Summary : Logan (your boyfriend) decides to take all of the X-Men on a camping trip. Alright then…
Just some love for the X-Men really, wanted to write something with (some of) the gang. Warning for langage, and also, slightly NSFW. As usual I’m like “meh, it’s kinda shit” (uhuh), but I still hope you’ll like it :
The sound of your laughter fills yours and Logan’s bedroom as your boyfriend announces to you that he just told all the X-Men he planned a camping trip for them.
Right. Like that would ever happened. When he was off to go camping in the wild, he wouldn’t take even you sometimes, so everyone ? Suuuuuuure.
But as you start to calm yourself from your giggly fit, and you’re face with a very serious Wolverine, you start to doubt your convictions.
-Wait…You’re serious ?
-You want us to camp…all together ?
-Like, everyone, we go out and we put our tents up, and we make a bond fire and all of that ?
-That’s the idea.
-…Even Scott ?
-Even Emma ?
-YES goddammit, how many times are you gonna make me repeat myself ? Everyone but the students of course. They’re all going on a field trip to the Sh’iar imperium.
-So, us, all the teachers, the X-men…We’re going…Camping ?
-Yes (Y/N), we’re going camping. All of us.
Worried, you walk to your boyfriend and, even though you knew it was impossible that he’d have a fever, you lay the back of your hand on his forehead, just to check if he was warmer than usual you know.
Poetry has always inspired artists and vice versa. Ever since the Roman poet Horace put down in his Ars Poetica (c. 13 BC) “ut pictura poesis” (“as is painting, so is poetry”), the two arts have been bounded together. Poets and painters have turned to one another for inspiration, and the dialogue has been mutually beneficial.
William Holman Hunt The Lady of Shalott, 1905, oil on canvas. Poem “The Lady of Shalott” (fragment) by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1842 version). Background: The character Lady of Shallot is based on the legendary Elaine, Donna di Scolatta from the 13th century. She has been cursed to view the world only as reflections in a mirror and to weave images in her tapestries. If she ever actually gazes outside her window, this will bring about the mysterious curse. Sir Lancelot rides past her window, she is enthralled enough to look directly at him, and the curse takes fatal effect.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro’ the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look’d down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack’d from side to side; “The curse is come upon me,” cried The Lady of Shalott.
It’s more than a kiss. It’s a secret being shared between lips. It’s a light that only ignites when these two mouths collide. It’s a way to start a forest fire and a means of breathing underwater. It’s being born again and rekindling a desiring to live. It’s a dream and it’s an awakening. It’s how we connect to another person’s soul.
Pablo Picasso The Old Guitarist, 1903-1904, oil on panel Poem “The Man with the Blue Guitar” by Wallace Stevens (1937).
I The man bent over his guitar, A shearsman of sorts. The day was green. They said, “You have a blue guitar, You do not play things as they are. ”The man replied, “Things as they are Are changed upon the blue guitar. ”And they said then, “But play, you must, A tune beyond us, yet ourselves, A tune upon the blue guitar Of things exactly as they are.”
II I cannot bring a world quite round, Although I patch it as I can. I sing a hero’s head, large eye And bearded bronze, but not a man, Although I patch him as I can And reach through him almost to man. If to serenade almost to man Is to miss, by that, things as they are, Say that it is the serenade Of a man that plays a blue guitar.
III Ah, but to play man number one, To drive the dagger in his heart, To lay his brain upon the board And pick the acrid colors out, To nail his thought across the door, Its wings spread wide to rain and snow, To strike his living hi and ho, To tick it, tock it, turn it true, To bang if form a savage blue, Jangling the metal of the strings…
IV So that’s life, then: things as they are? It picks its way on the blue guitar. A million people on one string? And all their manner in the thing And all their manner, right and wrong, And all their manner, weak and strong? The feelings crazily, craftily call, Like a buzzing of flies in the autumn air, And that’s life, then: things as they are, This bussing of the blue guitar.