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mergeman · 3 years

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My New Ride

Five more months, that’s all I have left as Jack. He’s been such a delicious host; his spectral energy has sated me for the last four years. Now what was once a spectrum has diluted into muted primary colors that no longer satisfy my hunger. Don’t get me wrong I also give something back, not all the energy I consume is used; the shit leftover can be used to physically influence the host.

Take Jacky boy here, when I first met him, he was a senior in college. Just another average evangelical, toss a penny anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line and it will hit one. To the outsider Jacky presented as a timid, underweight, nerd, but I saw the kaleidoscope of energies that infused his being. So, I took him, fed on those scrumptious auroras, then used the waste to build his body. The consumption of his empathy, patience and humility causes massive changes to the psyche. Now Jack is a narcissistic but charming asshole willing to screw anyone over just to advance his lot.

I couldn’t be any prouder of the man I created, but all good things must end. If I corrupt his essence any further, it will intertwine with mine causing us to become one. So, to keep living I started to scope out my options. Unfortunately, not much is available in the business world, the humans here are naturally corrupt themselves without any undue influence. As a passenger searching was difficult, Jack only hung out with petty sycophants who boosted his already enormous ego. I was getting despondent with each passing day, every person Jack encountered was woefully inept and would not be able to sustain me for long. I was so depressed that I almost missed the new neighbor that bought a condo in the same building as my penthouse. He was perfect! A full prism of colors radiated off this specimen, and to top it off he was easy on the mortal eyes as well.

Starvation was overwhelming me; I hadn’t fed in seven weeks and I knew that this new subject would be my next host. My hunger even affected Jack; he had become infatuated with this new tenant to the point of stalking him. Jack used his influence to dig up information on the new tenant, soon he had his name (Xylon), age (32), career (Charity Organizer), and even which gym he frequented. With this material he started to integrate himself into Xylon’s life, first ‘casually’ meeting him at the gym and becoming buddies, then later he got Xylon a contract to work with the charity division of his firm. My time with Jack was soon to expire, to make the jump both subjects should be naked and ideally in physical contact. The one big hurdle was that Xylon came with a long-term boyfriend, Jack though was not deterred by this, he wanted Xylon, and Jack always gets his way. After pulling a few strings, Xylon showed up at our penthouse bemoaning that he had found evidence of his boyfriends’ infidelity. I could feel Jack’s malicious glee that the anonymous texts had worked. Seizing the unexpected opportunity, he invited Xylon inside and offered him a drink, then another, then another. Jack was taken aback when Xylon looked into his eyes and started to kiss him deeply without any prompting.

Sexual energy infused Jack as Xlyon’s hand unbuckled his pants, slipped past his underwear to grab Jack’s hardening cock. Clothing became a burden to both men as they stumbled to the master suit. Xylon took dominance of Jack as he flipped the smaller man on his back, I could feel the steel like appendage enter through my hosts ass. I began the unpleasant process of unlinking my essence and prepping the transference. Slowly I send a tendril of myself to Xylon reaching for his nourishing spectrum. The tendril developed tiny barbs so I could hook into my newest host. My anticipation had so overwhelmed me that I didn’t notice the other presence.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Both I and Them quickly tried to retreat into our original hosts. Only it was to late, our energies had already stared to intermingle. Memories from my counterpart were bombarding me, I could feel myself loose definition as They and I were becoming one entity. I didn’t want to cease, I wanted to live, I wanted to feed, I wanted my new host. A rush of power came upon me and I channeled it into separating us. I could feel them also trying to retreat, our molecules started to unbind one by one as they and I went back to the safety of our original hosts. I was almost completely free when a new horror presented itself, in my panic I had consumed more of Jack’s corrupted soul, but I had taken to much. I was out of time with nowhere to go, Jack’s spectrum was now consuming me, and in my lapsed attention the linking to my counterpart regained strength.

Xylon was still pounding Jack’s ass, both were consumed with orgasmic bliss that they didn’t notice the physical ramifications of the internal struggle. It started at the feet where each man’s ankles were touching, the skin liquefied and started to swirl together. Sinew and cartilage detached as bones broke apart two masses of distorted flesh now supported the unaware men. The tissue started to twist and bloat as broken pieces of bone fused together to create a new more powerful appendage. The process crept up their legs, the fibers of the calves weaving together into a more robust muscle.

As the knee joint disintegrated and the nerves laid bare, They and I were using the last of our conscious effort to take our host’s excruciating pain and turn it towards pleasure. Neither man had yet to notice that from the thigh down they were one. More flesh melted as their pelvises were pulverized, Xylon’s cock pushed through the molten tissue and into Jack’s cock, stretching the sensitive gland like an overused condom. With each thrust of their fused hips the cock grew longer and girthier until the swollen, purple, mushroom head burst forth from the newly created foreskin.

A line of angry pink skin arose on Xylon, starting just above his merged cock and traveled upwards to the base of his neck. The flesh started to part opening wider as his abs and pectorals were bisected. Knowing the panic that the sight would cause We/They/I increased Xylon’s pleasure centers while simultaneously turning off his ocular nerve. The chest split through the sternum and the rib bones could be seen, as the cavity opened up like a giant maw. Jack’s arms were supporting him on the bed as the jaw like flesh wrapped around his torso enclosing them together. The internal organs made sickening squelching noises as each one found its companion. Jack’s spine detached itself wormed its way around the confusion of biofluids until it found its other half. Vertebrae unlinked with the sound of breaking branches as the two exposed nervous clusters found each other and became one. A singular spine reforged stronger and longer than what came before.

Where the shoulders met a bubbling mass of epidermis, muscle tissue and bone were coalescing into broad boulders that could support any weight. Four hands found the newly created cock and started to tug in tandem as the biceps and triceps lacerated and rejoined their strength. Fingers and thumbs melted into one another, the liquid state not lasting as new sturdier digits replaced them. Lastly their heads became like viscous slime becoming featureless as they flowed into one another. I could feel the moment that their minds touched, Jack and Xylon were suddenly thrust back into the reality of the situation. Awareness of I/They/We flooded them as they realized that these were the last few moments. I could feel Jack’s Anger/Regret/Sadness as recognition of what I had done invaded his mind. I also felt Xylon’s innate Hostility/Sorrow/Grief as what They had taken dawned on him. In their last precious moments both men were having identity crises as the WE pulled us all into ONE.

My first sensation was that of my hands gently stroking the giant shaft between my legs. Opening my eyes, I surveyed the damage, unused blood, bone, and strips of flesh covered the bedroom. Not perturbed at the grizzly sight I kept pleasuring myself with one hand while the other inspected my new nipples by giving each a slight pinch. A deep moan escaped my lips, sexual energy coursed through my new body. Abs tensed and my cock shuddered before releasing a torrent of cum that merged with the other fluids staining the room.

Satiated for the moment I became aware of a chime that indicated someone was at the door. I grabbed a towel to clean myself off then headed down the hall. Looking through the peephole I saw Xylon’s boyfriend Fitz standing there with a worried expression. Slightly annoyed I decided to open the door before Fitz could ring again. The poor twink of man started to say something but stopped as he took in the sight of my naked visage. I was shocked as well, for without the glass impediment I was able to see Fitz’s spectrum. A deep need filled me, not the hunger of the entities but something just as primal. Acting on instinct I grabbed the slack jawed younger man and pulled him into my lair. He started to protest but my mouth sealed him shut, picking him up I shoved him face first against the wall with one hand while the other pulled down his pants and underwear. My cock was hard and leaking pre as I began to spread his cheeks. With one swift movement I lifted the slight man up and impaled him on my throbbing member. I grunted as my cock took on most of his weight thrusting him up and down. I could hear him whimper as his face scraped against the wall, anything Xylon had felt had died with him, now all I wanted was fulfill this gnawing need. My balls churned and tensed, and I let out an animalistic roar as my seed shot out of me and flooded his intestines.

Lowering the hapless simpering man to the ground I could see a dark spot of corruption sprout within his spectrum. The darkness branched out touching each color while the living semen inside of Fritz entered his blood stream and spread throughout his body. The metaphysical and physical corruption reached his head at the same time, it was like a new room opened inside my mind. Suddenly I was connected to Fitz and he to me, he became an extension of myself. I looked into his eyes and found myself staring back in wonder. He/me slowly got to his feet only for another surprise to become apparent. My seed had not only connected us but had upgraded his body type from “twink” to twunk. The newly minted man approached me as He/I started to worship my body, Fitz/me asked only one question.

“What should I call you?”

“In public call me Jaxon. In private call me Master”

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lcnelyinthesky · 3 years

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admiration - tsukishima kei

a/n: okay hi?? im ellie?? heres this??? i worked on it for like four? days?on and off? and its longer than any oneshot ive written but yk shes cute ig. pls be nice pls enjoy... but also my last piece got 2 notes and im really hopin in not shadowbanned here lmao

genre: fluff, angst, rivals to lovers!!

pairing: bisexual!female!reader x tsukishima kei (yes bi reader its a vibe)

warnings: a break up with a beautiful woman i made up myself, swearing

word count: 3.7k (ahhhh!!)

enjoy!! :D

Elementary second year. Your newly-assigned seat was next to a much taller, blond kid. He was smart and bright, rivaling the sun in terms of unbridled joy. Now, none of that can be seen by eight year old eyes, but looking back and comparing, it's easy to spot that he changed.

Tsukishima Kei was an excitable kid, just as everyone was, but he was still snarky; his arrogance seemed to be something that just festered within his soul, no matter the trauma that brought it out.

Childlike wonder is still alive and well at eight.

The teacher you had back then was quite rude. She was pushy and angry, and she assigned way too much homework. Everything she uttered made you huff in disappointment, crossing your arms and hoping for some sort of reaction from someone. The kid next to you was named Koji--or, at least, that's what you called him. He was your best friend, spending every moment with you like you were siblings. You'd be able to crack a joke with the smallest glance and you’d talk constantly. As soon as your handwriting was legible to people of your age group, you'd pass notes back and forth and cackle at their contents. Until, of course,

“Tsukishima, will you switch seats with Kojikata today?” Your teacher sounded exhausted, huffing her sentence out on a sigh before going back to the multiplication tables on the board. Suddenly, your little world was interrupted.

“Y/N, right?” He didn’t look at you, placing his folders down on the desk and pushing his glasses back up as he sat. His words were hushed and quiet, but the class had moved into individual work--he wasn’t interrupting anyone.

“Yeah. Can I call you Tsukki?” You were angry, gripping your pencil tighter in your little hand as you wrote numbers down on white paper. One times one is one. Two times two is four. This is easy.

“No,” he was long doing the same thing, but writing quicker than you. That’s how it is, huh?

Three times two is six. Four times five is twenty. Six times three is eighteen. Five times six is thirty. This is easy-

“Miss, I’m done.” His voice was always so dry. Uninterested.

Four times three is twelve. “Me too!” Your hand shot up with the paper in it, sending a death glare at the boy next to you.

That's how it is, huh?

This pattern continued for weeks. Tsukishima didn’t move from his seat next to you, as your teacher had made the realization that you worked far harder without friends around. Tsukishima lit a competitive fire under you; everything was now a race.

It started with handing in assignments. Who would go up to the front desk first to have their work checked over? Who would finish this quiz faster? Then it transferred into everything.

Who would get to class faster? Who finished their lunch quicker? Who could read faster? Who scored higher on spelling tests? Who could run faster in gym class?

And then it was middle school.

Middle school brought in Yamaguchi Tadashi.

It'd be an understatement to say he warmed to Yamaguchi quickly, but the basis behind that was strange. Tsukishima was never one for friends, even though everyone wanted to be friends with him. He was cool in the eyes of a handful of eleven year olds; letting everything roll off your back seemed to be an admirable trait. Yamaguchi worshipped him, and Tsukishima took him under his wing to teach him the ropes of being a cool kid.

At heart, though, Yamaguchi was kind and attentive. He could tell when things were going wrong, and supposedly it was him that changed the rest of your life.

The rivalry continued just as it had in elementary, just with higher stakes. You'd fight for answering questions first, working ahead of everyone else to just beat him. He’d never bat an eye at it, and sometimes you thought it was all over, but then

“Y/N.” Tsukishima Kei stood three steps behind you, looming over you with the height he was seemingly born with. The hallway was emptying by now, kids walking into their classrooms once again. The white floors rung with the quiet sounds of soft-bottomed shoes and a light above your head flickered calmly.

“Yeah?” You spun around to meet his gaze.

“What’d you get on that lit essay?”

“A 96. Why?”

“No reason,” he smirked and tilted his head up, looking down at you, “I got a 100.”

A huff and a stomp away gave him the answer he needed as he followed you into the classroom, sitting down behind you and next to Yamaguchi just as he did every day. The little shit.

Tsukishima was never better than you, technically speaking. On average and on paper, you were always both roughly the same. You'd fight for being top of the class, the position switching between both of you every day. You excelled in creative things while he excelled at sports, but both of you dabbled in the other. When people in your year began dating, everyone came to assume you two were. It was embarrassing, really, because Tsukishima Kei was a little shit know-it-all who will never beat me at anything ever and people need to stop thinking he will because he won’t I’m better than hi-

“Hey?” Oh right. Friends.

“Koji!” He never left, at least not yet. His nimble fingers tapping on your shoulder brought you back to reality, making you jump and turn around to face him, wrapping your arms around his body for a split second.

“You looked zoned” his face was riddled with concern that was easy to write off.

“Oh, whoops” a small blush heated your cheek as your hand migrated to rub your neck. “Did you want something?”

As you walked into the classroom a bit further, Koji sat on your right; he seemed to buckle down more when you had moved away from each other way back in the day, so there were less mid-class comedy shows. He grew up just as you had, and with the closeness of the two of you people began to think you were dating. At twelve, it was incredibly necessary to date someone--anyone. Theories bounced from everywhere and anywhere and with you it was either your best friend or your biggest rival. Your lack of attraction to either of them became the center of many late night crises.

“Not particularly,” his gaze switched from you to the board again, beginning to write something down when he turned his head. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Of course I am,” you smiled at him, the kind of smile that made your eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly it was high school.

“Tsukishima is really cute! And he's smart, I heard that Kageyama wasn’t too bright somewhere.”

“But Kageyama’s so much hotter! His being a little dumb sometimes is endearing.”

“Are we not going to talk about that third year setter, Sugawara?”

“No, he’d never go for a first year. Besides, that Hinata kid is more of an enigma.”

“Have you even seen them play?” A howl of angry “yes”s fell over the crowd, trying to prove something. None of them had ever seen them play.

That asshole Tsukishima getting popular felt like a stab in the soul. None of them knew him or how much he sucked, but the amount of girls fawning over him was horrific.

There's something consistently poetic about young love, no matter where it comes from. Something extra sweet about holding pinkies in school corridors when no one is looking and seeing them every day, smiling loudly as the sun broke over the horizon all bright and early. The raging hormones and dumb, fake social hierarchies of fifteen make emotions run wild, and only the deeply immature end up helplessly infatuated. Others are more cautious, but there's only so many precautions one can take at fifteen. Sometimes some of us just want to be loved, no matter the sincerity of it.

Cared for, and whatnot. No harm in that, in the long run at least.

“Y/N, right?” Her name was Mei. She was in your class; 1-4, just like Tsukishima. She was pretty. Long, black hair was preceded by two green streaks at the front. She’d always have those down, making her features look like a photo in a perfect frame. She had a collection of hair clips with small shapes on them that she’d have somewhere on her person at all times. Her more mid-sized body was paler than most, and she was covered in freckles and moles. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue that looked deep enough to swim in. Her cheeks were always stained with a peachy blush that moved up her collarbones and into her ears, making her look like she was always smiling no matter what her face was doing. Karasuno’s school uniform did wonders for her curves, the skirt swaying up on occasion and making her look so damn perfect.

“Yeah! You’re…” a second of dumbfounded pause felt like years in your mind, coming to the conclusion that she was the most beautiful girl you had ever met. “Ojiro Mei?”

“Yep! I just wanted to tell you you looked really pretty today!” Her voice always had an upward inflection, and was higher than most. It was cute. Incredibly cute.

“Oh.” A moment of confidence fell over you like you weren’t in control of your actions, “you’re beautiful.”

“Thank you very much,” she bounced back on her toes and then rolled back to her heels, hands intertwined behind her back, “You’re too kind, Y/N.” Her sentences were always punctuated with an eye-crinkling smile.

Later that day, you found her on every social media account you could; she messaged you first.

When you don’t know you’re interested in women, it’s hard to notice that they’re flirting with you, but after a handful of supposed gay panic, you asked her on a date.

She was two inches shorter than you, and somehow that persisted no matter what shoes she was wearing. Every small outing with her felt like cloud nine--watching the sunset, small conversation over tea at a nearby cafe, cuddling in your bedroom with only a string of Christmas lights on. She always looked so wonderful in soft lighting, the potential cold of winter disappeared with pale beiges that made her freckles look like stars. Every action Mei ever did was soft and full of care. She could send every single emotion through her fingertips on your jaw, deepening a kiss you started moments before. She was like magic, until she wasn't anymore.

You supposed, when thinking back, that things fell out around month thirteen. The rose colored lenses everything was viewed through faded a bit, and it's easy to notice her pulling away. There were less late night phone calls and less recommended music and less hands running through your hair. Everything has a natural progression to the end, right?

“Do you still feel it?” It was raining. Large drops of water fell down to the floor, smacking the pavement at speeds you couldn’t even try to measure. She was wearing a bright yellow raincoat that looked almost dull in the four pm light.

“Feel what?”

“Anything, baby.” All of her words ended with a huffed out sigh, like she was tired of something. Lying, maybe.

You pondered the question, and it seemed like your hesitation gave her all the answer she needed.

“Ya know, Y/N.” She looked down and grabbed your hands with hers, rubbing her thumbs on your palms as you grabbed around them. “This was fun. We had a good run.”

A solemn tear fell down your cheek at the ending, but there was no use in self pity or anger now. She was so sweet and kind, and it's truly unthinkable how she continued that kindness in the end.

“Yeah. A good run.” The pink in your cheeks grew as you choked out a laugh, pulling her in for one final hug under the dim fluorescent lights on the front door overhang of the school.

Fifteen came and went with love, and when sixteen rolled around you wondered if you’d ever be loved like that again.

A spirit can't be broken overnight, and if you’ve spent the last eight years of your life having a strong, consistent rivalry with someone, it won’t leave any time soon. Tsukishima and you were on similar playing fields for most of your life, but you had one thing he didn’t: relationship experience. In that way, you always counted yourself one point higher, like a boy scout badge.

For a spell, however, your intensity changed. There was nothing more driving you than spite, and there was nothing you wanted more than to beat him. You were well into your second year of high school at this point, and--volleyball notwithstanding--you had wins over Tsukishima. You had seen him play volleyball, every match in his second year, and you deemed he was simply okay. You refused to count his success onto the list of wins for both of you.

June fifteenth. Tournaments were coming up around the corner when it happened, which explained every reason why he was there. You weren’t exactly prepared for the rain, so the best bet seemed to be sitting at the front entrance of Karasuno High School and wallowing in a little bit more self pity before you went home. You were just dumped after all, the tears weren’t done falling.

The feeling between sadness and shame overflowed you, shades of yellowish green painting the world around you and churning your gut into oblivion. And the tears fell. It felt like a scene in a movie; in a few seconds, a strong, capable man would show up to your rescue.

“Y/N?” what the fuck?

He was sweaty. His face was matte from a light film of saltwater. He had a grey umbrella over his head, keeping himself dry from the still-pelting rain. His six-foot-two frame was covered with a black tracksuit, and he still had his sports goggles on.

Those fucking sports goggles.

“Tsukishima.” you deadpanned, trying to get him away as fast as possible. His words were snarky, as always, but this time laced with concern. Like he actually cared.

“What are you still doing here? It’s almost six,” he stood under the overhang with you, crouching to take a few feet off of his incredible height.

“Sulking?”

“Ah,” he huffed and sat down next to you, “it’s not great for your posture, ya know.”

“Oh shut up, Tsukishima.”

“Remember when we were eight,” he looked up, studying the moths as they flew around the lights on the ceiling, “and you asked if you could call me Tsukki?”

“Vaguely, but we were eight.”

“Yeah, true” his head dramatically fell to his lap, staring at his knees as he chuckled, “but you can. Call me Tsukki, that is.”

An uncomfortable laugh fell from your lips, and he spoke for you, “this one kid, Koganegawa, the setter on Date Tech, calls me that too. It's not a Tadashi-only nickname anymore.”

“You say Tadashi-only like I wasn’t there first.”

“He never asked.”

“Would you have said no?”

“Probably” he hasn’t actually looked at you yet.

“Should I not have asked?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Okay, Tsukki” you drew out the last letter, giggling at the situation before you had time to think about your emotions.

He noticed that you weren’t crying anymore and helped you stand, grabbing your hand and pulling you up. Tsukishima and you lived closer than you thought, walking the same direction and only splitting up seconds away from your home.

You walked in silence the whole time, but it was comfortable. While he was your rival, he was always a friend. There was nothing scary or intimidating about him, as is with most people when you’ve known them forever; it was almost like his facade just didn’t work on you. You were huddled close to him to stay out of the rain.

The second you parted ways, you ran home. The rain was more of a drizzle now, but the temperature began a free fall--getting out of the cold as fast as possible was your first priority. Upon entering the front door and taking off your shoes and jacket, leaving everything to sit in the entryway, you took a shower. The rain didn’t do enough to wash away the pain of the day, and warm steam would let the rest evaporate. The expected unrelenting sadness wasn’t really present as much as was expected, though. Everything felt fine. Content. Okay.

And it continued that way. He sent you a snapchat asking if you had gotten home safely, which prompted a memory of you never giving each other your phone numbers. After a quick yes, tsukki. no need to worry ;), you sent him your number asking to play some game.

Whatever is meant to happen does, right? Any excuse for falling for him. You didn’t want to, of course, but things happen. Time changes. Thus, the excuses. Thus, the ignorance. Thus, the five stages of grief.

It started with the denial, because no Y/N you can’t like Tsukishima Kei. He’s so competitive and mean and snarky and horrible and you hate him! Then, the anger, because Tsukishima sucks and he’s horrible and you’re going to punch him in his stupid cute face. Next, the bargaining, because please don’t let this be happening you’ll do anything to lose these feelings, even if it means letting him win at something. Going into the depression, because all you’ve ever wanted was to be free of this assclown and now you’re stuck thinking about him at three in the morning when you’re supposed to be dreaming about anything other than him. And finally, acceptance, when you scowl at him in the hallway because fuck, you like Tsukishima Kei.

The worst bit of acceptance is getting over it. Now you had to confront your feelings. Now you needed to tell him.

It was roughly five months since he found you sulking on school grounds, and you regretted most days the way you let him text you every morning. It’d always be something stupid, like a joke about the novel you were reading in lit or sometimes he’d tell you, off hand, something dumb Hinata and Kageyama did at practice. Sometimes he’d text you, within the first twenty minutes of the school day, pointing out something little you did with your hair. They were never really compliments as much as comments; he’d say “your socks have a pink ring at the top” and give you nothing to work with from there. A simple yes would suffice, you always supposed, because “yes, tsukki. they do.”

He’d linger at his desk during the break between classes and would stay there if you didn’t leave, but would leave a few steps behind you if you did. He wouldn’t follow you, but he’d watch to know where you were going. Everything he did was concealed though--you'd only notice if you really wanted to know.

Yamaguchi was the only one to notice, even after a while of it. You’ll never know what he said to his friend, but the conversation you had with the aforementioned friend a day later gives some guesses.

“Y/N?” Tsukishima was never the shy type, and you knew him in the days where everyone was shy. He wasn’t loud, but he was bold. His words were always pointed and important. Everything he did always had purpose and intensity behind it.

“Tsukki?” You were sitting under a tree, enjoying the late spring weather of the beginning of your third year. Nothing became intense yet classwork wise, so there was ample time to chill on the school grounds. Overlooking the soccer field was a large oak tree. It was big enough to comfortably have multiple groups of people under its shade, but it was empty at the moment; save for you and the book you were reading.

“I was just wondering if you’d like to maybe go out sometime?” He somehow didn’t pause while talking, but his words came out more something akin to word vomit. You we’re more shocked than you should have been, if you had picked up on the signs. But you were feeling the same as he was, as far as you could tell.

“Sure, when?” You looked back down at your book for a second, placing the bookmark in it and folding the pages shut.

Tsukishima looked dumbfounded, standing there with his eyes bugged out and his mouth slightly agape. He started making unintelligible babbling noises, hoping to get something out that had any meaning at all. You took the reins instead, gaining confidence in his lack thereof.

“I was planning on getting coffee or something today after school. It gets really cold at night now, huh?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Would you like to join me?”

“There's a break before practice today so” he hesitated, letting the pink in his cheeks finally catch up to the beating in his chest. “Sure.”

You wouldn’t have ever pegged Tsukishima Kei as the flustered type.

There was never a drop in conversation, as there never really was between you two. A whole life together and you still had things to talk about, mentioning everything from your individual childhoods to recent developments. Turns out he never knew what genre of books were your favorite. Or what kind of music you listened to. Or what any of your hobbies were.

Turns out you both had more in common than you thought, competitive spirits notwithstanding. Tsukishima Kei was a strange man in every sense of the word. He was arrogant and snarky and disinterested and bright and passionate and smart. He was your rival, smug look plastered on his smug face making your chest bubble in anger just as it had a million times before--or was that admiration this time? The world may never know.

All that was real right now was the deck of cards on the table, being separated out into a card game both of you learned as kids. The small, round, cafe table shook with every slap of your hands, but the basis of your relationship would always be competition. It's just that now the anger behind that competition was gone. All that was left was admiration.

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skeletalroses · 3 years

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I was going to submit this anonymously to one of the bigger aspec blogs but it got so long that I’d feel like a pain in the ass. I’m posting this because I’ve recently landed in a bit of a difficult situation in the vein of Just Aroace Things, and I’m not sure what to do or even how to feel. I’m hoping to get some advice from the community re: a topic that comes up from time to time---navigating roommate/housing situations as an aroace, particularly when your potential roommate’s romance fucks you over.

I met my best friend, A, our sophomore year of college when we got paired up via roommate lottery. We clicked right away and had a blast living together. Unfortunately it only lasted a year, since the best option for my major was to transfer to another campus while for her it was best to stay put. We’ve known each other for nine years now and live in different states, but we visit regularly and had always talked about living together again once we both moved away from our parents.

I’m aroace, sex- and romance-repulsed. A is super considerate and supportive of this. She even discovered recently that she’s demisexual (which she learned about while researching the symbolism of the asexual flag! On her own, completely unprompted! Because she thought it would help her understand me more! See? Super supportive!). She is, however, very, very alloromantic. Up until now this has just been one more facet of our overall odd-couple dynamic (I’m an Addams and she’s a Disney fairy), which has always been something we’ve laughed at and reveled in.

A couple months ago, however, A moved out of her parents’ place and in with her boyfriend of a few years. I’m still with my parents, which suits me fine for the time being, but I eventually want to move out. Like I said, A and I have long talked about living together. We never made any specific plans, but I’ve asked her before to verify that yes, this is a thing we’re both Actually down to do when the time’s right. But that was a good while ago, before she moved in with Boyfriend. We visited last weekend and I brought up the subject again, because I’ve been unsure about it since that whole development.

“Feel free to say no; I won’t be offended; I just want to know how my options stand at this point. We’ve talked in the past about rooming together again. With Boyfriend in the picture now, is that still on the table?”

A’s answer: “Boyfriend has a lot of anxiety, so probably not. Sorry. He doesn’t even like having his family stay over. You’re welcome to stay a few days but not for like weeks on end.”

This was a calm conversation had over cocktails in the mall. She asked to make sure my parents weren’t threatening to kick me out or anything; I assured her that they weren’t, and I wasn’t moving anytime soon, and it’s okay that my rooming with her is out.

Only I’m not that okay with it. I wasn’t confident she’d say yes, but I did kind of think it was likely, and moreover I’m realizing how much I was unconsciously banking on that plan. I’ve been sans income during the pandemic, and I have a fuckton of economic anxiety to begin with. A’s a STEM major in a big city who easily found a solidly-paying job right out of college. She gets promotions and raises and shit. I’m a humanities major in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere where all my impressive qualifications (which I do have) can’t get me anything with a living wage below management level, let alone something in my field. And I’m never going to have that built-in cohabitant in the form of a romantic or sexual partner that allos like A can take for granted. A was the person I could split costs with so as to maybe live semi-decently with someone compatible. Without her, my chances of having that have plummeted.

And it’s all because she got a romosexual partner. This guy who’s known her half as long as I have; who never worked her through the trials and eventual breakup of her previous long-term, engaged-to-be-engaged relationship; who has himself caused her massive amounts of grief, suffering, and sometimes outright danger through his inability to competently handle the drama in his personal life that should never have touched her, all while her mother would write letters to me asking me to come visit because, actual quote, A only smiles when I’m around. He was the reason she would be too depressed to function, and I had to long-distance therapize her through it even though she refused to take the basic step of leaving this grown-ass man at least until he got his shit together, because “he needs me.”

It’s like this dude calls the shots in A’s and my relationship now. I hadn’t seen her in seven months because every time we planned a weekend to hang out, it’d get canceled because Boyfriend wanted to go see his family or something (and he can’t do that without her, I fucking guess). Even this last visit got cut down to overnight when it was supposed to be the long weekend, because Boyfriend wanted to make other plans. And now my best option for future living arrangements is apparently down the shitter because of him. It’d have been one thing if A doesn’t want to live with me anymore because she and he need their allo space or whatever the fuck couples do (still amatonormative and lousy for me). But as far as I understand, it’s not even that. It’s not her. It’s Boyfriend. A and I can be planning something for the two of us for weeks, for months, for years, then it all goes away in a minute because ehh, it kinda cramps Boyfriend’s style. I’m, as A called me, her “best friend soulmate.” I Was Here First. I never fucking made her cry. But I can’t kiss her or fuck her, so I automatically take a backseat to the one who can. I don’t need to be her Number One, but I don’t appreciate being pushed aside at Boyfriend’s every whim.

A, I’m sure, doesn’t realize how it looks from my angle. I know she cares about me and doesn’t want me to feel devalued. She’s just an oblivious alloro. I’m not even sure Boyfriend’s intentionally hogging her. (To be clear, I don’t think he’s a bad person; I’ve only met him a handful of times but I reliably clock my friends’ truly shitty partners on less. I haven’t heard about any crises in the past year or so, so I guess he’s finally managing his baggage well enough that A’s life can go smoothly and not suck.) I’m not unsympathetic to anxiety either; I’m chronically mentally ill and I’ve had my share. And I get we’re little more than strangers at this point. But I hate that he can just singlehandedly veto me and A rooming together ever. It’s much more of a blow to my likely quality of life than he or A---or tbh even I did, before this point---realize.

I hate feeling like I’m being jealous and needy. Maybe A just genuinely likes him better and it’s not only an amatonormative thing. I know I’m not entitled to live with her; it’s not like we promised or anything. But the option getting shut down really made me realize how much I resent not having it, and how much I kind of resent Boyfriend in general.

Which brings me to the asking-for-advice part, to the maybe two people who’ve read this far. Aspecs on here have talked about how amatonormativity fucks over single people and especially aros in terms of housing and life in general. Has anyone dealt with a situation like mine? How do you manage the amatonormative behavior of people in your life snatching your prospects out from under you, or feeling like it has? Is my reaction even reasonable? If so, how should I bring it up to A? This would be the closest thing we’ve ever had to a conflict, and also I’m...not great at being vulnerable. I can’t even vagueblog about these topics because my social media presence is limited to Tumblr and hers to Facebook. Hell, maybe I should just forget it for now, since I’m not changing housing anytime soon anyway, and cross that bridge when I get to it. I wouldn’t ask her to leave him, since their relationship seems to be going a lot smoother than it had been. But goddamn, am I filled with aroace salt about this.

#aromantic #amatonormativity #arophobia #asexual #aroace #might delete this later #sorry about the rant #why this is hell nor am I out of it

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qqueenofhades · 4 years

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Hi!! 💕I was reading across your medieval queer history tag, and I came to the part of Muslims and homosexuality where you mention the active / passive narrative that this activity had.

I had two questions and I don't know if you can help me with them. I was wondering if there was something similar to that position in Nicky's time (?) at the European part of the world. And based on that, would it be a problem for the sexual activities that Nicky and Joe might have had? (sorry for this insane curiosity) I don't know if I'm being clear, haha. I mean, would it be a problem being active/passive for Nicky and Joe? ( based on common Islamic and/or European thought of the 11th century)

Thank you!!

Hmm. I feel like this is a better subject for fanfic (i.e. how Nicky and Joe viewed their relationship in the early days) because it touches on something historians can’t answer: how historical individuals privately viewed their own internal/emotional decisions and preferences. Obviously, Nicky and Joe themselves are fictional, so the only inner feelings they themselves had about how their relationship first developed, whether in its sexual components or otherwise, are the ones that are created for them by a team of modern writers and showrunners. As a historian, I can offer some perspective on the institutional, legal, and societal mores and customs that influenced how queer behavior was collectively viewed, tolerated, or restricted, but I can’t say how any given individual would have then interpreted that to themselves. Obviously, some gay people have been raised in such deeply self-hating environments that their internalized homophobia is very embedded and they struggle for years to get over it. Some others have been raised in the same environment but have never actually accepted any of it and have less difficulty in leaving it behind. Once again, this goes into the realm of speculation rather than strictly provable history, and which goes double for fictional characters.

Queer people have always existed in a complicated and sometimes contradictory relationship with the mainstream (that is, often heteronormative) dominant society. Sometimes they accept all of it in an attempt to “pass” or because they have been taught to be homophobic, sometimes they choose to selectively adopt parts of it but try to live a secret “second life,” sometimes they reject all of it. These choices are conditioned by personal safety/family background, political, cultural, religious, and social environments, formal and informal education, kinship and friendship networks, positive/negative reinforcement, individual character, and so on. There is not necessarily a “wrong” choice for a queer person to make, because each course of action comes with its own risks and rewards, but if you’re choosing to embrace your queer identity and to live out its truth (as Joe and Nicky seem to have done relatively soon after they met), then that will involve an element of rejecting whatever constraints heteronormative society has placed on you. After all, the formal legal conventions about sodomy in the Middle Ages weren’t developed in consultation with actual queer people. They reflected the concerns of conservative establishment clergymen, who weren’t interested in promoting social acceptance of it (and yet again, this doesn’t touch on THEIR actual feelings or whatever they might have done in private). I’ve discussed the complexity of disentangling historical homoromanticism (which was pretty widely celebrated in the medieval era) and historical homosexuality (which had a rockier time, but as I wrote about in this ask, the attempted policing of sexuality and sexual behavior was as much the case for m/f relationships as m/m or f/f ones -- nobody got away from this and it wasn’t just for the gays.)

Basically, I personally don’t think that either Joe or Nicky would have had a problem with sex or certain sexual positions, just because if both of them had reached the point of deciding that a Catholic/Muslim was their true love and they were going to run off together and be a couple no matter what anyone said about it, that already entailed rejecting a huge amount of the ideology they were originally taught and grew up with. It’s again a subject for fanfic how much Joe and Nicky were personally comfortable with being queer before they met each other, so this would more likely be a rejection of religious teaching about the unworthiness/evilness of the rival faith (as Nicky says, the love of his life was from the people he had been taught to hate). Since almost all medieval queer behavior and views on queer people had a religious component, if Joe/Nicky had gotten as far as rejecting the religious tenet that told them the other was Evil, they were (again, in my opinion) extremely unlikely to use any of those old religious arguments for prohibiting or proscribing certain kinds of sexual activity. I’m sure they had to negotiate many issues in the early days of their relationship (as I write about in DVLA), but they’re clearly head over heels in love with each other, wildly attracted to each other and have been for almost a millennium, and eager to embrace the physicality of that relationship, so I don’t personally see this as being a major stumbling block.

That said, you did ask about European views on sodomy in the 11th century and whether there was a parallel to Islamic views on the moral acceptability of the active vis-a-vis the passive partner. Since antiquity, there has always been less “shame” attached to the penetrative/top partner in sex, no matter whether the receiving partner is male or female. Ancient Greece is another example of this, where the adult man could not be penetrated without insult to his manhood and dignity, but the fact of him penetrating a younger man/teenage boy was a fine and even accepted rite of passage. We can obviously talk about how this is related to phallocentrism and misogyny, because the person “receiving” sex is usually expected to be a woman or a woman-equivalent person, which entails lower social status. The dominant male can take whichever sexual partner he pleases, and it’s a mark of honor and status for him to be virile (the very, very ancient chestnut about why playboys are tolerated and admired while sexually active women are “sluts.”) The gender of his partners might not matter as much as their social class, their status in relation to his, his “right” to expect sexual availability from them, and a whole lot of other factors. This could be and also was the case in medieval Europe. But may we point out that the men engaging in these kind of explicitly unequal relationships, which are more about reinforcing power and control than real desire, are very, very unlike the equal and loving mutual partnership between Joe and Nicky, where they were clearly happy to please and respect the other in whatever way.

It has not always been the case that same-sex activity would automatically be defined and suspect, though yes, there has never been an instance in Western history where it was placed uncomplicatedly on the same level as opposite-sex activity. It had to be constructed that way. As I keep saying, modern homophobia is a lot more stringent and explicit than any medieval expressions thereof, because if “homosexuality” was not constructed as a clearly recognized identity, there was less ability to rail against it. In fact, the usual rhetorical tactic was to just ignore it. Sodomy is known as the “silent sin” or “peccatum mutum” in Latin, because moralists usually didn’t talk about it or discuss it or give it an actual framework for debate and thus implied legitimacy. There were obvious exceptions (Peter Damian, Peter the Chanter, Bernardino of Siena, Heinrich Kramer, etc, etc) and as the medieval era went on, homosexuality became more grouped in with other undesirables. But that also reflected a growing visibility/awareness among people as to what it was. As I keep saying, you can’t be anxious about something, you can’t be worried about people being susceptible to it, you can’t be worried that it’s happening in reality, if it’s just an abstract concern of rhetoric that only a handful of churchmen know about. The increasing visibility of queerness as a category of exclusion in late medieval polemics reflected a) the social stress of the crises of the late medieval world and the usual function of Others as a scapegoat and b) the fact that by then, people must have had enough awareness of it as a pattern of consistent behavior for clerics to get mileage out of attacking it.

Anyway. In an attempt to summarize: historians can’t possibly know how historical queer people felt about themselves, if they were influenced by societal or internalized homophobia (itself quite different from modern homophobia), how much of the dominant social narrative they accepted, the reasons for the choices that they made, if they saw their queer preferences as a sin or as a valid lifestyle, and so on. But it seems unlikely that historical queer people specifically in loving long-term relationships, such as Joe and Nicky, would be unduly tied to much of that, and that has always been the case.

#history #medieval history #queer history #history of sexuality #the old guard meta #anonymous #ask

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childofthcwilderness · 4 years

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⌞ʾ⁎ ⊰ aslihan malbora, female, she/her ⊱ i think i just saw MEGHAN GIRY walk across trafalgar square, singing to JUST THE GIRL ( THE CLICK FIVE ). you know, the TWENTY-THREE year old DANCE STUDIO SECRETARY / SWIM INSTRUCTOR (both part-time)? people claim that they are just like MEG GIRY from PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. it must be because they are BUBBLY and RECKLESS as well… though i could be wrong. all i know for sure is that they live at BUDAPEST apartment. ⌝

{ ooc rambles -- so i just realized i had never done an intro for my child???? so here it goes it’s long but please love her }

{also, please note that all of this can be changed if we get a Madame Giry character -- personally, i’d love them to have a good and healthy relation }

B I O:

Meghan Eléonore Giry was born in New York City, on the 27th day of March. She’s the only daughter of Antoinette Giry and an unknown father.

Meg was always a very energetic child. Social and talkative, she was very curious, wanting to know more about anything. Making friends was easy. Setting bedtimes was impossible.

She grew up in backstages and theater curtains around the world. Her mother, known to most as Madame Giry, was a well-known choreographer to many of the most famous ballet companies around the world. Sometimes, mostly around the debut date of the performances, Meg would spend days without seeing her mother.

Dazzled by the beautiful ballerinas her mother would coach, Meg used to think being a ballerina was the closest to a princess someone could ever get. At the age of five, she asked her mother to teach her to dance. At first, it seemed like an impossible mission. Her short attention span many times showed as a strong hindrance. Stubbornly, she never gave up .

Also very young, Meg discovered her obsession with the water -- taking a bath was one of the few things that would keep the girl quiet for more than 20 minutes. She learned how to swim – swimming seemed to make her feel as if she was floating, her body relaxed and her mind at ease

As she became older, her energy never faltered, which made her experiment various types of activities, from knitting to horseback-riding.

She graduated high school two years later than expected, due to her learning difficulties and busy schedule with rehearsals and competitions and she felt lost. College didn’t seem like a viable option; she struggled enough with school already.

She focused solely on her dancing, trying not to dwell on her insecurities, working harder than she ever had before. Until the day she was invited to travel on her own to Canada, for a ballet competition. The experience (and her second-place trophy) opened her eyes to a world that she had never realized how big it was. From that moment, she knew she wanted to travel. For almost a year, Meg worked in as many jobs and freelances as possible, gathering money and planning.

She only told her mother she was moving two days before the date of her reserved plane tickets. The conversation did not end on the best terms.

She lived away for almost two years -- she lived in Paris, Sydney, New Zealand and, finally, Brazil. Most of this time, Meg worked at hostels, normally trading her work for a room, some food and a little money. The girl would also pick some shifts at cafés and pubs. She took her time to meet people and learn more about each culture.

One night, as she sat in the doubtful quality sheets of yet another hostel, she realized just how worn out she was. It was time to settle down. But where? She couldn’t go back home. She’d have to start a new adventure. . .

M O R E I N F O :

Meg is a people’s person. She loves to meet them and learn everything she can, to the littlest details. She tries to be as kind as possible and, even with the difficulties she has to keep contact, she’s very loyal and protective of her friends.

Growing up, the girl would often feel lonely. Madame Giry was a workaholic with a strict personality, but most of all, she was distant—both physically and emotionally. Meg caught herself plenty of time wondering why her mother didn’t love her. She never met her father, nor did she look for him.

( ILLNESS TW ) Although she was never diagnosed, it’s been strongly suggested that Meg lives with ADHD. She also suffers from Chronic Insomnia. Her lack of sleep can send her into some periods when she struggles with depressive crises.

( MEDICAL TW ) She’s completely and utterly terrified of doctors. Rarely goes to them, unless it’s an emergency.

Reckless – almost too much – but sometimes she doesn’t even realize how stupid or dangerous her plans are until someone points out to her.

Don’t challenge her. She’ll take to extremes in order to prove herself.

Can often be found at bars, either working or drinking. Or both.

Identifies herself as bisexual – but girls, man. Girls.

H E A D C A N O N S :

As a child, Meg had an imaginary friend she’d call “Phantom”. In her mind, talking to him was the same as talking to her father.

When she started learning ballet, she used to think she’d earn her mother’s affection if she did well enough.

She can cook the basics, but doesn’t like cooking for herself, so most days she just ends up eating out on fast foods, trading meals for snacks or making some buttered noodles.

On a similar note: Meg. Can. Bake -- and she’s fairly good at it! She loves to try out new recipes. Some nights, when she can’t sleep, she’ll take over the “Budapest” kitchen and after finished, she slices and leave in the common area with a note offering to whoever passes by

She’s got a major sweet tooth. It’s not rare for the girl to have more than one type of candy in her backpack.

Loves the sea. Can’t surf

She adores all types of animals, but never had a pet

Unconsciously throws some Portuguese words and expressions around in the middle of sentences

#musicalhqs: intro #{ for your perusing at times confusing possibly amusing -- intro }#{ child of the wilderness -- meghan giry }#{ ooc rambles -- this........ is late........ }

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ohimaginethat · 4 years

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When I Met You - E.N.

You’re in for a long ride with this one, ladies and gentlemen, so I’m gonna keep this short. I put my entire being into this and I’m incredibly of it. Thanks so much for requesting this, @addictwithaheavydirtycheetah! Happy reading, everyone! (Warning: You may want to have a box of tissues on deck.)

When I Met You (playlist)

When you met him, your life was in shambles. It was spiraling out of control and you thought there was no way of escaping it. You saw everything in shades of black and white. No matter where you looked, you couldn’t see the colors that once brought you so much joy. You tried everything---therapists, meditation, medication, but, to no avail, you were stuck in what seemed to be an endless circle of bland, lifeless days with no way out.

And then, one day, as if it were magic, your grey world sprang to life as your eyes met his. They were beautiful. A swirling mixture of blues, greens, and hazels that you’d never be able to erase from your memory. When he approached you from across the room, you were at a loss for words. Had he noticed your staring? What were you going to say? How should you act? The air was knocked out of your lungs as he finally stood before you. The way he looked at you... It was as if you were the only person in the world. Like you were all he could focus on; all he wanted to focus on.

You would give anything to relive that moment. When you first saw him. So you could cherish it; remember every detail. The lighting. His smile. How each hair on his head sprang every which way. His eyes. The freckle on the left side of his chin. Every painting that stood still around you as your head spun. You didn’t know how selfish you were. All because you never thought that it could end.

Two months… How has it already been two months? How has it only been two months? He was always there. Since the moment you met him, he was there to comfort you. To hold you. To love you. And then he was just gone. Torn away suddenly and there was nothing you could do about it. Your Ethan... He deserved so much more than this cruel world gave him. It was unfair. Everything about it. He should be here instead of you; that’s all you’re ever able to think. Who wouldn’t?

You absorbed every word he said that night. Something about him was so… Magnetic. You couldn’t help it. Your head was in the clouds on your way home. Was this love at first sight? Things like that didn’t happen, but for the first time in your life you were beginning to wonder if they did. You shook the thought out of your head. Surely he had someone. How could he not? He was the closest thing to perfection you’d ever come across.

You exchanged numbers and parted ways when the hosts were shooing everyone out of their event. You couldn’t decide if texting him would be a good idea or not---you didn’t want to annoy him. The last thing you needed was to scare him off before you really got to know him. The drive home was spent fighting an internal debate. Then, it happened. As you turned the key to your apartment, your phone lit up.

Even though he could never answer, you still sent messages to his phone sometimes. Called him just to hear him speak when it went to voicemail. It was therapeutic in some ways. In others, it was unhealthy to be so dependent on a disconnected phone number and you knew that. At least you weren’t off making stupid decisions.

Falling into the comfort of drugs, alcohol, and terrible coping habits that so many develop in this situation. It hurt, but if you were numb to that, you’d be numb to those warm feelings you got any time you would think of your happiest times together. How could you betray him like that? By destroying yourself, you knew it could tear up everything else you have left in your life. That was the last thing he would ever have wanted for you.

It wasn’t anything profound---just a simple “Hey, did you give me the right number?” kind of message. Of course you did. Why would you not? And that’s what you sent him back. He seemed surprised, which surprised you. You couldn’t wrap your head around how anyone could do that, especially to him. The number you were staring at as you stood in your hallway was marked as unknown. So, you change it. Ethan. What a nice name.

When you finally come to your senses, you realize just how terribly deep you are. Mere hours ago, you were standing exactly where you are now, absolutely dreading the art gallery your sister was dragging you to. So many unknown people you knew you’d never be able to talk to, pretending to enjoy each other’s company. Who wants that? And now, here you are. Falling in love with a near stranger.

Your door lock clicks as you close it behind you and there stood your sister before you, just as she did three years ago, ready to force you out of your funk. She knew it would take more to help you with this one for more reasons than one. She was sure to check in on you every day at least once a day and took you out twice a week. It was like you were some kind of pet she had an obligation to care for. You knew she was just trying to help and you didn’t have the heart to tell her that a video call and going out to lunch a couple times a week wouldn’t bring you out of whatever this was.

So, you stuck with it. Put on a smile for her sake and humored her. You knew it affected her, too. Losing him. That’s why you did it. This was her way of coping and trying to help you cope. They were partners in crime; allies from the very start. Allies with you as their enemy, of course, but you loved how close they were. It made you feel safe. Protected. Like when you were with them both, nothing could ever happen to you and you could take on the world in an instant.

Long texts turned into long phone calls as the two of you would talk through the night with no regard for the sun creeping up over the horizon. It made making it through the day without sleep difficult, but you always felt energized after you spoke. No matter what it was about. Your heart would skip a beat when your phone vibrated. Your eyes would light up as your screen did. Disappointment would seep into your mind anytime it wasn’t him. It was nonsense. You were good friends. That’s all. That’s all he thought of it as, you were sure. You were scared to push it any further. What if it ruined everything you’d worked so hard as a pair to build up? A platonic friendship. That’s all it could be and you needed to come to terms with that.

Sometimes you would talk about your favorite characters from The Office, some nights you would have in-depth discussions about music or your terrible love lives. Every now and again you would question the universe and have existential crises together. Those conversations were your favorite part of every day, no matter how much sleep it cost you. It was almost as if those words gave you what you needed to get through them. It was in those moments that you realized that with every word, you were falling in, deeper and deeper. There was nothing you could do to stop it. He held your heart in his hands and he had absolute no idea. It was terrifying, exciting, and absolutely invigorating.

The street flies by as you stare from the window of your sister’s car. You didn’t know where she was taking you this time. You didn’t really care. Spending time with someone you loved was enough to get you through. You count every sign as they pass, every curb you turn. A path you’d memorized long ago was painful to travel. Too many memories. Both good and bad. After he was gone, it felt like you would never be able to see it again. It was a heartbreak that could never be fixed, no matter how much time passed.

Your relationship progressed quickly. One moment, you were the best of friends and the next? The best of friends who just so happened to be moving in together. Into a small apartment on Cherry Street. On the last day of hauling boxes, Ethan pulled you away from all of the packing tape and bubble wrap. Took you to a little rocky beach nearby with a small blanket, bottle of wine, and his camera. He told you he wanted to celebrate such a huge moment in your relationship. Little did you know, it would be even bigger than you thought it could be.

Bright lights from the city and passing cars shone brightly on the water. As the sun set, it illuminated his face slightly and you could see your breath as it danced in front of you. Just enough so you could see the eyes that mesmerized you what felt like so long ago. The crooked smile that stole your heart the moment you laid eyes on him. Everything about him was anything you could ever want. Forever with him would be heaven to you.

You couldn’t quite say that you were expecting it. When he pulled the small, velvet box from his pocket, you were in absolute awe. It was the first time you found yourself believing that forever could be real. That, maybe just this once, everything would be okay. Perfection could only last so long. You knew that. Didn’t stop you from embracing it, though. From embracing him. There were no words to describe how much you loved him. Your heart was so full. So happy.

There have only been two times in your life where time stood still. That was one. The excitement in the air was palpable and it stayed like that for the whole month of September. Sharing the news with friends and family, preparing for the wedding, all of it. It was like nothing you’d ever experienced before. You never were one for planning, but he’d always been an exception to all that you previously believed about the world and yourself.

You look over at your sister as the car halts outside of a wrought iron gate. She reaches out and squeezes your hand with a tight smile. She knew just how much you needed this. Every single day you told her how much you wished he would just show up. Knock on your door and see his face one last time. That’s it. It was impossible. You were well aware, but it cut like a knife to think about. He always said that he wanted you to be his last first kiss, but you never imagined it would end the way it did.

All you wanted was to climb in and curl up next to him. Tell him everything would be alright—that you could make it better like he always did for you. But you couldn’t. You were stuck in the prison that was your mind as every piece of your shattered heart lowered into the ground with him. Nothing could ease the numbness settled in your chest. It was the perfect day outside. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. It taunted you. It was all wrong. It was three on a Monday. You should have been at home cuddling with Spencer. He should be holed up in his office doing what he loved for thousands of people who loved him. Just like always.

You looked over to see Amy holding Mark tightly as he fell apart. Tyler stood rigid next to the pair. Around you so many people were hurting just as much as you and, yet, you’d never felt more alone. As if the universe cheated only you just because it could. Ethan was a light, in the darkest of places to every single person he’d ever touched the hearts of, be it through his words or the internet. Especially you. And, suddenly that light was ripped away. Torn from your grasp and held just from your reach.

Everything you loved seemed to have no meaning anymore. The stars you once believed to be so beautiful were now dull because he would never see them again. You found yourself speaking to the moon at night, though. It seemed like a connection you could share with him. As if it were a long distance phone call he would never answer. There was too much left to be said. Too many ‘I love you’s to share. You still had the forever he promised you left, but forever was gone in an instant.

As you approached the yellowing patch of grass you knew so well, the ring that sat on your left hand weighed heavily. Today would have been the day. A day filled with secret smiles and pure happiness. The flowers at your feet would have been in your hand as you walked down the aisle dressed in white, ready to say ‘I do’ to the only man you’d ever truly loved. Instead, you would be drowning in your own tears and not because of sweet words from your would-have-been husband, as so many brides do. It may have been too soon, but you knew if you didn’t do it now, you never would. It was finally time to bid him farewell, no matter how much it hurt you. Nothing it felt right. As though you deserved more time to grieve and wallow in your own despair.

You spent the previous night with him, though. In a dream. The first you’d had since his passing. The two of you talked, just like you always would. Like nothing ever changed. As the sun rose in the real world, a beautiful dusty sunset illuminated his eyes. It was time to say goodbye to him and you weren’t ready, but you did it. You woke up crying and you knew. Saying goodbye didn’t mean letting go of him for forever. There was a part of your soul that would always belong to him and that was okay. You just couldn’t relive life through pictures anymore, no matter how much you wanted to. The thought of moving on terrified you. You’d never be able to find another love like you shared with Ethan. If your soulmate is gone, what does one do for the rest of their life? You didn’t want to be alone and you would be if you didn’t set him free.

He was so good to you. Made you laugh when you felt like crying Saw you through your hardest times. Supported you unconditionally. In every single thing that he did, he made your life better. You hoped he was somewhere beautiful. The kind of place that had perfect weather with just a sprinkling of snow every now and then to remind him of home. That he would save a place next to you for when the time comes. Until then it was best to just remember him as he was and hope he does the same for you.

There are so many things you can plan. A birth. A date. A wedding. A funeral. But never in a million years could you have prepared yourself for the life-long journey you were taken on when you met him...

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senzasord · 4 years

Text

Hello lads,

It’s time to be introspective again.

I went back and looked at last years post, and realised I did not write a lot. I think last year - and this year - was a lot of personal stuff that kind of pushed me in a way I haven’t been used to. I grew up in crises; dealing with things while being in a good environment has been weird for me, and has both been great, and also meant I’ve started to grow through some of the stuff I haven’t had the chance to before. So this year felt long, and didn’t feel like I accomplished a lot, but I know I felt like that last year, and read the list of things I achieved and realised that wasn’t true.

This year I got a new job (and have almost left the old one, lmao), and has been one I’ve wanted for a long time. I finished my diploma in music studies (haven’t applied officially to master of teaching yet because I am a procrastinator, and yes I know it was on the list for this year, but the music half been like ‘yeah, okay’ so I think I can count it. Hopefully I won’t have to eat my words in a month or so). I didn’t do any more grade exams this year, but did work through a lot of the trauma I have around performing, and music in general. It fucking sucked, but I grew so much as a musician in terms of how I think about myself, rather than in technique like last year. My technique has gone by the wayside this year as a result, but I need to get through the woods, and hopefully will keep going. I will be contacting a teacher once I have moved house and have my uni timetable finalised, which I am terrified for, but I know it’s time, and for that, I’m excited.

I didn’t finish learning to drive this year. But I did get diagnosed with ADHD, which set me on the path to tackling some of the issues I have on the road. The anxiety, I think, I can work through easier now I know how my brain works a bit better.

Wasn’t all great. Didn’t end up strengthening friendships like I wanted to. Medication trialling, processing some family stuff, and discovering that I have chronically low iron mean that I have been exhausted a lot this year. I hope next year I can be there for more people in my life. I have such wonderful people as friends, and I wish I could show up for them more. In the meantime, I need to remind myself that they know I love them, and connect when I can.

This is getting really long, but we can’t ignore the fact that this is the end of the decade.

At the start of this decade I was just starting uni, still living in home (we had just moved house in an emergency move because my mother didn’t have the executive function at the time to do it and we almost ended up homeless), still in the closet to myself, still a teenager. I now have a bachelors and a diploma, I moved out of home and - after a couple of rocky starts - have had great experiences living with terrific friends. I travelled for the first time as an adult. I came out (kind of, lol). I went to counselling (under duress. lmao, me at 20 was fucking stubborn), and finally started processing some of the shit in my life. I started working on a better relationship with my mum, and watched her start to get healthier. I met some of the most important people in my life, and strengthened the ties with those I already knew. I also had a terrible fight with one of my oldest friends, and we still don’t speak to this day. I got suspended from uni for a year because I failed all my units, but then got reinstated a semester early because I’m fucking stubborn and shadowed four units to prove I could come back. I learnt to hug people, and trust people, and trust myself, and speak my mind.

I have grown so much in this decade. I like to think 18 year old Cassie would be in awe of where I am, considering how far away all this seemed to me at the time. I wish I could tell her she’ll be alright, but I have to be content with the fact that I know it. I had some really shit times - some of the worst. But fuck, I had some amazing times too. And all the shit times I had, I survived. Every single one of them. No matter how frustrated I get with where I am sometimes, no matter how shitty it feels sometimes, I know I got to here.

I got here.

And the part of me that’s writing this, that doesn’t show up very often in fear of being beaten down, is fucking proud of that.

So,

I think that’s enough reflecting for one decade. I have a party to get to.

Goals for next year

- Start Master of Teaching!!!! (very achievable)

- get violin teacher and look into grade 7 exam

- finish learning to drive

- ask a girl on a date

- go for a bushwalk

- travel interstate for the first time

- work on getting back in practice with Japanese

- buy a piano workbook

- breathe

That’s it, lads. For now. This is longer than usual, but eh, the only person to read it will probably be me next year. Hi, Cassie. I hope you’re doing great. And if you’re not, I love you anyway. You’re a fighter, even if you don’t feel like. I am so proud of you, just like I am of all the mes before me. I wish I could remember it more often, but this is here to remind me when I forget. And I have the most amazing people in my life to remind me as well.

Good luck everyone.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I hope it’s good.

I don’t have 2020 vision.

Yet. ;)

Happy New Year!

#2019 #2020 #Happy New Year!#New years #personal #me #long

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strangcrdoctor · 5 years

Note

📂

Particularly for the NMCU, I have a detailed personal history for how Stephen’s life and career in New York and how it weaves in small details from the series. My biggest beef with Phase 3 of the MCU is that it had this beautiful potential for intersection with the NMCU that just got totally shafted by various executive chicaneries. So I’m just going to live in my happy bubble where it gets to happen because what else is tumblr RP for?

So! For my rough timeline for Stephen, he was born in 1977, and upon immediately turning 18 left for Columbia in 1995. So he was in New York for two of its most extreme modern crises: 9/11 and the Incident in 2012. In 2001 he was still in the middle of his graduate work, both doing med school and work for his PhD, by which point he had already become friends with Christine Palmer. But during his undergraduate, both he and Christine met and became friends with one Jeri Hogarth. (I flex this a bit just for convenience given Hogarth’s education is never specified, but for my purposes Hogarth did her undergrad at Columbia and may have shifted to a different university for law thereafter.) Stephen and Jeri had a strange friendship, given Stephen was still reconciling not being straight and coming not from a place of poverty quite to the extent Hogarth came from, but definitely being an outcast and the underdog in his own field just as much as she was in her own. They primarily remained friends because they were brilliant and salty, but also understood each other more than ever really went said between them. Stephen also taught Jeri to tango when she married Wendy, who had also become a colleague of Stephen and Christine’s over the years.

When Stephen was officially hired to Metro General, it was the beginning of a second phase for his friendship with Hogarth. Regardless of, or rather because of her preference for profitable clients, she agreed to serve as Stephen’s primary defense lawyer for the sake of his malpractice insurance. Stephen has only had a handful of malpractice suits ever filed, and all of them Hogarth was able to dismantle in court. Stephen has never had to settle a case both because of his punctilious methods and because of Hogarth’s tenacity. As Stephen aged and accrued his wealth, he also had Hogarth as his primary assets manager and power of attorney, along with Christine. She helped him construct his living will, and the legal backing for where certain invested monies would go when he died. Christine, naturally, held his medical power of attorney.

After his accident - which for a time was a large point of contention between Stephen and Christine given her ability to act on his behalf in that crisis - Stephen increasingly withdrew from contact with both Christine and Jeri, though he and Jeri had long since settled on a professional acquaintanceship more than a flourishing friendship. When he disappeared to Kathmandu, he had liquidated all of his fluid assets. This did not, however, include locked investments, such as the donation funds that Stephen had been investing money into for almost a decade. Though at the time it had been meant as a tax break, Stephen also did believe in keeping his own research department afloat, as well as giving back to the university he’d gotten his livelihood from. Per the terms of his living will and the legal promissory period for missing persons, Jeri had to wait for a certain amount of time before acting on Stephen’s will. As soon as he’d been missing for the requisite amount of time and was declared dead, his will was read, and the last of his assets distributed accordingly. This included a small gift for both Jeri and Christine, and the few distant relatives Stephen had heirlooms to pass onto, and for a scholarship fund to be set up at Columbia university and a donation to the Metro General neuroscience research department in his name. Billy, Stephen’s former personal assistant and protege, became the head of Stephen’s posthumous research department.

Regardless of his contact with Christine, after re-meeting her under the dire circumstances of 2016, he entreated her to keep quiet about the fact that he wasn’t dead. So far as he was concerned, it was better that the world and New York went on without him. Insofar as my canon goes, his interactions with the Defenders are all on the basis that his public presence has fallen into ignominy given his assumed death. Though that isn’t to say he’s unilaterally forgotten - while not in direct contact with him, Stephen was a well-known enough presence in the ER to be recognizable to nursing staff such as Claire Temple.

#''prescriptions #''CV #a totally useless headcanon #untamedtempest

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momestuck · 5 years

Text

Epilogues: Meat ch 1-8 [Epilogue 1]

I’m eating so you get one more of these before I try to salvage a bit of work from today.

We’ve read through the whole of the ‘Candy’ branch of the story. It went places! Spoilers for it below.

Somehow Jane turned into a fascist dictator, Karkat became a heroic resistance leader, a whole lot of ships were made and broken, Dirk killed himself but somehow it was fake (???), John went through multiple existential crises and a failed marriage, Jade destroyed Dave and Karkat’s relationship but ultimately got with Dave, Gamzee was brought back to perform a ‘redemption arc’ and was generally awful but ultimately ended up getting sexually assaulted and then murdered by Vriska, let’s not forget that the cast had three entire fucking babies and one of them ran into her own namesake... and Obama was there. And that’s not even covering all of it...

But that was all in a universe that was ‘inconsequential’; it was in a bubble disconnected from ‘canon’, spread out on the event horizon.

Now we wind the clock back, and consider what happens if John chooses on that day to go forth, recruit a group of other selves from elsewhere in Paradox Space, and fight Lord English, as ‘canon’ dictates he eventually must...

Chapter 1

This one is in second person, and features narrative prompts, which was also true of the first chapter of Candy.

This time, John eats the meat in a really gross way, manages to not puke everywhere, says awkward goodbyes, writes a bunch of letters, and fucks off back into Canon(TM).

Not a lot to say about that! P much what we expected. Wonder where he’s gonna end up?

Chapter 2

I pretty much expected them to dive straight into Canon, but no, in fact similar plots as the first one seem to be abrew. We meet Dave and Karkat - no Jade here, this time - as Dave breaks the news of Jane’s presidential bid.

So, Dave proposes, Karkat should run against her. Which was a possibility floated in the other story... it does feel rather like, at this point, whatever V said, I might have read them in the wrong order.

Dave brings up Obama as a reason he’d want to see a good president - Obama who, in Dave’s timeline, got killed by meteors before he could ‘fix the economy’. Which I guess makes his appearance in the other branch a little less of a non-sequitur, though still fucking weird don’t get me wrong!

DAVE: or maybe not... maybe there was like an escape hatch in the white house that led to his own secret presidential session of sburb

DAVE: what if hes just chillin there now

KARKAT: DAVE, I THINK WE’VE COVERED YOUR “OBAMA’S SECRET SESSION OF SBURB” THEORY WELL ENOUGH ALREADY.

So the Obama chapter was all payoff for a very long term brick joke? This is not the revelation I expected to be having in Meat.

Anyway, Dave basically explains how scary it is to have the human government in charge of troll reproduction, echoing Karkat’s words back at him. Apparently the way the whole weird eugenic system got put in place was that, before Kanaya arrived with the Mother Grub, the government reproduced trolls exclusively ectobiologically.

The other issue is... The Economy. We get a little note that, indeed, this is an alchemy-based post-scarcity economy:

DAVE: ok if shit goes sideways i guess we arent gonna see like raggedy turtles and pauper chess men standing in bread lines or anything

DAVE: thats just the nature of alchemy-based post-scarcity economies the depressions tend to be pretty mild

DAVE: but it will still be bad

DAVE: a healthy economy is fuckin IMPORTANT

DAVE: if for no other reason than it protects the societal context for what it means to be fucking rich, like us

So uh what do they spend money on... I guess there’s services, those can’t be alchemised (except for the fact that ludicrously advanced robotics exists?). someone actually has to work the alchemizer...

Anyway most of this chapter is... electoral strategy.

DAVE: consorts overwhelm the other kingdoms in sheer numbers but due to unscrupulous gerrymandering, all kinds of fucked up voter suppression policies and some electoral “counterbalancing” measures to account for their ridiculous population growth rate their voting power per capita is kind of pathetic

DAVE: also its hard to drive turnout

DAVE: this may come as a shock but legions of easily distracted low information amphibians primarily concerned with eating bugs and farming god damned mushrooms arent the most politically motivated demographic

The chapter ends with Dirk calling Dave... to... cut off his head. Yeah. That joke again.

OK, this sure is a direction. Welcome to Homestuck Electoralism Edition I guess. They probably won’t have quite as many kids?

Chapter 3

John apparently has a specific list of retcon interventions, apopros of Rose. The first is to appear on the battleship during the three year journey in the non-canon, pre-retcon timeline, open a fridge containing Aradia and Gamzee (god I’ve forgotten so much), and take the ring that Aradia is holding (which ring is that again?). Then, John decides to shove Gamzee back in the fridge.

> Do everyone a favor and put an end to his preposterous narrative relevance.

You wisely decide that this clown will lend nothing valuable to the narrative whatsoever if he is allowed to remain outside of your childhood refrigerator. You put both hands on his chest and shove him into the fridge where he belongs. He goes easily, issuing only a pair of weak honks in protest. You slam the fridge shut and resolve to never think about Gamzee Makara again.

So... we’re going with that, huh.

I’ve said enough about the Gamzee Issue already perhaps. But I guess I thought they were going to do more than to bring Gamzee back mostly to mock the idea of ‘redemption arcs’, and ‘punish’ him some more for being a bad character.

Chapter 4

John interrupts two other retcon-Johns, one trying to cancel out the other, a Dave, and a grimbark Jade during some of the shit that happened when Jade got mind controlled or whatever... it’s been a long time...

Dave’s the first recruit, along with Jade. John gives him a rather half-assed explanation about why, after several years of ‘boring adult lives’, they need to go and fight Lord English now.

Chapter 5

Back to the real story: Dave and Karkat’s electoral bid.

Dirk has apparently been... playing the heel in televised rap battles to Jake’s face so that Jake’s endorsement of Jane’s political candidacy would be more effective. Yeah.

Also he disagrees with Dave on fiscal policy. The cad.

He has a rather weird conversation of alternately discouraging and encouraging Dave and Karkat’s opposition. Then, to round out the chapter, V and Cephied deliver... an entire stanza of Jake’s rap. Oh boy.

At the end, Dirk... tranquilizes Jake (????????) to take another call from Rose.

This is the ‘real’, ‘canon’ storyline now? Oh Homestuck.

Chapter 6

John’s assembled a group of god tier kids in his back garden. The alpha and beta kids are present, but there are no trolls.

There’s a rather uncomfortable moment (for the reader, as well as John) when young Roxy hits on adult John.

You weren’t prepared to get passively hit on by the Definitely Not Legal version of a girl you used to have a crush on at the age she was when you first met her, only a few hours after you watched the Actually Legal version of her engage in passionate hand-holding with her possibly aromantic skeleton alien monster girlfriend.

‘Legal’, really!

Anyway, John feels rather strained watching this rather rushed rehash of the reunion scenes from the original comic. He wonders about the ethics of all this...

You wonder. Do you see these teen versions of your friends as “real”? Are you treating them, at Rose’s behest, as simple puppets? Doing your part to insist they fill friend-shaped recesses in an essential plan to stabilize all else that can be considered important, a distinction no longer applying to them? Do you care at all about whatever fate it may be that you are sentencing these children to? Are you becoming as complicit in the fatalistic evils of Paradox Space as Lord English himself? Are you becoming a monster, John Egbert?

foooof i mean he’s not wrong! let’s call them the ‘child soldiers’ from here on out...

Chapter 7

Time to catch up with Rose. We finally learn what’s wrong with her: she’s ‘ascending’, taking on the full burden of the ‘ultimate self’.

The same is also happening to Dirk, but he is somehow more resilient to it. So that’s what Obama did to Dave, huh.

Also this puts the prompt ‘Dirk: Ascend’ before his suicide in a rather different light.

The pieces are thus falling into place: this is why Dirk was building a Rosebot. Quite possibly the Dirk and Rose who were flying away from Earth C in the Candy timeline actually entered it out of this timeline, which would explain how Dirk was alive.

Chapter 8

Time to see the full events of Caliborn’s ‘Masterpiece’.

This is all Caliborn dropping an extremely corny buildup:

CALIBORN: BUT NOW. THE TIME HAS COME.

CALIBORN: FOR EVERYONE TO SHUT UP ABOUT HOW GREAT MY MASTERPIECE WAS.

CALIBORN: AND THE TIME IS NOW AT HAND...

His laughter turns into a low, cracked gurgle. It spikes towards you in waves, distorts and pitches low. He is beyond pleased with himself, and with the line he is about to deliver.

CALIBORN: FOR YOU ALL TO *BECOME* MY MASTERPIECE!

We need more organs to give that the proper level of scare chord...

End of Epilogue 1

Well that explained at least some of the wild horseshit we experienced in Candy, I guess.

So somehow this is all according to keikaku, which is to say Dirk’s design - he fancies himself as an engineer, putting each piece in its proper place. Rose isn’t entirely in on it, but she will be. We still don’t know why Dirk’s doing this, why he needs Jane to be president, why he’s ultimately going to need a new SBurb session...

As for themes and stuff... this just felt like ‘setting the board’. Rather hastily, even though it’s a full eight chapters. Compared to the emotional heft of some of the stuff that happened in Candy, anyway... this is all plot.

#momestuck

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blackkudos · 6 years

Text

James Baldwin

James Arthur Baldwin (August 2, 1924 – December 1, 1987) was an African-American novelist, essayist, playwright, poet, and social critic. His essays, as collected in Notes of a Native Son (1955), explore palpable yet unspoken intricacies of racial, sexual, and class distinctions in Western societies, most notably in mid-20th-century America, and their inevitable if unnameable tensions. Some Baldwin essays are book-length, for instance The Fire Next Time (1963), No Name in the StreJames Baldwinet (1972), and The Devil Finds Work (1976).

Baldwin's novels and plays fictionalize fundamental personal questions and dilemmas amid complex social and psychological pressures thwarting the equitable integration not only of blacks, but also of gay and bisexual men, while depicting some internalized obstacles to such individuals' quests for acceptance. Such dynamics are prominent in Baldwin's second novel, Giovanni's Room, written in 1956 well before gay rights were widely espoused in America.

Early life

Baldwin was born after his mother, Emma Berdis Jones, left his biological father because of his drug abuse and moved to Harlem, New York City. There, she married a preacher, David Baldwin. The family was very poor.

Baldwin spent much time caring for his several younger brothers and sisters. At the age of 10, he was teased and abused by two New York police officers, an instance of racist harassment by the NYPD that he would experience again as a teenager and document in his essays. His adoptive father, whom Baldwin in essays called simply his father, appears to have treated him — by comparison with his siblings — with great harshness.

His stepfather died of tuberculosis in summer of 1943 just before Baldwin turned 19. The day of the funeral was Baldwin's 19th birthday, the day his father's last child was born, and the day of the Harlem Riot of 1943, which was portrayed at the beginning of his essay "Notes of a Native Son". The quest to answer or explain family and social rejection—and attain a sense of selfhood, both coherent and benevolent—became a leitmotiv in Baldwin's writing.

Education

James attended P.S. 24 on 128th Street between Fifth and Madison in Harlem where he wrote the school song, which was used until the school closed down. His middle school years were spent at Frederick Douglass Junior High where he was influenced by poet Countee Cullen, a leading figure in the Harlem Renaissance, and was encouraged by his math teacher to serve as editor of the school newspaper, The Douglass Pilot. He then went on to DeWitt Clinton High School, in the Bronx's Bedford Park section. There, along with Richard Avedon, he worked on the school magazine as literary editor but disliked school because of the constant racial slurs.

Religion

The difficulties of his life, including his stepfather's abuse, led Baldwin to seek solace in religion. At the age of 14 he attended meetings of the Pentecostal Church and, during a euphoric prayer meeting, he converted and became a junior Minister. Before long, at the Fireside Pentecostal Assembly, he was drawing larger crowds than his stepfather had done in his day. At 17, however, Baldwin came to view Christianity as based on false premises and later regarded his time in the pulpit as a way of overcoming his personal crises.

Baldwin once visited Elijah Muhammad, leader of the Nation of Islam, who inquired about Baldwin's religious beliefs. He answered, "I left the church 20 years ago and haven't joined anything since." Elijah asked, "And what are you now?" Baldwin explained, "Now? Nothing. I'm a writer. I like doing things alone." Still, his church experience significantly shaped his worldview and writing. Baldwin reflected that "being in the pulpit was like working in the theater; I was behind the scenes and knew how the illusion was worked."

Baldwin accused Christianity of reinforcing the system of American slavery by palliating the pangs of oppression and delaying salvation until a promised afterlife. Baldwin praised religion, however, for inspiring some American blacks to defy oppression. He once wrote, "If the concept of God has any use, it is to make us larger, freer, and more loving. If God can't do that, it's time we got rid of him". Baldwin publicly described himself as not religious. However, at his funeral, an a cappella recording of Baldwin singing "Take My Hand, Precious Lord" was played.

Greenwich Village

When Baldwin was 15, his high-school running buddy, Emile Capouya, skipped school one day and, in Greenwich Village, met Beauford Delaney, a painter. Capouya gave Baldwin Delaney's address and suggested paying him a visit. Baldwin, who was at the time working after school in a sweatshop on nearby Canal Street, visited Beauford at 181 Greene Street. Beauford became a mentor to Baldwin; it was under Beauford's influence that he came to believe a black person could be an artist.

While working odd jobs, Baldwin wrote short stories, essays, and book reviews, some of them collected in the volume Notes of a Native Son (1955). He befriended the actor Marlon Brando in 1944 and the two were roommates for a time. They would remain friends for more than 20 years.

Expatriation

During his teenage years in Harlem and Greenwich Village, Baldwin started to realize that he was gay. In 1948, he walked into a restaurant where he knew he would not be served. When the waitress explained that black people were not served at the establishment, Baldwin threw a glass of water at her, shattering the mirror behind the bar. As a result of being disillusioned by American prejudice against blacks and gays, he left the United States at the age of 24 and settled in Paris, France. His flight was not just a desire to distance himself from American prejudice, but to see himself and his writing beyond an African-American context. Baldwin did not want to be read as "merely a Negro; or, even, merely a Negro writer". Also, he left the United States desiring to come to terms with his sexual ambivalence and flee the hopelessness that many young African-American men like himself succumbed to in New York.

In Paris, Baldwin was soon involved in the cultural radicalism of the Left Bank. His work started to be published in literary anthologies, notably Zero, which was edited by his friend Themistocles Hoetis and which had already published essays by Richard Wright.

He would live in France for most of his later life. He would also spend some time in Switzerland and Turkey. During his life and after it, Baldwin would be seen not only as an influential African-American writer but also as an influential exile writer, particularly because of his numerous experiences outside the United States and the impact of these experiences on Baldwin's life and his writing.

Saint-Paul-de-Vence

Baldwin settled in Saint-Paul-de-Vence in the south of France in 1970, in an old Provençal house beneath the ramparts of the famous village. His house was always open to his friends, who frequently visited him while on trips to the French Riviera. American painter Beauford Delaney made Baldwin's house in Saint-Paul-de-Vence his second home, often setting up his easel in the garden. Delaney painted several colourful portraits of Baldwin. Actors Harry Belafonte and Sidney Poitier were also regular house guests.

Many of Baldwin's musician friends dropped in during the Nice and Juan-les-Pins Jazz Festivals: Nina Simone, Josephine Baker (whose sister lived in Nice), Miles Davis, and Ray Charles, for whom he wrote several songs. In his autobiography, Miles Davis wrote:

I'd read his books and I liked and respected what he had to say. When I got to know him better, Jimmy and I opened up to each other. We became great friends. Every time I was in the South of France, in Antibes, I would spend a day or two at his villa in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. We'd get comfy in that beautiful, big house and he would tell us all sorts of stories...He was a great man.

Baldwin learned to speak French fluently and developed friendships with French actor Yves Montand and French writer Marguerite Yourcenar, who translated Baldwin's play The Amen Corner.

His years in Saint-Paul-de-Vence were also years of work. Sitting in front of his sturdy typewriter, his days were devoted to writing and to answering the huge amount of mail he received from all over the world. He wrote several of his last works in his house in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, including Just Above My Head in 1979 and Evidence of Things Not Seen in 1985. It was also in his Saint-Paul-de-Vence house that Baldwin wrote his famous "Open Letter to My Sister, Angela Y. Davis" in November 1970.

Literary career

In 1953, Baldwin's first novel, Go Tell It on the Mountain, a semi-autobiographical bildungsroman, was published. His first collection of essays, Notes of a Native Son appeared two years later. He continued to experiment with literary forms throughout his career, publishing poetry and plays as well as the fiction and essays for which he was known.

Baldwin's second novel, Giovanni's Room, caused great controversy when it was first published in 1956 due to its explicit homoerotic content. Baldwin was again resisting labels with the publication of this work: despite the reading public's expectations that he would publish works dealing with the African-American experience, Giovanni's Room is predominantly about white characters. Baldwin's next two novels, Another Country and Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone, are sprawling, experimental works dealing with black and white characters and with heterosexual, gay, and bisexual characters. These novels struggle to contain the turbulence of the late 1950s and the early 1960s: they are saturated with a sense of violent unrest and outrage.

Baldwin's lengthy essay "Down at the Cross" (frequently called The Fire Next Time after the title of the book in which it was published) similarly showed the seething discontent of the 1960s in novel form. The essay was originally published in two oversized issues of The New Yorker and landed Baldwin on the cover of Time magazine in 1963 while Baldwin was touring the South speaking about the restive Civil Rights movement. Around the time of publication of The Fire Next Time, Baldwin became a known spokesperson for civil rights and a celebrity noted for championing the cause of black Americans. He frequently appeared on television and delivered speeches on college campuses. The essay talked about the uneasy relationship between Christianity and the burgeoning Black Muslim movement. After publication, several black nationalists criticized Baldwin for his conciliatory attitude. They questioned whether his message of love and understanding would do much to change race relations in America. The book was eagerly consumed by whites looking for answers to the question: What do blacks really want? Baldwin's essays never stopped articulating the anger and frustration felt by real-life black Americans with more clarity and style than any other writer of his generation. Baldwin's next book-length essay, No Name in the Street, also discussed his own experience in the context of the later 1960s, specifically the assassinations of three of his personal friends: Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King, Jr.

Baldwin's writings of the 1970s and 1980s have been largely overlooked by critics, though even these texts are beginning to receive attention. Several of his essays and interviews of the 1980s discuss homosexuality and homophobia with fervor and forthrightness. Eldridge Cleaver's harsh criticism of Baldwin in Soul on Ice and elsewhere and Baldwin's return to southern France contributed to the sense that he was not in touch with his readership. Always true to his own convictions rather than to the tastes of others, Baldwin continued to write what he wanted to write. As he had been the leading literary voice of the civil rights movement, he became an inspirational figure for the emerging gay rights movement. His two novels written in the 1970s, If Beale Street Could Talk and Just Above My Head, placed a strong emphasis on the importance of black families, and he concluded his career by publishing a volume of poetry, Jimmy's Blues, as well as another book-length essay, The Evidence of Things Not Seen, which was an extended meditation inspired by the Atlanta Child Murders of the early 1980s.

Social and political activism

Baldwin returned to the United States in the summer of 1957 while the Civil Rights Act of that year was being debated in Congress. He had been powerfully moved by the image of a young girl braving a mob in an attempt to desegregate schools in Charlotte, N.C., andPartisan Review editor Philip Rahv had suggested he report on what was happening in the American south. Baldwin was nervous about the trip but he made it, interviewing people in Charlotte (where he met Martin Luther King), and Montgomery, Alabama. The result was two essays, one published in Harper's magazine ("The Hard Kind of Courage"), the other in Partisan Review ("Nobody Knows My Name"). Subsequent Baldwin articles on the movement appeared in Mademoiselle, Harper's, The New York Times Magazine, and The New Yorker, where in 1962 he published the essay that he called "Down at the Cross" and the New Yorker called "Letter from a Region of My Mind". Along with a shorter essay from The Progressive, the essay became The Fire Next Time.

While he wrote about the movement, Baldwin aligned himself with the ideals of the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). In 1963 he conducted a lecture tour of the South for CORE, traveling to locations like Durham and Greensboro, North Carolina and New Orleans, Louisiana. During the tour, he lectured to students, white liberals, and anyone else listening about his racial ideology, an ideological position between the "muscular approach" of Malcolm X and the nonviolent program of Martin Luther King, Jr.. Baldwin expressed the hope that Socialism would take root in the United States.

By the spring of 1963, Baldwin had become so much a spokesman for the Civil Rights Movement that for its May 17 issue on the turmoil in Birmingham, Alabama, Time magazine put James Baldwin on the cover. "There is not another writer," said Time, "who expresses with such poignancy and abrasiveness the dark realities of the racial ferment in North and South." In a cable Baldwin sent to Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy during the crisis, Baldwin blamed the violence in Birmingham on the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, Mississippi Senator James Eastland, and President Kennedy for failing to use "the great prestige of his office as the moral forum which it can be." Attorney General Kennedy invited Baldwin to meet with him over breakfast, and that meeting was followed up with a second, when Kennedy met with Baldwin and others Baldwin had invited to Kennedy's Manhattan apartment (see Baldwin–Kennedy meeting). This meeting is discussed in Howard Simon's 1999 play, "James Baldwin: A Soul on Fire" The delegation included Kenneth B. Clark, a psychologist who had played a key role in the Brown v. Board of Education decision; actor Harry Belafonte, singer Lena Horne, writer Lorraine Hansberry, and activists from civil rights organizations. Although most of the attendees of this meeting left feeling "devastated," the meeting was an important one in voicing the concerns of the civil rights movement and it provided exposure of the civil rights issue not just as a political issue but also as a moral issue.

James Baldwin’s FBI file contains 1,884 pages of documents, collected from 1960 until the early 1970s. During that era of illegal surveillance of American writers, the FBI accumulated 276 pages on Richard Wright, 110 pages on Truman Capote, and just nine pages on Henry Miller.

Baldwin also made a prominent appearance at the Civil Rights March on Washington, D.C. on August 28, 1963, with Belafonte and long-time friends Sidney Poitier and Marlon Brando. The civil rights movement was hostile to homosexuals. The only known gay men in the movement were James Baldwin and Bayard Rustin. Rustin and King were very close, as Rustin received credit for the success of the March on Washington. Many were bothered by Rustin's sexual orientation. King himself spoke on the topic of sexual orientation in a school editorial column during his college years, and in reply to a letter during the 1950s, where he treated it as a mental illness which an individual could overcome (the common view of the time). The pressure later resulted in King distancing himself from both men. At the time, Baldwin was neither in the closet nor open to the public about his sexual orientation. Later on, Baldwin was conspicuously uninvited to speak at the end of the March on Washington. After a bomb exploded in a Birmingham church not long after the March on Washington, Baldwin called for a nationwide campaign of civil disobedience in response to this "terrifying crisis." He traveled to Selma, Alabama, where SNCC had organized a voter registration drive; he watched mothers with babies and elderly men and women standing in long lines for hours, as armed deputies and state troopers stood by—or intervened to smash a reporter's camera or use cattle prods on SNCC workers. After his day of watching, he spoke in a crowded church, blaming Washington—"the good white people on the hill." Returning to Washington, he told a New York Post reporter the federal government could protect Negroes—it could send federal troops into the South. He blamed the Kennedys for not acting. In March 1965, Baldwin joined marchers who walked 50 miles from Selma, Alabama, to the capitol in Montgomery under the protection of federal troops.

Nonetheless, he rejected the label "civil rights activist", or that he had participated in a civil rights movement, instead agreeing with Malcolm X's assertion that if one is a citizen, one should not have to fight for one's civil rights. In a 1964 interview with Robert Penn Warren for the book Who Speaks for the Negro?, Baldwin refuted the idea that the civil rights movement was an outright revolution, instead calling it "a very peculiar revolution because it has to...have its aims the establishment of a union, and a...radical shift in the American mores, the American way of life...not only as it applies to the Negro obviously, but as it applies to every citizen of the country." In a 1979 speech at UC Berkeley, he called it, instead, "the latest slave rebellion."

In 1968, Baldwin signed the “Writers and Editors War Tax Protest” pledge, vowing to refuse tax payments in protest against the Vietnam War.

Inspiration and relationships

As a young man, Baldwin's poetry teacher was Countee Cullen.

A great influence on Baldwin was the painter Beauford Delaney. In The Price of the Ticket (1985), Baldwin describes Delaney as

...the first living proof, for me, that a black man could be an artist. In a warmer time, a less blasphemous place, he would have been recognized as my teacher and I as his pupil. He became, for me, an example of courage and integrity, humility and passion. An absolute integrity: I saw him shaken many times and I lived to see him broken but I never saw him bow.

Later support came from Richard Wright, whom Baldwin called "the greatest black writer in the world." Wright and Baldwin became friends, and Wright helped Baldwin secure the Eugene F. Saxon Memorial Award. Baldwin's essay "Notes of a Native Son" and his collection Notes of a Native Son allude to Wright's novel Native Son. In Baldwin's 1949 essay "Everybody's Protest Novel", however, he indicated that Native Son, like Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin, lacked credible characters and psychological complexity, and the friendship between the two authors ended. Interviewed by Julius Lester, however, Baldwin explained, "I knew Richard and I loved him. I was not attacking him; I was trying to clarify something for myself." In 1965, Baldwin participated in a debate with William F. Buckley, on the topic of whether the American dream has adversely affected African Americans. The debate took place at The Cambridge Union in the UK. The spectating student body voted overwhelmingly in Baldwin's favour.

In 1949 Baldwin met and fell in love with Lucien Happersberger, aged 17, though Happersberger's marriage three years later left Baldwin distraught. Happersberger died on August 21, 2010, in Switzerland.

Baldwin was a close friend of the singer, pianist, and civil rights activist Nina Simone. With Langston Hughes and Lorraine Hansberry, Baldwin helped awaken Simone to the civil rights movement then gelling. Baldwin also provided her with literary references influential on her later work. Baldwin and Hansberry met with Robert F. Kennedy, along with Kenneth Clark and Lena Horne and others (see Baldwin–Kennedy meeting) in an attempt to persuade Kennedy of the importance of civil rights legislation. Kennedy referred to Baldwin as "Martin Luther Queen" throughout his life.

Baldwin influenced the work of French painter Philippe Derome, whom he met in Paris in the early 1960s. Baldwin also knew Marlon Brando, Charlton Heston, Billy Dee Williams, Huey P. Newton, Nikki Giovanni, Jean-Paul Sartre, Jean Genet (with whom he campaigned on behalf of the Black Panther Party), Lee Strasberg, Elia Kazan, Rip Torn, Alex Haley, Miles Davis, Amiri Baraka, Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothea Tanning , Leonor Fini, Margaret Mead, Josephine Baker, Allen Ginsberg, Chinua Achebe and Maya Angelou. He wrote at length about his "political relationship" with Malcolm X. He collaborated with childhood friend Richard Avedon on the book Nothing Personal, which is available for public viewing at the Schomburg Center in Harlem.

Maya Angelou called Baldwin her "friend and brother", and credited him for "setting the stage" for her 1969 autobiography I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Baldwin was made a Commandeur de la Légion d'Honneur by the French government in 1986.

Baldwin was also a close friend of Nobel Prize-winning novelist Toni Morrison. Upon his death, Morrison wrote a eulogy for Baldwin that appeared in The New York Times. In the eulogy, entitled "Life in His Language," Morrison credits Baldwin as being her literary inspiration and the person who showed her the true potential of writing. She writes,

"You knew, didn't you, how I needed your language and the mind that formed it? How I relied on your fierce courage to tame wildernesses for me? How strengthened I was by the certainty that came from knowing you would never hurt me? You knew, didn't you, how I loved your love? You knew. This then is no calamity. No. This is jubilee. 'Our crown,' you said, 'has already been bought and paid for. All we have to do,' you said, 'is wear it.'"

Death

Early on December 1, 1987, (some sources say late on November 30) Baldwin died from stomach cancer in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, France. He was buried at the Ferncliff Cemetery in Hartsdale, near New York City.

Legacy

Baldwin's influence on other writers has been profound: Toni Morrison edited the Library of America two-volume editions of Baldwin's fiction and essays, and a recent collection of critical essays links these two writers.

One of Baldwin's richest short stories, "Sonny's Blues", appears in many anthologies of short fiction used in introductory college literature classes.

In 1986, within the work The Story of English, Robert MacNeil, with Robert McCrum and William Cran, mentioned James Baldwin as an influential writer of African-American Literature, on the level of Booker T. Washington, and held both men up as prime examples of Black writers.

In 1987, Kevin Brown, a photo-journalist from Baltimore, founded the National James Baldwin Literary Society. The group organizes free public events celebrating Baldwin's life and legacy.

In 1992, Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts, established the James Baldwin Scholars program, an urban outreach initiative, in honor of Baldwin, who taught at Hampshire in the early 1980s. The JBS Program provides talented students of color from underserved communities an opportunity to develop and improve the skills necessary for college success through coursework and tutorial support for one transitional year, after which Baldwin scholars may apply for full matriculation to Hampshire or any other four-year college program.

In 2002, scholar Molefi Kete Asante included James Baldwin on his list of 100 Greatest African Americans.

In 2005, the USPS created a first-class postage stamp dedicated to Baldwin, which featured him on the front, with a short biography on the back of the peeling paper.

In 2012 James Baldwin was inducted into the Legacy Walk, an outdoor public display that celebrates LGBT history and people.

In 2014 128th Street, between Fifth and Madison Avenues, was named "James Baldwin Place" to celebrate Baldwin's 90th Birthday. He lived in the neighborhood and attended P.S. 24. Readings of Baldwin's writing were held at The National Black Theatre and a month long art exhibition featuring works by New York Live Arts and artist Maureen Kelleher. The events were attended by Council Member Inez Dickens, who lead the campaign to honor Harlem native son, Baldwin's family, leaders in theatre and film, and members of the community.

Works

Go Tell It on the Mountain (semi-autobiographical novel; 1953)

The Amen Corner (play; 1954)

Notes of a Native Son (essays; 1955)

Giovanni's Room (novel; 1956)

Nobody Knows My Name: More Notes of a Native Son (essays; 1961)

Another Country (novel; 1962)

A Talk to Teachers (essay; 1963)

The Fire Next Time (essays; 1963)

Blues for Mister Charlie (play; 1964)

Going to Meet the Man (stories; 1965)

Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone (novel; 1968)

No Name in the Street (essays; 1972)

If Beale Street Could Talk (novel; 1974)

The Devil Finds Work (essays; 1976)

Just Above My Head (novel; 1979)

Jimmy's Blues (poems; 1983)

The Evidence of Things Not Seen (essays; 1985)

The Price of the Ticket (essays; 1985)

The Cross of Redemption: Uncollected Writings (essays; 2010)

Jimmy's Blues and Other Poems (poems; 2014)

Together with others:

Nothing Personal (with Richard Avedon, photography) (1964)

A Rap on Race (with Margaret Mead) (1971)

One Day When I Was Lost (orig.: A. Haley; 1972)

A Dialogue (with Nikki Giovanni) (1973)

Little Man Little Man: A Story of Childhood (with Yoran Cazac, 1976)

Native Sons (with Sol Stein, 2004)

Music/Spoken Word Recording:

A Lover's Question (CD, Les Disques Du Crépuscule – TWI 928-2, 1990)

Wikipedia

#James Baldwin

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carolinesiede · 5 years

Text

My 2018 Writing Roundup

2018 was one of those years where I felt like I was frantically treading water all year, only to look up and realize I’d actually managed to swim myself to shore. The previous two years somehow felt simultaneously tumultuous and like a plateau. At first, I thought 2018 was more of the same, but looking back it was way more of a transitional year than I realized. I’m ending the year on a higher note than I started it, which is a really nice feeling. I’m in an apartment I love, feeling a bit more stable, and I even developed the ability to do a full pushup for the first time in my life, which is by far my single greatest achievement of the year!

This was my fifth year as a full-time freelance writer, and I experienced a pretty big shift in the types of articles I wrote this year—fewer short news posts and way more long-form pieces that more truly reflect my voice and opinions. I actually didn’t realize it until creating this roundup, but good god did I do a lot of writing this year. No wonder I had some pretty severe moments of burnout. I’m incredibly proud of the volume of writing I did, although I’m also frustrated that I worked this much yet still frequently struggled to make ends meet. Thankfully, after a rocky year money-wise, I found a little more stability towards the end of the year. Here’s hoping I can carry that forward into 2019!

One of my big goals for 2018 was to immerse myself more in the world of film criticism, and boy howdy did I manage to manifest that one! I quadrupled the number of films I watched this year and filled in some big cinematic blindspots. I also began writing film reviews in a regular capacity, first at Consequence of Sound and later for The A.V. Club and Alcohollywood as well. While I’ll always enjoy writing about TV (and loved covering the shows I did this year!), TV criticism is something I kind of inadvertently fell into at the start of my career. Film has always been my first love, and I’m glad I found the courage and drive to shift into this new area of writing. It’s been lovely to start immersing myself in the world of Chicago film critics too.

But by far my biggest achievement of the year (beyond being able to do a pushup, of course!) is launching my column When Romance Met Comedy for The A.V. Club. I poured my whole heart and soul into the column, both in terms of each individual entry and in terms of shaping its overall voice and making sure to cover a diverse set of films within the rom-com genre. It’s been a lot of work (way more work than is actually cost effective for me, to be honest), but I’m incredibly proud of how the column turned out in its first year. It’s also been really lovely to get so much positive feedback, both from the commentary community as well as from my A.V. Club bosses. I started my writing career with a blog about rom-coms and I find it hilarious that it took me four years to think of actually pitching that as an idea elsewhere. I’m so glad I did, and I’m having a blast planning out my slate of films to cover in 2019. (If you want to stump for your favorite, drop me a line on Twitter!)

With that, I’ll leave you with wishes for a Happy New Year and a roundup of all the major writing I did in 2018. If you enjoyed my work this year, it would mean a lot if you would support me on either Kofi or PayPal. Or just share some of your favorite pieces with your friends!

OP-EDS

My my, what the hell is up with the Mamma Mia! timeline?

A timey-wimey guide to the modern era of Doctor Who

Star Wars: Episode IX can fill Leia’s absence by embracing its forgotten queen

From femme fatale to complex superhero: The evolution of the MCU’s Black Widow

All the songs from The Greatest Showman, ranked

WHEN ROMANCE MET COMEDY

Like the best romantic comedies, Bridget Jones’s Diary is about more than just falling in love

Bringing Up Baby and the screwball comedies that delivered romance via pratfalls

After When Harry Met Sally, almost every rom-com tried to have what Nora Ephron was having

The Big Sick lovingly updated the rom-com formula with a coma and a great 9/11 joke

Something Borrowed and the phenomenon of rom-coms that hate women

In a sea of unintentionally creepy rom-coms, the original Overboard goes, well, overboard

My Best Friend’s Wedding rewrote the rom-com happy ending

Will Smith’s lone rom-com muddled its message about pickup artists and romance

Breakfast At Tiffany’s is so much more than a fashionable proto-Sex And The City

25 years ago, Sleepless In Seattle found the romantic hiding in the cynic

Before palling around with Ant-Man and the Wasp, Peyton Reed was Down With Love

You can dance, you can jive, you can love Mamma Mia! without feeling embarrassed

Maid In Manhattan let Jennifer Lopez’s rom-com talents sparkle

Pair Crazy Rich Asians with this Hong Kong rom-com classic

Jane Austen provided the romantic comedy some Sense And Sensibility

How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days set the stage for the rom-com’s downfall

Romantic comedies (briefly) came out of the closet with In & Out

Pretty In Pink is a far superior riff on the Sixteen Candles formula

How Stella Got Her Groove Back is a sexy vacation romp that explores the line between fantasy and reality

The Devil Wears Prada pulls off the perfect romantic comedy look, even though it really isn't one

Enchanted, or: How I learned to stop worrying and love the Disney princess

Why are Hallmark Christmas movies so addictive?

Without hope or agenda: A defense of Love Actually

SEASON-LONG TV COVERAGE

Doctor Who S11

Daredevil S3

This Is Us S2 and S3

Jessica Jones S2

Supergirl S3 and S4

FILM REVIEWS

Crazy Rich Asians has so much rom-com razzle dazzle it practically sings

Ben Mendelsohn battles suburban ennui in Nicole Holofcener’s The Land Of Steady Habits

Michael Shannon is refreshingly ordinary in What They Had, a family drama with focus issues

Mark Wahlberg and Rose Byrne build an Instant Family in a comedy more touching than funny

After a clumsy opening statement, RBG biopic On The Basis Of Sex effectively argues its case

Jennifer Lopez’s overstuffed Second Act offers three movies for the price of one

The Girl in the Spider’s Web: Lisbeth Slander gets an action hero makeover

Widows: An Enthralling Heist Thriller with Some Less Interesting Gangster Drama Touches

If Beale Street Could Talk: Love is a Battle, Love is a War

6 Balloons tackles the everyday agonies of the opiate crisis

I Feel Pretty takes on identity crises while having one of its own

RBG examines the complex, inspiring woman behind all the memes

Book Club does a disservice to its gifted cast of legacy stars

Set It Up is a fine, breezy rom-com for the start of summer

Ant-Man and the Wasp takes a modest quantum leap for the series

Robin Williams: Come Inside My Mind looks into the late comedian’s heart

The Spy Who Dumped Me is a fun but fairly disposable summer flick

Like Father uses the Netflix format to play around with comic conventions

Madeline’s Madeline blurs the lines of fantasy and reality

Life Itself is so bizarre it has to be seen to be believed

Private Life takes a personal, observant look at late-life reproduction

The Nutcracker and the Four Realms is a CGI mess with an earnest heart

The Grinch goes CGI and gets a fluffy, sincere modern update

TV REVIEWS/OP-EDS

Grey’s Anatomy’s lengthy existence isn’t a joke, it’s a strength

This Is Us is obsessed with killing its dad

Three years later, Supergirl is still telling the best female-centered superhero stories

Even without a resurrection, John Legend rises in NBC’s electrifying Jesus Christ Superstar Live

Sara Bareilles and Josh Groban lend an infectious energy to the wonderfully earnest 72nd Annual Tony Awards

Iron Fist season 2 feels like an entirely different show—which is mostly a good thing

13 Reasons Why puts itself on trial but can’t give up its worst impulses in season 2

Sex dreams and explosive rectal surgeries—it must be the Grey’s Anatomy season 15 premiere

Pre-Air Review: Dietland offers an ambitious, unapologetic taste of something new

Season Two Review: The messages of The Handmaid’s Tale season two resonate now more than ever

Season One Review: AMC’s Dietland aimed wide and mostly hit its marks in a chaotic first season

PODCAST GUEST APPEARANCES

Cinematic Universe: Men In Black

Cinematic Universe: Independence Day

Filmography: Wes Anderson comedies

Debating Doctor Who: Favorite guest stars part 1 and part 2

TV Party: Let’s Solve Westworld Season Two

TV Party: Appreciating The West Wing’s “Two Cathedrals”

Plus some other episodes of TV Party including this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, and this one.

MINDMEET INTERVIEWS

Bernard Avle: Human Beings Are Stories

The CyberCode Twins: A Blockchain Beacon of Hope

Jason Berlin and Tour de Crypto: A Pioneering Journey to Raise Awareness for Charity and Bitcoin

And here are similar year-end wrap-ups I did in 2017, 2016, 2015, 2014, and 2013.

#Best Of #Best Writing #Best of 2018 #Writing #Freelance writing

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cassianus · 4 years

Text

The tragedy of our times lies in our almost complete unawareness, or unmindfulness, that there are two kingdoms, the temporal and the eternal. We would build the Kingdom of Heaven on earth, rejecting all idea of resurrection or eternity. Resurrection is a myth. God is dead.

Let us go back to Biblical revelation, to the creation of Adam and Eve and the problem of original sin. ‘God is light, and in him is no darkness at all’ (I John I.5). The commandment given to the first-called in Paradise indicates this and at the same time conveys that, although Adam possessed absolute freedom of choice, to choose to eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil would entail a break with God as the sole source of life. By opting for knowledge of evil-in other words, by existentially associating with evil, by savouring evil-Adam inevitably broke with God, Who can in no way be joined with evil (cf. 2 Cor. 6.I4-I5). In breaking with God, Adam dies. ‘In the day that thou eatest thereof,’ thus parting company with me, rejecting my love, my word, my will, ‘thou shalt surely die’ (Gen. 2.17). Exactly how Adam ‘tasted’ the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil is not important. His sin was to doubt God, to seek to determine his own life independently of God, even apart from Him, after the pattern of Lucifer. Herein lies the essence of Adam’s sin-it was a movement towards self-divinisation. Adam could naturally wish for deification-he had been created after the likeness of God-but he sinned in seeking this divinisation not through unity with God but through rupture. The serpent beguiled Eve, the helpmeet God had made for Adam, by suggesting that God was introducing a prohibition which wonld restrict their freedom to seek divine plenitude of knowledge-that God was unwilling for them to ‘be as gods knowing good and evil’ (Gen. 3.5).

I first met with the notion of tragedy, not in life but in literature. The seeds of tragedy, it seemed to me in my youth, are sown when a man finds himself wholly captivated by some ideal. To attain this ideal he is ready to risk any sacrifice, any suffering, even life itself. But if he happens to achieve the object of his striving, it proves to be an impudent chimera: the reality does not correspond to what he had in mind. This sad discovery leads to profound despair, a wounded spirit, a monstrous death.

Different people have different ideals. There is the ambition for power, as with Boris Godounov. In pursuit of his aim he did not stop at bloodshed. Successful, he found that he had not got what he expected. ‘I have reached the height of power but my soul knows no happiness.’ Though the concerns oft he spirit prompt a nobler quest, the genius in the realm of science or the arts sooner or later realises his inability to consummate his initial vision. Again, the logical denouement is death.

The fate of the world troubled me profoundly. Human life at whatever stage was unavoidably interlinked with suffering. Even love was full of contradictions and bitter crises. The seal of destruction lay everywhere. I was still a young man when the tragedy of historical events far outdid anything that I had read in books. (I refer to the outbreak of the First World War, soon to be followed by the Revolution in Russia.) My youthful hopes and dreams collapsed. But at the same time a new vision of the world and its meaning opened before me. Side by side with devastation I contemplated rebirth. I saw that there was no tragedy in God. Tragedy is to be found solely in the fortunes of the man whose gaze has not gone beyond the confines of this earth. Christ Himself by no means typifies tragedy. Nor are His all-cosmic sufferings of a tragic nature. And the Christian who has received the gift of the love of Christ, for all his awareness that it is not yet complete, escapes the nightmare of all-consuming death. Christ’s love, during the whole time that He abode with us here, was acute suffering. ‘O faithless and perverse generation,’ He cried. ‘How long shall I suffer you?’ (Matt. 17.17). He wept for Lazarus and his sisters (if. John 11.35). He grieved over the hardheartedness of the Jews who slew the prophets (if. Matt. 23.37). In Gethsemane his soul was ‘exceeding sorrowful, even unto death’ and ‘his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground’ (Matt. 26.38; Luke 22.44). He lived the tragedy of all mankind; but in Himself there was no tragedy. This is obvious from the words He spoke to His disciples perhaps only a short while before His redemptive prayer for all mankind in the Garden: ‘My peace I give unto you’ (John 14.27). And a little further on: ‘I am not alone, because the Father is with me. These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world’ (John 16.32,33). This is how it is with the Christian: for all his deep compassion, his tears and prayers for the world, there is none of the despair that destroys. Aware of the breath of the Holy Spirit, he is assured of the inevitable victory of Light. The love of Christ, even in the most acute stress of suffering (which I would call the ‘hell of loving’), because it is eternal is free of passion. Until we achieve supreme freedom from the passions on this earth suffering and pity may wear out the body but it will only be the body that dies. ‘Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul’ (Matt. 10.28).

We may say that even today mankind as a whole has not grown up to Christianity and continues to drag out an almost brutish existence. In refusing to accept Christ as Eternal Man and, more importantly, as True God and our Saviour-whatever the form the refusal takes, and whatever the pretext-we lose the light of life eternal. ‘Father, I will that they also, whom thou hast given me, be with me where I am; that they may behold my glory, which thou hast given me: for thou lovest me before the foundation of the world’ (John 17.24). There, in the Kingdom of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, must our mind dwell. We must hunger and thirst to enter into this wondrous Kingdom. Then we shall overcome in ourselves the sin of refusing the Father’s love as revealed to us through the Son (if. John 8.24).

When we choose Christ we are carried beyond time and space, beyond the reach of what is termed ‘tragedy’. The moment the Holy Spirit grants us to know the hypostatic form of prayer we can begin to break the fetters that shackle us. Emerging from the prison cell of selfish individualism into the wide expanse of life in the image of Christ, we perceive the nature of the personalism of the Gospel. Let us pause for a moment to examine the difference between these two theological concepts: the individual and the persona. It is a recognised fact that the ego is the weapon in the struggle for existence of the individual who refuses Christ’s call to open our hearts to total, universal love. The persona, by contrast, is inconceivable without all-embracing love either in the Divine Being or in the human being. Prolonged and far from easy ascetic effort can open our eyes to the love that Christ taught, and we can apprehend the whole world through ourselves, through our own sufferings and searchings. We become like a world-wide radio receiver and can identify ourselves with the tragic element, not only in the lives of individual people but of the world at large, and we pray for the world as for our own selves. In this kind of prayer the spirit beholds the depths of evil, the sombre result of having eaten of the ‘tree of the knowledge of good and evil’. But it is not only evil that we see–we make contact, too, with Absolute Good, with God, Who translates our prayer into a vision of Uncreated Light. The soul may then forget the world for whom she was praying, and cease to be aware of the body. The prayer of divine love becomes our very being, our body.

The soul may return to this world. But the spirit of man, having experienced his resurrection and come near existentially to eternity, is even further persuaded that tragedy and death are the consequence of sin and that there is no other way to salvation than through Christ.

From the book: Archimandrite Sophrony, His Life is mine, London 1977, p. 37-40.

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orbemnews · 3 years

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How Covid Survivors Are Finding Their Way Into Politics Pamela Addison is, in her own words, “one of the shyest people in this world.” Certainly not the sort of person who would submit an op-ed to a newspaper, or start a support group for strangers, or ask a United States senator to vote for $1.9 trillion legislation. No one is more surprised than her that, in the past five months, she has done all of those things. Her husband, Martin Addison, a 44-year-old health care worker in New Jersey, died from the coronavirus on April 29 after a month of illness. The last time she saw him was when he was loaded into an ambulance. At 37, Ms. Addison was left to care for a 2-year-old daughter and an infant son, and to make ends meet on her own. “Seeing the impact my story has had on people — it has been very therapeutic and healing for me,” she said. “And knowing that I’m doing it to honor my husband gives me the greatest joy, because I’m doing it for him.” With the United States’ staggering coronavirus death toll — more than 535,000 people — come thousands of stories like hers. Many people who have lost loved ones, or whose lives have been upended by long-haul symptoms, have turned to political action, seeking answers and new policies from a government whose failures under the Trump administration allowed the country to become one of the hardest hit by the pandemic. There is Marjorie Roberts, who got sick while managing a hospital gift shop in Atlanta and now has lung scarring. Mary Wilson-Snipes, still on oxygen more than two months after coming home from the hospital. John Lancos, who lost his wife of 41 years on April 23. Janis Clark, who lost her husband of 38 years the same day. In January, they and dozens of others participated in an advocacy training session over Zoom, run by a group called Covid Survivors for Change. This month, the group organized virtual meetings with the offices of 16 senators — 10 Democrats and six Republicans — and more than 50 group members lobbied for the coronavirus relief package. The immediate purpose of the training session was to take people who, in many cases, had never so much as attended a school board meeting and teach them to do things like lobby a senator. The longer-term purpose was to confront the problem of numbers. Numbers are dehumanizing, as activists like to say. In sufficient quantities — 536,472 as of Wednesday morning, for instance — they are also numbing. This is why converting numbers into people is so often the job of activists seeking policy change after tragedy. Mothers Against Drunk Driving, founded by a woman whose daughter was killed by a drunken driver, did that. Groups that promote stricter gun laws, like Moms Demand Action and March for Our Lives, have sought to do it. Now, some coronavirus survivors think it’s their turn. “That volume, that collective national trauma, is almost too hard for people to grasp,” said Chris Kocher, who is the executive director of Covid Survivors for Change and previously worked with gun violence survivors at Everytown for Gun Safety. “But you can understand one story and one life lived.” Mr. Kocher started organizing C.S.C. last summer — with a “minimal” budget, he said — and the group launched publicly in October with a remembrance event featuring Dionne Warwick. Shortly before they lobbied their senators on March 3, C.S.C. members heard from someone who was once in their position: Representative Lucy McBath of Georgia, who joined Moms Demand Action after her son, Jordan Davis, was killed in 2012. She discussed her own experience moving from a personal tragedy into political activism, and how survivors’ stories could influence elected officials. One C.S.C. member, Ms. Wilson-Snipes, 52, also worked with Moms Demand Action; she started a chapter in Junction City, Kan., after her son, Felix, was fatally shot in 2018. Then, in November, she got Covid-19 and was hospitalized with pneumonia. Ms. Wilson-Snipes came home on Christmas Eve with an oxygen machine, which she still needs. Her lungs are still inflamed, her chest still painful. While the policies she promoted with Moms Demand Action are different from the ones she and others are advocating with Covid Survivors for Change — like mask-wearing, and financial assistance for people affected by the virus — she said the message was the same: “You could be in my family’s shoes, in my shoes.” That was also the message Ms. Addison conveyed in an op-ed article after President Donald J. Trump contracted the coronavirus and told the nation, “Don’t be afraid of Covid.” That was the moment she became angry enough to speak, she said, because Mr. Trump’s words “were probably the most painful words I’d ever heard a leader say.” Updated March 17, 2021, 10:30 a.m. ET The Star-Ledger published Ms. Addison’s op-ed in October, and the intensity of the response shocked her. “I’d never really thought about it that way — that I could use my story to make change,” she said. She decided to create a Facebook group for newly widowed parents, and found her first members from comments on her op-ed. In January, she participated in the Covid Survivors for Change training. This month, she and other members in New Jersey spoke with Senator Cory Booker’s office. Another cohort spoke with the office of Senator Jon Ossoff of Georgia. One of them was Ms. Roberts, 60, the former gift shop manager with lung damage from the virus. “March 26 I woke up, I was fine,” Ms. Roberts said. “And by the time the sun went down that night, my whole life and my whole family’s life had been changed forever.” After the Ossoff meeting, she called Mr. Kocher in tears. In almost a year, she said, it was the first time she had felt heard. The political mobilization of coronavirus survivors is still in early stages, and it is impossible to know whether it will fade once the pandemic is over or solidify into something lasting. But Covid Survivors for Change is not the only group seeking long-term changes. Another organization, Marked by Covid — founded by Kristin Urquiza, who lost her father to the virus and spoke at the Democratic National Convention — recently released a sweeping policy platform. Among other things, it calls for a “public health job force” of a million people to perform tasks like contact tracing, a restitution program similar to the September 11th Victim Compensation Fund, and a commission to examine the government’s pandemic response. The platform also includes much more contentious proposals, like a federal jobs guarantee, universal health care and child care, medical and student debt cancellation, and a ban on importation of products linked to deforestation. Ms. Urquiza said the idea was to address factors that make pandemics more likely, and to make Americans economically secure enough to weather crises. “It’s really not only about ensuring that we are responding to the most urgent pieces that are in front of our face right now,” she said. Covid Survivors for Change, by contrast, has no official platform. Though the members who lobbied Congress did so in support of President Biden’s stimulus package, the group is nonpartisan and has focused on training survivors to promote policies they choose. Several members said the virus had drawn them into the political arena in ways that would have shocked them a year ago. Janis Clark, 65, said her husband, Ron Clark, had always been the politically active one. “Whenever he’d watch politics, it’d be like, ‘Here comes the half-hour dissertation,’” she said, laughing. “I’d get nervous about P.T.A. functions.” Mr. Clark died on April 23, after two weeks at home with a fever as high as 104 and more than three weeks on a ventilator. He never learned that his daughter was pregnant. Desperate for someone to understand what the virus’s toll really meant, Ms. Clark started writing. She wrote to Representative Paul Tonko, Democrat of New York, who represents her district around Albany. She wrote to Senators Chuck Schumer and Kirsten Gillibrand. She didn’t know they were unlikely to reply. “I just wanted somebody to hear my story,” she said. “And it was like, how do you reach these people? I don’t know what the right avenue is. I’d never written my congressman about anything.” In February, Ms. Clark signed an open letter that Covid Survivors for Change organized, urging senators to pass a relief package and calling for a reimbursement program for funeral costs and more medical resources for survivors. Now, she thinks she might do more — maybe even attend a demonstration once it’s safe. For some people, this feels like building something out of rubble. Mr. Lancos met his wife, Joni Lancos, when he was a National Park Service interpreter at Federal Hall in Manhattan and she was a clerk working on the third floor. Their first date was Nov. 3, 1977. He took her to a Broadway show featuring the Danish pianist Victor Borge. Last April, 41 years and 15 days after their wedding and less than 18 hours after her first symptoms, she died in a Brooklyn I.C.U. There was no memorial service, not when the streets of New York City were screaming day and night with the sirens of ambulances carrying the dying. So Mr. Lancos, 70, sifted through the wreckage of grief and his own infection — which left him with brain fog and short-term memory loss — in isolation. The funeral home sent him five photos of a rabbi praying over his wife’s coffin. “That was it,” Mr. Lancos said through tears. “That was my funeral for my wife, seeing those five photos.” On March 3, he was one of the Covid Survivors for Change members who spoke with the office of Mr. Schumer, the Senate majority leader. Afterward, he recorded a short message for a video. “I think Joni would —” he said, pausing to taking a steadying breath, “be proud of what I did today.” Source link Orbem News #Covid #finding #Politics #Survivors

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larrykrakow · 3 years

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2020: A Year Of Turmoil And Struggle

New Post has been published on https://theprogressivemind.org/2020-a-year-of-turmoil-and-struggle/

2020: A Year Of Turmoil And Struggle

For some of us, 2020 was worse than it was for others. We faced one of the worst health crises in our history and it still rages on today as people start receiving vaccinations. It also represented the worst of our cultural divide, something extremely troubling to someone like myself. I was always proud of my simple life without having a need for extravagant attire or fancy cars. I can find happiness within myself and with my wife, but this year was different. The events of 2020 were bound to hit all of us no matter how immune or isolated from the danger that we felt we were.

The 2020 clock could not run out soon enough.

In my personal life, I started out by suffering from a nearly deadly case of Covid19. My 96-year-old grandmother succumbed in a nursing home to the disease and my father passed away from cancer. In many ways, this year seemed to find ways to slap all of us in the face, but it also highlights our resilience as a species. It was quite tough when my wife had to watch me pass out in our bathroom. That was the moment of fear for her, all alone in our house during a quarantine period. Had I not pulled through, she would have been left all alone in an apartment with all of my personal effects. Just imagining how tough it would have been on her is something I cannot quantify.

2020 was a tough year for many of us. Although we can highlight many ills of our political dysfunction, we have to be mindful of personal stories. Pictured here are my parents, my wife, my in-laws, my sister, and my nephew. Unfortunately for us, there is now an empty chair. It would have been nice for many families to have the ability to say goodbye to family members as their end came near.

When my grandmother passed, it was just a disappointment, but by that point, she had lived a long and fulfilling life. In a way, it is better that she went first because my father who also happened to be her oldest son was nearing the end. No parent should ever have to hear of the death of one of their children, no matter how old.

When my father was nearing the end, it was tough to be able to come and see him. The pandemic stoked a lot of fear even though I had already been through it. In the final year of his life, I saw him on three separate days. The final one would be in November as cancer was eating him from within. He had a lot of pride and did not want to be seen in his condition. When he was told by his doctors that there was no further treatment that could have saved him, he had told my mother that he would have liked to see my wife and me. Sadly, about an hour after saying that to my mother, he had severe pain and had to be rushed to the hospital. He was put on heavy-duty medications that knocked him out and he never woke again. Although 2020 was near the end, it continued to ravage the Krakow family.

This was the year of turmoil.

With every passing day, we would become more and more numb to the suffering of others. It was as if it was expected. Nobody had the will or desire to change the system that caused so much pain. As my personal life went on and life in the world went on, it was easy to draw a parallel. It was easy to feel that a terrible curse had been cast upon us.

There was no Thanksgiving, something that had occurred in my family since before I had even become a thought. In retrospect, we all know that we could have controlled this pandemic if everyone in the country had agreed to wear a mask for a few months. It would have meant that even if my mother did not cook dinner on Thanksgiving, we could have all met and had one more time with my ailing father. In a way, I feel that the anti-maskers robbed us of our final days.

2020 was built on history.

Sure, I had an abrasive father that was tough to handle at times, but he always came through for us and I believe that he loved all of us in his own way. As he grew older, I felt that we grew closer, especially after introducing my soon to be wife. Going back over five years now, I was in a hospital bed with my then-girlfriend at my side. I had a major illness that had taken over 20 pounds off of my thin frame. My parents came down for a visit. I think at that moment, my relationship with my father had changed for the positive in a way that I could never comprehend.

Now, only to find out that the final year of deterioration for my father was upon us, we also faced the politics of hate and division that created circumstances for us to be apart. In fact, my wife and I from the time we got together until the start of the pandemic would take a drive up to visit my parents a few times every year. I was particularly taken by the fact that my wife and father would be able to sit and talk for quite some time.

Politics impact our lives.

Now that we lost much of that time towards the end, I realized that the divisions in America have put us in this position. The politicization of masks and shutdowns took away the last few chances my father had to see his only son. It took away the ability for my wife and me to come and spend a day with people that had been with me all of my life. Our society is infected with a lack of trust in the basic things that sustain us and a view that anyone asking for a little bit of self-sacrifice is oppressive. Is it really oppressive to wear a mask when thumbing through merchandise at Walmart? Is it really oppressive to be asked to eat at home? Is it oppressive to be asked to do takeout for a few months? I think that would have given people like me more of a chance to enjoy the things that are important in life.

Our politics are denying us basic things in life, the basics of seeing people in our families. Our politics are denying us access to the treasures of our country. We have been so divided up along racial and cultural lines that we are unable to process how bad things have gotten for us on the ground. In the waning days of my father’s life, we all were asking people to wear masks including in the butcher shop where I work. We asked people to be ready for the vaccine yet some nut jobs believe that the government will use the vaccine as an excuse to implant some tracking chip.

To me, put it plain and simple, masks, vaccines, and shutdowns are measures that we as the most advanced species on Earth have at our disposal to make sure that we live on. They are not something that should be used by any politician. In fact, I believe that many Republican governors are responsible for the virus resurging in my state. My wife and I had to forego seeing my father in his dying days. We had to forego seeing close friends for way too long.

Who is to blame for making 2020 tougher than needed?

We have to stop for one second and think if it is the people that hold twisted views of our world. I don’t like to blame the so-called deplorables. They are not the leaders of our society. They are the working-class stiffs who hold values that were taught over generations. As their children become more educated and in tune with technology, they will start to dwindle in numbers. Society has a way of fixing long-term problems. It may never completely be fixed, but it will get better. There will be more mixed families and hopefully more educational opportunities. Maybe there will eventually be a greater appreciation of what is important because we live finite lives. Whatever we leave behind as we pass will be our own choosing. Hopefully, this pandemic has taught us some lessons.

I would like to close this post with a request. I want to help any of you bring healing to yourselves. Please share your story in the Facebook Comments section below. This is where you are allowed to vent your feelings. Your struggle matters.

#2020

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women-are-visual · 6 years

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In a Concrete Tower

“I feel like everyone in this place wants to fuck me,” my boyfriend of twenty years says, leaning back in his chair. We’re on vacation in Mendocino and we’re having dinner at a fancy French restaurant. It’s in a Victorian house and the tables are tastefully decorated with white tablecloths, cut glass vases full of wildflowers, and glowing candles. My boyfriend is tall, six foot six, and his voice is bassy and loud. At 46, deep lines surround his mouth like parentheses and some grey is woven into his black hair, but he’s still very handsome. I will always think of him as the nerdy new waver who I met when I was 16 though, and, although he’s become a successful IT consultant, he’s hardly a lady’s man. There’s something wrong.

I look around the room. Our server is a conservative looking woman with her hair in a neat bun and she’s been nice to us, but of course that’s her job. At the table next to us, two white haired, sixty-something couples exclaim over their beef bourguignons. No one’s looking at us or showing any interest in us, sexual or otherwise, and I feel confused. Is my boyfriend losing his mind? I know he’s been depressed and has been having some sort of midlife crisis lately. I don’t know what to think, but I try to boost his ego. “You are pretty handsome,” I say.

We return from vacation and he writes a short story about cheating on his first girlfriend, an overweight punk rock, glam girl. He wants me to edit it and post it on his blog.

“Are you posting this story to let women know that you’re available?” I ask him.

“Of course not,” he says, “I would never cheat on you.”

But I discover texts on his phone.

“Amy D. is so hot. She would be a definite upgrade as a side chick,” he texts his friend. I feel stunned and devastated. Scott has always preached monogamy and stoicism and I know he’s never cheated on me in twenty years. I can’t believe he’s even using terms like “side chick,” we’re smart and we like to read.

I find her profile on Facebook and she’s a blond girl in her mid-twenties who works for a futurist organization he’s involved with. She looks very gendered and conservative, like the type of girl we laughed at in high school. We're too cool for this kind of person, I thought. Also, she’s twenty years younger than him, she would be our daughter’s age now if we had one, and that’s just creepy. My boyfriend isn’t a creep. When he gets home, I confront him about his texts.

“I wasn’t being serious, I was joking,” he says, “how could you think that was serious?”

“Who’s your current side chick?” I ask him.

“No one, that was a joke, I don’t really talk that way,” he says.

I ask my friend and her husband about the texts.

“Could they possibly be a joke?” I say.

“I don’t know, but don’t worry, he could never get a girl like that,” my friend’s husband says. But that’s not what I’m worried about, I’m worried that he wants a girl like that. And I’m 46, a middle-aged woman. I don’t think I look bad for my age, but I’m chubby and I was far from a model even in my youth.

I’m beside myself. Scott and I normally get along so well, but now we fight constantly and he’s never around. At night, alone in our apartment, I smoke cigarettes and drink until I vomit. When he comes home I tell him that I’m lonely, but he doesn’t care. While before he used to listen to and compliment me, now he ignores and insults me. He screams that I’m a burden and he doesn’t have the energy to care for me anymore. Eventually I can’t take the abuse and I scream back that he’s a robot dick.

I think about when we first met.

When I was 16, shortly after my family moved from the country to the suburbs of Buffalo, New York, a girl in my new high school handed me a note. It was written by two boys from another high school who had heard about me and it said, “Someday all boys will wear skirts.” It had a drawing of googly eyes and their phone numbers on it. I wasn’t going to call them, but eventually the loneliness of being in a new town sunk in and I did. They showed up at my door the following Saturday.

It was the 80s and new wave was popular. They were dressed like old men with their shirts buttoned all the way up to the top, but that’s where their similarities ended. One was short and sweaty and totally silent. The other one was tall, thin, and arrogant. He was the spokesperson for the two.

“We’re here to see the bald girl with sewer boots,” he told my mom.

I came downstairs. I was wearing a pink house dress, my head was shaved bald, and I was totally crazy looking. Scott was super tall and thin, wearing a green plaid trench coat. He had long bangs, a huge pimple in the center of his nose, and he smelled like fish from working at a fish fry restaurant. I was madly in love.

I thought we would easily be partners forever, but now things have changed. I check his emails and discover that he’s been having an affair. It was with some autistic girl from his futurist group who treated him badly and it’s over, but he’s not over it emotionally. He’s trying to heal from it by starting affairs with other women. I tell him that I forgive him and I’ve had one night stands too; I don’t care; I just want to stay together. But he goes off to visit his old friend Nancy in Phoenix. I agree that he can have sex with her ahead of time, I know I have no choice, and I think it might help him get over his bad affair, but when he comes home he acts more aloof and arrogant than ever.

In November, right after our 20th anniversary and right before my 46th birthday, my boyfriend, a person who I’ve known for two-thirds of my life, dumps me. He moves into an awful, expensive apartment in a concrete tower on the side of the highway in Emeryville. It’s right above a sewage treatment plant and it’s as cold as he’s become towards me.

It’s been a few months now and I still wonder about what happened. I know I was a shitty girlfriend in many ways, I didn’t work on my web design business enough or make a lot of money, but I also think I was a good companion to him. Then again, I always compared myself to my mom, who got drunk for a week at a time and shit the couch, so I had pretty low standards.

I’ve looked up articles on midlife crises and he seems to match the profile. On one site, the Midlife Club, it reads, “If your partner always cheated and he’s not middle-aged, then he’s just a cheater. If your partner has never cheated and he’s middle-aged, then he might be having a midlife crisis.” So in part I think that’s what this is. A lot of men go through them. They get older and lose their testosterone and it makes them miserable and scared about aging and death and worried about not having accomplished enough.

My new boyfriend, Jon, says his dad also had a midlife crisis, and he dumped their family and started a new one. It was with a worse woman than his mom, but his dad didn’t care. For whatever reason, many men abandon their families in midlife.

I tell Jon about the incident at the restaurant in Mendocino and he laughs. “No, he didn’t really say that!” He raises his eyebrows and scoffs. “So, let me get this straight,” he says, “he wrote a short story about cheating on you to let all these women know he was available and he heard crickets. So he went all the way to Phoenix to have sex with some burnt out mom?”

Then my anger disappears and I feel sad for my old boyfriend again. I hope he figures himself out and gets through this crazy time.

February 18, 2018

#midlife crisis #midlife affairs #cheating

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