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sherlockmonkeesstartrek · 6 years

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If You Could Only See Me (Part 2)

Rating: Mature Fandom: Based on the Hollies, mentions the Beatles Finished: Yes!!! Summary: Niki grew up with a boy named John in Liverpool. Spending much of her life with him and his band, in 1966 she fell in love with the front man of another band. Or… Did she?

Chapter 2: The Past

A description of events and recount of my entire, apparently imagined life later, and Tony glances at me with a bewildered, speechless expression.

“Ok, I’m starting to see why the others might think you’re crazy.” He chuckles, as kind heartedly as he can.

I stare down at my lap. I’ve cried, I’ve laughed hysterically, I’ve gotten so angry and so depressed all in the space of a ten-minute car ride onto a motorway. Emotionally, I feel exhausted. Physically, I feel hungry; I didn’t even stop to consider breakfast at any time this morning, which is to be expected, and it must be almost mid-day. Unfortunately, thought of eating turns my stomach.

I cast my gaze onto the youngest Hollie and, though I know he can’t look at me, as he is driving, I’m searching for acknowledgement.

“Do you believe me?” I ask, hopeful.

Tony nods enthusiastically, “I mean, if you really say so and you’re not pulling my leg. To be honest, it’s more hard to believe because of the way you love Graham.”

I fight the urge to wince in disgust. The tone of my voice, however, I cannot mask.

“I like him that much, hu?”

Tony looks surprised and side glances me, even though I’ve made my feelings towards Graham quite plain several times over.

“Don’t you?” He inquires, “You guys have been friends as long as him and Allan.”

I sigh. He still doesn’t get it.

“But I told you, I didn’t meet any of you until last year.” I mutter, more to myself than to him. It’s pointless trying to explain everything again. No one can understand it. I’m just a crazy girl with a story that includes meeting one famous band, being the girlfriend of one of the most famous members, then meeting another famous band, only to be stolen away by one of their members… Oh, by now, it’s just too tiring to think about. I slump in my seat, declaring, “I give up. I admit it, I’m done.”

“So, it’s just a story then?” Tony asks, a knowing smirk on his lips, which I ruin by shaking my head.

“No,” I reply nonchalantly, “But I’m done explaining. I just want to know why I fell in love with Graham” I shudder, “and not Allan.”

A silence falls between us. I look out the window. Beside the lines of traffic streaming down long stretches of road, thin trees hide the land behind them, the vast, empty fields seen only through the cracks of their branches. People in cars go on their dull way, their lives forever the same, their past written once, their present influenced only one. They’ll never have to learn again from scratch, be taught about their dull lives from others. The closest they’ll get to feeling what I do is by having a little too much to drink one night and waking up with no recollection of it. I envy them. No doubt they’ll make mistakes and learn from them. I made a mistake I’ve no idea how to rectify. I don’t even know if it’s the cause of all this, one bad mistake that landed me in bed with my boyfriend’s best friend. It could’ve changed my life, but no way like this.

Comfortingly, Tony is much the same as how I remember him. The quiet genius at the guitar is still humble and shy. He is still kind and funny and yet pretty straight-forward. He takes no bullshit from anyone. He still has stunning blue eyes, still looks like a teenager even though he’s 22. Right now, he wears a light brown top with a dark waistcoat on top, a pair of flared jeans and lace-up, thick boots. Compared to him, I a tear streaked mess curling up in his passenger seat like a puppy.

He looks, right now, likes he’s considering what I have said. I see him look down at me and, when he sees me peering back up at him, he fondly pats my shoulder.

“Tell me what happened one more time,” He insists, “Then we’ll go for a coffee.”

Though I haven’t really got the strength, I begin once more explaining first a timeline of the life I remember that I lived. As I do, Tony seeks out a coffee shop. After hurrying in, getting two hot chocolates and a brownie in a brown, paper bag, we park up on a high street and have a little picnic as I try and recall as much of the the night that everything changed.

I tell him everything, every thought that pops into my mind, everything I’d done, every piece of information I’d gathered, every emotion I felt. I’ve talked until my mouth was dry. I even told him that I’d neglected to put on underwear, to which he snorted.

“At least we know you’re the same no matter what.”

Which must be true. I cannot have changed all that much, save for the fact I’ve suddenly gotten way more emotional and erratic. While that is somewhat comforting, it also makes me wonder why the hell I ever thought that Graham Nash was a good partner for me. I express that thought to Tony too, and his brow furrows.

“You know each other so well. You both went through really difficult times together, no?”

“I don’t know, do I!” I exclaim.

This time, he does seem to get it. Or at least he humours me.

“Ok, no you don’t… but…” He trails off in a huff. I guess he’s starting to see where I’m coming from, with my despair, all these confusing timelines, as though my life has become a series of books that the author has made tons of continuity errors in. But he doesn’t stay silent long. “Do you think pictures will help?”

“Pictures?” I parrot.

“Photos. To jog your memory?”

It doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

With two half empty to-go-cups of hot chocolate and the brown, paper bag with brownie remnant inside between my legs and an Everly Brothers tune on the radio, crackling over the medium waveband, Tony pulls out of our parking space, heading for his home. With him, I feel far removed from this strange variation on the world I knew. I can just pretend that Allan and the rest of the band will be along in a minute. They could be meeting us at Tony’s to write a song. When I’d see them, I’d kiss Allan, make fun of Graham, and tell them both which Everly Brothers song we’d heard on the radio and they’d break out in a rendition of it.

And now, I feel a lot less helpless, as I now have a confidante. We are now on a mission together, facing a million unanswered questions.

“So, what photos?” I query, with reasonably strong voice back in use. I sound a little more conversational, rather than broken and beaten.

“Graham’s.” Tony replies, “He must’ve been a photographer in your life too, right? He used to do it when he was a kid.”

My brow creases, “Erm, I actually don’t know if he is.”

Tony looks equally confused but brushes it off. By now, he’s just assumed I know nothing about my own boyfriend, yet I feel like… perhaps I knew that once. Like, maybe Graham had been walking around with a camera and I made some kind of joke about it.

“Well,” Tony continues, “I have an old copy of a photo album. It’s really old, some of it, but it has a lot of newer pictures too.”

“Ok, cool.” I reply. I can’t imagine what’s in the pictures. Guitars, music shop windows and snapshots of attractive girls taken through bushes, all of those scattered sporadically between photos of himself, of course, because he is his own one true love.

Tony’s home isn’t too far away. Excitement builds as we turn into his street. Not only can’t I wait to see the pictures, which have ignited hope within me, it’s actually familiar. For the first time today, I actually feel like I know where I’m going. I’ve got my bearings. We park up and head out onto the pavement. I lead the way, up to a dark blue front door.

I know that his home opens into his living room, the furniture pushed mostly down the other end of the room. A TV set stares at anyone who walks in, behind a two-seater sofa and he still has the huge record player, a prize possession taking second place only to the two guitars that lean on a black stand. They’re held by their long, slender necks and their thick, yet sleek bodies shine in the golden light of the room.

I know that the kitchen is through the second door near the sofa, access to the second floor is in a small corridor behind the first door opposite the front one, which also houses a toilet, and there are two rooms up the stairs; a bedroom and a shower. My mind is flooded with familiarity, which makes me feel beyond comfortable. I take off my coat, hang it over the back of the sofa, then sit in front of it.

“Oh!” I gasp as Tony walks in front of me. He heads towards a beige chest of draws connecting the other side of the sofa to the wall. He knees by it, beginning to search through many papers, books and debris. “Do you still live with Amber?”

“Yes.” He smiles. His girlfriend is a tall chick with short, light brown hair. She has a wonderful sense of humour and a pathological hatred of authority, though you wouldn’t know that if you met her. She is so maternal, so kind, she’d do anything for you. No wonder Tony likes her so much. I’m so glad that he’s with her in this life too. “She’s out at the moment. You know her, can’t stay in bed for too long.” He explains. I laugh. She always was the early bird.

After a short while of searching, completely messing up the once clean top surface and the floor around him, he brings out a brown book which is wider than it is long. Its cover looks like faux leather under a thin sheet of plastic and pages seem to have thick spaces between them. He holds it out and whistles at me to take it, so I do, placing it on my lap as he climbs up next to me. The pages fall open. On every page, there are four or five photos, some negatives, all pasted in with captions. I file to the start and…

“My Mum’ll kill me if she knew I’m here!” I cry over at Graham. He’s climbing up the edge of a bombed wall, whose falling bricks create something of a staircase up to an unstable, falling away top floor. None of us playing, not me, not Graham nor Allan think twice about how dangerous this little playground is, or the fact that this was once a home. It had been a two up, two down fit for around six or seven people with an outdoor loo. I see the remains of the latter, a small cube reaching hardly to my waist. I can see it through a shattered window under where Graham is climbing.

“It’ll be worst if the Priest hears about this.” He warns.

Allan chimes in, “Police or spank, your choice.” He’s sitting with his legs between the crack of some rubble. We’re high enough up, around half of how tall the room used to be, quite stable on piles of debris that do have huge spaces between them in places. I roll my eyes at him.

“You two are so naughty,” I declare, but I don’t stop myself from joining in. Pulling my dress between my legs so to make it easier to walk around, I climb close by Graham and reach for what would’ve been the ceiling, though, even at the height I’ve climbed, my seven-year-old body is still too tiny to touch it.

Graham, however, has managed to pussyfoot his way onto the second floor and sits right at the edge, his legs dangling off. Playfully, I try to grasp him, to pull him off.

“Hey!” He shouts, though also laughing, “Get off, play nice!”

“You play nice. I want to get up there.” I retort.

“Come on then. You get a kiss if you can.”

“A kiss,” I wince, “Gross.” Yet I still climb with the best of my efforts to reach him. I sit next to him, my legs crossed as I don’t have the guts to swing them off the edge. The floor doesn’t feel totally stable. No wonder, as bits of dust shake down onto the ground. But we both still sit there. He kisses me, I wipe off his spit and punch him in the arm.

I then request that he and Allan sing to me. I had fallen in love with their voices.

“Right,” A tall, lean man with a white clerical collar poking out of a black shirt towers over us. His eyes dart from Allan to Graham to me, one by one making us guiltily look at the floor. We each study the stained, thick carpet at our feet, rather than meet the overbearing gaze belonging to the greying Priest. “It’s not common we get naughty girls dirtying themselves by climbing all over bomb ruins.”

I glance shamefully at my knees and calves, all cut and grazed, not bleeding thankfully and pretty painless. They are only skin deep, scratched turned red and raised, but they’ll be gone soon. Hopefully before I get home.

“I’m very sorry Sir.” I reply, the memory of Allan’s warning words persuading me to be good, though the sickly smell of alcohol in the room and the over patronising tone of the Priest’s voice is beginning to bother me. I have to summon all my will to keep myself quiet and continue the apologetic look on my face.

Allan and Graham are also attempting to look more guilty than angry. They’re so annoyed we got caught, and they’ve been in this position before. They know what’s coming. They are, however, a little more rebellious than me, rolling their eyes or smirking. Graham’s eyes burn more blue than grey in the low light.

“Well, you do seem very sorry. But I’ll have to give you all some sort of punishment. Shall I take you to the police, or will a spank teach you a lesson?” The Priest asks. I can hardly believe that Allan was right. You hear rumours all the time of bad things happening, punishments that no one ever seem to actually receive, especially at this age, but this one, he was telling the truth. I’m knocked speechless.

The boy’s, on the other hand, already know their answer, “Spank!”

I was going to choose the same. I can’t be taken to the police. Not only would my parents find out- they’d both kill me- but everyone would know, everyone in Salford. That’s the problem here; everyone knows each other’s business, and trust me, everyone would want to know something big like the police turning up on your door step.

Hurriedly, I nod, only to hear Graham pipe up, “I’ll take hers.” “What?”

The Priest smiles and sends me off. I don’t want to go. I can’t. I feel as though I’m abandoning the boys, betraying them. How is that fair? Not that I can disobey. I look helplessly at the Priest who is awaiting my departure. As I leave, I peer apologetically back at the two boys who are watching me. I catch a glimpse of Graham smiling slightly. I feel even worse. Why would he do that for me?

I sit on the steps outside the church, etching spirals on the ground with a stone to pass the time, before rub them out until they’re just smudges to be washed away when the next bout of English rain pours down.

The boys emerge what feels like ages later with blushed cheeks, walking with very slight limps. They say nothing to each other out of embarrassment. They say nothing to me when I join them. We walk silently out onto the desolate high street, heading home, though none of us really want to go. It’ll be a short while until we risk heading back out on our favourite playground. We all are, no doubt, swearing off it indefinitely, though it won’t last.

Since we don’t really just want to go home, I suggest we go to our only other quiet hangout away from everything. There’s a park opposite our school with a load of benches where we usually eat lunch. The boys follow me in. Like a normal child, I clamber up onto the surface of a wooden picnic table. It is, after all, the comfiest bit of it. The boys sit on the actual benches either side, though Graham is much like me, cannot sit like a proper kid. He lays across it as though it’s a chaise longue, with his head closest to me. Once we settle, I look over at him.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, pulling my dress down over my slightly grazed knees. My Mum’s really going to kill me if they’re not healed up by the time I go home.

Graham looks up at me, his eyes shining knowingly, “Do what? What did I do?”

“Got hit for me?” I reiterate. He shakes his head as though it was nothing. He doesn’t even answer me. After many soft punches and insistence that he tell me, I finally say, “Thank you.”

Quietly, he says back, “It’s ok.”

“I’ve done it!” I declare, rushing up to Graham and throwing my arms around his neck. In my hands, woven between my fingers, is my 11 plus results. I passed. Around me, there’s a whole load of people who haven’t, quietly wandering off to their families, but I’m not one of them, and though I know a lot of them, many should’ve passed with me, I can’t help taking pride in the fact that I’ve done it.

The smile on Graham’s face tells me that he has done it too. I feel his arms around my waist.

“Well done!” He cries.

“You too?” I ask, just to make sure, as we part. He holds up his paper. That’s all the ‘yes’ I need. I clasp my hand around his in delight. He squeezes mine tight.

“So, we’ll be going to the same school.” He says.

“Eh,” I sigh in feigned frustration, “Another million years with you.”

“Hey,” He laughs, “I’ve got the worse off deal.”

We’re both so excited to rush off and tell our parents, but we can’t bring ourselves to part with one another, so I take a trip over to see his family first. His mum hugs him, delighted. His had pats him on the back. They both ask me how I did and congratulate me too. I see his sisters, sweet little Elaine and more grown up Sharon. Then we go over to my mum’s. She tells me that she knew I’d do it, no doubt about it. I ask her if I could go out for a bit with Graham. We both want to go and talk to Allan, see how he did.

“Oh, he’ll have done it.” Graham says, “He’s smarter than us for sure.”

“Speak for yourself.” I laugh back.

When we get to Allan’s place, he doesn’t open the door to us, his mum does. She seems glad to see Graham. I don’t think she knows me. We do our usual act of ‘can Allan come out and play’ to which she replies, “I’m sorry, he’s not well.” I worry while Graham doesn’t take her word for it. The boy, an expert in climbing buildings in the most unsafe manner possible, clambers up the side of the house when we’re sure Allan’s mum has gone back inside, and bangs on Allan’s window. Our friend pops his head out, looking tired. His room looks pretty much in darkness.

“Not coming out?” Graham asks, hanging off the bricks like a spider.

“No.” Allan responds, definitely.

“Well, how did the 11 plus exam go?”

“I failed.”

I feel bad. We shouldn’t have come, all smug with our good news. He doesn’t even need to ask us the same, he can tell we’ve done it. No wonder he doesn’t want to come out. He’s probably either embarrassed or angry. I mean, loads of kids don’t pass. It’s not like you’re a genius if you do. Then again, you must feel pretty bad if your friends have all managed it and you haven’t.

He makes an excuse to go, so Graham and I head off, a little less excited than before. However, not much can bring us down. We’re going to the same school. We’re going to be together forever.

“Graham!” I call. Ahead of me, my friend walks, his head hung, his hands in his pockets, “Graham!”

He ignores me. For the first time, he’s actually ignoring me. Maybe he’s ashamed. I sort of understand, but to be too embarrassed to talk to me. I’m his best friend- next to Allan. We’ve always been close, always looked out for each other. I wouldn’t judge him. I don’t think anything of it other than how it must be making him feel. And it must be making him feel pretty bad if he’s ignoring me. All I want is to check if he’s ok. He certainly doesn’t look alright, in that he looks uncharacteristically quiet.

Finally, I catch up to him. He doesn’t stop me from joining in his walk, he just refuses to look at me. When his face is not angled completely from sight, I see tears streaked down his cheeks.

Though its my first natural question in difficult situations, I manage not to ask, ‘are you ok?’ I opt instead for, “How’s everyone?”

He sighs, “My Dad is a criminal, my Mum is depressed. Elaine keeps asking when he’ll be back. She doesn’t get the court stuff. Sharon just doesn’t talk about.” He shrugs, his oversized jacket, which I think was his Dad’s, rustling as he moves.

“Your Dad’s not a criminal.” I tell him. He looks away.

“That’s what he told me, that he’s innocent, but the whole world doesn’t think so. They’re sending him to prison for a year!”

A year. I’m winded. A whole year. A whole year without someone bringing in money, without a father figure, without a huge part of his life. No wonder he’s angry and upset. I run my hand into his huge pocket to hold the hand already inside. I have to walk a bit closer to him to make it work, not that he minds. He doesn’t push me away. His fingers clasp around mine.

“What about you? How are you?” I try.

He shrugs again. We then walk in silence, far from our homes. We don’t have a clear destination. We just want to get the hell out, out of Salford, out of the street that know us so well, away from our school friends and our family.

So that I don’t pry into his thoughts, which he seems engrossed in, I purposefully get lost in mine.

I notice Graham’s camera, hanging around his shoulder by an old scarf tied to it. He likes to take pictures. He did with his Dad. He has one picture of us at school, the day he was given the camera and he let me help him develop it. He and his Dad, as though they’d done in a million times before, set up a dark room in his bedroom. We drew the blinds, rolled blankets up to block light coming through the crack in the bottom of the door. We giggled as we fell over each other. That was the Graham I knew, fun and joyful, always dreaming. This one, the Graham I walk next to, is quiet and cold, distracted, probably still dreaming, only now of escaping. I promise, more to myself than to him, that I’ll always be beside him from now on. I’m not going to leave. I’m not going to abandon him like I did with the priest a couple of years ago. I like him far too much to let him go through this on his own.

As if to tell him all this, I squeeze his hand tight. He squeezes it back. It’s our understanding, our agreement.

I gaze in awe. It’s tall, it’s slender, a little beaten around the edges, but loved. Its body is smooth, painted brown and glossy, cleaned to the point that I can see my face in it’s huge, round curves. Scratches crosshatch areas, showing its wood layer, but, to me, it adds to the overall effect. After all, no rock and roller has an immaculate guitar. They beat them, abuse them, toy with them until they coax beautiful sounds from the well-worn, tuned strings. These strings catch the light in the room perfectly. They look like strands of silver hair woven into the painted black neck.

Graham holds it in both hands, presenting it to me, equally as besotted by it, even though he’s had it for the whole day. The wonder, the excitement, the prospects fails to die away.

“Wow.” I gasp, then look up at Graham’s adoring eyes.

“Can you play anything?”

Pride fills his smile, lightening up his face.

“You want to hear?”

I nod enthusiastically. He swings the instrument around to rest on its side, its curve between his slightly spread legs. His fingers set upon it, one hand curled up, the tops of his thumb and finger poised upwards, ready to strum. The other hand compresses into a chord. The sound he plays is pretty shaky, but far better than I can manage and so great for one day of practicing, no doubt non-stop.

“You see,” He tells me, “Rock and roll is only three chords. You got that, you got a dozen songs.”

He plays a second chord. This time, I clap. He reminds me of a 50s heartthrob. I expect him to look up into my eyes and croon a ballad, strumming his guitar effortlessly.

“Got another one?” I encourage, “One more!”

His fingers stretch, hands mould and…

“Nah, I only know two.” He laughs. I punch him.

“Come on! You’ve had it for five hours now!” I giggle, “That’s enough time to learn three.”

He pushes me, “You try and learn an instrument. It’s hard. But I’m going to be Buddy Holly. Just you watch, Allan and I are going to start a band.”

“Has he got one?” I ask.

“Oh yeah,” Graham says with a glint of envy giving away to pure adoration, “Semi-electric.”

“No!” I gasp. I beg him to let me see it. When I do, I insist that they both play for me. After that, I never saw him without their guitars.

This place isn’t really my kind of dive. Then again, nowhere is. I’m not the party type. But when someone says they play all the newest, hip rock and roll, I have to check it out, as per my natural pull towards good music. And whoever told me wasn’t lying. Bill Haley and the Comets is playing. How could you get much better than that?

I’m standing amongst a crowd of people, mostly catholic school girls who seem to insist on wearing their uniform. I half get why. The ones clad in pleated, plaid skirts and white shirts tucked in are the ones talking to all the fit boys. We all have our vices, I guess. Mine happens to be music, rather than some weird thing for uniforms. I mean, I don’t get to hear this type of stuff at home! We don’t have a record player, but even if we did, I doubt I’d play anything I liked, just because, fuck, this stuff turns me on! Ever since I was 13, I noticed the profound effect music had on me. It spoke to me, directly to my gut, to my heart, sped up my pulse and dilated my pupils. Then Graham got a guitar and I found myself smitten with him. He’s a proper mimic, picks up songs like a jukebox. His Buddy Holly impression is fantastic, his Elvis gives me chills- the good kind- and his Bill Haley has me up dancing.

That’s why I’m wishing he was here now. This song reminds me of him. I’m all too delighted when that once-in-a-blue-moon wish gets granted and I see him amongst the crowd. At first, I though my mind was playing tricks on me, seeing what it wants to, but he and Allan cut through the spaces between people, making a b-line for some chick. Oh, come on! They’re such pervs.

Rolling my eyes, I start towards them, planning to play the ultimate cock-block, when something makes the three of us pause as though we’d planned it. Everyone else starts slow dancing, grasping onto one another and rocking. But I think it’s a waste of a song to so lazily dance. I hear two acoustic guitars working in tandem with one another and two voices like one beautiful mixture, blending like an artist mixing paints, a vibrant colour.

Allan and Graham hear the same thing. They pivot on their heels to face my direction, whispering something to each other before they notice me. I’m too taken with this new sound, these new voices, to notice that they’re coming over. I’m curious, who is this band, who are these new people?

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Allan asks me. I turn my head to fully see them. Allan dons a white shirt that may’ve been his Dad’s as it is pretty baggy on him, and there is a line in the waistband of his trousers where you can see that he’s tried to make it look less so by tucking the fabric in. Graham is in his usual mismatch. He’s yet to shift all the Salvation Army stuff in his wardrobe. It must be pretty embarrassing for him, with all the shit that’s gone on at home and that being evident by what he wears. He doesn’t look all that bad to me, but I know enough cruel people who’ll no doubt put him through hell because he doesn’t, or didn’t, have the money for clothes that fit his style.

“Same thing you two are,” I reply once my brain engages once more, “Perhaps minus the creeping on chicks.”

“Not creeping.” Graham insists. I shoot him an unimpressed look. He grins.

“Anyway, do you know this…” I point at the speakers.

Graham immediately understands, cutting in, “No, but isn’t it beautiful?”

I moan in agreement. The chilling, perfect harmonies send a wave of pleasure through my body. I wonder if Graham feels it too, as he drags me towards him, asking to dance. Allan sighs. I look sympathetically at him. I hate to leave him behind as Graham takes my waist and I wrap my arms around his neck.

“Save a dance for me!” I call at him. He rolls his eyes, doubtful we’ll return to being the three of us until the very end of the night. He’s probably right.

Dancing with Graham, I feel as though I’m with a rock star. I feel as though I’m a fan finally meeting my favourite band member. Music pours into us, we feel it the same way, we love it, and each other. We draw closer and closer until I hover my lips over his ear and tell him, “You should kiss me.”

I hadn’t been sure before; I’m a good girl, a chaste girl, and he’s my close friend. But I’d wanted to be closer for a long time. Only now do I really want to throw caution to the wind. His lips, the first I have kissed, are full of passion. I chalk that up to the music exciting us. He tastes as familiar as he smells. You know, that smell everyone has that is purely their own. It can be a good one, or a bad one, a faint one or strong one. Well, Graham certainly smells good, and tastes even better, not that I can describe it. I just take to it immediately, learn it in one, long kiss. I don’t stop, not for a good whole song, then I look desperately at him. We’re 16, we’re at a heated teenage party, people are practically grinding against one another around us; we’re going to make bad decisions. I will not regret this one, though, I refuse to. Graham and I walk out of the club together. We head to the park where we used to have lunches when school let us out on break. We find a tree good enough to support us and…

We have to behave, since Elaine is here, but I don’t really mind. I mean, I’m not just here to be with Graham. I came here to see two brothers stand on stage and woo me with beautiful music. God, now that the show is over, I’m all riled up, hot from the Everly Brother’s harmonies echoing around the small concert hall. I hold Graham’s hand close to my hip, resting my chin on his shoulder and whispering things in his ear like ‘wasn’t that hot?”

Graham laughs, trying to ignore me, or at least my flirtatious tone, because he knows full well what state I’m in, but has to stay decent for his sister.

Allan’s here too, starry eyed from the show.

“I would kill to sing like that.” He says dreamily as we all head out onto the evening. The streets are filled with other teenagers like us, all having seen two of their idols.

“But you can sing like that!” I tell Allan, “You two are amazing.”

He sighs, “But we’re not that good.”

“Shut up!” Graham butts in, “We’re great, and we’re going to go and tell them.”

“Tell who?” I ask.

“Don and Phil.”

I glance at both the boys, since Allan seems to know what he’s talking about. They’re both wired, excited, barely breathing. We get to the bus stop as I ask, “What do you mean?”

“Graham has this idea that we’re going to go and ambush the Everly Brothers at their hotel.” Allan explains. My eyes grow wide. All at once, I’m sceptical, unsure and deeply jealous.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Graham says, “Allan promised he’d come with. So, would you mind seeing Elaine home?”

I half want to go with them, but I can’t leave his little sister to go home alone. I know I’ll be missing out on such a huge, historic, once in a lifetime chance, but it’s good enough that Graham gets to do it. He’ll be the famous musician, him and Allan.

Their bus comes first. We see it down the street, so have a good enough chance to say goodnight. Allan leans down and hugs Elaine, telling her to be good with me, giving me and Graham a chance to kiss goodbye.

“Tell me all about it.” I insist, whispering in his ear.

“I promise. And when I come back, we’re going to do our usual post show activities, right?”

I giggle stupidly. We went to a concert when Bill Haley came to Manchester, then I stayed over at his home that night. Ever since, it’s been a tradition.

“Right.”

We part, smiling. I can’t wait for tomorrow when he comes over and tells me what it was like to meet the Everly Brothers. I turn to Allan as he turns to his sister.

“Good luck.” I tell Allan. The boy grins at me. We share a short embrace. “I really do think you’re as good as the Everlys.”

That makes him smile even wider, “Thanks. See you soon.”

“Yeah, you too.”

I then take Elaine’s hand and we wave the boys goodbye as they get onto the bus, so excited. I’m excited for them. I hope they do meet them and have a great night.

“We’ve done it!” Graham cries. He wraps his arms around me and lifts me up in the air, kissing me. The rest of the band, Allan, Tony, Eric and Bobby, walk on behind him, looking equally as excited. They, for once, don’t seem to mind too much that we’re practically making out in the doorway of this hotel room. This is too important to not bathe in absolute excitement and pride.

The Hollies, previously the Fourtones, have made it. They’ve got a date with Parlophone. They’re going to an audition at Abbey road. They’re on the same path as the Beatles- maybe a few steps back, but the Beatles have opened the door, they’re going to squeeze through it too.

“Are you serious!” I squeal when he tells me.

“Would I lie about this?”

“I…” My mind has practically gone blank, “I really don’t know.” I’m just so happy. I bury my head in his shoulder and hug him so tight that his back clicks quite satisfyingly.

He seems drunk in joy. He carries me over to a sofa, sits me down and kisses me against the arm of it, bruisingly. I giggle like a school girl. When he sits up, he takes my hand. I can see a wild, passionate look in the blue of his eyes.

“Come and live with me.” He requests.

My jaw falls slack, “What?”

“If we cut a deal with Parlophone, come and live with me. We’ll move to London together.”

I can hardly believe it. This is the same boy who I grew up with, the same kid who I’d been friends with for so many years, and now, he looks all grown up, gazing at me with child-like excitement, yet proposing something far more adult.

Everything, every memory, every tiny feeling… my God. It floods back into my mind as though I’d been injected with my own memories. There are pictures in the album from throughout my life, a life I haven’t lived, yet I feel almost as though I have. All that remains to remind me that I have not is the simple insistence in my mind. As for evidence, there is enough to suggest now that I have lived twice.

As I look over the pictures, I realise that I know every moment they capture. I’m weeping as though I’ve watched a sad movie. Which I’ve never done, by the way. No film has ever moved me enough. Seeing my life quite literally flash before my eyes, however, does the trick, if only out of relief than because it was actually sad. I hold onto Tony and cry into his shoulder.

“Remember?” He asks.

“It’s weird.” I admit, “I still remember being with Allan and the Beatles… but it’s like I’ve… two lives.” I gaze up at him through matted, wet lashes, “You do believe me, right?”

“I do.” He says, hugging me tighter. I don’t know if he really means it, but it’s nice to hear.

I stay for a while, for long enough that midday has been and gone and afternoon sets in. Tony makes a meal out of what’s in the fridge- not much, as he discovers- and we sit on the floor, eating with our hands while the TV mumbles quietly in the background of our conversation. First, Tony fills in the last few years I’ve missed. He recounts not only that but talks more personally about the past. I got the memories as though they were my own and, while his descriptions are personal and emotional too, it’s helpful to get an outsider’s point of view. Then we joked about my old life. It was better than feeling sad about the fact that I’ve no idea how to get back, if I even can. That segued into our current conversation.

“What are you going to do now?”

I’d spent so long considering and learning my past, the future had yet to dawn on me. I had milestones, seeing Allan, seeing Tony, seeing the pictures, all things I thought would help me, but I didn’t really think how, because eventually, I’d have to contemplate this question.

“I don’t know.”

The way I see it, I could try and restore things as much to my past life as possible, I could find a way back, or I could resign myself to this life. There are problems with each. As much as I want to go back and live my life I’d first created for myself, I don’t know if that is even possible. And as much as I adore Allan, I’d hate to cause his any pain by attempting to break up his marriage. I also found another problem there; I don’t want to hurt Graham.

Though I used to hate him, though a part of me can still not see his need to upstage anyone or be the centre of attention constantly, though I couldn’t imagine being in a relationship with him, really, part of me now sees why I might’ve fallen for him, if I hadn’t for Allan. If I’d been there, truly understood, lived, experienced his journey, I would have- as I now do- more respect and love for him. I feel bad for my many cold shoulders and cutting words I regret some of my actions towards him, when he may’ve been reaching out to me, as a friend, since I am so close with the rest of the band, in the only way he knows how to, which is to tease and be annoying.

That leaves me with my last option; stay. Be with him. It seems crazy. I said I could never be with him, but it’s the only option I can really see work out. I wouldn’t have Allan and I’d probably either have to learn to love Graham or end up breaking his heart, but it felt more plausible, the one option that would keep the most people happy.

I swear I’ve never been that nice in my thoughts, wanting to keep the most people happy. But these are people I really do care about, even Graham now. I think I really should stop joking like that, saying that I don’t like Graham, because I do, I actually do.

“I think,” I say cautiously, “I’m going to have to be fucking British on this one. ‘Keep calm and carry on.’”

Tony and I roll around the floor in giggles before I help him clear up and he offers me a lift home. Home. Yes. To Graham. I mentally prepare myself as we walk out to the car.

The drive is silent. I guess we bot have spoken all we can. Now is time for me to make my own memories, to actually live, instead of listening and find out from sources other than my own eyes, my own touch and smell and hearing and taste. We park up on the street I’d only glimpsed as I ran off, trying to find a cab. I don’t even know which one is Graham’s… I mean our place. Tony points it out. I half recognise the steps I flung myself down, and the door I pulled shut behind me so that Graham couldn’t follow.

I don’t get out the car straight away. I’m on the brink of something new, I can’t fathom the idea of it. I turn back, helplessly, to Tony, lean over the gear stick and space between our seats and press a kiss on his cheek. I’m not that good with emotional situations. Tony knows it. He kisses me too, and nods, his way of telling me that it’ll be alright without having the awkwardness of expecting a reply.

“Thank you.” I manage.

He knows not to make a big thing out of the whole situation, joking, “Thanks for making my Sunday interesting.”

I get out of the car, giggling. Nothing like a bit of laughing to distract me. I mean, it doesn’t for long, since, when I turn around, I’m staring at the prospect of a new life, but it’s nice for the moment. It comforts me to know that no matter what, I’ll have someone to talk to, someone who knows everything and believes me.

I wonder… if I should tell Graham. The thought comes to mind as I wander up the steps to the front door. If I am to be with him, really try to make this work, should I not see what he makes of it. If he doesn’t believe me, what’s the point in being with him. He’ll think me insane and no doubt will be hurt. If he does believe me, or at least humours me, then he’s worth staying with. I mean, I feel as though I can say anything to Allan, that I trust him enough not to laugh or take the piss. That’s one thing I’m not sure of when it comes to Graham. I don’t even really need him to believe me, I just need him to prove to me that he can be serious when I need him to.

Knocking on the door, since I remember I didn’t bring my keys out with me, I ready myself to step inside this home. It’s the final milestone.

It takes a moment for Graham to open it and immediately his tired, concerned expression turn to relief.

“Niki. Fucking hell!” His arms swing around me, his face burying in my hair. As he speaks, I feel his hot breath on my scalp, spreading through my many red strands, “My fucking God, I had no fucking idea where you were. Are you fucking crazy? I went to Allan’s and he said you’d been and gone. He refused to tell me what went one. Please Niki…” Tears threaten in his throat, but he catches them before they well in his eyes. I save him the utter embarrassment of crying by squeezing him tight and joking;

“Alright, enough fucking swearing.”

Weakly, we both giggle. I must say, being hugged by him… I feel comforted in his embrace. I never believed I could, yet here I am, actually enjoying it. I even kiss him, while we still stand on the door step. The taste of his lips takes me back to when I was a teenager, reminding me of sickly sweets we so rarely bought from shops with left over wages and of sweaty rock and roll dives around Manchester. And though I’ve never kissed him before I recognise the pure taste of him, as familiar as his smell.

I hear Tony drive off, his car chugging slowly down the street, knowing that I’m now safe, and happy. Then I’m drawn into my home. The door closes behind me. Graham’s fingers are clasped around my wrist as he tugs me into the living room.

He knows that something is up. He can tell that I’m still not myself, and he doesn’t assume I’m sick or something like that. He must know me so well. It’s eerie, to be known by someone you don’t, so well that you can hide nothing from them, while they can hide from you without even attempting to. Well, I say that, but suddenly, I do feel like I know Graham. In the grey of his eyes, I see all the hurt he’s ever felt, all the betrayal, shock, angry, inadequacy that’s now seeped it, made him who he is. In the blue, I see every good moment, all the passion, interest, love, excitement. In his posh, more stylish clothes, even the sweats he’s put on this Sunday evening that are far more… well they match, in comparison to the shit I’d pulled over my body this morning, I see pride and appreciation, the fact that he earnt the money to put these clothes on his back. In his fingers that brush me, tuck strands of hair behind my ear and grasp my hands, I see his adoration for music, passion for photography, built up and carried over from his childhood. I notice certain movements, expressions, now as readable to me as my own, or Allan’s. I understand his once unsettling kindness towards me. It’s out of love. Strange.

I sit on our sofa, flicking on our TV and muting it. As usual, nothing good is on. Graham goes into our kitchen to make coffee for himself and my usual cocktail of orange juice and sparkling water, because I’m so damn posh. He brings it out in a long, tall glass and asks me if I’m hungry. When I say yes, he brings out a family packet of crisps, opens it and places it on the coffee table in front of us. When he looks at me, I see a glimmer of worry. He seems to talk to me as though he doesn’t wish to startle me, very soft and gentle. Its annoying, of course, more than any of his arrogance that I’m used to. In fact, I’d take that side of him any day. At least we’d both be having a little laugh, even if it is at each other’s expense. I try now to joke with him, but he’s weary. His laugh is minimal. He knows that there is something not right. At the moment, I think it’s him who’s acting strange. I’m trying to be normal, I think I’m acting normal, but I do not know how I usually am with him. Perhaps its completely different, despite Tony saying that I seem to have changed very little. Maybe I’m the same around friends, different around lovers. I really don’t know.

But I can tell that Graham is psyching himself up to be serious with me. Like me, he’s obviously not good with difficult conversations, he finds them as awkward as I do. I can imagine we rarely burden ourselves with them in our relationship. I wonder how the hell we work! Then again, I know that he rarely had deep, more meaningful moments with anyone, not his Mum or Dad, not with Allan. More likely with his sisters, but I still couldn’t imagine it.

I see he’s trying, though. His duty from the years he has to be the man of his family home reappears. He sits down on the other end of the sofa and smiles, less at me, more at the steam rising from his coffee.

“I spoke to Allan.” He practically whispers, the smile slowly fading from his lips. I bow my head. “He wouldn’t tell me what went on. He was really confused. And I’m not trying to pry. This is your business, but fuck! You had us worried this morning.”

I sit forward, placing my drink on the table, on a coaster, which I’ve no idea where it came from. I’d never buy coasters. I’m not that house-proud to protect my dear tables or other surfaces from water ring stains. I doubt Graham is too. Perhaps they were a gift.

“I’m sorry.” I mutter, my thoughts back on subject, “You must think I’m…”

“No, I don’t think anything.” He says with a smile, “You don’t have to explain to me. You know that. I was just worried. I mean, you’re not yourself.”

See, several hours ago, I probably would’ve taken the option to leave my sudden insanity unexplained, taken it and run. However, several hours ago, I was still in denial that anything had changed. I was running to Allan in hopes that he’d take me back or explaining to my life to Tony as I waited for the world to change back to the one I knew.

Now, I respect Graham too much to leave him in the dark. As I whisper, “I’m not myself.” I’m actually seriously considering unloading all the insane, crazy bullshit my mind has clung onto this whole day. It is difficult, of course, to look him in the eye, to see a man I used to hate and distrust and trust him enough to say what’s on my mind without worrying about his reaction, but I feel like I need to, because I don’t just see that man anymore. I see our history together. I see someone I could like.

My mind is literally the worst, as it tells me, ‘You really are that girl now, the girl who’s fallen for and- depending how you see it- slept with your boyfriend’s best mate.’

I shake my head, erasing the thought.

“And, you know what,” I say, “Don’t say you don’t think I’m crazy. If you knew… If you honestly don’t think so, you will.”

Graham smiles cheekily, “Try me.”

I don’t want to.

God, he deserves to know, but not to be hurt, and there is no way to give him one without the other.

Still. I close my eyes, squeeze them tight shut and tell him, “I have no recollection of this life.”

A silence hangs over us. I peer under my eyelid to catch a glimpse of him, to see his reaction. I was expecting something more than the confused look I’m greeted with. He looks as though he’s still waiting for me to speak. I open my eyes fully.

“You’re gonna have to dumb that down for me.” He says.

I sigh. How else do I put this? I’ve thought about it for so long. I managed to explain it to Tony.

“I don’t remember my childhood…” I start, “or my teens, or the last few years.”

“Ok,” He says slowly, nodded despite the expression on his face telling me that he clearly has no idea what I’m going on about, “Then what do you remember?”

“Waking up,” I reply, “next to my boyfriend’s best friend.”

“My best…” He doesn’t get it. I didn’t expect him too. I’ve no idea how to explain it, so perhaps it’s my fault.

“Allan’s best friend.”

“I’m your boyfriend.” He corrects me, though I think it’s more for himself than for me, to make sure he’s getting it right.

“Well…” I huff. How do I say ‘no, you’re not, I fell in love with your best friend and have no idea how I ended up with you?’

“So, you have amnesia?” He tried. I shake my head.

“No, because I know you, and I know Bobby, Bern, Allan and Tony. I know what today’s date is, I know pretty much everything like that, from the moment I woke up today, but I can remember another life that you all were in…”

And so off I descend into another- maybe my fifth, sixth or seventh- explanation of the life I remember living. By the end, I cannot decipher the look on Graham’s face. I’ve done it, though. I’m sure I’ve convinced him that I’m crazy. I’ve also upset him. That is written into the blank, glassy gaze in his eyes. He tries not to show it, of course, but he can’t hide it from me. Not something as big as that. I’m just unsure of all the other emotions, the exact blend mixing in his heart, his gut, his chest.

And when I’ve finished, a heavier silence hangs between us, a lot being unsaid, a lot pressing on our minds. Too many questions arise, too many to be sorted into best ones to be asks. So, we sit. I feel bad, but good, relieved that I’ve told him.

“I’m sorry, Graham.” I pipe up, “I really am, because I got all these memories of us being together back when I looked at some photos you took. Tony gave them to me. And I may not have liked you in my other life, but I promise you I…” My mind goes blank, but my mouth carries on moving, “love you. I understand you now” I surprise myself, but I manage to hide it.

Looking down at his lap, Graham opens his mouth. It’s a moment before any sound escapes.

“So,” His voice is even softer than when he’d begun this strain of conversation, “What do you want to do?”

Again, I’m surprised, yet this time, I can show it. Though he’s obviously not happy, he believes me.

“You… believe me?” I breathe.

“Yes.” He replies quite casually, “Why, are you lying?”

He’s almost joking with me.

“No, of course not. It just took a lot more persuading to convince Tony.” I explain.

All of a sudden, a smile lights Graham’s face, “Are you saying I’m easier than Tony?” He chuckles. It does occur to me that, as I had done earlier with Tony, he may be dealing with the difficult moment by injecting humour into it. When before that may have irritated me, I now understand why he does it and allow him to do so. His laugh comforts me, since it does imply that he’s taking it better than expected.

“I’m just saying, had I been making this all up,” I join in, “you’re very gullible.”

“So, I’m gullible and you’re easy?” He tries. I laugh, sitting up on my knees and punching him softly in the arm as I used to do when I was a kid. I think that is more what he is used to. He suddenly seems more comfortable with me. We giggle for about a minute before he attempts to pull the conversation back, “But seriously,” There is still a smirk on his face that I think remains there out of relief, “What do you want to do?”

Unhelpful as I ever am, I shrug, “After all that, do you still love me?”

“You assume I ever did.” He teases, “But since you are so easy, I think I could.”

“So, it’s ok if I say?”

Now smiling genuinely, he leans in and kisses me. That’s all the agreement I need.

We decide, Graham and I, to have a night in, a quiet one. Together, we call Allan and Tony. I apologise for all my insanity- though I know I’m totally valid in my actions, which I tell Tony and he understands. As for Allan, I’ve weirded him out enough. I merely say sorry and thank him for being such a good friend. I want to cry when I do. He doesn’t realise that, for me, this is a goodbye. I have to forget that I loved him, that I still do.

I then hand the phone back to Graham and he spends ages talking to Allan about going into the studio tomorrow, while I sit next to him, my legs thrown over his lap, perusing several photo albums he’d fished out for me. I rest them on my knees and pile them up on the floor in front of the soft. The pictures give me such a rush, like a high. Memories wash into my mind, making me see things, recall things I never knew as though I’d merely forgotten them.

My favourite picture remains on in which both Allan and Graham have their arms around me, late at night in a street in Hamburg. I’m in a white summer dress, whose straps are obviously not enough to keep me warm. Over my goose-bristled arms and chest, I wore a rough, shabby leather jacket. In either pocket, Allan and Graham’s hands are buried, the opposite sides to where they are standing. I’m so short, they lift me off my feet several centimetres. We’d just come back from a show, with no car to take us to our hotel. Both Allan and Graham are wearing the same suits, black with light pink bowties, covered by similar black trench coats. They’re smiling like crazy. At the side of the frame, there is someone’s shoulder, who I think belongs to Eric, because I’m sure Bobby took the picture. It fills me with excitement, as it must’ve been one of their first big shows. I must’ve been on a post- show high, as horny as ever. I bet Graham and I slept together that night.

“Did we?” I ask him once he gets off the phone.

“We did so often, are you expecting me to remember every time?”

“You’re a perv, I thought you might.”

He shrugs, “You’re a perv too.”

“Yes,” I agree, “but I don’t even remember growing up with you. How am I meant to remember one time that we fucked?”

“Fair enough.” He giggles, before kissing my forehead and suggesting we make some dinner. He hasn’t eaten all day. I can’t believe that he actually forwent food, worrying for me. I feel almost bad that Tony and I stopped to eat.

We both stand in the kitchen and cook. Graham starts toasting and buttering some bread, while I mix up some eggs with herbs I find in the cupboards. Just as I expected, the kitchen is a little hectic and void of really substantial food, despite there being plenty of it. We both just get whatever we feel like when we go out shopping.

Graham jokes about me probably being a better cook in my other life, while I quip back that he probably hadn’t cooked a single meal for himself back then. He, no doubt, would’ve killed for my scrambled eggs on charcoal toast even if he turns his nose up at it at the moment. When we go into the living room to eat, I watch him scoff every last morsel I put on that plate and finishes up what I don’t manage to eat. I scold him for giving me such a hard time about my cooking.

“What do you mean?” He asks innocently, “What did I do?”

The cheeky bastard.

After all that, we curl up on the sofa. The TV flickers on and we stare at it, unspeaking, unmoving until we fall asleep.

#the hollies #the beatles #fanfic #graham nash #Don't ask me why I hate graham #I don't really

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gregoryjdillerblr · 3 years

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Ranking all 9 Led Zeppelin albums, from worst to best

Led Zeppelin is without a doubt my second favorite band, following Pink Floyd. There is no doubt that these two bands really defined the 70s, with Pink Floyd pushing progressive rock into mainstream, influencing bands like Rush, Yes, Genesis, while Led Zeppelin was pushing harder rock, influencing bands like AC/DC, Rush (whose first album was pretty much a Zeppelin ripoff until they began exploring their more creative, progressive rock side), Van Halen, and even Black Sabbath. Led Zeppelin helped pioneered the 70s. They are one of the very few popular bands that didn’t won a single Grammy award.

Led Zeppelin is also one of the very few rock bands that not only helped push rock and roll as it is today, but they are one of the very few bands that explored all subgenres of rock: from blues to folk, to metal to progressive rock, Led Zeppelin became one of the most popular artists of all time, often competing in the third spot with Michael Jackson and The Beatles.

The Who’s original drummer, Keith Moon, heard the band (at the time was the New Yardbirds and with different band members) and jokingly said, “you guys are going to fall like a lead balloon.” Jimmy Page changed the name from The New Yardbirds to Led Zeppelin, dropping the A out to of lead to make it cooler. Pete Townshend, however, would quickly grow hatred for Led Zeppelin, while mocking his own band just the same. Black Sabbath often went to their gigs, and two members of Zeppelin, Bonham and Plant, often visited Black Sabbath, with Bonham asking Bill Ward to play his drum set, of which Ward would decline, fearing Bonham would damage his set.

Many would argue who started the metal movement: Led Zeppelin or Black Sabbath. While Led did come out a year before Sabbath, there’s no question that Sabbath’s descent into more darker, harder rock in their later years really defined the metal movement, while Zeppelin moved from blues to folk and progressive rock in their later albums. Nevertheless, Led Zeppelin helped shape hard rock and rock and roll in general, and their influence can be heard decades to come. With just only 8 studio albums and a rarities album, Led Zeppelin is still a popular, influential band. Here’s my list of their albums, ranked from what I think is their worst to best albums. This my personal ranking, and I know I may piss a few people off, but this is a matter of my taste.

9. Coda, 1982. With the shocking death of John Bonham, Page, Plant, and Jones quickly departed, ending Led Zeppelin. The band was on the edge of splitting up, with their previous and last studio album was recorded on separate occasions because two members couldn’t deal seeing each other, but more on that within a couple of minutes. Coda was released as a tribute to the late Bonham, with the band releasing tracks from their previous albums. What we get with Coda is a forgotten mess of songs that were clearly cut for obvious reasons. Not to say Coda is a bad album, it’s just mediocre at its best. “Wearing and Tearing,” the album’s closer, is the one that often stands out for me, while I feel that the other tracks really don’t highlight Zeppelin’s greater works.

8. Presence, 1976. The only Led Zeppelin album without a keyboard, Presence sees Led Zeppelin turning to their roots in favor of more blues driven rock of the first two albums. While I think Presence is a good album, I find that without the lack of keyboards from Jones really drags this album down. While many think the ten minute opener “Achilles Last Stand” is an epic, underrated Zeppelin track, I do find the song drags by the midway point as the band doesn’t offer much interchangeability in the track, often repeating itself for ten long minutes. “Tea For One” is the album’s nine minute closer, which is a boring mock off to the great track from Led Zeppelin III, “Since I’ve Been Loving You,” without Jones’ great keyboard works. However, I do enjoy “For Your Life,” “Nobody’s Fault but Mine” and “Candy Store Rock” the most off this album.

7. In Through the Out Door, 1979. Their last studio album, and perhaps their most controversial, In Through the Out Door sees the band bringing back the keyboards that were lacking from Presence, but more in the forefront than their previous albums combined. On the verge of breaking up, Plant and Jones went into the studio together and began recording, leaving Page and Bonham to come in much later when the other two weren’t present, and began working on what Plant and Jones recorded. Though this album may be a tad messier than Presence, the band nevertheless took a much great risk, one I think is a better result. I do like the ten minute track “Carouselambra.” It show cases Jones’ keyboards while Page does a beautifully haunting guitar riffs in the middle of the song, before ending the song on a much funky tune. “In the Evening” is a great opener, one of the very few Zeppelin tracks that was played with a Stratocaster, a guitar Page was rare to see playing with. While “Fool in the Rain” and “All My Love” receive more radio play, my favorite track on the album, the closer “I’m Gonna Crawl.” Plant pays tribute to his dead son with “All My Love,” which is an okay song but one I find often overplayed in Zeppelin’s catalogue. At this time, Page and Bonham were struggling addicts, with alcohol eventually leading to Bonham’s death the following year, ending the classic rock band’s incredible career.

6. Led Zeppelin II, 1969. Zeppelin’s sophomore effort, coming out just months after their first album, Led Zeppelin II further explores their blues driven rock. The most well known song on the album, which the album opens with, “Whole Lotta Love” showcases that Page was began to explore a bit further, providing some soundscapes in the song’s middle, with scraping guitar techniques and even a Theremin. “What Is and What Should Never Be,” “Thank You,” “Ramble On,” and “Bring It On Home” are the highlights for me. Led Zeppelin II is a good classic album on its own right, no doubt about it, but I do feel this album is a bit more jejune compared to what’s to come the following few years.

5. Led Zeppelin, 1969. Their epic debut, Led Zeppelin quickly exploded. This debut album is surely one of the best debuts ever to put out in rock’s history, defining the band what they were and the sound they were after. Led Zeppelin push hard rock and blues rock into mainstream, while other bands around them were exploring progressive and psychedelic rock. What makes this album stand out for me compared to II is the underrated tracks that don’t often get much airplay. Most of these tracks seem to be forgotten about, ones that the radio don’t play compared to other more well known Zeppelin tracks. My favorite track is “How Many More Times,” an eight minute closer epic with a killer, catchy guitar riff that the song begins and ends with, while the middle is an exploration to different territories within the song. “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” is another standout, with Page providing haunting acoustic before kicking it into high gear during the chorus. “You Shook Me” is another one that showcases Page’s talent with guitar shrieks and Plant delivering blues with a harmonica. “Black Mountain Side” is another great track showcasing Page’s skills on an acoustic guitar. While some Zeppelin fans may find this album a bit dull compared to the their other classic albums, this album for me still stands out as among on of their best efforts, and an underrated one at that.

4. Led Zeppelin III, 1970. A bit more of an uneven album, Led Zeppelin III really showcases the greatness to come. It is here where the band began to explore other than blues driven rock. While the album does have the kickass opener” Immigrant Song,” the albums also provides some harder classics like “Celebration Day” and “Out on the Tiles.” “Since I’ve Been Loving You” is one of my personal favorite Zeppelin tracks, with Jones providing a haunting organ soundscape as Page plays the blues on his guitar, while Plant delivers emotion on vocals. The second half of the album shows the band playing with more folk rock, with the song “Gallows Pole” showcasing the start of this trend (Jimmy even plays a banjo in this track). “Tangerine” and “That’s the Way” are slower songs with a beautiful and haunting lap steel guitar work by Page.

3. Houses of the Holy, 1973. Houses of the Holy really shows the band to explore in much more progressive rock territory all the while without losing their sound. While “D’yer Mak’er” is the weakest track for me (I’m not really a reggae kind of guy, sorry, though I think that genre is very good at live gigs and concerts), the other ones no doubt make up on this classic album. “The Song Remains the Same” is an underrated, kickass opener, with the combination of six and twelve string electric guitars. “The Rain Song” is another classic, a bit more Pink Floydish song with beautiful and haunting acoustic and electric guitar works by Page. If there is one song the band ever came close to sounding a little bit like Pink Floyd, “No Quarter” sees Jones playing a haunting keyboard while Page’s guitar is tuned half step, with piano overdubs playing in the middle when Page is delivering a solo. While I do think “The Ocean” is a bit overplayed, it’s nevertheless a classic closer to an amazing and still somehow underrated album.

2. Physical Graffiti, 1975. Their double album and one that provided their second biggest track, “Kashmir,” Physical Graffiti is the Zeppelin album that really covers their catalogue, from folk to blues to progressive rock, it no doubt this album is simply a classic, and one that perhaps made them bigger than they already were. The album started five years before, with Jimmy Page producing songs and kept them in a vault where when they were working on new material, Page has unleased these tracks that never found their way to their previous three albums. “The Rover” is one of my all time favorite tracks so Page uses the Phaser effect and delivers a catchy and killer guitar riff. “In my Time of Dying” is Led Zeppelin’s best long song, with a lot of guitar overdubs, from heavy blues to distorted slide, and Plant blasting on vocals about a man being on his death bed, while Bonham hammers with catchy drum fills when the band kicks it up a notch. “In the Light” is another progressive rock track that’s very underrated, often overshadowed by its famous sister, “Kashmir.” “Ten Years Gone” seems to be forgotten with some of the most poetic lyrics written by Plant as he reflects on life. “Down by the Seaside” is their take on a surf song but it becomes heavy in the middle. “Black Country Woman” is another take on folk rock, with the band actually recording outside and a plane can be overheard in the very beginning, with the members asking Jimmy to cut it out before Robert joining in, “nah, leave it, yeah.” “The Wanton Song” is a catchy bluesy, hard rock that seems to be forgotten. “Trampled Under Foot” is a bluesy and funky tune that’s also very underrated and obscured by other tracks on the album.

1. Led Zeppelin IV, 1971. There is no doubt Led Zeppelin exploded with their fourth album. It’s an amazing feat that only with eight songs, this album became an instant classic, and majority of the album, to this very day, still gets played. Though I would argue that these songs do often get overplayed, there’s something about them that somehow they never get too annoying to listen to, and that’s quite rare for songs that are repeated on radio stations. The kickass opener, “Black Dog” is catchy, blues song that was untitled until a black dog came in and bit Bonham during a recording, or so they say. “Rock and Roll” is another well known track, with catchy guitar overdubs and Plant hammering on the vocals, with Bonham ending the song with one of the best drum solos in rock history. “The Battle of Evermore” is a return to the folk rock the band experimented with their previous album. Here, Robert sings with Sandy Denny, as Page plays a mandolin. This track is simply underrated as Plant really delivers near the end with a delay effect. “Stairway to Heaven” is of course a classic progressive rock tune that mixes both folk and blues rock, with Plant sings poetic lyrics that many, to this day (and Plant himself) still don’t quite know the song’s true meaning. “Misty Mountain Hop” is another catchy, near funk tune that gets a slight overlook compared to other tracks, with Plant questing for better society. “Four Sticks” was another untitled track, with Bonham playing his drums with four drumsticks instead of the standard two. The song is in an odd timing, giving the track a bit more progressive rock feel. “Going to California” is another folk tune about one’s quest looking for love and settlement. “When the Levee Breaks” is simply one of the best Zeppelin tunes, and perhaps their best closer on an album they’ve ever done. It’s a bluesy, hard rock song with slides and overdriven guitar while Plants blows it out of water with harmonicas. The lyrics about going to Chico before the local dam breaks and floods the area. Without this album, Led Zeppelin probably wouldn’t have become a staple in all of rock and roll.

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arts0uls · 3 years

Text

Eighteen.

(Short Story)

Dela Rosa, Rebekah Charm G.

12-Jotham

I have hated you for the longest time, Hiraya. The reason is still unclear. Maybe it is because the only times I remember you were bad encounters. It could be that time when you made fun of my art in 7th grade which ruined my perception of my craft, or when my mom died of cancer and yours was her resident doctor. Though you barely have contact with her, it still bothered me. Your faces were remarkably similar in my defense. It could also be insecurity, the way you are always talking with everyone in classes like it was the most important thing in the world—socializing, the only thing I hate more than you. But whenever we talked, it would always be about something that would trigger me. You like long talks and deep conversations; I like peaceful silence and short awkward exchanges that were enough not to be labeled as disrespectful.

Despite these unfortunate encounters, I did not loath you the day I saw you in the emergency room that one night. It appeared that you were waiting for someone to attend to you, or maybe your dad took care of that and that is why he left you in the waiting area. I looked away then looked again to avoid seeming like a creep, I also tried if my hatred would come back after a second look. However, it did not. It could be that The Beatles shirt you had on, even though you picked on me for liking that band—accusing me of being a wanna-be-hipster. Maybe it was the way you sat restless in that metal chair. You still looked like that girl who had so much to say in high school, but your eyes were different. Your eyes gave up.

When I met you, we were in 7th grade. You already knew which president should be elected and which one would win even though the debates just aired. I could not describe how annoyed I was. It was just the way you never lost a debate or even everyday arguments that made you seem so impossible. I stutter on greetings, yet there are people like you who talk for hours. And you still have the guts to rant about your self-esteem issues on Twitter, you are unbelievable. I always thought of why you couldn’t just be content for being an extrovert. This world was made for extroverts like you, not for people like me. I should’ve been the one ranting on Twitter to death.

As the nurse started to escort you, I had a feeling I would meet you again. I knew you were going to make another one of those unnecessary exchanges. You all were walking towards my direction, of course, you’re going to be escorted to the bed next to mine. I am not certain with other things, but with this, I was. And I was not wrong either.

“Nick.” You said. Surprisingly, I didn’t hate it at all. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen you for so long. I looked at you and you had a sly smile. “Hiraya.” I said. I gave you a quick nod, then I looked away. You chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit.” You add. What did you even mean? Is it the way I looked? Was it my mannerisms? I shook my thoughts away asking you what you were doing in the hospital. “I’ve been passing out and vomiting my brains out. I don’t know what’s up with me yet.” You said. You’re always straightforward. You continue, “It sucks. I was gonna see Ely Buendia live next week but look at what stupid crap I have to put up with.”

“How ‘bout you?”

“I’m having surgery tomorrow. I mean, hopefully, tomorrow’s good.”

Your eyes widened. They were still beautiful—your eyes. Your eyelids’ folds grew a bit more though. And yes, you had really beautiful eyes. It was not the only thing beautiful about you though. You once made this beautiful speech for History in 8th grade, your eyes were burning as you ran your mouth on colonialism. Your hands were beautiful too, I reaffirmed that as you tucked your hair behind your ear, apologizing for my state.

Of course, I tell you it’s fine. You had nothing to do with it, you didn’t know anything. You didn’t know my dad didn’t want to push this through because it’s what killed my mom and my other relatives. I still wanted to do the surgery. ‘It’s just a stage one tumor anyway’, I keep telling myself. Besides, it’s true. We all are going to die at some point, this surgery just has the probability of extending me like a text subscription. And what’s the point of wanting a life if you won’t fight for it?

“Tomorrow night is available.” My resident doctor says after a day of meeting you again. I got transferred to a room and so were you, but I still did not know then. Our awkward silence is disrupted by what appeared to be a distressed woman coming from the hall. A nurse enters to assist my doctor and take note of our confirmation. My doctor, later on, asks the nurse what the fuss was all about. They quietly converse but not quiet enough for me not to hear.

“Oh, that’s Dr. Palma. Her daughter just got diagnosed with Brain Aneurysm.”

“What? Unbelievable. Ella and Anna are just grade-schoolers.”

“No, no. Daughter from her first husband.”

I could not believe what I just heard. You. You were diagnosed with a Brain Aneurysm. Someone like you? I could not have thought. People like you are those characters that either overthrow a corrupt government or become a superstar at the end of a story. But this is real life and in real life, you were diagnosed with a Brain Aneurysm.

That night, all I could think of was the confirmation that you were in fact human. You weren’t a super-being; you weren’t a character in a story. At that moment, maybe you did feel vulnerable too, I thought. What if your strong personality was because of your parents’ separation? Maybe I didn’t understand you enough. I loathed myself for loathing you—you’re just another person after all. I’m not a deity to judge you for your actions nor am I someone who could cure you. Yet I hit you up that night as if I were a supreme being. As if I could cure you.

I open an overused messenger application to contact you. I asked the most stupid question.

“How are you?”

I hated myself so much. What was I thinking? Yet it seemed to be the right move, you replied quickly.

“I’m going to die.”

Nope. Still a bad idea and a stupid question.

“I’m so sorry.” I replied.

“I’m gonna die. I don’t have any music downloaded on this phone. I have them on my other phone! God, I’m really stupid, aren’t I? Haha.”

You really are unbelievable. What is more unbelievable is the favor you asked of me. You asked me to record myself singing. You even brought up our video for CLE in 9th grade where we had to make a video of us singing a gospel song and everyone noticed my voice. “Too bad you’re not at home. You could’ve accompanied yourself with a guitar too.” You add, teasing me about learning Magbalik’s song intro at school. What’s even more unbelievable was that I did the favor you asked me of.

You were human, I remembered. You were a human who was diagnosed with Aneurysm, and I asked you the most stupid question. How could I turn you down? You just wanted to hear ‘Eighteen’ by One Direction through a voicemail of someone who listens to a completely different genre. But we’re both 18, and everyone who turns 18 knows that song. You continue to say you only have a year to find someone and make that the anthem of your wedding in a few years. The unbelievability of that night continues as you compliment me. Not a single mockery. You thank me and say goodnight. I say it back.

My surgery was a success. As I said, it was only stage one anyway. It was definitely worth the risk. That time, I wondered if you went through surgery or if you even still had that on the table. You’re still young yet you have this disease limiting you from living a life like how a One Direction fan would want. So curious, I decide to visit you a day after I got discharged.

I wish I didn’t visit you. You told me you weren’t having surgery because it wasn’t worth the risk. You proceeded to tell me you plan on donating your organs. We all know what that meant. You have accepted your death. I wish I didn’t visit you because it made me realize why I truly did hate you. In 4th year of junior high school, you told me you were leaving for senior high. I had this feeling I did not like, a wave of loneliness just crashed onto me. I felt like I was drowning. You were leaving, I did not like that. Because at that moment, and I didn’t know, I already liked you.

But you left for senior high school, I couldn’t blame you. We were in the same institution from grade school to junior high school and we could attest to its poor performance. That’s why we were always in the same class because no one went there unless you’re from that area and it’s the nearest school. That was our case. So you left, I guess I hated you ever since.

“Hey, could you come back tomorrow and bring your guitar with you?” You shook away my thoughts as you gave me a request. Let me tell you, a request is harder to turn down in person. It would always be hard to say ‘no’ while looking at your eyes. So I come back and visit every time you ask me to.

Your songs were the soundtrack of my day and night. In the night, I would practice the song you asked for like it’s my very last gig ever. In the day, I still get nervous like it’s my first time singing to you. We were classmates so that means that you have heard me play and I’ve jammed with you all more than I could remember. Yet I’m still nervous every time I go into your room to visit. I’m thankful that you made efforts to make me feel comfortable. Like how you tell me to visit when your dad’s gone or when your friends aren’t over because you’d know how uncomfortable it makes me feel. It must be the time that we’ve already spent together. But now, our time is limited.

There was this one time I fell asleep waiting for you to wake up. As soon as I woke up, I saw you just starring at me. We smiled at each other and you looked so beautiful. I was about to get my guitar, but you held my hand stopping my tracks as if you wanted us to stay like that longer. But I understood your touch, it meant we won’t have moments like these anymore anytime soon. There won’t be a future with us waking up next to each other, because one day you won’t ever wake up again.

Our smiles fade, you understood as well.

“Not that it counts now, but I like you.” You said.

“It counts. I’ve liked you for the longest time.” I answered.

You were way ahead of your time. Literally. It’s not just how you told me before that you had to grow up immediately to cope with your mom leaving both you and your dad, it’s also the fact that you told me you only have a week left. It made me upset.

“Why can’t you just fight it?”

“There’s no chance, Nick. I won’t risk it.”

“Why? Don’t you want a future? Suddenly it’s alright for you to just stop living?”

You paused for a moment and then answered, “Do you know who’ll get my kidneys? She’s a single mother. She lives off of contractual work and her 3-year-old daughter will go to school this year, My heart goes to this kid who will be having heart failure, they told me all about him. He has imaginary friends. I used to have those. I hope my eyes go to this sixteen-year-old though, she’s still not sure but I hope she says yes.”

“If I risk it, my death won’t mean anything.” You said. “My whole life, I’ve been for the people. Believing in advocacies and in serving the people. But I’ve done nothing. I’ve been all talk, Nick. But now, I have the chance to save more lives. Do you how much that means to me? My death will actually mean something. I might’ve actually answered the Trolley Problem.” We both chuckle at your last statement. I nod trying to be understanding and hide the way I was so selfish that time for wanting to keep you from doing your most selfless act.

I eventually meet your friends and your dad. They were alright. All I wished for was that you stayed just as alive as we were.

On the day before you go away, I stayed with you until sunset. Of course, you had to spend the night and your last day with your dad. “If I had tomorrow with you, I’d bring you to this place in Baguio where I went to every year when my mom was still alive,” I said. “We didn’t even get to try Tiktok.” You say and I chuckle. “I wish I had more time with you, I would’ve brought you everywhere so that everything would remind you of me.” You said. “I’ll remember you. I’d go to our high school every time just to remember you. Hell, I’ll remember you even in my room trying to sleep because I can’t forget you.” Needless to say, we both wish we had more time.

“Hiraya, It’s too soon to say, but I’ll never get to say it anyway.” I said. “I don’t know what love is, I’m still trying to figure it out. But if I had to define it on my own, I’d say that you’re my very own kind of love.” I said. “I love you too.” You respond. Whether we mean it or not, it doesn’t change anything. We both won’t get to say it to each other ever again. And if this is love, if I actually do love you, it still doesn’t change the fact that you’ll be gone tomorrow.

Tomorrow came, so did the next day after that, the next month, and the next year. You forgave your mom. You said goodbye to your dad. You put other people first. You leave me again. You haven’t changed a bit, Hira. Because of your broken pieces, many were mended. I know I’ve hated you for the longest time, but I’ve loved you in our short time together and more. Also, I get to say I’ve loved you since we were Eighteen.

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thesides · 7 years

Text

born from resistance [can’t keep me tied down]

Fandom: Sanders Sides (duh) Pairings: None, yet! Chapter: 1 Read: AO3 Notes: I have no idea where I’m going with this, but I promise you the next chapters will be WAY better! Tag List: @neetrash @lonewolfmemories @trash-can-so-do-i @half-blood-geek @topspintessa @sweetie2136 @tragicrevenge @babyboylittlepupper

“Virgil remembered the nights when he was a kid, begging for someone to whisk him away from the constant judging. He could remember the shrieking and the crying, hoping that one day it would change.

It never did. ”

Sanders Sides Demigod AU

Virgil wasn’t normal.

That much, he definitely knew. Because as he walked down the street, he could practically count every side glance he’d get. So far, he was at twenty, but his high score was fifty in an hour. How bad was his life that his best achievement was how many people looked at him with disgust? Well, Virgil thought, it wasn’t that bad. He had known a lot of other of people who had it almost as bad as he did - sometimes, worse. And it was those people that he managed to befriend, in his own odd, weird way.

Honestly, Virgil wasn’t even sure how they became his friends, but he wasn’t gonna question it. Not now.

Virgil tugged at his hoodie strings, cursing under his breath as he bumped into someone.

“Sorry,” Virgil muttered, looking down and forcing himself to keep moving. He could hear them groan about ‘Teens these days,’ and Virgil just kept walking, tightening his fists at the veiled insult. Keep walking, Virgil thought, just ignore them. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did, since, at this point, it was practically routine. Go outside, crash into someone, get insulted, go home. It almost made him want to stay inside all day - almost. Contrary to the nosy middle-aged neighbors, Virgil did have a social life, thank you very much. It just… wasn’t as prominent as everyone else’s. Could you blame him, Virgil thought out, shaking his head.

With the looks everyone gave him constantly, you’d think people would understand that ‘Hey, this guy is outed by society! He’s screwed in the friendship department!’

Apparently, Virgil overestimated people’s intelligence. Never again, he thought, people were exactly as dumb as they looked. They didn’t even know him- yet… Everyone knew he was wrong. A dud.

Shoving his hands in his pocket, Virgil walked towards the train. The crowd was forming rapidly, and anxiety shot up in his spine. He licked his lips, fingering the small amount of cash before walking forward. Virgil quickly paid, practically jumping into the train before the doors slammed shut. He looked around for a seat, faintly noting that the train was a wreck. Sure, it wasn’t a dumpster, but… Virgil sat down on a mangled seat, thread sticking out of it on all sides. Yeah, the train was definitely high class.

He sighed, leaning back against the train’s walls. Virgil winced as the chatter of the train picked up. Sure enough, a group of tourists were blabbering right in front of him, and Virgil wanted to groan out. Of course… Virgil whipped out his headphones, thanking whatever higher deity in existence that they weren’t tangled. He popped them in, listening to some song before closing his eyes.

Virgil felt the train move, and he let his mind drift. What was he thinking about, again? Oh… right. According to literally every person in existence, he was a heathen with purple hair and an emo/angsty background. Yay. Virgil couldn’t help the bitter taste in his mouth at that description - damn, he was getting too good at being right. Because he knew that everyone thought of him that way - even people who didn’t know him at all. And it wasn’t even his fault - he didn’t want to be this way. Virgil remembered the nights when he was a kid, begging for someone to whisk him away from the constant judging. He could remember the shrieking and the crying, hoping that one day it would change.

It never did. Such was his life.

Virgil wished he’d accepted that fact sooner.

Everyone knew he wasn’t normal. He was an outlier, the unknown - Virgil wasn’t supposed to exist. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. He was supposed to be this, act like that. But it never happened - he was just Virgil.

Virgil gave off this ‘bad vibe,’ according to literally everyone that walked past him. People always gave him that ‘look’, for reasons that Virgil didn’t even care anymore. Some small part of him broke whenever someone would cuss him out under their breath, but for some reason, it only managed to make Virgil come back with a furious hatred for the world.

Virgil knew he wasn’t normal. There was something wrong with him. Especially when he saw things jump out at him in the middle of the night. They were… monsters, in every way possible. He recalled one time when he was walking in a Subway. Never again, he promised. Subway was evil. But there were always things that happened to him. Feral dogs that seemed to be at least double his own size attacked him out in the blue. Buffed out people with only one eye stalked him whenever he walked out in the park - one even tried to kill him. But whenever he tried to explain it to someone… Apparently, that dog was a kitten and that person was an elderly.

Yep, totally makes sense.

Virgil forced himself to open his eyes, feeling the train coming to a stop. He glanced up at the sign, squinting as he tried to make out the floating letters. Nope. Wasn’t his stop. Virgil leaned back, sighing as he turned up the volume.

The train moved again and Virgil hummed along with the tune of Over My Head, tapping his fingers against his leg. If he had to sit on a thirty minute trip across the city, then at least he’d have his music. For a second, Virgil managed to relax, leaning his head back and just enjoying the blast of music.

And then, of course, someone had to sit next to him.

Immediately, Virgil stiffened, instinctively turning down the volume blasting from his headphones. The last thing he wanted was someone to start a lecture about ‘modern music.’ Yeah, so what if the Beatles were really the hit in the 70s? He didn’t. Care.

So Virgil forced himself to just sit in silence, swallowing at the sudden awkwardness bursting between them. Seriously, who sits next to a person when there’s about ten other spots-

“Ah, yes, I forgot to ask, do you mind?” Virgil blinked at the voice, whipping his head around to the person sitting next to him.

“No.” Was all Virgil managed to say, well, muttered as the person sat straight up.

“Great. I apologize for not asking sooner.” The guy was… weird, Virgil noted. He talked like a textbook - looked like one, too. He wore a necktie and a dark blue shirt, matched with black skinny jeans. Oh, and glasses, because this guy was really trying hard for that nerd look. Or maybe he really was one? Wait, why did Virgil care? “I needed company for the experiment I am engaging in.”

“Ex… Experiment?” Oh no, Virgil was not liking where this was going. He swallowed and berated himself for stuttering. Yeah, great English, Verge-

“Yes.” The man adjusted his glasses and pushed them up at the sides. “I was unable to gather any other information via the Library and the ‘Internet. You seem to be in the same situation as I am.”

“What?” Virgil blinked, feeling his hackles rise and his brain started screaming at him. “Look, I don’t care what drugs or thing you’re selling. I don’t want it.”

Traveling around the city, you were bound to run into one of those ragtag groups that practically pressured you into buying some sort of drug. Virgil had had his handful of interactions, and he’d always barely escaped them. But… The guy didn’t look like one of those people. He looked nice.

And he also looked very, very confused. “No…” He began, “That wasn’t what I meant. Was my statement not trustworthy enough? Allow me to rephrase- I believe that another person will help me in my studies. I can’t be the only one experiencing these… anomalies.”

“Yeah,” Virgil snorted, the guy was a living textbook, “Right. You literally just met me and suddenly we’re the same. Keep talkin’, lunatic.”

“I do not appreciate you insulting me. And frankly, I was simply trying to conduct an experiment-”

“Whatever- I don’t appreciate you ‘experimenting’ on me. Can you just lay off?”

People were turning their way, eyes looking at him. Shit, he thought, all he wanted to do was go home in peace.

The nerd had the nerve to huff, rolling his eyes before leaning back in his seat. “Fine. I will not intrude further. I just…” He adjusted his glasses, and Virgil faintly noticed the bags under the guy's eyes.

Oh no, his mind said, no, we’re not going to feel bad for a stranger. None of that. Weren’t we just insulting the guy two seconds ago? He was but… Virgil couldn’t help but feel just a bit bad. The guy looked- well, he looked just like him. The nerdy look probably didn’t help with being social, and the way he talked probably didn’t get him any points in some club or something. And Virgil couldn’t help the understanding. Sure, Virgil wasn’t a ray of sunshine, but he wasn’t going to ruin a guy’s fucking day because he wanted to.

“Ah, fuck it…” Virgil muttered, turning to face the nerd. “Go ahead, show me what you got.”

The nerd’s face actually brightened. “Very well. I assure you, the time will not be of waste. I have gathered a series of plausible factions and various-”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. Just tell me what you wanted to do.” Virgil slowly spoke out, and he briefly regretted his decision, just for a second.

“Right- I… I have been seeing these sort of images in the middle of crowds or chaos. Yet, whenever I discuss these with the authorities, it seems as though they never existed. They just weren’t there.” Virgil felt his blood go cold as the geek kept talking, “I have tried to collect photos, but it never worked. I have sketched out diagrams-”

“Wait.” The train slowed, and Virgil could barely make out anything. “Wait- What’s your name, geek?”

“Logan. Logan Everill.”

Someone- Someone was like him? “Logan- Logan, do they ever attack? What do they look like?”

He couldn’t help the pounding in his chest, the beating of his heart, the rapid breathing in and out. Virgil wasn’t alone. Someone saw the things he saw. Normal, Normal, Normal. The words repeated like a mantra, the only thing burning into his mind. Logan Everill was like him. He saw the things lurking in the darkness - saw the feral dogs growling at him. Logan saw the things he did… he wasn’t alone.

“I… I cannot describe them. They look like-”

Suddenly, the train lurched forward and Virgil felt his back slam into the pole next to him. He gasped, mind spinning before whipping his head towards the front. The tourists in front of him were launched forward, screaming. Logan was right behind him, standing up and gripping the pole desperately.

Virgil’s eyes widened and his heart jumped out of his chest. “No…”

For a split second, Virgil wished for someone to say anything, do anything just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. And then a little girl cried out, screaming. It sunk in, and people started yelling and he could see out of the corner of his eyes the girl was kneeling on the ground. Logan moved forward, eyes wide and fist tightened. People kept on shrieking and Virgil couldn’t help the shaking in his bones.

This… This couldn’t be happening, he thought dumbly. There’s no way…

Because the front of the train was gone and in its place was a dog the size of his own apartment.

“Yeah,” Virgil heard Logan whisper under his breath, “They look like that.”

The dog looked up, and Virgil screamed.

#sanders sides fanfiction #my fic #sanders sides #fanfiction #virgil sanders #divine irregulars #logan #roman #Patton #thomas sanders #thomas sanders fanfiction

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beingveekay · 6 years

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ROBYN “RIHANNA” FENTY.

Beautiful, dope, crazily amazing artistry, iconic fashion sense. A majority of us know her as RIHANNA. She also goes by the predisposed alias of RiRi and the well-deserved nickname/social media handle, @BadGirlRiRi. My first connection with Rihanna was similar to everyone else’s. She was the new, Barbadian girl on the music scene with the pop song “Pon de Replay”. As time has passed, Rihanna’s music has evolved since her fun and innocent debut. While she still carries a light-hearted, girl-like, sweet, and carefree demeanor, she has since then elevated into a superstar with ALL the bad ass qualities to match. From her ability to make record breaking, chart-topping music in EVERY genre she steps foot in, to her flawless and effortless style; I think it’s safe to say that Rihanna is one of the biggest stars this world has ever known.

Here are some of her accomplishments:

9 Grammys

12 Billboard Music Awards

12 American Music Awards

8 People’s Choice Awards

Icon Award (2013)

Fashion Icon Award (2014)

Michael Jackson Video Vanguard Award (2016)

Harvard University’s Humanitarian Award (2017)

Over 10 million albums sold in the US

Ranked the best-selling digital artist in the country, breaking a Guinness world record for digital singles sales of over 58 million

the ONLY artist to surpass the 100 million cumulative singles award threshold

3rd best selling female artist this CENTURY

Named the second best-selling female artist in the country, trailing behind only Madonna

Second only to The Beatles for the most million-selling singles in the UK of all time and the list goes on.

After reading her accomplishments, you’d think that’s ENOUGH of a reason to be a fan. Not for me. True enough, her grind is admirable and one could only look at these things she has attained, and use her accomplishments as a tool to jumpstart their own #lifegoals, but there’s so much more to Robyn Fenty. She is multi-faceted in her stardom. Not only does her work-ethic, rule-breaking music, and star-studded name alone make her someone to look up to, but her UNAPOLOGETIC lifestyle and resonate beliefs really do it for me. Even the name of her fan base has the deepest of meaning to it. The NAVY ain’t called “The Navy” for nothing. Rihanna, with a past as a cadet in a military program, leads this fanbase as THE NAVY because like herself, they are fighters. The name came about after the release of her fourth studio album RATED R. Now if you don’t know, let me tell y’all how #BLACKTWITTER (yes, it’s a thing) can get. One thing you don’t do, YOU DON’T ATTACK ARTISTS WITH A GLOBAL FAN BASE, especially if they’re Rihanna. They will digitally and socially behead you honey. Rihanna’s fans simply did NOT go for the backlash RiRi got behind her new sound. You better believe, the Navy fought for their H.W.I.C. (Head Woman In Charge). They drew blood and took names later. That’s what a navy sorta does right? Alright then. There ‘ya go.

I’ve followed RiRi for quite some time now and I can honestly say that I’ve applied some of her life philosophies to my own. Not only that, I’ve found myself in several situations in which I’ve had to come out of my own and adopt another persona that in the past I didn’t readily carry. That persona embodies a fearless, confident, life-grasping individual. As I’ve grown, I’ve come to know that in this lifetime, if there are things you want, you must GO AND GET THEM. There isn’t much time to be meek or mild, not when you’re trying to change your life! In my past life, sometimes now as well (depending on the situation), I was that quiet, timid, unprotesting individual that hated conflict or speaking too LOUDly. I hated being in the spotlight, still do more times than most, and I simply just didn’t know how to OWN a room, let alone own who I was. Ok, here’s a secret, Rihanna has been a major part of my “glow up”. While some may see this as sad, I see it as much needed brilliance that changed the way I view the world; the way I view myself. I’ve had SEVERAL W.W.R.D. (What Would Rihanna DO) moments and guess what, THEY ALL TURNED OUT GREAT. Yes, I’ve had other influences, mostly spiritual, that aided me in becoming who I am as well, but with Rih’s help I’ve changed several of my perceptions since I was inducted into the Navy. Rihanna taught me:

TO WORK, or WERK, if you will.

“When you realize who you live for, and who’s important to please, a lot of people will actually start living. I am never going to get caught up in that. I’m gonna look back on my life and say that I enjoyed it – and I lived it for me.”

Those W.W.R.D. moments I mentioned earlier? They changed the course of my life and how I make decisions. I used to make decisions based on what I thought people would accept or not accept about me. I began to think for me and only me. I began to do things based on how I felt about them and how would feel about them later, NO ONE ELSE. With that new attitude came a new me. To follow suit, I began to wear that lipstick that I thought would be too bright for my skin and I ROC’d IT OUT without worry. I’ve gone into venues, whether it was a night out with my girls or a job opportunity with a potential employer, and I was confident about who I was. See, Rihanna taught me that it’s not JUST about who you are, but the way you carry yourself in knowing who you are. And to carry yourself in a way in which others will respect, you HAVE TO BE CONFIDENT IN YOUR OWN. You have to know what you’re willing to accept and not. You have to know what things you’re great at and you’ll be damned if someone told you differently. You have to know that there is nobody who does YOU better than YOU. Even if the next can do something similar to you, she’ll never be able to do it quite like YOU. This is what you have to KNOW. And once you know these things, you find yourself living for you, and that being confident in pleasing yourself is FIRST. Watching Rihanna, I learned this and I’m damn happy I did.

In my glow up process, I knew that if I truly wanted to love myself, I’d have to learn…

TO EMBRACE MY SKIN.

“Thank you so much for celebrating us in a world that doesn’t celebrate us enough.”

“The minute you learn to love yourself, you will not want to be anybody else.”

“All girls rock. Black girls… We’re just on another level.”

A few of her words from her acceptance speech at 2016’s Black Girls Rock. There was a time when I found this very hard to do. Being a little dark-skinned girl from the south will do that to you. Especially when you’re surrounded by a community of others who look similar to you but are brain-washed by the poison that is COLORISM. It took me a LONG time to get here. But dear God, I’m HERE! (In my Celie from the Color Purple voice) Rihanna has spoken against self-hatred in the black community and has even gone as far as blocking a fan on Twitter who tweeted her with an enhanced photo of herself, except it had been filtered to make her appear about 5 shades lighter. The caption said something about she was more beautiful that way or something within that same line of insanity. After one block on Twitter and NO MENTIONS from Rihanna about the lady years later, she is STILL embracing all shades of her part African descent. And what better way to embrace your lineage and ethnicity than to create a whole makeup line designed for girls that look like us? As a girl who swears by beauty both inner and outer, it was heartbreaking not seeing any major, sole-proprieted, commercialized beauty lines made for black women. I’M ESTATIC THAT FENTY BEAUTY WAS BORN! THANK YOU RIH.

Major right? As if that wasn’t DOPE enough, RIH taught me to..

LIVE OUT MY DREAM, UNAPOLOGETICALLY.

“I always believed that when you follow your heart or your gut, when you really follow the things that feel great to you, you can never lose, because settling is the worst feeling in the world.”

Once upon a time, I thought there was something wrong with me. I thought I had an inability to be grateful for any job that the good Lord had helped me to get. I say this because I hated 80% of them. With time I’ve learned to be content with anything I had that helped me to supply myself with my wants and needs. Aside from that, I also used to think that ‘being more realistic’ was the only way I’d survive in this world. Let me just praise the fact that I’m no longer BOUND by that LIE. The things that lie within you that constantly scream at you, begging you to let them out into the world, is not a mistake. It’s called PURPOSE. Although I’ve never denied the fact that I wanted to write and that I should, I placed everything, SCHOOL, JOBS, INTERVIEWS, in front of the one thing I knew I could DO without hesitation, insecurities, over exhaustion, or hatred. I got tired of putting it on the back burner. Although I’m still not a place where I can say my passion is my source of profit, I can say that it’s no longer hidden due to the fact that “I have more important things to worry about.” THIS IS MY IMPORTANT THING. Writing to inspire WHILE making a profit will one day be my reality. And because of Rih, I’m a firm believer of this.

Life has called me to be hard a number of times, simply because being soft wouldn’t have worked in those moments. Being hard almost ALWAYS couples with the idea…

TO GO HARD.

That’s all I could ever hope for, to have a positive effect on women. ‘Cos women are powerful, powerful beings. But they’re also the most doubtful beings. They’ll never know – we’ll never know – how powerful we are.

FOR EVERYTHING I BELIEVE IN, I NEED TO GO HARD. I once heard a quote by Oprah in which she states, “I never did consider or call myself a feminist but I don’t think you can really be a woman in this world and not be.” Like Oprah, I don’t think I ever considered myself a feminist but I have adopted a duty to make sure that every woman I ever come into contact with will gain some sort of knowledge, strength, and value within herself. Hence, BEING VEEKAY. That’s going hard. Taking what you believe and doing something about it. As a woman, I’ve visited and revisited the issues that come along with my gender. Most of them are issues that stem from birth, caused by insecurities and just down right disrespect from what we know as “The MALE.” Because I was born female, I am automatically made to make less than a man in the same field, even if I have more experience and/or education. But that’s another topic for another day. Just know that Rihanna backs up my beliefs and I back hers. As a woman who’s disadvantaged in several areas of life simply because of my reproductive organs, I will always GO HARD for women. I hate to say this but there are some areas I could clean up before deeming myself a full-fledged feminist like doing away with demeaning rappers who spit woman-hating, misogynistic, lyrics. I’ve done away with most of them but I could do much better! When I learn to dodge the dance floor when stuff like “Taking over for the 9 9 and the 2000’s” comes on, I’ll then say I AM FEMINIST. HEAR ME ROAR. Lol.

Perfect time to say, BEING “Woman” comes with COUNTLESS, most times, silly insecurities. Rih helped me understand that as a woman…

COCKINESS, I should LOVE IT on me.

You have to just accept your body. You may not love it all the way, but you just have to be comfortable with it, comfortable with knowing that that’s your body.

Firstly, let me say that EVERY WOMAN SHOULD BE COCKY. To a certain degree. I know cocky is originally a negative term. But it stems from a very positive place. Cockiness starts with Confidence. It only becomes negative when one is OVERLY confident in themselves, coming off as arrogant and narcissistic. Oh how these type of people annoy me. DON’T BE ONE OF THESE PEOPLE. Nothing is sexy about it. However, to be confident is both beautiful AND sexy. And as we have seen Rih transform from skinny, to heart eyes THICK, she still loves every curve she’s gained. Because she truly loves who she is. I think that’s a lesson that all us women could learn. If you’ve seen any pictures of her from this past Grammy’s season (I’ve included some above), then you’ll see Rihanna flaunting pounds she didn’t once have. Too many of us go by unrealistic beauty standards that society has made us to believe and live by. Whether were size 6 and now 16, or were once 16 and now 6, your body image is just that, an IMAGE. It doesn’t make who you are. Only you decide that. Not your measurements! Not your bra size! Not your pants size! And definitely not anybody who makes you feel bad for being whatever size you are!

Alright y’all. I could honestly go on with another 10 or 15 things this beautiful ICON has taught me, but I decided that these are probably the most IMPACTFUL. I hope this piece did you some justice. I hope this piece makes you feel better about who you are and where you’re going. These be the things that Rih has taught me. Now go ‘head girl, put on your crown, “SHINE BRIGHT LIKE A DIAMOND.”

I want to hear from YOU! SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT OR TWO DOWN BELOW! Let’s have a discussion. I’m open to all suggestions and comments.

Thanks for reading y’all! Continue to #GlowYourOwn destiny until next time,

#LoveVeeKay.

What Rihanna Taught Me ROBYN "RIHANNA" FENTY. Beautiful, dope, crazily amazing artistry, iconic fashion sense. A majority of us know her as…

#badgirlriri #blog #blogpost #disturbia #fridaze #houston #houstonblogger #inspiration #love #mood #motivation #music #navy #Pop #r&b #rihanna #rihrih #riri #tgif

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crtaylorbooks · 5 years

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The Enemy

Seventh Sunday after the Epiphany | Luke 6:27-38

Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. So who thought this was a good idea?

Do to others as you would have them do to you. Most of us are good with this one. We can wrap our minds around it, and it isn’t even specific to Christianity — there are other flavors of the golden rule floating around out there. We like the idea, until we realize that “others” includes everybody, including our enemies.

Loving our enemies? It makes no sense. It’s impractical and unproductive behavior. Unpatriotic, one might say. From people in the next booth at the Waffle House to military strategists, everyone will tell you that helping your enemies is not a sound principle.

What we all really want is to discourage, even punish, negative behavior — anything negative toward us, that is. Whether on a personal or a cultural or a national level, we want to intimidate our enemies. Nuke the bastards. Turn their houses into radioactive ash heaps, and you won’t have to put up with them anymore.

Art by Banksy. Stolen from his/her/their website.

And if we are a righteous, God-fearing people — we may substitute the name of our country, people group, or militant bridge club here — God is on our side, right? It isn’t about resentment or petty retribution. It’s now the judgment of a wrathful God upon our enemies. Right?

I confess that I have a list. There are people whom I’d like to see fall through an open manhole cover into a disease ridden sewer to land on the snout of the largest, most evil, ravenous, albino (because that’s weird and more frightening), man-eating, ebola-infected, urban crocodile ever imagined, with only prolonged and ragged screams ever emerging from that darkened pit.

Ok, maybe I’ve spent a little too much time thinking about it, but I’m not the only one.

The gospel message is that we ought not feed the darkness. To a degree, as with the Do Unto Others teaching, we can go along with it, but for most of us the notion that there is something worthwhile in every person loses steam in the face of certain individuals. Hitler is the classic example, but I’m sure we could all name less famous folk, some a great deal closer to us.

James Thurber wrote a story called The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. It’s a hilarious tale of an ordinary man who fantasizes about being extraordinary. A famous pilot. A brilliant surgeon. We laugh, until Mitty’s secret fantasies begin to hit home for us, and then we smile to cover our discomfort.

Most of us have pictured ourselves as heroes, destroying the bad guys. If we’re more passive, we imagine getting the phone call informing us that our enemy is humiliated, or ruined, or dead. And plenty of quiet grandmothers have imagined using a cast iron frying pan in non-culinary and extremely satisfying ways.

Most of us spend too much time thinking about the past. We drag up old resentments, slights, losses, injuries, and we make them into the central plot of the mental play of our lives. The movie plays in our heads relentlessly, and we keep watching, never imagining that we could change the channel.

Let’s be honest. We don’t want to love our enemies, even if we knew how. That’s the whole point of having them in the first place.

Paul, writing to early Christians in Rome, tried to put some spin on it — by doing good to our enemies, he wrote, we pour coals of fire on their heads. That sounds encouraging, and I can think of at least a dozen people who’d look great with their heads on fire. Unfortunately, Paul didn’t explain the mechanism by which it works, and we remain unconvinced.

Test yourself. Think of the worst person you know, the bottom (or top as it may be) of your list, and then imagine that you were given carte blanche. You could do anything you liked, and no one would ever know — no reprisal, punishment, or rocks to be thrown your way. What would you do?

Me, too. I wouldn’t even have to ponder it very long. It’s why so many of us secretly enjoy the Beatles’ Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.

So what do we do with this Love Your Enemies business? Most of the world’s inhabitants ignore it as dubious advice from a man who ended up crucified by his enemies. See where it got him?

Moby Dick, illustration from 1892 edition

On the other hand, if we do have the inkling (let alone actual faith, but who has that?) that there is a God, or if we consider that we are all connected, or if we can accept that there is something greater than our own personal interests, then we’ve got to consider some possibilities.

For one thing, maybe doing good to our enemies introduces, activates, or confirms some value, worth, and possibly life changing power in their lives. Damn it. Maybe they are our enemies for reasons we do not see — in the movies playing in their heads, we are the ones who acted wrongly or who deserve their disdain. Or maybe they are truly loathsome people — some people are — but the nature of our response can undermine their world view. Maybe.

Another possibility is that doing good to our enemies adds intrinsic value to the universe. There may be other universes, other planes of existence, but here we are in this one. Making our universe a better place is our responsibility. Nobody is going to do that for us.

The best reason may be personal — doing good to our enemies has some intrinsic value for us. Yes, my imagination fails as well, but there it is. Helping another person, particularly when there is little question of reciprocity, has a greater effect on us than on them. It changes our estimation of their value as a person. It shifts the plot of the movie in our heads.

You don’t even have to be a Christian for these ideas to work. Compassion and forgiveness are embraced in many traditions, religious and non-religious ones. Compassion makes us better humans. Empathy and understanding make for more peaceful communities. And it is difficult to put out a fire by adding fuel.

The whole point is to stop thinking of ourselves as separate from everyone else. That’s hard to do, particularly in America, where our entire national mythos is built around the rugged individual.

This Gospel notion, though, isn’t for me, or you, or for that jerk over there. It’s for all of us. All inclusive. This Kingdom of God idea includes everybody, or at least invites everybody. No exceptions, no matter how much we’d like to submit a list of rejects. In Buddhism, the notion of connectedness hasn’t been diluted by western individualism, but Christianity has to reach for it.

We might even find that people we think are our enemies really aren’t. They may not even give us much thought. Of course, that isn’t always the case. There are dangerous people out there. Hate groups. Neo-nazis. Terrorists. Thinking that our response to our enemies is a purely personal act, as opposed to a broader cultural or national one, is also dangerous. It limits our possibilities, and it limits our understanding of our responsibilities. How we as individuals choose to act is important, but we are not relieved of responsibility as members of a community, a culture, a religion, a nation, a civilization.

What does it look like, this doing good to our enemies? A lot of it is obvious. Some of it isn’t.

If I see a person in need and do nothing, am I their enemy? If I see someone being harmed, oppressed, held down, injured by individuals or by society or by some groups in that society, and I do nothing, am I their enemy? Maybe I am.

And religion, particularly Christianity, doesn’t have a good track record on this one. Plenty of Christians used faith based arguments — wrongly, of course — to justify slavery. Today, plenty of Christians use faith based arguments against LGBTQ people — again, wrongly, although this would be an entire topic of its own. How is hatred and exclusion and intolerance furthering the kingdom of God? Even if Christians could manage to justify regarding some people as enemies of their faith, the gospel commands a response of love and of doing good.

Instead, Christianity has often become a bastion of exclusion, intolerance, and hatred disguised as religious observance. That’s not what the gospel preaches, people. I don’t know what label to put on the exclusionary and intolerant form of religion often practiced today, but it isn’t Christianity. It is something else, dressed up in the forms and language and symbolism of the Church.

To put it another way, Christianity has become its own worst enemy. Being excluded by Christians can be harmful, in real and in dangerous ways. Being within the Christian world can also be toxic — we may find that we are our own enemy. And it may be that loving our enemies begins uncomfortably close to home, maybe even inside our own heads.

When we love our enemies, we are reaching. And we’re remembering that we are not able to place ourselves in a different world than they occupy. We’re in this thing — love it or hate it — together, and we need to embrace it. And one another.

Bernard of Clairvaux, in his work On Loving God, concluded that the best and strongest reason to love God is God — love is its own reward. In Luke’s gospel we hear that “the measure you give will be the measure you get back.”

Perhaps that is the reason to love our neighbors, our enemies, ourselves. The love we give is the love we get.

Art by Banksy. Stolen from his/her/their website.

The Enemy was originally published on C R Taylor

#crosspost from CRTaylorbooks.com

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19rubbersoul65-blog · 6 years

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Hello internet people.

Rubber Soul is the best Beatles album. Fact. Actually, it’s one of the best albums ever made. There’s just something about transitions, going from mop-top boys in tidy suits to experimental, fuck-you-we’re-bigger-than-Jesus out-thereism. I guess that’s why transition periods are the most interesting parts of history. So much possibility, so many roads not taken.

I guess that’s where I am now. In transition. I graduated, I have to start figuring my life out, I have to start adulting, I need to figure out what I’m gonna do with my degree. My life is finally starting and at 23 I have no fucking clue what to do with it.

Also I’m gay. Or maybe bi, but probably gay. Whatever. I have aspergers, and I guess that kinda confused things for me. The thing about having aspergers is that you tend to blame everything odd or unusual about yourself on the aspergers. I guess I always thought that the reason I can’t get it up around a woman is because of some sort of shame spiral of self-hatred (a requisite feature of having what amounts to dyslexia for social skills, along with depression and anxiety) and god fucking knows what. The actual reason is simply that I like dick better than pussy.

Which is why it’s honestly kind of sad that it took me 23 years to figure this out. I blew right by my extremely progressive east coast suburban elitist Fake America public high school with it’s extremely active GSA chapter and its retinue of gays ranging from extremely fem to extremely butch, my college where it was kind of just whatever, and now I’m on my ownsome, finally coming to the realization that I am so fucking gay.

It’s funny how it happened, too. I was watching an old episode of Glee (okay, maybe that should have been a sign, too) and was watching Blaine complain to Kurt that it seemed like NYADA was all they ever talked about and how it hurt him that it seemed like Kurt couldn’t wait to be hundreds of miles away from him, and it hit me: I want that. I want a guy that my voice breaks and that I’d be on the verge of tears talking about how it hurts that he’s gonna be hundreds of miles away soon. I want a guy who being away from them hurts badly enough that I make a puppet of them to pretend they’re still with me. And then it hit me that specifically I wanted a guy like that (incidentally Darren Criss is a hot piece of mancandy even if he is straight IRL) and that’s when it finally hit me: I’m gay. I’m so, so fucking gay.

Not like super stereotypical or fem, either. More like Nick Robinson’s character in Love, Simon- someone you wouldn’t expect to be gay just on first sight. I guess in hindsight I should have realized it when the overwhelming majority of the porn I watch is gay porn and I can get hard at the sight of a nice male ass at the drop of a hat, but the human capacity for self-deception is endless.

I wanna be sure, though. To do that to a degree that satisfies my STEM Lord standards requires experimentation. With both sexes. Gimme data, goddammit! As they said in that one West Wing episode “if you wanna convince me, give me numbers.” How I accomplish that… who knows? I’m hopeless with women. Cannot read signs- it’s a symptom of my brain being wired differently (that and what some people call my “robot voice.” Hmm, maybe I should start acting fem just so I have some default inflection for my voice). Got my date stolen by my drunk friend who blacked-out barely remembers it, apparently (I mean, he could be lying, but still. And on that note can I just point out that she was okay to drive like an hour later? If the genders were swapped that would totally be considered date-rape. Fucking double standards. The more I think about it the less I envy him.)

Question is, who do I come out to? Not my parents, not at first. I could never have them be the first. I mean, they’re great, but I need someone my age to know first. My best friend is an option. He’s the one I usually dump my shit on, but at the same time… I don’t know. I’m in a frat, so I have a bunch of guys I could tell. It’s funny- when you think about a frat you imagine something like SAE or Pike or Teke, but we’re… not that. Just a bunch of fucking misfits who were mostly secretly losers in high school and need some guy friends. It’s not buying friends- it’s friends pooling money for booze and weed and the occasional trip to some godforsaken part of the country for a conference where you ignore whatever National crams down your throat and then get shitfaced with guys from all over the country. It’s a second family.

Option B is my best friend from home. I only see him a couple times a year nowadays, and he goes to a college a couple hours from here (yes, as a dirty Ameeeeerikan, I’m using hours as a unit of distance.) I know he’s, like, super Catholic (at least compared to my dirty heathen ex-Catholic atheist self. Hail Satan/the FSM), but he’s also one of the nicest people I know and I know he’d understand.

I’m not really sure where I’m taking this. Maybe this is a one-off thing, just me shouting to the heavens and the pajama people on the internet, maybe it’s the start of some kind of an actual blog. Right now, I’m just figuring things out. It’s a funny thing: once you graduate high school you get two chances at a reboot of who you are, once when you start college and once when you graduate. Two opportunities to put the past away and look forwards. I’m on the second reboot: Me 3.0.

It’s like the problem of the Ship of Theseus: when you replace every part of a ship, is it the same ship as before?

#gay #coming out #self-discovery #growing up #still in the closet

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mtwy · 7 years

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Record

UK March 1985

Maybe She’s Good - 10 Theories on How Madonna ‘Got It’

By Laura Fissinger

Usually it takes a while for a pop star to earn heavyweight hatred from a significant percentage of the press and public. But like everything else in her (very) young career, fear and loathing have come quickly indeed to singer/ writer/ dancer/ hot number Madonna. Loathe her or love her, it’s interesting to try and figure this one out. Theories abound, including a few from the lady herself.

I. Phyllis and Bob Theory As Madonna puts it, “I seem to be the girl they hate to love.” No kidding. Private citizens tap their feet to “Lucky Star” or “Holiday” while wondering aloud if anything short of exorcism will get her off their radios and MTVs. The press file reads like she’s a ghoulish maidservant of notorious anti-libber Phyllis Schlafly and notorious Penthouse publisher Bob Guccione, sucking all the feminism and IQ points from the fragile neck of popular culture. Fans and foes alike seem to agree that she’s an ’80s incarnation of the “It” girl – blessed/cursed with a charisma that makes skin goosebump as well as crawl, something beyond her prettiness or infamous tummy. It makes her videos, records and (soon) movies impossible to dismiss. It’s there in person, too. She comes down a corporate hallway in a big black jacket and modest red-knit dress, looking like the video Madonna sans the bare belly and excess Catholic iconography. There is absolutely nothing solicitous in her manner of greeting, nothing straining to charm, nothing yanking at you for approval. Her handshake (a tiny red glove conceals the hand) is firm, and brief. Even so, the force is with her; it swallows her little frame as she walks toward a vast conference room like a sixth grader going to a hard math exam. Undoubtedly, her mind is elsewhere. Just this week, “Like A Virgin” has gone to Number One on the pop charts, and its namesake LP to Number Three, only five weeks after release. Her first LP took almost a year to happen, but once it did it sold two million-plus copies. It’s not quite finished yet, either. Nor is the fallout, which so far includes the four hit singles, three videos, one starring film role and one small part in a movie for which she sang three tunes. Oh yeah, and the lousy reputation. Part of that reputation says that Madonna is simply not a nice person, but superb at appearing so when someone‘s approval could be useful. On this particular day, anyway, she is kind of bristly. A little sharp-tongued and self-satisfied. But she makes no effort to hide any of the warts. More than a few rock stars are downright oily and self-protective when they need nice press. Madonna answers questions straight out, is only pretty nice most of the session, and leaves the warts right out there. If she’s such a master at showbiz politics, where’s the politicking? Where’s the manipulation? II. The Wedding Dress Theory Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone was born in Detroit on August 16, 1958. Veronica is her Catholic confirmation name, chosen because St. Veronica “wiped the face of Jesus and then carried around the cloth with his blood and sweat on it — it was so passionate and weird.” The French-Italian family had five boys and three girls who lost their mother when her namesake, Madonna, was six, Madonna didn’t much like the stepmother that appeared two years later; no doubt the woman felt it. Even in grade school, Madonna apparently had extraordinary intensity; it both scared and fascinated her. “I felt overwhelmed by it at points in my life. People didn’t understand me, especially when I was young; I’d realize I’d just alienated someone and scared them away, a boy or a friend or whoever. I handled it in a number of ways — either I’d get more arrogant and say ‘I don’t need you, I don’t care if you understand or I’d get upset and cry. You can get hurt by it, or you can give them the finger. But it still hurts.” She learned to be defensive then, and still practices, frequently, “It’s easy for me to come out and say stuff. I think I was naturally a verbal and defensive kind of person, but I think I really developed that aspect of my personality growing up in my family, not feeling happy, feeling like I had to defend myself and make a statement, you know? It’s about insecurity? There are mementos of that time. “Just the other day I found a photograph of me dressed in my mother’s wedding gown when I was five years old. It was very strange.” III. The Barbie Doll Dishwashing Theory “Oh yeah, I played with my Barbie dolls all the time — I definitely lived out my fantasies with them.” Madonna lets loose a naughty chuckle. “I dressed them up in sarongs and mini-skirts and stuff. They were sexy, having sex all the time. I rubbed her and Ken together a lot. And they were bitchy, man, Barbie was mean.” She hoots. “Barbie would say to Ken, ‘I’m not gonna stay home and do the dishes. You stay home! I’m going out tonight, I’m going bowling, okay, so forget it!’ You know? She was going to be sexy, but she was going to be tough” A quote from a recent story is brought up in which Madonna had claimed sexual awakening at age five. “Made it sound like I masturbated all the time, didn’t it?” she says with a raised eyebrow. “I really do remember from when I was very, very young, being really attracted to men, and being real flirtatious. The power of my femininity and charm, I remember it was just something I had, that I’d been given, you know what I mean? From the age of five I remember being able to affect people that way. I felt something but I didn’t know what to do with it. I was just very aware of it.” IV. The Boyfriend Theory In the teenage years, two things were pure pleasure — dance and music. Madonna studied ballet as much as her father and her legs would allow. As for the music, it was on her radio, and the more radio-perfect, the better. “My favorites when I was little were Stevie Wonder, the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, the Jackson 5, the Motown sound. But then I really like ’60s pop songs too — “The Letter” by the Boxtops, “Sugar Sugar” by the Archies, Gary Puckett, Bob by Sherman, “Happy Together” by the Turtles. I loved all those innocent little pop songs. No hard rock, no heavy metal, no jazz. Pop and soul were it.” Dance won her a four-year free ride at the University of Michigan, but the prognosis for toe-shoe stardom was lousy. As would be the ease for years to come, Madonna saw no reason to follow rules, and that rubbed the rulemakers the wrong way. After one school year, she moved to New York City. Hometown friend Steve Bray had started her on drums and singing and a little songwriting. It didn’t take long in New York before dance stepped aside to make more room for music. The next teacher/companion was Dan Gilroy of Queens, whose adoration of the Beatles and their melodies shaped Madonna’s sense of how to construct a song; Gilroy also had the instruments and the patience to start her with the C chords. Madonna left for a frustrating European tour singing and dancing behind a disco singer, then came back to spend a valuable year in the Gilroy brother’s band and home. Eventually she wanted things in the band her own way, although that way wasn’t entirely clear yet. Manhattan and new compatriots beckorted. Bray came out to work with her through two rock ‘n’ roll bands. They didn’t turn out to be the way either. “I didn’t want to go in a rock vein, and that’s what created the schism between my manager of that time period and myself. I was really being influenced by the urban radio stuff that was starting to be everywhere, on the streets and in the clubs. I love to dance in clubs, and I love all the music they play. It made me really want to dance, it was so soulful. I thought, why can’t I do that? I wanted to make music that I would want to dance to when I was out at the clubs.” Logically, New York nightclubs is where she went next. It came down to peddling R&B demo tapes done by her and Bray, at the places where the songs’ magic would get their roughest test. If the songs made people dance in New York’s hippest hothouses, that would be the sign that her way, finally, was the right way. DJ boyfriend Mark Kamins remixed one tape and then took it to Sire, where a deal was made. But neither Bray nor Kamins got to produce the first album, a job they each felt had been promised, and earned. Instead, Madonna was done by veteran R&B producer Reggie Lucas (Stephanie Mills, Phyllis Hyman). Madonna knows it didn’t seem right. She also knows what else it seemed like. She looks the reporter straight in the eye: “If anybody wants to know, I never f*cked anyone to get anywhere. Never.” V. The Trickle-Down Theory Stories about Madonna’s method of career advancement started to circulate shortly after the debut LP came to life on the pop charts. How did this woman with no band or playing credits on her record and no known credibility connections score such a surprise hit? Awfully, uh, juicy looking, isn’t she’? “Some of the things people say are so ridiculous, it’s not even worth defending yourself. The guy who wrote one recent long story, – he got his facts right, all my boyfriends’ names right and how they helped my career, but he wrote the article from just one corner of the room. He just talked about what he saw from that one corner.” She speaks with a tiny shade of sadness, but no rancor. “Yes, all my boyfriends turned out to be very helpful to my career, but that’s not the only reason I stayed with them. I loved them very much.” A pause, then a smile and a shrug. “I’m not Alexis from Dynasty. And going around in corsets is not all I am either. People hone in on what they want to hone in on. They rarely go for the sum total of someone’s personality.” Madonna is not the only one who got helped. Gilroy’s debut with his band, Breakfast Club, is due soon. Kamins is collecting royalties from Madonna and working on new projects. Bray is working with the Breakfast Club; he also had four cowriting credits on Like A Virgin. And Lucas, who lost his slot to Nile Rodgers on LP #2, is reportedly busier than ever. VI. The Bathroom Theory “Reggie was about one thing,” explains Madonna. “He did R&B. He’s a good producer, very open and sensitive. But Nile has worked with so many kinds of musicians, and every record he’s made is a great one as far as I’m concerned. He has the pop thing in him really strong, and he’s done great dance stuff with Chic and Sister Sledge and all those others, and he’s worked with a lot of female vocalists like Diana Ross. I identified with him, too. He’s a real street person, and we hung out at the same clubs. Even before I started to interview producers I thought he was the one I wanted for the second record.” Rodgers is getting to be a popular interview these days for people writing about Madonna. The implication is, of course, that Rodgers is legit, see, and if he likes Madonna without being her boyfriend, then maybe she’s not a total bimbo. Rodgers is affable and willing to talk, even with a mean head cold and a long airplane trip only a few hours away. “Someone like Iggy Pop can get out there and be super-sexual and wild and that’s great. But Madonna is a woman, so they say she’s sleazy? Madonna is blatantly sexual and sensual, but not sleazy, not even a little bit. In my opinion, she’s an excellent natural singer, a natural musician, a serious artist. It would be real nice if some ostensibly smart people who know about music would get past the image and get into the music. I’m hoping she can just ride out all the crap people are saying about her. I think a lot of the real nasty stuff is coming from men. And all that arrogance bit — she sticks to her guns, that’s all. It’s that attitude that comes from growing up in a huge family, you know, always having to fight and yell for things like time in the bathroom.” VII. The Chauffeur’s Friend’s Theory “I was making this movie, Desperately Seeking Suson. One of the drivers that took me to the set every day was this kid, and one day he said to me, ‘I have this bet going with my friend, he told me that all the music you do was done by someone else and they picked the songs and did it all, and all they needed was a girl singer and you auditioned and they picked you. And Madonna isn’t your real name and all of it is fabricated.‘ And I said, ‘WHAAAAATT?? Are you out of your mind??!’ But that’s what his friend told him, and it suddenly hit me that that’s probably what a lot of people think. It hit me.” VIII. The Phyllis and Bob Theory, Part II Here’s the catch for the modern girl: you can be self-determining. You now have the right. You should be self-determining, you must. But. If your self determines that it wants to be smart and sexpot at the same time? You got the power to choose, honey, but you chose wrong, “I thought the Gina Schock quote was pretty funny,” grins Madonna, referring to Schock recent statement to the effect that Madonna makes it hard for people to take women seriously but that Schock loved the record in spite of it. “I think people want to see me as a little tart bimbo who sells records because I’m cute and record companies push ’em because they know they can make a quick buck on my image.” Madonna gives another eyeball to eyeball look. “People don’t want to like me. And that’s because you’re not supposed to be flirty unless you’re an airhead. And they say I do all this stuff to my appearance and look the way I do because I want to please men.” The blue eyes roll toward the ceiling. “I’m doing it because I like it. If I don’t like it, no one’s going to. I do it because it turns me on.” Any female role models or heroes? She sighs. “Carole Lombard. She’s my all-time idol. I love her so much. She’s real sentimental and vulnerable, and funny, and sometimes she’s real bitchy and tough, too. She’s it.” IX. The Sheet Theory You gotta pay if you wanna play, says the firm set of her mouth. “I try to have a thick skin, but every once in a while I read something that someone says about me and it’s so slanderous and moralistic, and it has nothing to do with my music. There was this one review that said things about me that boys said to me in the seventh grade.” For instance? “For instance – ‘slut.’ Yep, they called me that in this review. And ‘cheap coquette,’ a girl who made her way into lots of back seats in the drive-in theater, the kind of girl that made your father slip you a Trojan and pat you on the back and say, ‘Have a good time, don’t stay out too late.'” Her eyes focus across the room as if she’s watching a movie. “I remember guys saying that sort of stuff to me when I was really young. I thought suddenly that the whole experience was repeating itself all over again. Those boys didn’t understand me, and they didn’t like me because I wasn’t stupid, and I was blunt and opinionated, but I was a flirt at the same time. They took my aggressiveness as a come-on. They didn’t get it. And they didn’t get it, if you know what I mean, so I guess they had to say things because they knew that was the only way they could hurt me. That review felt like junior high all over again. And check this out! This reviewer also said that every guy across the country is stroking himself under his sheets thinking about me.” Madonna’s face creases in mischief. “Maybe he’s doing it himself and he feels guilty. Or maybe he asked me out on a date five years ago and I snubbed him.” It’s not out of the question. X. The Time Theory Madonna has to vamoose in 15 minutes, cover story and unanswered questions notwithstanding. This week preceding a needed vacation is crammed with band auditions for the boys who will go on the “Virgin Tour.” The trek will start around March and cover the States as well as Europe. Before and after and probably even during the tour there are TV tapings, fashion layouts, photo sessions, videos, commercials, movie scripts to consider and on and on. And then, “I’ll check into Bellevue, or maybe the Betty Ford Clinic, huh?” Any positive press along the way will be nice, of course, but serious reputation repair can only come if she keeps going, going, going. And she knows it. “The fact of the matter is that you can use your beauty and use your charm and be flirtatious, and you can get people interested in you. Maybe at the start they’re only interested in your beauty. But you cannot maintain that. In the end, talent is the only thing. My work is the only thing that’s going to change any minds. The videos, the records, the movies are the things that will eventually make them think that I’m more than just a girl with a pretty face who’s had some pop hits. It’s just going to take some time.”

Photo Credits: Deborah Feingold, Laura Levine

#1985 #thevirginera #magazines

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