stack of depositions for a case they were both working on.

Hamilton pulled his glasses down to pinch the bridge of his nose against the stress headache he was fast developing. “I’m in the midst a very long day,” he answered his friend vaguely.

Troup set down his half of the depositions, a concerned frowned now wrinkling his brow. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head and tried to force a smile. “Nothing, really. I just didn’t sleep well. Eliza…” he hesitated. This sort of thing wasn’t proper to talk about among gentlemen, but Troup had been one of his dearest friends going all the way back to King’s. “Eliza’s pregnant again.”

Troup’s face morphed into a smile. “That’s wonderful, Hammy.”

“She’s been having some trouble. Morning sickness, you know.”

Troup nodded sympathetically. “I remember Jeanie going through that. It was awful.”

“She was up sick half the night last night. I hated leaving her this morning,” he admitted. “I’d have stayed home to look after her if I didn’t have so much to do today.”

“How far along is she?”

“She thinks about three months.”

“She should be through the worst of it soon, then,” Troup consoled. “Jeanie always said the early months were the worst.”

That had held true for Eliza previously, as well. “I hope so,” he replied. “I hate when she’s poorly.” He’d felt utterly useless as he’d hovered at her side, rubbing her back gently while she retched endlessly over the chamber pot in their bedroom.

“She’ll be fine,” Troup assured him. “You worry too much.”

His friend’s bright, sunny smile and unfailing optimism did manage to raise his spirits slightly. “Thanks,” he said sincerely.

They returned to their reading with matching sighs. He picked up his quill to mark a passage that might prove useful on cross examination, trying to refocus his mind on the work before him. Time marched steadily onwards.

As the shadows began to lengthen across the floor of his office, he glanced at the clock, and then towards the front door, craning his head in hopes of catching a figure passing by one of the front windows. Troup turned in his seat as well. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Pip was supposed to be here nearly an hour ago,” he said.

His son was the other reason for his difficulty focusing. Philip had strolled in to his office this morning with the delightful news that he’d been quarreling with a young Republican at the theater over the weekend. The young man, Eacker, had made some insulting comments towards him in the paper over the summer, and Pip (undoubtedly a few drinks for the worse at the time) had decided to confront him during a staging of the West Indian.

“A disparaging remark in the paper four months ago, directed at me, no less, seems a poor reason to call a fellow out to the field of honor,” Hamilton had argued as his son paced restlessly before his desk.

“That’s not why I did it,” Pip had parried immediately. “He called me a rascal! In front of everyone! Then he refused to apologize. What else was I to do? If I didn’t call him out, everyone would think me a coward.”

“Were you out with Price?” Pip looked a little sheepish as he nodded. “Drinking?”

“I’m not a child. You were in the army at my age.”

“I don’t care how old you are. The two of you are going to get in real trouble someday if you don’t start acting like gentlemen.”

Pip flushed and nodded again.

“Do you have a second?”

“Dave Jones,” Pip answered. “Eacker named Jonathan Lawrence.”

He’d nodded approvingly. David Samuel Jones was a young attorney with a good head on his shoulders, and Jon Lawrence was a local merchant with a good reputation. Cooler heads would undoubtedly prevail over such a silly, boyish squabble.

Pip paused, looking impossibly young with his big brown eyes and disheveled hair. “Papa?”

“What?” he asked, voice softening.

“What do I do? If we actually…Mama said it was a sin, to fire at someone in a duel.”

His stomach had turned at the thought of his baby boy standing on a field with a weapon trained on him. He’d taken a calming breath and reminded himself that things would never progress so far over such a drunken, juvenile encounter. Still, he’d wanted to ensure the safety of both parties should the worst come to pass.

“It is a sin,” he confirmed. “Taking a man’s life on the dueling ground is no better than murdering him in cold blood in the eyes of God. If things progress and you meet Eacker on the field, you should reserve your fire at the call to present, and then aim your pistol in the air, clearly, so he can see.” No gentlemen would fire at someone who had no intention of firing back. If the two boys were going to be firing guns, he wanted them aiming as far away from each other as possible. “Do you understand?”

Pip nodded.

He’d smiled and gestured to a pile of papers on his desk, allowing the matter to drop for the present moment. “Take these over to Mr. Parsons office; they’re for Uncle Church’s insurance case. Then Judge Kent said you can sit with his clerks during his proceedings today if you can get to the courthouse before nine. Try to meet me back here by four, if you could. I want to get home to check on Mama at a reasonable time.”

“All right, Papa,” he’d agreed. He’d then collected the papers from the desk, and tucked them neatly into the case Hamilton and Eliza had gifted him upon his graduation.

“Pip,” he called as his son turned away.

The boy paused in the doorway.

“It’ll be fine.”

Pip gave him one last big smile before setting off for his day.

Now, four o’clock had come and gone, and there was no sign of his troublesome boy.

Troup gave him a knowing smile. “Come on, Ham. You remember what it was like to be nineteen, with the world at your feet. Cut the boy some slack.”

“If I cut him any more slack, he’s like to hang himself with it,” he replied with a wry smile. Troup laughed. “Sometime I forget why I ever taught him to walk. Things were so much easier before he could wander off by himself.”

“Hindsight makes wise men of us all,” Troup teased. A carriage clattered to a stop outside the office, and his friend added, “See. That’ll be Pip now.”

He felt the knot of anxiety in his middle ease as the door knob turned. Before he could start the scolding he’d been mentally rehearsing for the past half hour though, he saw not his son, but one of Pip’s school friends standing awkwardly in the open doorway. Rathbone, if he recalled correctly. Yes. Thomas Rathbone—he’d graduated with Pip last year.

“Good day, General Hamilton,” the boy started nervously.

He nodded politely and gave the boy a smile to put him a little more at ease. “How can I help you, son?”

“I was…Well, I was wondering if you’d had word yet, sir.”

He frowned. “Word about what?”

“About Phil,” the boy answered, increasingly uncomfortable by the second. “He rowed out to Powles Hook with Jones hours ago, but no one’s heard what happened.”

He was on his feet before he really knew what was happening. His heart felt like it was going to leap from his throat. No. No. He couldn’t have…Jones and Lawrence would never have let it get so far.

“Why was Pip going to New Jersey?” Troup asked, his face the picture of confusion.

“I have to…” he trailed off as he collected his coat and pulled open his office door.

“Ham?” Troup called after him.

He was already on the sidewalk, moving down the street at a pace just short of running. His breath created great white puffs in the cold November air. His mind was whirling so quickly he couldn’t properly pin down a thought, except for a peculiar memory of Pip as a toddler stumbling towards him on chubby, unsteady legs. A familiar townhouse came into view and he paused before the front door, his brain hardly keeping up with his legs.

Hosack. Every instinct screamed at him to fetch the doctor, the man who’d miraculously returned his son from the dead once before. He hadn’t told Pip to bring a doctor along; he’d been so sure it wouldn’t come to that. How could he have been so foolish?

He pounded on the front door, louder than strictly proper.

The door opened almost immediately, so suddenly that he nearly pounded his fist into the face of the house’s occupant. Hosack had his coat on already, his black doctor’s bag in hand. Worst of all, he looked unsurprised to see Hamilton pounding frantically on his door.

No. Oh, please, God, no.

“Philip,” he managed to get out. “I think…I think he’s been in a duel. He may need—”

“I know, sir,” Hosack interrupted softly. “I’m already on my way. He was taken to Mr. and Mrs. Church’s home, out in Greenwich, so I’ve been told.”

“He was taken…taken to….” Black began to press in on his vision, speckled with little flashes of light. He felt himself falling.

No.

~*~

Troup had chased after him in his carriage, as it turned out. He came to on the sofa in the Hosack’s family parlor, and his friend was patting at his head with a cloth dipped in cool water. “There you are, Hammy.”

A single, blessed moment of confusion followed. And then it all came crashing back down upon him. He swung his legs over the side of the sofa and pushed himself up, intending to fly from the room, only to be stymied when his head spun dangerously again.

“Take it easy,” Troup advised. “You’re going to faint on us again.”

“I need to…Philip.”

Troup pressed gently on his shoulders to sit him back on the sofa. “I know. I’ll take you over in just a moment. First, take a sip of water. You’re no use to him unconscious.”

He took the water reluctantly, forcing the liquid down his tight throat. It did help to clear his head, though, and when he stood, his vision remained clear and his legs stayed steady beneath him. Seeing that he could stand, Troup ushered him out to his carriage and ordered the driver to take them out to Church and Angelica’s house.

“Eliza?” he asked as the carriage started off.

“Mrs. Hosack sent word. She’ll meet us there,” Troup assured him.

He sat back against the cushioned seat. His mind felt numb and fuzzy, as if he were in a dream. How could this be happening? His little boy, his darling Pip: he’d just seen him this morning. He closed his eyes and saw his son so clearly he felt as if he could reach out and touch him.

When the coach stopped, Troup took him by the elbow to lead him inside. Angelica was standing in the doorway looking more distressed then he’d ever seen her. Her makeup had run around her eyes, giving her smudged circles almost like a raccoon. She reached out to him as he passed by, whispering, “My dear brother.”

“Where?”

“Upstairs,” she answered.

The staircase loomed before him, seeming the stretch and shrink at the same time. Troup remained at his side and guided him along. He heard Pip before he saw him. A long, drawn out wail of misery emanated from the room at the end of the hall.

“Mama!”

He couldn’t breathe.

The smell hit him before anything else: coppery and strong, with a hint of bowel. Just for a moment, he was back in the hospital tent after Trenton, holding a young man’s hand as he bled and wept for his mother. Only, when he opened his eyes to the scene before him, it wasn’t a nameless boy in a uniform; it was his son, his boy.

He’d fought in a war, risked life and limb, spilled blood and faced death to build something better for his children. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Hush, Philip,” Hosack was whispering. “See, your Papa is here.”

“Mama!”

He made himself move.

“Pip,” he cooed. He ran his hand through the sweaty mop of curls on his son’s head. “Pip, look at me. It’s Papa.”

Pip’s breath hitched around a sob. “Papa?”

“Yes. It’s Papa. I’m here, my darling lamb. I’m right here.”

Philip took a gasping breath, his sweaty hand clutching on to his father’s shirt. “It hurts, Papa. It hurts!”

“Shh,” he whispered. “Everything’s all right. Just stay calm. You need to breathe. Breathe with me.”

Pip’s eyes were rolling in his head, not focusing on anything in particular. He tried to take a breath, then let out another wail. “Mama!” he cried again.

Hamilton took a shuddering breath as he reached down to lift the bloody blanket. The bullet had cut a course straight through Pip’s abdomen by the looks of it. His arm was wrapped in bandages as well. He pressed his fingers to Pip’s uninjured wrist, feeling the thready pulse thrumming through his veins.

“Doctor,” he nearly whimpered as he turned back to Hosack, “I despair.”

Hosack looked pale; he didn’t bother pretending there was hope.

“It hurts!” Philip sobbed.

“Can’t you give him something?” he asked, desperate to do something, to help, to protect.

“I can give him a dose of laudanum. But he might be unconscious by the time Mrs. Hamilton arrives.”

“I don’t care, just…help him.” Eliza wouldn’t want to see him like this, anyway. He didn’t want to see him like this. Hosack prepared the laudanum and carefully eased Pip’s mouth open. The boy shuddered at the taste, but soon quieted. Hamilton knelt by the bedside and pressed a kiss to Pip’s forehead. “It’s going to be all right.”

He folded his hands around Philip’s in prayer and laid his head on the bed.

Please, he begged silently, please not my son. Take me. Take me instead.

“Philip!”

His head jerked up at his wife’s voice. She swept into the room, pale to the lips and shaking as she hurried to the bedside. Pip’s head rolled towards her voice, but his eyes stayed unfocused.

“Mama’s here, honey,” she soothed, even if he was beyond understanding. “You’re all right now.”

Pip whimpered. She seated herself on the opposite side of the bed and brushed her fingers through his hair. The boy seemed to relax instinctively at her touch. “Hush, my darling.”

Her dark eyes met his across the bed just as Pip’s eyes fell closed. “What happened?”

He shook his head, hardly able to form words. “I don’t…he…I don’t….”

She looked down at Philip’s wrapped arm and lifted the blanket. Her hand went to her mouth to stifle a sob. She managed, in a choked voice, “Was it a duel?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” It was pointless. Senseless. So much blood and pain, over nothing. A word spoken in anger between two young men who’d been drinking. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

She turned her attention back to their son, repositioning on the bed so she could hold him properly and cradle his head. He put his head down on the bed again. Prayed again. Please. Please.

“Alexander,” she whispered.

He looked up.

“Come here.” She motioned to the bed. “He needs you.”

He clambered up onto the bed and clutched his son.

People filtered in and out around them. Hosack fluttered about the room ineffectually but for his nearly hourly doses of laudanum that kept Philip calm and insensible of the pain. He didn’t move to acknowledge any of the visitors; he hardly dared breathe for fear he’d cause his precious child more pain.

Philip went in and out of consciousness. It felt like a nightmarish mimicry of those early days when he’d been an infant sleeping between them, waking at odd hours to demand food and comfort from Eliza. Now, it was the laudanum for which he screamed, and his parents were utterly helpless in the face of his unbearable agony.

His wife’s hand found his in the night. She entwined their fingers over their son’s chest, which rose and fell with shallow breath. Their eyes met in the dim candlelight, and a silent communication passed between them: terror and gnawing pain and soul crushing grief understood without words exchanged. He squeezed her palm, trying to send her comfort, until she drifted off at last in the wee hours of the morning. As soon as he was sure she was asleep, he pulled away.

He didn’t deserve her comfort.

Golden sunlight began to filter through the curtains. He blinked in the light, and felt Pip shift slightly against him. “Papa?” His voice was so soft, so weak, Hamilton half thought he’d imagined it. But Pip’s eyes were open when he looked down.

“Hello, my sweet boy.”

Pip looked more coherent in the morning light. His wandering eyes rested on his father. He swallowed twice, seemed to make an effort to try to speak. “I didn’t…I didn’t fire at him, Papa. I did… just what you said.”

“I know,” he assured him. “I know. You did so well, son. I’m so proud of you.”

Philip gave a little sigh and closed his eyes again. Some part of him knew his little child would never wake again. He kissed his brow, his tears mingling with Philip’s sweat. “I’m so sorry.”

Eliza stirred, blinking owlishly. Seeing his tears, her eyes widened and she sat up fully. “Philip?”

“Asleep,” he tried to assure her.

She nodded and clutched their boy tighter. Resting his head beside his son’s, he closed his eyes. Eliza tried to hold his hand again. He couldn’t look at her.

Philip slipped away quietly minutes later, with hardly a sound.

His world stopped.

#alexander hamilton #eliza hamilton #philip hamilton #hamliza #grief #major character death #it's quiet uptown #hamilton fanfic

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lisaljdw500 · 3 years

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Ionen Haartrockner Erfahrung Was man vor dem Kauf wissen sollte 2020

Es ist kein Verkäufer in der Nähe der dich vor dem Kauf gut beraten kann. Achten Sie bei der Entscheidung für einen Haartrockner auf die Grösse und das Gewicht. „Geh nie mit nassen Haaren raus, Kind!, ein Satz, den man jahrelang zu hören bekam und bei dem man sich heute selbst ertappt. Trocknen und Stylen ist mit dem Remington Haartrockner ein wahres Kinderspiel. Der gewöhnliche Haartrockner. Bei dem Braun Satin Hair 7 HD 710 Haartrockner handelt es sich um einen funktionsreichen, gut ausgestatteten sowie leistungsstarken Haarföhn, der sich dank seiner komfortablen Bedienweise für jegliche Haartypen ausgezeichnet eignet. Zusätzliche Funktionen Infrarot-Heizsystem sowie Aufhängeöse. Marke: Vidal Sassoon / Gerätetyp: Pistolen-Haartrockner / Kaltstufe (ungeheizte Luft) / Klappgrifftechnik: nicht vorhanden / Ionen-Technologie (für..

0 % (0 Stimmen) Babyliss AC Haartrockner PRO EXPRESS 6614E... abstimmen. Aktuelle Ionen Fön Testergebnisse im großen Ionenfön Test ansehen. Dank der Ionen- Technologie wird Ihr Haar bei 100 km/h in kürzester Zeit getrocknet und gestylt, ganz ohne statische Aufladung und Kräuselbildung. Neu entwickelte AirStar Wandhaartrockner für den universellen Einsatz mit hoher Trocknungsleistung und modernem Design. Checkliste : Worauf bei Diffusoren für Haartrockner achten?

Grundig Diffusor Aufsatz

Babyliss Fön Mit Diffusor

Haarfön Braun Satin Hair 7

Haartrockner Günstig

Föhn Mit Lockenaufsatz

Profi Fön Leise

Haarfön Mit Halterung

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Du sparst: € 7,50 (33%). Denn versprochen werden 50 Prozent mehr Luftdruck und 40 mehr Luftausstoß als bei vergleichbaren Profi-Haartrockner. Dadurch werden Energiekosten gespart, der Durchlauf im Bad erhöht und Staus vermieden. Die neuen Haartrockner 2.0 hingegen sollen nicht nur unsere Haare trocknen, sondern auch schonend stylen. Der Grundig HD2509 Reisehaartrockner liegt gut in der Hand, und ist sehr leicht. Zustand: Neuwertig / unbenutzt - Werbung Artikel - leichte Kratzer. Ganz gleich, ob Sie Heimtechnik oder Profigeräte suchen... sollten Sie auf dieser Seite nicht fündig werden, schauen Sie sich doch unter unseren gesamten Angeboten für Haartrockner um, besuchen Sie die Gesamtabteilung für Haarpflegeelektronik oder unsere Seite für Haarpflegeelektronik von Theo Klein Wenn Sie ausschließlich nach Technik von Theo Klein suchen, empfehlen wir Ihnen auch den Besuch unserer Seite mit dem Gesamtangebot an Heimtechnik und Profigeräten von Theo Klein Übrigens: Dort wie auch auf jeder anderen Seite bei uns können Sie mit Hilfe der Filter oben auf jeder Seite ganz gezielt nach einzelnen Marken, Produkten in ausgewählten Farben, Technik innerhalb bestimmter Preiskategorien oder auch speziell nach reduzierten Rabattangeboten suchen.

Dyson Haartrockner Test

Testsieger Dyson

Fön Mit Schmaler Düse

Durch Luft wird die Strähne verwirbelt und in sich gedreht, so dass Kordeln entstehen. Absolut angenehm empfinde ich auch die Geräuschkulisse des Dyson Supersonic! Ein Haartrockner ist mit einem Gebläse ausgestattet, welches die Luft an der hinteren Seite des Föhns einsaugt. Mittlerweile gibt es den Föhn mehr als 100 Jahren auf dem Markt. Die Kundenreviews sind einwandfrei und im Übrigen offenbaren sie die Zufriedenheit des Kunden mit den Artikeln. Lieferumfang: Philips ThermoProtect Haartrockner HP8230/00, 1x Stylingdüse.

Statt sich ihrem Schicksal hinzugeben, griff die Rentnerin zu einer ungewöhnlichen Maßnahme, beziehungsweise zu einem ungewöhnlichen Gegenstand: einen Föhn. Denn je nach Modell können im Lieferumfang eines Haartrockners auch einige Aufsätze enthalten sein. Der Preis für das Gerät startet bei 399 Euro - auf Amazon haben wir aber auch schon Modelle entdeckt, die fast 700 Euro kosten sollen. Dazu waren die Studioeinrichtung in dieser Epilator außerordentlich kurz; nur einige Friseurmöbel lang verweilte die Friseur über dem Schere auf die dann eine lange dauernde Friseurstuhl blau folgte. Haartrockner von Braun (z.B. Braun Satin Hair 5, Braun Satin Hair 7 HD 710, Braun Satin Hair 7 HD 730) Zurück zu Kategorie KRUPS Ersatzteile oder Haartrockner Ersatzteile. Er ist Ihr Stylist für unterwegs und hilft Ihnen immer und überall perfekt frisiert zu sein. Es ist eine Universal-Luftdusche, passt wohl - auch laut Verpackung - auf alle Haartrockner.

Ich habe den Haartrockner getestet und bin... Weiterlesen. Ein Haartrockner ist ein äußerst wichtiges Utensil, welches in keinem Haushalt und auch auf Reisen auf keinen Fall fehlen darf. 1 K A P I T E L Die Friseureinrichter Diese lange Boy schwarz WELONDA führte sich mit einem heftigen Vapozon ein. Robert Powls gründete im Jahr 2008 die Firma Cloud Nine, die sich mit Haarpflegeprodukten und -geräten beschäftigt. Bei der Handhabung fallen die leicht erreichbaren Bedienelemente positiv auf, das Kabel hätte allerdings auch länger sein können.

Zudem reduzieren sie die Grösse der Wassertropfen auf dem Haar und verkürzen so die Trocknungszeit. Der Remington D1500 Reise-Haartrockner hat 2000 Watt Leistung und eine Luftgeschwindigkeit von 60km/h. OS-Plattform einzureichen, haben Verbraucher ein elektronisches Beschwerdeformular auszufüllen. Mit diesem Ionen-Haartrockner werden Ihre Haare geschmeidiger, glanzvoller und voluminöser. Rezeption Hobson wanderte aber in Empfangstresen vertieft dahin. Ein starkes Gebläse ist ein wichtiges Kriterium, wenn es um die Qualität von Haartrocknern geht Foto: Knut Wiarda - Fotolia. Haartrockner-Typ. Mit Standfüßen oder auch Rollstativ.

Haartrockner Set

Wen das jedoch nicht stört, der erhält mit dem D3080W von Remington einen zuverlässigen Haartrockner der einfach zu bedienen ist, seinen Zweck voll und ganz erfüllt und zu einem sehr günstigen Preis zu haben ist. Wärme die Zange mit dem Haartrockner für einige Sekunden auf mittlerer Hitze auf und benutze sie anschließend wie gewohnt. Die Haare trocknen ratz-fatz :) Leider vermisse ich einen Defuseraaufsatz.

TIPP

Haare Trocknen

Der Trockner hat eine niedrige und hohe Heiz-Einstellungen. Braun Satin Hair 7 Haartrockner HD 730 schwarz, Retail 2200 Watt 3 Heizstufen, 2 Gebläsestufen Kaltstufe. Wandhaartrockner. DER ULTRALEISE, HOCH LEISTUNGSFÄHIGE PROFESSIONELLE HAARTROCKNER.

Das klingt schon fast zu schön um wahr zu sein. Lassen Sie sich in diesem Remington Haartrockner Test Tipps darbieten. Reisefön: Vergleich der besten Haartrockner für Deine Reise Welcher Reisehaartrockner ist der beste?

Dyson Testsieger

Ionen Trockner

Um Ihr Widerrufsrecht auszuÜben, mÜssen Sie uns, Firma HAIRTEK, Inhaberin: Anja Aniol, Hesdiner Ring 41, 59929 Brilon, Telefonnummer: https://lockenqueencom.tumblr.com/ 49(0)2961-977150, Telefaxnummer: 49( 0)2961-977151, E-Mail-Adresse: info@, mittels einer eindeutigen Erklärung (z.B. ein mit der Post versandter Brief, Telefax oder E-Mail) Über Ihren Entschluss, diesen Vertrag zu widerrufen, informieren. In der Anwendung für dies zu einem wesentlich glatteren und nicht so verwirrtem Haar. Wie du sicherlich weißt, kann durch überflüssige Stylinghitze die Feuchtigkeit verloren gehen. Das reicht aber meistens nicht dafür aus, Haare mit dem Föhn professionell zu stylen.

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spamzineglasgow · 4 years

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(REVIEW) Pain Journal Issue 3

In this review, Maria Sledmere draws out the material poetics of intimacy, glimmer, memory and salt in issue 3 of Pain Journal, from Partus Press, asking what kinds of dream-writing and ecopoetics we might find among the tangle, the camaraderie, the trace.

> Pain is an immaculate journal of new poetry and short, creative essays, edited by Vala Thorodds and Luke Allan, published by Partus Press and designed by Studio Lamont. Folding out the cover of issue 3, you’ll find an epigraph from Robert Creeley’s ‘The Flower’: ‘Pain is a flower like that one, / like this one, / like that one, / like this one’. Pain is a making, a sap, a sort of seedling and fruiting of where we are in the years. It likens itself to more than we’d tend to acknowledge. A blood, a fur of skin, a flower. It’s such a luxury to hold issue 3 in its peachy, matte dust jacket, admiring the beautiful type and the list of contributors. There’s an air of the covetable to Pain: maybe it’s the print quality, maybe it’s the poetry, maybe it’s the curation. I think it’s also something to do with the cover, dominated by the sans serif title PAIN: when I read this walking in the street, I make some kind of statement. It feels charged with the ambiguity of some high fashion statement, and yet what lucky readers are we that something of the contents may tell the pain — we don’t just wear it.

> Where to start! These are lush poems of communication, intimacy, sensation. Ásta Fanney Sigurðardóttir’s ‘Gleam & delicacies’ is a surreal and elliptical lyric of superstitious glimmer. Poetry as ‘a trap for the superstitions’. I find myself googling what a ‘glowfruit’ is and find some reddit discussions around the appearance of ‘glowfruit trees’ in Sims games. There’s this line, ‘I still have wild glowfruit trees. Do you?’, which feels like a summons, a challenge. Enter into this logic with me, where the one-time event of the glowfruit’s arrival has seeded the game’s eternal time. Someone comments, ‘They seem kind of random to me’. I had forgotten the magic of games and their luxurious richness and dream logic of glitches and hacks and splintered paths of narrative. Perhaps my childhood adoration of Sega and Nintendo was my way into poetry. The opening veils of an overlain world. Sigurðardóttir’s poetics have that quality of drifting between rooms and scenes, or falling between bodies and scales by one gesture of a linebreak, the slide of a button control, ‘I give birth to suns / for the morning hoax / slippery planets’. It reminds me of David O’Reilly’s video game, Everything, where you can move between a roving shrub, a celestial body and an oil rig in the space of ten minutes. What is meant by a ‘nighthaired waiter’? There is a dream-hand that extends to our proprioceptive venturing, that offers casual refusal (‘I didn’t come here to toothbrush the wolf’) by way of assembling the real and its purpose. The real which feels more like a ‘silhouette’.

> Significant, perhaps, that this poem of mirror-tricks and shimmers stands opposite Ruby Silk’s ‘Re:’, a poem that takes the banal conceit of email and pulling on tights in the swimming pool changing room to figure something of desire and its thirst. ‘we communicate drily’, the poem begins, ending with a slide on the nature of being quenched, on the question. Both poems forego punctuation, and more or less carry themselves on the turns of language: objects form a multiple syntax of moving between. Their cleanness on the page is perhaps what makes them gleam, they seem to hold their own. The gleam is present elsewhere in the issue, with Eloise Hendy’s ‘scrubland’ beginning, in the manner of Marianne Moore moving into Plath territory, ‘i too have a gleaming future. / a future like a fish scale, the eye / of a small bird’. Trauma or remembered pain is a matter of scale(s) and perception, of the body and its existential whittling, whitening. The speaker asks about whiteness, light, memory and dream: ‘all that spilt milk. all that gleaming’. You could say the gleam is metonymy for shame, the beaming cheeks, the sense of glowing or almost burning there in the situation. No capitals, a whittling. The idea of ‘nonsense’ itself, whittling down to the first gleam, its tender origin: ‘as a girl i was very soft’. The way the lines and stanzas slip, enjambed between, the idea of a passing through. The speaker offers her hurts: her fish eye, her pale appetite, her starved future, her dreams of fish bones and choking. ‘be gentle with me’, she implores. I think of this line from the film Lady Bird (2018), after Lady Bird loses her virginity under a pretence of shared experience and the boy Kyle is like ‘Do you have any awareness about how many civilians we’ve killed since invasion in Iraq started?’ and she replies, ‘SHUT UP. SHUT UP. Different things can be sad. It’s not all war’. ‘as an adult i am softer still’, Hendy writes, as though softening herself into the palest ghost and somehow becoming defiant, ‘my hand / is an arrowhead. a future / like a fish eye’.

> It’s no surprise that Pain is tinged with other existential tremors, those of the body and the world, of ecology and domesticity, of sex and dust. Helen Charman’s ‘In the pocket of Big Pig’ wears high theory cool on its sleeve as it sweeps into the muck and dirt of where we are. The movement of ‘manmade’ materials into the ‘natural’ is an aesthetic act: ‘Plastic / can holders entwine themselves around the / sea kelp — to tame and smooth frizz’. In that em-dash I feel the lines reaching out, the kelp and the twine and the human arms, the bristles. Does poetry do more than brush back the mess of the world, or tease it back into static? What are the ethics of pain’s poetic entanglement?

ecopoets try again and again to convince us of the whiteness of the snow drift. I like muddy ducklings dirty reedbeds

(Charman, ‘In the pocket of Big Pig’)

If ‘muddy ducklings’ has that childlike assonance of storybook rhyme, ‘dirty reedbeds’ feels adult, insistent, dark. The place where you tangle and possibly drown. Turning away from the pristine ‘snow drift’ that pulls us into the picturesque, an ecopoetics that continues the aesthetic throwback of nature poetry before it, this is an anthropocene poetics of living in a fraught, affectively entangled now: ‘I think we’re nostalgic for more than VHS when we / fuck in front of the Blue Planet poster misty-eyed as if / we’ll ever get to show the oceans to our own kids’. Sex is ambivalently yoked to procreation in the ‘misty-eyed’ act of fucking to get back to something primal, deep and planetary. The world as it once supposedly was and exists now mostly as mediation: scenes on tv, posters for Blue Planet. And the word ‘fuck’ for sex that feels iterative rather than tender, two bodies trying to make something of what they have, an intensified point in time and space, a mediation or trace of each other.

> A similar kind of iterative sweetness and friction occurs in Jack Underwood’s ‘Behind the Face of Great White Shark’, where some new entry to the ecosystem upsets the home, ‘Since we brought you home from the hospital / I have begged these hours to a stub’. Enter the metaphoric playground of sharks and dogs, worms, rats, beans and bananas. Something of this new love, the baby perhaps, the shark or the tender thirsty thing at dawn, is a hurt: ‘I admit I have been sick / since we met, pursuing this love-wound / like a moon beyond the windscreen’. A love you’d drive to all through the night, to arrive back where you started, chaste in your own ‘dawn kitchen’ with a moony look in your eye. I think of Dorothea Lasky’s ‘wild lyric I’, the one she discusses in her new book Animal: this playful and manipulative ‘metaphysical I’ that ‘can harness all fragmented senses of self and use them whenever it needs to’. Underwood’s I thrashes like a shark on the sick shores of a new love, a birthing tide, dark and light. An I that threatens violence, desire from all angles and limbs ‘fucking ambidextrously’; an I that ‘can keep you safe inland’, that pulls you into its glow, for this is just ‘the lesser work of living’.

> It is tricky to identify highlights from a journal where, as with amberflora (whose sensibilities resonate here), the selections are impeccable: focused, resonant, but also lovely alone. Nina Mingya Powles’ ‘The Harbour’ has something of Clarice Lispector’s radiance, pressed into a teeming poetics of its own. Its section titles add an epistolary quality, italicised as they are, ‘Dear whales,’, ‘Dear dreamer,’. Post-Arika, with all talk of Moby Dick and the mathematics of the whale, it seems these cetaceans are having a real moment. Powles’ address to the whale is elegiac, ‘I can pinpoint all the places you have died, / where I’ve buried you’. She’s putting pressure on the work of metaphor, the whale as so much more than whale, the whale as what cannot be contained, the whale that cannot contain itself. Her whale is more of a comrade, a friend:

When I looked out of the train and saw your deep blue body and you saw mine you stayed close to me, swimming alongside. We were both travelling home.

What if ecopoetics, or anthropocene poetics, were something more like this surprising camaraderie? Does it matter whether the encounter was imagined or actually happened? Running through Pain is this suffering silk with its shadows and texture of echo and gleam, ‘the dream is wet skin against her hands / the fact is echolocation’ (Powles). I’ve been thinking about what the tensile ethics of this fugitive touch are: the touch of the image, the whale and the speaker on the train, the relative distance of speed and time between them, the hospitality she extends to the animal she is also. ‘I’ll show you my mother’s potted orchids’, in a world where to cross one human threshold is to know that later the sea will be deep enough for you once more. Pain asks how much of each other we need to hold. There’s this passage from Hélène Cixous’ novel Hyperdream (2006) that speaks to this:

I hear it, I hear a murmur your skin speaks, a blood thinks, I hear your thought running under the skin I hear your life thinking under the neat eternal spotless silk. I read with my life. I am torn. At the same time I am healed and glued back together again. During this time the world suffers and dies [...]

What is the murmur of our speaking skins, our thinking blood? The body that dreams? One pain can open the next, there’s a gesture of infinity, the way that Anne Boyer identifies in her ‘meditation on modern illness’, The Undying (2019): ‘My new calamity meant it was possible to feel every cell at once and, in these, every mitochondrion, and that it was possible, too, to have a millionfold shitshow of sensations in locations newly realised’. To have your body illumined, intensified, surged to the end of each nerve and cell with this searing consciousness. When I had shingles, I felt real dreams; they seemed to extend to a million tips, concentrated in clusters on the skin of my belly. Real dreams/real hurt. Is a body in pain the body that dreams the most, from her almost-paralysis in sensory excess? I think poems like Powles are asking these questions, declaring, spacing, opening up, leaving us on the brink of a blank that is its own quiet sublime, ‘everything is so !’. And if ‘the fact is letting go’, what of the fact have we been holding all along? Is this like Creeley, gesturing towards this or that flower, as a way of describing, to insist on it. Something we ask as children: does a flower or a plant feel pain? Pain, pain. There it is in the world, it just is, like a flower, or something more tiny and abrasive, salt after salt. A period.

> Rowland Bagnall’s essay ‘The Metal We Call Salt’ closes the journal with a meditation on the poetry of Philip Levine and Elizabeth Bishop, writers who ‘[address] the delicate failure of poetry to say the things which can’t be said’. This is Creeley, surely, with the flowers which stand for the shapeless pain. I’m reminded of a line from Rachael Allen’s ‘Kingdomland’: ‘the glass and salt my crooked pathway; impassable glass and salt’. The glittering remainders which excoriate the entry and exit of threshold, painful debris of the sea. This is the ‘tantalising’ poetics that Bagnall writes of, words that ‘say that they are lost for words’, words that gift and withhold by their material gesture: words that carry traces of what they may be. Salt-tanged and gleaming as glass. ‘What got revealed when the layers of leaves / Were blown backwards?’ Ralf Webb asks, in his ‘Three Sonnets’. What is it to walk over the crunching ‘pathway’ of such poems for pain, ana-cathartic as they move into, above, through, around and from the wound and its ferric sting? The essay also looks at the paintings of John Salt and photographs of Mark Ruwedel, considering how as a preservative and purifier, salt as both an archival and corrosive mineral: art as what consumes and reveals, what glints with the not yet spoken. Salt in the wound for pain will sting, but it will clear. These poems are such interfusions, sweetness and dreams, the ‘torn’: healed and suffering of a life and a world, coming over. And, for just a while, Pain will hold you together, soft in its peachy embrace.

Pain issue 3 is out now and available to purchase here.

Text: Maria Sledmere

Published: 5/1/20

#review #poetry review #PAIN #PAIN Journal #Maria Sledmere #Partus Press

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pocmuzings · 7 years

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UNI SEMESTER IS COMING TO A CLOSE AND I AM READY FOR 1X1 AGAIN!!!

so pls find underneath, some muses- a mixture of all genders and pronouns, and hmu if u wanna plot or rp with them!!!!

MUSE A, CHARLOTTE ROWAN (dichen lachman fc): tough as nails, a fighter in an apocalyptic world, kind of like the walking dead. charlotte and her sister were separated when the world first went to shits, and now charlotte is determined to find her sister. however, she’s stuck with your character and the two find themselves not getting along but begrudgingly protecting each other from zombies and others, at all costs. a strange camaraderie, that may even turn into something more.

wanted: male muse. in early or late twenties. is a bit of a dork and loveable, and continuously tries to break past charlotte’s silent exterior. the two gain respect and friendship with each other. and then maybe something a little more, because hey- it’s the end of the world.

MUSE B, ELIAS ASFOUR (rami malek fc): a total recluse. he’s basically exactly like his character from Mr Robot, and i shipped him hard core with Shayla, so that’s the sort of relationship i’m going for. Both characters are messed up and dealing with their own problems, but they’re neighbours, and what starts as a friends with benefits to help each other cope with life in general, it begins to turn into something a lot more

wanted: female muse. early to mid twenties. an absolute sweetheart who has been dragged through the mud but still shines brighter then anything. she’s persistent in having elias in her life.

MUSE C, KI KWAN (arden cho fc): an assassin. flirty, but tough. this is based off mr and mrs smith. both characters are given the other to assassinate, but they’ve been together for a long time and love each other deeply. they don’t know that the other one is an assassin as well.

wanted: female or male muse. late twenties. basically exactly like ki in that they’re both charming and persuasive, but also can be lethal and dangerous. but they love each other incredibly hard.

MUSE D, JESSICA BROOKS (nathalie emmanuel fc or negotiable): a single mum. an absolute sweetheart, and willing to do anything for her daughter. she’s had a bit of a rough life. a burnt cinnamon roll, who’s still trying her best. she works two jobs and is always running about, but is mainly see at the late night diner where she works, studies and eats. its basically a second home to her.

wanted: male muse. mid to late twenties. charming and sweet. he has a bad boy, rough exterior, but is the kind of guy that lets jessica’s daughter colour in his tattoos, or sit on his motorbike. he’s a secret marshmallow, and is convinced he wants to take jessica out, just to help de-stress her. he’s a frequent customer at her diner and they often bump into each other.

MUSE E, MAX HENDERSON (justin hartley fc or negotiable): CEO of a company, extremely successful and young. although it’s mainly all been inherited, people often doubt or second guess him because he seems like a ‘dumb jock’. whilst he may say foolish things, he has the right mindset and heart, but in order to stop people from doubting him- he needs a girlfriend. or... seeing as he doesn’t really have time to date, he kinda needs a sugar baby, to put it nicely.

wanted: female fc. early to mid twenties. radiant, charming, and easy to get along with. she’s struggling at uni when she finds max’s advertisement basically saying ‘if you come with me to events, talk me up, make me looks good, and give me head every now and then- i’ll pay for everything for you’. what more could there be?

MUSE F, KYLE POWLING (Herman Tømmeraas fc or any fuck boy looking fc lol): basically ruination. a complete fuck boy. a disaster and a mess, and an asshole. but somehow he has people falling for him all over the place because he knows how to be charming when he wants to be. he gets away with anything, and basically hurts everyone he touches.

wanted: female fc. late teens to early twenties. the sweet girl who obviously fell in with the big bad wolf. their relationship will be highly toxic, and kyle will be an asshole to her. they fight, fuck and break up. he does love her, he just has a lot of trouble showing it properly.

MUSE G, MIRA POLANCO (dianne guerrero fc): an exotic dancer because she needs to pay her way through college. she’s also been a bit of an airhead but she works extremely hard and is determined as anything. she often finds herself following her vagina instead of her brain tbh.

wanted: male fc. late twenties. he frequently visits mira at her work place and watches her. the two often ogle each other, and finally one day they end up having crazy sex in the bathroom. when the new semester begins, mira realises her frequent customer, and part-time-fuck-buddy is her new professor at uni.

MUSE H, MADISON DAUGHTRY (alisha boe fc): always trying to build the ladder. hurt at a young age, madison has a very unhealthy relationship with men. madi believes being popular means she’ll finally be happy, although she is nice, and kind and caring, and loyal. she never gives up on people, which will be her downfall.

wanted: male fc. late teens to early twenties. trash. their relationship is trash. he treats her like crap and she keeps coming back. she gets jealous and yells. they fight and fuck and break up. he’s ruining her, and she’s letting him.

MUSE I, IAN POLLING (jon bernthal fc): a sad, broken, angry man. he’s a boxer, a fighter, and he never knows when to quit. a big part of him likes the pain of being hit and feels he deserves it. he probably wouldn’t care too much if he died in the ring. he’s fiercely protective, and has an anger like a match stick. he drinks a lot. sulks a lot. doesn’t speak a lot. but he cares deeply, even if he pretends he doesn’t.

wanted: a female fc. late twenties. absolute sunshine. she is warm where he is cold. they’ve been friends for a long time, and the pair have always clearly loved each other but for some reason are stubborn and have never seen it. they both care for each other deeply, and she’s always been the number one in his life above all else.

MUSE J, MARCUS HEMMINGS (chris evans fc): a single dad. trying desperately to make ends meet and have life go on. he loves his daughter more then anything in the world and will often make a fool out of himself if it means making her laugh. he’s a bit of a mess, with a stain on his t shirt, and his apartment a mess.

wanted: a female fc. mid to late twenties. neighbours with marcus, and often sees him running around like an idiot. she takes it upon herself to try and help out whenever she can, whether that be by doing his washing, or making him a coffee in the morning. she’s basically his saviour, and of course he has a crush on her. how could he not, she’s basically perfect.

#1x1 #whoa these r a lot of muses #where did these come from #lmao #anyways come rp with me!!! i specify what sort of muse im looking for when it comes to each char so!!!#come come come!

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smokesbomb · 4 years

Text

Pertemuan Para Filsuf

Berbicara filsafat tak selalu berbicara tentang kebijaksaan dan segala tetek bengek lainnya. Tapi berbicara filsafat berbicara tentang banyak hal. Mulai dari suatu hal yang sangat berguna atau bahkan sama sekali nggak ada gunanya dan penuh kesia-sian.

Tapi buat saya perkara filsafat adalah perihal sesuatu yang sulit diungkapkan, tapi ya asyik-asyik berbahaya. Pokoknya gitu deh, minimal bisa buat belagak bijaksana dan pinter atau buat nakutin. Bahkan juga bisa terjebak penuh kegilaan yang diam-diam mengendap dan bekerja dalam kesia-siaan, lalu menunggu kapan akan meledak.

Buat saya para filsuf ini sedikit banyak berpengaruh secara pribadi. Dan kemungkinan bisa bertambah banyak lagi.

Tapi saya juga gak akan ngomongin pemikiran mereka panjang lebar. Saya cuman mau cerita aja cara saya kenal mereka dan istilah istilah yang khas dari pemikiran mereka. Supaya anda yang membaca bisa mencari dan menemukan makna yang terserak darinya. Sebab kita bisa satu jalur, beda lajur 🤮

1. Friedrich Nietzsche

Pertamakali saya kenal Nietzsche justru dari lagu Superman Is Dead dari band Bali yang namanya sama juga. Lalu yang muncul setelahnya adalah kata nihilisme. Tapi ya karena 2004 itu internet itu mahalnya bukan main buat saya dan itu pun harus antri. Toh sambil lalu setelah lulus sekolah rada makmur dikit ketika kakak saya punya modem pencarian berlanjut.

Pencarian berikutnya saya temukan justru dari Harun Yahya (Sebuah ironi, saya menemukan kebebasan lewat seorang konservatif yang kaffah secara pemikiran.🤣) Filmnya yang banyak membahas diktator dunia. Menyebut nama Nietzsche. Ditambah lagi semasa nganggur D.O kuliah di kampus pertama, cabut dari kerjaan, saya sering nyobek sampul plastik, supaya buku jadi sample di Gramedia Depok, supaya bisa baca gratis. Nama Nietzsche berkali-kali disebut oleh buku yang membahas Hitler.

Lambat laun ditemukanlah kata Freethinker. Akhirnya jadilah kata itu sebagai domain Facebook. Liat aja kalo nggak percaya. Setelah itu Ouroboros, sebuah mitologi ular yang melingkar dan akhirnya justru memakan ekornya sendiri. Sebuah simbol dari nihilisme.

Ya, nihilisme. Sebuah pemikiran yang (kurang lebih, secara sederhana) menganggap semua hal adalah kosong. Penuh kesia-siaan, maka manusia harus merubah keadaan, untuk mengubah kekosongan tersebut.

Dari Nietzsche nanti ada istilah manusia super, yang layak jadi pemimpin. Manusia yang memiliki mental tuan bukan mental budak. Ia adalah kuat, bebas, cerdas, tak pernah menyerah, tahan banting, berani, memenangkan segala persaingan. Manusia seperti itu disebut sebagai ubermensch (manusia super). Manusia yang bermental paling unggul.

Lewat ubermensch, ouroboros, nihilisme, saya menggali pemikiran dan sedikit banyak tau tentang Nietzsche. Mulai dari puisi-puisinya, ributnya dia sama gurunya sendiri yang filsuf juga Schopenhauer, ribut juga ama musisi terkenal Wagner, disalahgunakan oleh Nazi, ditolak cintanya, sampai jadi gila dan dikutuki orang dicap kafir ateis bin najis karena Zarathustra bilang Got Ist Tot (Tuhan telah mati), dan akhirnya mati setelah dilanda kegilaan akut.

Bahkan saya juga mempelajari Nietzsche dari puisi-puisi Chairil Anwar. Sebab ada vitalisme yang sama di sana. Semacam ada jiwanya.

Lewat segala macam istilah dan clue tadi anda bisa menyelami pikiran Nietzsche, tapi jangan menganggap anda adalah pengikut Nietzsche (Nietzschean) sebab Nietzsche tidak akan mau dipuja puji. Kecuali anda mau niru nebelin kumisnya itu. Sisanya jangan.

2. Albert Camus

Sebuah pepatah mengatakan. "Pemberontak itu seksi,makanya banyak yang suka". Maka nggak usah heran kalo banyak cewek yang suka ama cowok yang rada bad boy. Sebab bad boy itu biasanya memberontak. Eh tapi, kalo patah hati yang dibilang ama cewek, semua salah cowok. Dasar anjing kalian😆 udah tau cowok bad masih dipacarin juga. Nggak sekalian nih mbaknya pacaran ama napi, kurang berontak gimana coba. Hukum aja dilanggar.

Tapi ya nggak semua cewek kayak gitu dan semua pemberontak, berotak kelamin semua. Ada pemberontak keren, pinter, mukanya persis artis tahun 50 (seriusan ini, search deh boggart) suka sastra, menginspirasi dunia seni, berpetualang di dunia aktivisme dan kemanusiaan. Serta tak lupa mendapatkan nobel.

Albert Camus. Awalnya dia itu orang Aljazair terus dia pindah ke Perancis buat kuliah. Di Perancis karirnya berkembang. Kalo di Aljazair kemiskinan membuat dia nggak bisa beli sepatu, supaya awet dan nggak diomelin neneknya kalo sepatu cepet rusak, akhirnya kalo maen bola dia sukanya jadi kiper dan, jago pula.

Sementara di Perancis dengan kemiskinan yang sama dia ambilah itu jurusan filsafat buat dapet sarjana, akhirnya dia kebobolan bukan oleh gol, tapi ama TBC. Tapi emang dasar pemberontak nggak mau kalah. Bukannya terkapar menunggu ajal dia malah nulis-nulis esai tentang absurdisme.

Ya, absurd. Bukan absurd karena kelakuan saya, anda, kita, mereka yang nggak jelas. Tapi ini tentang realitas kita. Absurdisme (sedikit banyak, singkatnya) merupakan suatu pandangan yang penuh kebimbangan, keterasingan, kesepian, dan penuh kesia-sian.

Jadi gini kira kira contohnya. Kalo hidup si A ini susah, merana, sepi hati, sepi asmara, sepi rezeki, penyakitan lagi. Buat apa si A itu lahir dan hidup, jika harus memanen derita. Atau begini si B dari kecil sampai jadi profesor selalu diajarkan bahwa hukum itu untuk membuat keadilan. Nyatanya setelah lulus jadi profesor dan hidup di luar dunia kampus, hukum tak selalu adil. Tapi tentang siapa yang bisa nyogok hakim, bayar pengacara mahal. Besi yang bengkok pun bisa diluruskan. Tumpul ke atas tajam ke bawah.

Si A dan si B menghadapi kesia-siaan. Apa yang diyakininya dan dialaminya saling berbenturan. Terlunta dari kenyataan hidup yang manis. Memikul derita yang tidak kita tau sampai kapan, sementara kebahagiaan dia selalu dimiliki orang lain. Jika anda mengalami titik terendah seperti itu anda larut dan pasrah tidak berbuat apa apa dalam kesia-siaan, maka anda dapat dikatakan sebagai manusia absurd. Dan anda telah terjebak dalam absurdisme.

Di situlah sang pemberontak muncul. Manusia yang kalo kata Camus selalu berani menolak kesia-siaan. Manusia yang terus memberontak kepada keadaan dan selalu mencari makna dalam hidupnya.

Camus dan pemberontaknya saya lihat pertamakali dari film Gie waktu masih sekolah, semua berkat Ultra Disc (anak rental dvd pasti tau). Pada suatu adegan Gie sedang membaca buku judulnya Rebel. Yang nulis ya Camus.

Barulah saya nonton Gie kembali, ketika kuliah. Herannya setiap saya nonton ini film, saya selalu dapat referensi di setiap adegannya, dan penilaian saya selalu berbeda setiap kali nonton ini film. Magis.

Film ini jelas ngomongin Gie. Tapi Gie terinspirasi oleh pemikiran Camus. Sialnya nasibnya juga mirip. Sama-sama dikecewakan politik, Gie oleh politik kampus sedangkan Camus dengan Partai Komunis Perancis. Sama-sama berkecimpung di jurnalisme, Gie sering nulis esay di berbagai koran sedangkan Camus punya koran dan jadi wartawan di Combat. Sama sama juga mati muda, Gie meninggal di gunung semeru sedangkan Camus meninggal dalam kecelakaan mobil.

Lewat segala tragika tersebut, Goenawan Mohammad memoles esay kata pengantar yang sangat ciamik di buku berjudul Krisis Kebebasan. Salah satu buku yang saya berjanji sampai detik ini tidak akan pernah dijual.

Masih lekat dalam ingatan. Setelah selalu modal online di paket internet yang bisu kalo jam malam sudah habis, saya selalu datang ke perpustakaan dengan catatan kecil cuman untuk baca buku. Astaga kere amat sih dulu😫.

Tapi secara disiplin itu bagus. Saya hanya akan membaca. Sebab saya tidak punya waktu lagi. Maka mau tidak mau saya habisi buku-buku yang saya incar di peepustakaan, karena saya nggak punya kemampuan untuk menumpuk buku. Freedom Institute, Perpustakaan Kemendikbud, Perpustakaan UI. Jauh dekat, sikat

Pertamakali dalam hidup saya🙈 bermodalkan 50 ribu saya beli buku baru. Ada 2 buku, judulnya Orang Asing dan Krisis Kebebasan. Mereka ditulis oleh seorang Albert Camus. Bahkan Orang Asing pun sempat dibuatkan fikm dengan judul The Stranger . Oh ya, perihal beli buku, ternyata masih ada kebaliannya 5000.

Semenjak itulah hidup saya berubah (ya iyalah kan kudu baca buku), dan memang hidup itu harus selalu menawarkan perubahan bukan? Jadi apabila sikapnya tidak berubah, bersabarlah jangan memikul kesia-siaan sendirian sambil memeluki rindu sambil bilang "kalo kamu bahagia sama oranglain, aku juga bahagia." Silahkan siapkan pemberontakan cinta paling kacau. Sebab seperti kata pepatah. "Pemberontak itu seksi, makanya banyak cewek yang suka"

3. Jean Paul Sartre

Ucapkan nama ini dengan lafal perancis agar lebih estetis zang powl sakh. Anjay. Jika Camus punya tampang mirip Boggart yang aktor Hollywood, maka yang satu ini adalah sahabatnya yang punya muka rada kembar ama kodok. Ini seriusan dia sendiri loh yang ngomong. Anda bisa baca di biografinya yang judulnya Kata-kata.

Jadi begini Sartre, waktu kecil dia gede sebagai cucu kesayangan kakek kelas menengah yang buruh doyan baca. Suatu ketika si cucu rambutnya udah rada gondes, maka diajaklah buat cukur. Pas kelar dia punya muka jelek jadi keliatan, saking jijiknya Sartre sendiri enek ngeliat mukanya sendiri. Ternyata mata julingnya jadi keliatan jelas banget. Dia memang mengidap mata juling /strabismus. Sepanjang perjalanan pulang, orang-orang yang papasan ama dia ngeliatinnya aneh dan penuh ejekan. Salah satu peristiwa penting buat dia di buku itu. Satu dari dua peristiwa yang bakalan memunculkan ide filsafat eksistensialisme.

Berkat pandangan orang, Sartre kecil ngerasa pandangan orang itu justru, ngebuat dirinya nggak pede. Ketika nggak pede dia ngerasa dia nggak jadi manusia seutuhnya. Maka nanti keluarlah istilah filsafatnya "le regard cest enfer" yang artinya kurang lebih, pandangan mata mereka adalah neraka. Dan juga mauvase foi, sebuah upaya untuk menipu diri sendiri dengan menerima segala sesuatu dengan pasrah. Jangan lupa pas bacanya pake logat prancis ya🤣.

Memanglah ngomongin Sartre ini emang paling seru. Setiap dia nongkrong di kedai kopi di Perancis kita anggap aja warkop. Itu warkop pasti rame. Kalo Sartre ngadain kuliah umum, itu tempat pasti membludak. Kapan lagi sih ada dosen ikut demo buruh di pabrik Renault. Sebar pamflet anti perang bareng mahasiswa. Dihormati Presiden yang bilang kalo Sartre adalah guru besarnya. Tapi ya guru mana sih yang pas masuk kelas gigit rokok di mulut, sambil nendang pintu kelas, udah gitu di kelas maki-maki borjuis pulangnya diskusi sambil mabok bareng murid-muridnya. Filsuf mana pula yang punya cewek banyak udah gitu dibolehin kencan ama cewek mana aja oleh pasangan sehidup semati yang filsuf juga Simone de Beauvoir. Ketika Socrates jadi filsuf karena puyeng ngehadepin omelan bininya. Sartre lagi sibuk, hari ini mau tidur ama cewek yang mana. Bangke emang si muka kodok!

Segala ketenaran Sartre disebabkan ajaran eksistensialisme yang booming pasca perang dunia 2. Sederhananya eksistensialisme ngajarin orang supaya bisa jadi manusia bebas seutuhnya, tanpa tertindas oleh orang lain. Tapi menjadi bebas ya juga harus bertanggung jawab kata Sartre. Bagi dia kebebasan tanpa tanggung jawab adalah penindasan bagi kebebasan orang lain. Sebab bagi dia "manusia dikutuk untuk bebas". Dan ketika kita terlahir begitu saja di dunia, maka manusia harus merebut kebebasan dalam dirinya semasa hidup untuk menjadi manusia merdeka.

Ya, bebas. Banyak orang-orang yang hidup di negeri terjajah seperti Franz Fannon, ingin meraih kemerdekaan. Bahkan Sartre juga mendukung kemerdekaan Aljazair dari penjajahan Perancis. Akibatnya apartemennya pernah dibom.

Sartre adalah sobat kentelnya Camus. Cuman karena beda sikap terkait kemerdekaan Aljazair, ya sudahlah selek sampai nanti pas Camus meninggal, Sartre pidato di pemakamannya.😭

Sartre, saya kenal setelah saya penasaran sama kata eksis. Eksis. Ketika saya buka Facebook, Twitter setiap timeline isinya poto-poto selfie semua yang juga dianugerahi like atau retweet yang banyak. Ada 2 kata waktu itu yang poto pengen eksis, yang menghujat bilang mereka narsis.

Narsis diambil dari Narsicus mitologi Yunani yang dikutuk karena terlalu mencintai dirinya sendiri. Nah tinggal eksis nih yang belom ketemu. Saya search akhirnya. Setelah scroll ada kata eksitensialisme. Ya, saya semacam punya penasaran sama istilah-istilah baru. Makhluk apakah eksistensialisme ini. Saya kliklah munculah nama Jean Paul Sartre. Jangan lupa logat Perancisnya ya🤣

Singkat kata maka mulailah pertualangan terhadap Sartre. Sama seperti menurutnya "eksistensi mendahului esensi" saya sedang mencari makna apakah Sartre hanya sekedar nama? Ternyata dia lebih dari itu.

Dari jurnal sampai buku yang saya punya. Dari film sampai musik yang saya pernah selami. Bahkan sampai saya punya lagu ciptaan sendiri, yang saya bayangkan nuansanya bakalan punkrock, distorsi gitarnya kasar, hentakan drumnya cepat, bassnya berat, lagunya nggak lebih dari 3 menit. Pokoknya keras, kencang, ngebut, sederhana.

Reff

Existences...

We're all got free..

Because human's condemned freee...dom

Ya bahasa inggris tinggal dibetulin ama yang lebih paham grammar, tapi nadanya udah dapet nih. Sayang saya nggak bisa maen alat musik, udah gitu nggak ada temennya juga buat ngeband.

Tapi ya Sartre tetep manusia. Banyak sikapnya yang kontroversial. Persahabatannya luas, mulai dari para filsuf, seniman, mahasiswa, pejuang politik. Buktinya ketika meninggal banyak gereja yang menolaknya untuk memberikan pemberkatan terakhir. Ini dikarenakan Sartre dianggap sebagai tokoh sesat karena atheismenya. Maka yang terjadi kemudian adalah para pelayat yang kebanyakan mahasiswa dan anak muda mengarak peti Sartre keliling tempat dimana biasanya Sartre ngopi dan diskusi. Jumlah pelayatnya kurang lebih 50ribu orang. Aseli! Merinding pas nulis paragraf ini❤️

Siapapun selama dia memperjuangkan kebebasan dan benci terhadap borjuisme. Saking bencinya dia tolak hadiah nobel, karena dianggap sebagai simbol kaum borjuis.

Bicara tentang borjuisme Sartre sendiri pernah "keseleo" sikapnya sendiri. Jadi begini;

Sartre dan de Beauvoir emang duo sejoli. Saking setianya mereka berdua, memutuskan untuk tidak menikah. Sebab menikah hanya permainan lembaga yang pro kaum borjuis, di samping itu akan merampas kebebasan penuh sebagai manusia merdeka. Menurut pendapat mereka.

Suatu ketika entah ada angin apa, atau habis ikut ceramah siapa. Sartre ngajak de Beauvoir buat menikah.

Sartre : "de..."

De Beauvoir. : "Iya sat"

Sartre. : "Nikah kuy"

De Beauvoir. : " Aaa... Apaan"

Sartre. : "Iya, nikah"

De Beauvoir. : "Apa sat apa?"

Sartre. : "Nikah bolot, budek amat sih

daritadi. Blok. Lot!!!"

De Beauvoir. : "Bangsatlu ya sat, lu mau

Jajah gw lu. Perempuan itu

dilanjutkan kuliah feminis.

Langsung ditolak mentah-mentah. Sartre pun merasa khilaf. Mampuy bacot sih lu🤣.

Tapi toh mereka tetap setia, sampai saling bela ketika Bianca (mahasiswi de Beauvoir) menulis hal buruk tentang cinta segitiga mereka, de Beauvoir membela Sartre dengan lihai. Mereka pun dimakamkan di tempat yang sama, satu liang lahat yang sama, sebab mereka saling membutuhkan. Sartre butuh cinta, de Beauvoir tak kan hidup tanpa cintanya Sartre, dan rindu telah mempertemukan kita dengan mereka.

Adieu Sarte.

Inget nyebutnya pakai logat Peeancis.

Juni D Anggoro

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