Listen. There is going to be WORLDWIDE EXCITEMENT over canon johnlock. The people who have maligned us and mistreated us will be forced to reckon with how wrong they were and how right we always have been. Not just the antis here in Hell, but the jerk journalists who sneered at us with such as “lustful cockmonster” and so forth. The casuals we all know who rolled their eyes at us for “reading too much into it.”
Everyone who ever said or implied that nobody wants to tell or watch a queer love story and laughed in our faces because we dared to hope otherwise will see. Our patience, our passion, our love and hope and joy and rage and determination is about to pay out in the biggest way. A worldwide surprise party with us as the guests of honor is going to drop onto this planet in January 2017, y'all.
It’s going to be huge. It’s going to be ours. And we deserve it. Every last one of us.
CURRENT TIME – 9:30pm ; LOCATION – Hotel-Gallery Hallway
Darkness consumes the gallery with dull lit lights. The paintings and sculptures nearby seem to gawk & sneer from the distance, as if beckoning you to continue forward. Whether they want you to gaze at pure art has yet to be decided. Despite how wide the halls are, you feel as if you’re cramped & squished together with no breathing space ( how unfortunate ).
Other members seem uneased, some excited, others neutral. You’re unsure which one you fit in, and perhaps you’ll decide right when the time is right. Whispers gnaw the air in hushed tones, many anxious, trembling ( you could practically FEEL the FEAR!!) & again others, feel as if they are going to be the hero for the day–feeling they would acquire a discovery, or be capable of fending off what was unknown in the darkness of the night that continued to grow more & more by the minute.
Some photographer probably snapped a pic of Bruce carrying a sleeping Damian to the car after a party and all of Gotham collectively squeaked. Damian was not amused
Everyone is so used to Wayne’s child being sneering and arrogant and a bit violent and then suddenly, he’s just this small little teddy bear. He’s all wrapped up in his dad’s arms, tiny little hands gripping the front of Bruce’s shirt, angelic little face slack with sleep as he nuzzles further into Bruce’s shoulder and does this sleepy little sigh. The image goes viral and Damian fights hard to restore his rep as an intelligent, stoic figure who takes no shi- goddammit Drake stop blowing up that picture! It was one time and it was very late and you have no room to talk I found you asleep on the lawn last week.
[an anon asked me for my list of best/most important poems, presumably because i said this list was good but not the one i would make? anyway tumblr seems to have eaten the ask, this website istg etc, but here is the response i’d come up with—]
i am tempted to say, my /tagged/poetry is 43 pages long, go poke at it! but here are some that mean a lot to me, ordered alphabetically by poet:
ah, love, let us be true to one another! for the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
it’s funny, because i vividly remember sneering at this poem as an adolescent; i have become very sentimental in my old age.
i would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream
[this is not the pullquote i would have chosen five years ago, or even maybe one year ago. then i would have said:
i would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. i would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary.
but lately i have been thinking: do i really want to be that unnoticed? or, in fact, that necessary? i want to be seen and chosen, for what i am and what i offer; i want to cherish and embrace and protect and uplift, to be the boat that would row you back / carefully. so.]
to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you’ve held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it.
also “gate c22"—it’s very hard to pull out a piece from this poem, it is at once so mundane and so full of grace. i love it tremendously.
the best part was his face. when he drew back and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost as though he were a mother still open from giving birth, as your mother must have looked at you, no matter what happened after—if she beat you or left you or you’re lonely now—you once lay there, the vernix not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you as if you were the first sunrise seen from the earth.
let me put my head on your breast. i know nothing lasts. i would try to hold you back, not out of meanness but fear. oh my practical, my worldly-wise. you know how the body falters, falls in on itself. tell me that we will never want from each other what we cannot have. lie. it’s morning.
[if] you were to come by one evening when the moon was shining down into my dark home and stand there at the edge of my affection and think, "it’s beautiful here by this pond. i wish somebody loved me,” i’d love you and be your catfish friend and drive such lonely thoughts from your mind
robert browning, “andrea del sarto"—reading this, i can’t help thinking of all my aspirations, my unfulfilled potential, and wonder whether i might have managed my various stabs at school better if i hadn’t been so totally consumed by self-abnegating love. which is to say, it breaks my fucking heart more and more as the years go by.
you flower in my thought, you flower in my blood, and i wonder only that my happy hands do not blossom into heavy roses.
stacie cassarino’s poems are very uneven, but invariably ask a question or two that cuts into me like a scalpel. ”summer solstice“ is maybe the most obvious:
i wanted to see where beauty comes from without you in the world, hauling my heart across sixty acres of northeast meadow, my pockets filling with flowers. then i remembered, it’s you i miss in the brightness and body of every living name: rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch. you are the green wonder of june, root and quasar, the thirst for salt. when i finally understand that people fail at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle, the paper wings of the dragonfly aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
—which is often how i feel about love, and about the physical world—the former reflected in the latter, and the latter a consolation for the failure of the former. so.
when you call me close to tell me your body is not beautiful i want my body and my hands to be pools for your looking and laughing.
this is the source of the tag i’m using for girlfriend these days—
when you call me close to tell me your body is not beautiful i want to summon the eyes and hidden mouths of stone and light and water to testify against you.
i want them to surrender before you the trembling rhyme of your face from their deep caskets.
anyway i am going to have trouble not quoting the whole poem at you—"your small breasts / are the upturned bellies / of breathing fallen sparrows.” ugh, the immense tenderness of this metaphor! i can’t deal with it! this poem made me cry in a whole foods cafeteria! admittedly i was feeling delicate and sentimental at the time (when am i not), but.
robert creeley, “i know a man"—this is tiny and #lolsob and perfect.
as i sd to my friend, because i am always talking,—
everyone forgets that icarus also flew. it’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. that she was old enough to know better. but anything worth doing is worth doing badly.
i stood by the seat dazed by exhaustion and the absoluteness of the end, so still i was aware of myself breathing. i put on the vest and my coat, got my bag and, turning, saw you through the dirty window standing outside looking up at me. we looked at each other without any expression at all. invisible, unnoticed, still. that moment is what i will tell of as proof that you loved me permanently.
this is a fucking gutpunch of a poem and i could maybe articulate some of what i have adored about it for easily a decade now but like. god. the hallowedness of mundanity. partings. endings. the fraught symbolism of things.
sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on its brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing
regret none of it, not one of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing, when the lights from the carnival rides were the only stars you believed in, loving them for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved. you’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
the useless days will add up to something. the shitty waitressing jobs. the hours writing in your journal. the long meandering walks. the hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and god and whether you should shave under your arms or not. these things are your becoming.)
anything that moves the world toward light is a blessing. why not take it with both hands, lift it to your lips like a broth of stars.
william meredith, ”the illiterate“—like the robert hayden poem, this is a bit of an outlier—it speaks to me, but i also just think it’s a perfect exquisitely-crafted self-contained piece that brings its own universe with it.
what would you call his feeling for the words that keep him rich and orphaned and beloved?
#christ this poem brings tears springing to my eyes like nothing else #it always has #this nostalgia that isn’t even sad #just so achingly fond #i mean it’s a little sad in the way time and loss are sad #the deep bitter note that grounds the song or the drink
and then i took a deep breath, i said goodbye to my body, goodbye to comfort, i used my legs and heart as if i would gladly use them up for this, to touch him again in this life
this one has meant rather a lot to me for a very long time now—J said to me once, "when someone you care about is on the line you Just Do The Thing, and that is a thing i admire in you a lot,” and i was so fucking bowled over to have that recognized, because like, it’s very true, i am often awfully selfish as a matter of conserving stamina/emotional resources, but if you make it into the inner sanctum of my heart i will Make Things Happen for you, and secretly—that is to say, almost wholly unbeknownst even to myself—i have a great deal of capacity to Make Things Happen when i am really and truly self-abnegatingly motivated like that! anyway you asked about poetry and are instead getting a lot of omphaloskepsis—i would apologize but i think the two things are pretty inextricably linked tbh?
mary oliver’s entire œuvre, honestly—there is a lot there that’s, like, emotionally/philosophically/spiritually important to me. like hopkins, she might need her own separate post.
[but] you can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look of the black dog, the look that says, if i could i would bite every sorrow until it fled, and when it is august, you can have it august and abundantly so.
there are a handful of poems i have clutched like talismans, at the times i was most deeply depressed. this is one of them. the next one is too.
give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart.
i talked about this poem once before, at the end of this post, so i guess i’ll reproduce that here:
“when you have to part from anything that you’ve incorporated into your identity, and learn to let that leach out again—i think there’s something about the way poetry can just sit with you quietly, in a sort of elastic eternal moment that’s the same timescale the heart works in; and like, it doesn’t need to move on, it’s not asking you to hurry up and process faster; the right poems will meet you where you are and stay with you there and take your hand to lead you out, when you finally breathe out quietly and are ready for that.” [which—is not not my manifesto on the value of poetry in general, tbh.]
“give back your heart / to yourself, walcott says; you are all you have, in the end. which can be terribly wrenching to realize, but also think—what ampleness that is. what grace.”
she is black and white, her mane falls wild on her forehead, and the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear that is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. suddenly i realize that if i stepped out of my body i would break into blossom.
if there is a theme to these pieces it is the hallowedness of the everyday—of inhabiting these moments as they pass and being suddenly aware of their very great grace, of how much ineffable beauty is visited upon us carelessly, lavishly, ignorably, and how astonishing and glorious it can be to stop and make ourselves conscious of it and drink it in; this is a poem like that.
“First of all,” an annoyed voice echoed from behind the barrier pulsing with chaotic energy. “Why do you insist on planting these infernal things here? And second, would you please stop with the incessant humming?”
My mother always does this thing where she looks at me with a half sneer and asks me what my plans for the next day are (even if i have an appointement it’s not enough cause there’s more hours in the day). I never have to do lists, i just do whatever each day, and if i say the “correct” thing (like planing to study or planing to tidy my room), she sneers harder and assumes I’m only saying that to please her. Even if I DID plan on that… There’s no winning… Also she now assumes that i didn’t wash my bathroom rug thing because one was dirty and one was clean and in the shelf. Which is because the clean one was freshly washed awaiting the next turn of changing stuff :I
Y’all realise that Alec hasn’t actually seen Magnus’ cats eyes in the show yet? Please tell me it’s on purpose. Please tell me that it’s a setup for a scene where Alec finally does see his cats eyes and Magnus is wary because it’s a pretty undeniable sign that he’s demonic and he’s always known the Nephilim to sneer at anything ‘unclean’ and he’s worried that it’ll remind Alec that they aren’t the same and Alec simply stares long and hard right into his soul before giving him the most reverent of kisses and it’s there that Magnus falls in love.
There’s something ironic, Lily thinks, about practicing Defense Against the Dark Arts side by side with the people she needs to defend herself against. She can feel Avery’s hot gaze on her back, can imagine his lips in a cold sneer as he waits for her to take her turn. It’s rather hard trying to think of a happy memory with a potential murderer breathing down her neck, but Lily tries anyway.
“Expecto Patronum!” A bright blue ball of light shoots from her wand, but it’s weak, not corporeal. Lily sighs, wiping sweat from her brow.
“Good, Miss Evans!” Professor Helene says, clapping her hands. “A patronus charm is exceptionally hard, and even some of the most skilled wizards can never produce a corporeal form. Don’t be discouraged - we still have an hour of class.” Lily isn’t discouraged, she’s simply frustrated. She knows that she probably won’t be able to produce a corporeal patronus, no matter the fact that she’s been trying and failing for the better part of a year, but she’d very much like to. If there’s one thing Lily Evans isn’t very good at, it’s soul searching, and what better way to know yourself than to have your spirit animal revealed to you? So, really, she’s just impatient. Which is nothing new.
Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle. Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind. But then, one winter’s night, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered him a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold. Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince sneered at the gift and turned the old woman away. But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within. And when he dismissed her again, the old woman’s ugliness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress. The prince tried to apologize, but it was too late, for she had seen that there was no love in his heart. And as punishment, she transformed him into a hideous beast and placed a powerful spell on the castle and all who lived there.
Then Shem Macnamara had been very poor, only too ready for a free meal and a quiet sneer at the success of a fellow poet. Then, instead of expensive mouthwash, he had breathed on Hogg-Enderby, bafflingly (for no banquet would serve, because of the known redolence of onions, onions) onions.
like, when i first told my mom i thought i was gay the first thing she said to me (after an initial look of disgust) was
“do you know how they have sex?”
the thought of sex hadn’t even occurred to me yet. i was 14. i was a fucking child. i thought i was gay because the way my best friend looked at me gave me butterflies and the gentle touches of girls playing with my hair or holding me close made my cheeks flush bright red. i thought i was gay because i found myself daydreaming about holding a girl’s hand, about innocent, pure love- a kind of love i already knew was purer and sweeter than the way boys sneered at me or tried to look up my skirt.
so you can imagine how heartbreaking it was to hear this, from my own mother, and to try to seek understanding online only to stumble across a group of people who called my love “disgusting” and “unnecessary”- people who’d ask literal children if they were “homosexuals” and if they felt sexual attraction. people who made jokes about people like me. people who’d say girls like me deserved to die of an sti, the world would be better without us disgusting “allos”. it has only gotten worse. i am so, so fortunate i grew older and confident enough in myself before this mentality became even more widespread in recent years.
because, you know, i just wanted to hold a girl’s hand. i shouldn’t have had to worry about if i was a homo-demi-romantic-gray-asexual or whatfuckingever. i just wanted to hold a girl’s hand.
I... You did your thesis on Terry Pratchett? I never considered that to even be an option, oh my gods. Like it is not an exaggeration to say that this changed my life. Like, borderline religious revelation. I could go back to academia and /talk about Terry Pratchett./ Professionally. Oh my gods. I need to sit down. I need to buy the rest of his books and get started. There's so much to talk about. Oh my gods.
*gently pats your hand and offers you some tea*
Yes, you can. it was unheard of when I was at uni, and even now anything that has to do with comedy or elves tends to get sneered at by old professors wearing tweed (hilarious when you think about who Tolkien was) but you can most definitely devote your study to Discworld and Pratchett if you like. I would also recommend Diana Wynne Jones who I also wanted to work on—comparing her female based narrative to Pratchett’s witches and how women’s rage was not only accepted but seen as empowering, which was largely unheard of in fantasy at the time because angry women were usually just seen as vengeful harpies “wronged by a man”. Sadly that chapter had to be removed because it was too much of a tangent but ohhh gods I was bursting to talk about it.
My thesis hinged on the idea of fantasy in reality, and how the fantasy genre is just the continuation of mythology we used to use justify our reality (lightning is gods fighting, people drown in that river because of kelpies so don’t go near that river or horse shaped demons will eat you), ergo reality shapes fantasy as the things that we need in order to not be shitty humans, such as truth, justice and the knowledge that the sun will still come up in the morning no matter how awful the night. Campfire parables if you will, the things we tell ourselves when winter comes and there’s wolves howling at your door so you tell the children stories about spring because it’s that or freeze to death in despair.
Lord of the Rings wasn’t about glorious battles or the rightful place of Kings and honor or the nobility of elves as intellectual paradigms as I’ve seen so many academic papers talk about.
It was about the horrors of war, and how the actions of those in power will have ramifications for centuries to come—no matter how pretty or noble they are. It was about how not doing the right thing at the beginning, means your children will need to suffer to fix it. It was about the endurance of friendship and love despite the odds, it was about hope, and the pure basic need to believe in a better world, because why else do we do anything. Aragon and Frodo aren’t the heroes, Samwise is. He’s not naive as some people think. His character is not stupid. He knows what will happen if they fail. So that’s why he keeps going.
And that’s why Samwise is the hero, the friend who carries you when you can no longer crawl.
He’s the one who always truly believes there is some hope in this world, even as fire
and ash burns around him. If not hope for him, then hope for others and that by facing what he does, they will not have to.
It’s why I get particularly irked when people praise dark and nitty gritty fantasy as being more “real” and somehow more acceptable and noteworthy, because you know, god knows we don’t have enough shitty things to deal with in real life as it is. Forgive me if I want my dragons to be capable of burning down an entire city but also falling in love and flying off to somewhere quiet where some prick in shiny armor can’t try to stick their underbelly with his sword just because that’s what Heroes™ do.
Pratchett wrote stories for the common man, he wrote about alcoholics being heroes and how just because they became heroes didn’t mean they stopped being human. Sam Vimes became on par with being legendary, but he still went to AA meetings every Thursday. Tiffany Aching—one of the most powerful witches of her time—still clips the toe nails of old men too sick to do it themselves because someone has to. Rincewind keeps getting picked up by fate and hurled towards destiny, and despite being a coward and chronically awful at intentional magic, is still able to save the day, usually out of sheer desperation and a well aimed blow with a sock filled with rocks. Because sometimes that’s all you have.
Desperation, a sense of duty and the need to believe in something better. Which is practically the basis of all religion.
Sorry, rambling again. But yes, yes you can do the thing. And I really hope you do <3
Ah, the smirk. Every young adult novel, teenage girl and fanfiction’s favorite and overused verb to use for a male character because a man who has that smug and infuriating smile is unbelievably attractive to the female audience for some reason.
Out of curiosity, I googled up the exact definition of the word “smirk” and they defined it as “smile in an irritatingly smug, conceited, or silly way.”
I was annoyed with how they had such a generalizing and basic description because growing up,I have seen this word used for all sorts of context and each time, there is a new, hidden meaning behind that smile/sneer/leer.
SO HERE IS A LIST I MADE:
1) The cliche I-Am-Better-Than-You-And-I-Will-Make-Sure-You-Know-It Smirk
This smirk is the one most often used and thought of when people hear the word. You know that one person you’re competing with whether it be sports, exam scores, martial arts, etc? And that one smile that shows that they know they’re just better, smarter and more skilled than you in every way? That is smirk number 1 right there.
2) The I-Am-A-Sassy-And-Snarky-Bastard Smirk
You see that annoying and utterly majestic guy sitting in front of you? Maybe a thought crossed his mind or you probably said something embarrassingly stupid. Either way, he will always have a smart-ass response for you along with a sarcastic or dry smile to accompany it, knowing he had just roasted you and you need some ice for that burn. That is smirk number 2.
3) The Amused-Half-Smile Smirk
This smirk does not necessarily have a negative connotation. You probably entertained that guy in some way that he can’t help but crack a smile of pure and genuine amusement. If not entertainment, you or someone had made that person change their opinion of you and especially in a positive manner. Somehow, smirk number 3 is just so charming and can induce stomach flutters, you really cannot get mad.
4) The Crooked-Smile Smirk
This smirk is solely reserved for flirting and hooking up. That awkward yet cute smile he flashes you when he thinks he looks cool while trying to buy you a drink. It can show some teeth, but not an outright grin. That is smirk number 4.
5) The I-Have-The-Upper-Hand-And-You-Fucked-Up-Smirk
You are in deep shit when you see this smirk. Unlike smirk number 1, your life is probably in danger here and you are on the losing end against a chess-master. You lost. Everything went according to his plans and now you are in the palm of his hands and at his mercy. That dangerous and sinister smile is smirk number 5.
6) The I-Am-Eye-Sexing-You-Smirk
See that dirty and perverted guy who looks like he is fucking your body by just looking at you? You see that shameless and horny smile while you receive nudes from him? This smile can either make you want to hop into bed with him or just run with goosebumps. That is smirk number 6.
7) The I-Fucked-Up Smirk
You are fine. The guy seemingly confident and haughty is clearly not. Not when that weird and supposed smirk looks strained and he is sweating bullets. That’s right. He messed up in this game between the two of you and he is trying to put up a brave front, but failing miserably. That is smirk number 7.
8) The Cheshire-Cat-Grin Smirk
He just trolled and manipulated you real good and he is having a grand time seeing you struggle your way out of problems. He will dodge any question or demands you have and he will always have that mischievous, I-am-up-to-no-good look on his face. Overall, clearly untrustworthy. That is smirk number 8.
9) The I-Am-About-To-Kick-Your-Ass-Real-Good Smirk
Run. You won’t get that far, but it was worth a try. Smirk number 9 is just downright full of bloodlust and murder is going to happen.
10) The I-Am-Hot-As-Hell-And-I-Know-It Smirk
He is sexy. He knows it. He is handsome. He knows it. He has fangirls dropping to their knees at the sight of him. He knows it. If he wasn’t let’s say, a serial killer, he could have been a supermodel…and he knows it. It’s written all over his face. That overconfident and cheeky smile is smirk number 9.