Ken Tucker reviews Old Ideas, the latest album from Leonard Cohen: Leonard Cohen is making music vital to his spirit, confident that a song transmits its essential nature directly to any listener receptive to his message.
The day Iwaizumi plays his very last match on the same side of the court as Oikawa is the day his world goes quiet.
The day Oikawa bows his head and says in a watery, choking voice, “Thank you for these last three years” to the team, is the same day Iwaizumi says, “Thank you for the last eighteen” to his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
That day feels like the end. It feels like missed chances.
The next day, all is normal.
Oikawa laughs away the pity and the condolences. Iwaizumi just accepts it with a quiet nod of his head.
After the tenth one, their eyes meet across the classroom and Iwaizumi nods his head and Oikawa laughs, behind his hand and his book, and he looks out the window and Iwaizumi is the only one to see that expression on his best friend’s face.
They skip practice and meet at the back entrance of the school and they fall into step with one another, as in sync as ever.
Oikawa is the first to speak. He’s always the first to speak.
Oikawa’s first words to Iwaizumi were “Hey!” followed by “have you ever seen the stars from here?”
Oikawa’s words now are “Hey, how much do you want to bet I can get the girl at 7-eleven to sell me alcohol?”
Iwaizumi says no bet.
Oikawa’s charms work. When haven’t Oikawa’s charms worked?
Then they leave the cans stacked on the curb with a little note and then they go to the train station and buy the cheapest ticket they can and they sit on the platform, two chairs at the very end, where the lights hardly reach.
And then they talk.
They talk about the last match. They talk about Tobio-chan’s new chibi-chan and Oikawa is jokingly upset. They talk about Shiratorizawa and Oikawa is visibly upset. They talk about volleyball and school, about old memories that have begun to disappear from his mind but now come floating up to the surface like translucent bubbles. They talk about anything and everything.
Iwaizumi wonders how it is that they’ve never run out of things to talk about.
They talk about the future.
They talk about what ifs. They talk about dorms and dating, about potential teams and future matches. They talk about holidays and halfway points, about video chats and phone calls.
They’re tired of talking long before they’ve run out of things to say. Everything else floats between them, understood and unvoiced. And then it’s just the sound of the trains, the screech and stop, the gradual rise of wheels on the tracks and the rush of gaping space that follows once it’s gone, a hundred flashing windows of light disappearing into the growing night.
Oikawa is the first to speak–What if I got on the next train that comes and just rode it to the end of the line?
Iwaizumi says with a tired laugh, “You’ll get lost and never find your way back home.”
Oikawa smiles, rests his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. The world is quiet.
“How much do you want to bet you’ll still come and get me?”
Leonard Cohen: Portrait of the artist as an older man Leonard Cohen is releasing his 12th album, Old Ideas, on Jan. 31. Born in Montreal, Cohen learned guitar and formed his first band while a student at McGill, but the musician has always been more than just an everyday rock star. He’s a prophet, a poet, a sex symbol, an observant Jew who practices Zen, a businessman who lost his fortune, a muse and, perhaps most importantly, a father. The Post’s Ben Kaplan assembled a panel to dissect the various parts of the 77-year-old icon. (Illustration by Steve Murray)
Leonard Cohen’s Old Ideas, out Jan. 31, contemplates mortality in the bitter light of failed romance. It fearlessly broaches emotional extremes while still dropping the wisdom of an elder who should know better.
Can you do a Steve/Darcy 'Can you tell me what happened?' if you're still doing the prompts?
AN: unmitigated fluff to make up for the Awful Thing I just put the Jake Jensen/Darcy Lewis shippers through. I AM SORRY. KIND OF.
When Darcy walked in the door the first thing she noticed was the confetti. So much confetti. Literally every kind of fancy confetti she had ever seen before in her life, and several dozen that she had not: wedding, graduation, birthday, new license, bar and bat mitzvah, divorce, kids are out of the house, midlife crisis - Jesus Christ, there were a lot of different kinds of confetti! It was covering everything. Ev-ver-y-thing. The floor, the walls, the tables, the experiments.
Oh god, the experiments.
Darcy raced into the room as fast as she could considering she was trying not to slip on all of the freaking confetti. She found Jane pretty quickly, the petite scientist was almost exactly where Darcy had last left her: hunched over a display. Only, instead of clutching a notepad and paper, furiously scribbling, she had an empty bottle of Jaegermeister in one hand and was… quietly drooling.
“Well, that’s… okay then.” Darcy backed away quietly, then went looking for the other scientists because Jane was many things, but a solo drinker was not one of them.
It took a few minutes, but eventually she hard the sound of soft beeping and followed that to Tony, Bruce, Dum-E, and two strangers she recognized from Thor’s stories as Steve Rogers and James Barnes. The picture the five of them made was, quite the picture, actually. Tony and Bruce were curled under and around a workbench like a couple of sleeping puppies. Dum-E was perched beside them, beeping what must be a lullaby and alternating between gently stroking Tony’s and Bruce’s hair. Barnes was sprawled out beside them, wearing a shiny new arm with a decal of Captain America’s shield on the shoulder and clutching the old arm to his chest like a kid with a teddy bear.
Steve Rogers was standing over them, face caught somewhere between concerned and hopelessly fond.
Darcy sighed, alerting him to her presence. “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked, closing her eyes against the headache that was starting to form and pinching the bridge of her nose.
Silence was her answer.
She opened her eyes and found that Captain America was staring at her. As was James Barnes, who was clearly awake now and, judging by the alert (and oddly delighted?) look on his face was definitely a morning person.
“You,” she said, addressing the ex-assassin, “please explain what made my scientists get their drank on.”
“Last night’s party was to celebrate my new arm,” he told her. “Tonight’s party will be for Stevie over here, and you.”
Darcy shot him a quizzical look.
James kicked Steven in the ankle, hard enough to send the blond stumbling. “Say something, you lune!”
“What do I - ” he said to James, then he gulped and turned to her, wide-eyed. “You’re - fuck, you’re gorgeous. Oh shit, I said fuck. Goddamnit!”
James was laughing so hard that he wasn’t even making a sound, just helplessly gasping as his whole body shook. Steve on the other hand was clearly completely miserable, and for a man as large as he was, he could make himself look shockingly small.
“Hey,” Darcy said, stepping closer to him and laying a hand on his arm (Holy fucking muscles, her id purred, and they’re all mine…). “I grew up knowing my soulmate was gonna think I was gorgeous, and that was pretty awesome, so thank you. Of course, I also wasn’t allowed to wear short sleeves, like, ever - so you can start making that up to me anytime you want.”