“A great man is largely forgotten by the public. He doesn’t stand on top of a mountain waving a flag saying, “Look at me—I’m a great man.” A great man often disappears into the ether. Hardly anyone notices that he was even there, apart from his family and close friends. He was reliable. He showed up. He was there. He was useful where he could be. He made mistakes. Tried to make better of those mistakes. Doesn’t mean you have to cure cancer or understand the theory of relativity. It’s not necessarily as rock-and-roll or as cool as you might think. Part of being a great man is accepting that. To dare to be average and normal is actually a pathway to becoming a great man. To have more humility. To accept responsibility more. To just get on with what’s in front of your face. And to leave no fucking indelible mark of your ever being here, apart from the fact that you were there for your family to the best of your ability. It’s not an easy task. I’ll probably fuck it up.”
Happy 40th Birthday, Tommy Hardy!♡ September 15th, 1977
Happy 40th Birthday, Tom Hardy! (September 15, 1977)
I identify with having strong, powerful female influences in my life. Do you think that women are fairly represented in screenplays, film, TV, and theater today? Or do you think there should be better parts for women than just girlfriend and wife or lover? Because I’m bored with that.
40th Anniversary of the Publication of ‘The Silmarillion’!
The Silmarillion is a collection of mythopoeic works by J. R. R. Tolkien, edited and published posthumously by his son, Christopher Tolkien, in
15 September 1977.
All have their worth and each contributes to the worth of the others.
Hungry Like the Wolf || Fenrir & Evan|| September 1977
Location: Abandoned Cottage Time: Sometime after 10:00 PM
There was something enchanting about a young woman caught in the throws of
terror. The sobbing was nearly non-existent now, though her countenance
remained warped into an agonized cry. He thought of all the primping women
did to hide their flaws and wrinkles, and yet here, in the darkness of his
private little workroom he got to see what they were really like. He’d
heard it all. People who perceived themselves as good and tried to bargain for his
soul, offering some futile hope to restore him. Others tried to play along, but
the pain soon wore them down too.
Women though—Evan smiled, prowling about his victim slowly. Women brought an
entirely new dimension of desperation to his art. They offered their bodies,
pleaded for their children, and made him promises they could never keep. He’d
even had one woman offer to be his mother, misguidedly assuming his behavior
was born out of some sort of abandonment issue. Sex didn’t normally feature in
his little games, but he’d made an exception for her. In general
men just tried to prove how tough they were, or tried to terrify him. For those
that were too cowardly to try that, they just whimpered and pleaded, reminding
him of the mewling kittens his mother had given him for his eight birthday.
No matter who it was…Evan enjoyed all of them, and the girl in front of him
was no different.
Ahhh…they’d reached the bargaining stage. He’d wondered if that last
cruciatus curse would be the breaking point for her. He slid closer, ducking
his head so that he could breathe in her fear tainted scent. “Please
what?” He purred, dragging his wand along the curve of her waist and
“I-I’ll do anything.” She gulped for air, her body jerking
as it convulsed beneath the fiery course of his wand.
“Anything?” Evan taunted,
green eyes flashing with malicious enjoyment. “That is quite the offer
pet.” He caught her chin, lifting it so that he could stare down into
her face. “Especially considering I could make you do anything
I wanted.” She shook her head, her expression surprisingly mulish. “You
don’t think so?”
He smirked, releasing her bonds with a flick of his wand. By the time she’d
hit her knees he’d already cast the imperius curse and he was commanding her to
tilt her head back so he could see her eyes. He wanted to revel in the horror
he knew would exist in the depths of her soft doe eyes. Had he been
thinking beyond the drunken high of proving she was completely at his
mercy, he never would have released her feet, but such was not the case. He’d
just lifted her to her back to her feet when the sharp burn seared his forearm.
The Dark Lord had only ever called him once, and the pain of that call was just
as riveting now as it had been then.
The girl, released from the spell by his sudden distraction (and clearly not
as beaten as he’d assumed), sprang into action, hurtling her tiny form forward
into his. His heel snagged on an uneven flagstone and he toppled back, dropping
his wand. Scrabbling from his body, the girl charged toward the small
window at the back of the room, slamming a fest into it, obviously more
bent on getting out than anything else. Evan wasn’t about to let that happen
though. Clambering back up, he charged for her, throwing himself at her
dangling form and hauling her back down with a snarled oath of fury.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins, excitement making his blood sing with
the unexpected thrill. No one had ever tried to escape before. However the girl
wasn’t done fighting. Twisting with a wild shriek against his hold, she grabbed
a shard of glass and stabbed wildly. He was so startled by the abrupt
pain as glass shredded through muscle and tendon that he shouted, releasing her
to grab at his leg.
That was all his victim needed.
By the time he’d ripped the glass out and regained his feet, she’d managed
to wiggle through that small opening and was disappearing into the darkened
forest beyond his abandoned little cottage. Swearing profusely, Evan hobbled
back to where he’d dropped his wand, sweeping it up furiously. He quickly
bandaged his wound, but he didn’t have time to actually spend energy healing
it. So as soon as the blood was stymied he ripped out of the cottage, but it
was dark and he was no tracker. The odds of finding her were slim, even if she
didn’t have her wand.
He glanced down at his forearm, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Maybe the
answer to his dilemma also resided within the cause. He considered the
line of trees lit only by the silvery light of the moon, and a slow grin curved
his lips. Maybe this could be an opportunity after all. Curling his hand
tighter about his wand, he apparated.
Forty-Five Minutes Later
The meeting had been brief for those that had no true importance in the Dark
Lord’s eye (something Evan did not mind). He’d just begun to think he was going
to have to devise another plan (or worse look for her on his own) when he spied
the Fenrir’s hulking form. Moving farther from the group of dispersing death
eaters, he signaled the werewolf and waited calmly in the shadows to see if the
wolf was interested or if he was just going to ignore him. He knew either was a
possibility, though he was hoping for the first.
As much as he disliked being indebted, the werewolf was far more likely to
catch his runaway pet than he was. When the big man finally reached him, he
inclined his head slightly in a greeting of respect. He knew that the
purebloods tended to disregard the wolf, but Evan had never put stock in that
particular belief. Fenrir was a natural predator with a skill and cunning most
of their ranks would be hard pressed to match.
“Mr. Greyback, I wish to seek your assistance for a rather…delicate issue in which
time is of the essence.” He glanced at the disappearing cloaked
figures, none of whom he was interested in sharing his habits with, and then
focused on the man once again.
40 years ago today, September 16, 1977, we lost a mystical soul, just 2 weeks before his 30th birthday. It’s so strange to think such a bright, talented, energetic, and insightful young man could be taken away in an instant. In the 40 years he’s been gone, and the 29 years he was here, he influenced so many artists (including myself) and movements. Whether he knew it, or whether you know him or not, he left a mark that cannot be forgotten. So here’s to Marc Bolan. I hope we can all celebrate his work and his light, rather than the tragedy, as Marc always did himself.
Marc Bolan (September 30, 1947 - September 16, 1977)