It is nearing dinner time. There is a scratch
on my glasses, which makes it hard to see.
You tell me that I am beautiful. You tell me
that the summer will be here soon.
I work harder than I ever have before.
For me, the work feels like
leaving something behind. For you,
it is right. It’s divine. There is an invisible
line we have crossed, and now that we’re here
there is no use pretending anymore.
We might as well enjoy it.
It is March again. The azaleas are in bloom.
We cook rice in summer spices, roast red sausage,
pour glasses of cheap wine. In line, at the grocery store,
shopping from a scribbled half-list
and did not care who watched us.
The rice did not cook correctly.
You chop tomatoes for the salad
and squeeze lime juice on top.
It is hotter in the kitchen. Hotter, still, outside,
where the round bulb lights
show a patio, half-rotted
and leaning towards collapse.
If I am leaning towards madness,
I think I would like you to know. If the timing
was not right, we would feel it.
If the clock on the stove slowed
we will certainly have noticed. Do not be afraid
of the smoke pooling in the rafters
or the steam hissing from a pot of
brewing tea. Do not be afraid of me,
even when instinct tells you otherwise.
Outside, the sky is a starless black.
We eat the rice, the salad, the charred bread,
laughing at the way these things take shape sometimes
even without effort.
Despite my best laid plans, and the loneliness
I had affixed to my breast like an honor,
despite the burnt bread,
the undercooked rice,
the brownies, which we forgot to put in the oven,
the absence of wholesome intention,
despite the mistakes that have anchored me,
you are here now.
Beneath the starless sky, adrift,
tasting cheap wine and southern spices,
you are here.
And I think
despite all of the ways I have gone wrong
the world wants us to live
why the fuck did you do this? Southern Italy already exists, this is dumb
((R R A N T.
I coiuld have brushed this off as anon hate (but I don’t really think it is, idk), but I will use this as an occasion to explain my point of view about Hima’s Romano.
First of all, the name!
Lovino is NOT an actual italian name, it is a butchering of the italian verb ‘Rovino’, ‘I ruin’ or (this idea is a little joke of mine, an italian confused as you about it), the archaic form 'Lo vino’, “The Wine”.
My Southern Italy’s name is Romano, an actual name with its origin on the Roman Empire’s age.
It comes from Romanus “citizien of Rome”, and many Byzantine emperors and rulers had this name, including the modern poltician Romano Prodi. Vargas is ok, since it is a surname that is widely used in all of the peninsula, from Milan to Palermo.
I would like to give him a second name, now I am set on Ferdinando (widely used in the Kingdom of Naples, the Two Sicilies and modern Naples itself), Enea (Aeneas, the mythological hero) or Achille.
Second point: Family.
Hima sets North Italy as his brother and Grandpa Rome as his, well, grandpa, but I am not too sure about it, nor is the Italian-Hetalia Rp fandom (most of us are history nerds, including me).
First of all, the last time Italy was unified properly before the Risorgimento, was before the fall of Western Rome and during the Kingdom of Ostrogoths/Odoacer, so how can they be brothers, if not under the good ol’ Roman Empire? I am a proud classicist, so I support the idea of them being Rome’s sons like pretty much everyone in the italian fandom.
Who is the mother? There are two: Romano is son to Rome and Ancient Greece, making it Greece’s brother, since Southern Italy’s name itself, Magna Graecia (widely used nowadays, too!), comes from the time when Greek colonies were founded along pretty much all of S. Italy’s coasts, but I will talk more about this next time, N. Italy’s mother may probably be Gallia Cisalpina, so they are 50% brothers.
In the end, according to me, Romano’s family is:
Rome (Dad★), N. Italy, Spain, Portugal, Romania, France, the Italian Regions and Greece (a lot of brothers, yeah?).
He is not 100% Feliciano’s brother, but he loves him anyways.
Third point: looking and acting.
Romano’s design is fine, I’d expect him to be pretty more tanned, and his hair should be curlier, but I am not complaining at all.
I think of him as older, pretty much at Spain’s age, tho.
Acting, here comes the real problem.
Romano is shown to be a stressed, whiny kid who depends on Spain and gets angry for ANYTHING, plus the “Potato Bastard” thing, ugh.
By stereotypes and a good 50% of truth, Southern Italians are more similar to Feliciano rather than being close to Romano. We are, and trust me we actually ARE, more welcoming, open minded and generally always happy about life, go lucky people. By stereotypes, we could say Hima is right on us being very flirty with tourists (I have a lot of friends who only date tourists and random foreigners, fml), pretty much hot headed, and lazy (yes, I won’t lie to myself, most of us are very lazy).
Also, the fact about him and his relationships–
They are pretty fucked up. We do joke a lot about Germany, but we like them! The greatest king Southern Italy had was Holy Roman Emperor of a German Dinasty (Frederick II of Swabia, google it) (i am using this to say something Germano related will come very soon ;)) ), and they invade us in summer with their precious tourists, bringing us money, so yes, WE LOVE YOU GERMANY.
Also Chigi in Italian is not an actual word, it is the name of a roman family and one of the italian government’s palaces in Rome but not anything really-
I will talk more about this another time, anyways! Please, PLEASE SUPPORT NON CANON VERSIONS OF CANON CHARACTERS!
nobody will probably will read this, but I had to))
Oh god, please write the Dorian meeting Fenris at Skyhold thing. Please. I would explode. In a good way. Explosions can be good, right? Your writing fills me with glee and I've been spending the past few days trying to imagine Fenris meeting Dorian. *paws* I will literally mail you cookies. (I've mailed a cake before. I think I confused the post office.)
I am partial to chocolate chips. ;)
(But seriously, though, you don’t have to send me cookies.)
He had not heard a single word from Hawke since Kirkwall, nor did he seek contact. Their parting had not been on the best of terms. While he fought at her side to protect the mages from the Rite of Annulment, he did so only under a strained sense of loyalty to the woman. He could not comprehend
why Mariah had chosen the course that she did; to support the mages was an
injustice in itself. Orsino’s inevitable surrender to blood magic was proof
enough of that. He should not have been surprised that she’d let her lover
live, but the fact that she stayed with him, ran away with him, dedicated
herself to protecting him – it was a step too far. Fenris wanted no part of it.
Once the dust had settled, he left. Cut off all contact and tried to push the
foolish woman from his mind. He followed his own pursuits, tracked and hunted the
slavers drawn like vultures to the bloated and rotting corpse that was the
southlands during this rebellion of Anders’ making. Anders and Hawke. The pair
were in this together, whether Fenris liked it or not.
Yet all it took was a single letter from Varric and he came
running to Skyhold like some obedient dog.
He did not understand the hold Mariah Hawke had on him and
in no small way, he detested himself for it. Seeing her again did nothing to
lessen this. Despite her pleasantries, her genuine desire to rekindle the
friendship they had once shared, he could not let go of his disdain. It colored
the words shared between them and she had taken the hint, maintaining a comfortable
distance. Even now, sitting in the tavern, Hawke occupied herself at a table in
the back, deep in conversation with the elf who, by all accounts, was running
this organization. Fenris brought the wine bottle to his lips once again,
throwing more of the familiar, bitter liquid across his tongue, his eyes
narrowing. He should not be surprised by Hawke’s interest in the woman. Another
mage, one whose words concerning Circles and freedom and tyranny sounded
sickeningly familiar to him. Mariah’s eyes lifted to meet his and he turned
away, righting himself in front of the bar. He did not need to test the bottle
in his hand to know he was nearing the bottom of it, the tips of his ears
already feeling the well-known warmth of drunkenness. He began in the hopes
that drink would soothe some of his aggravation, knowing that it was, in part,
unwarranted. Every sip seemed to drive his irritation further and now he drank
more out of spite than anything else.
“Ah, I see you’ve tucked into my supply of Aggregio Pavali.”
Fenris fixed his glare on the man who slid into the seat beside him, the
stranger smiling broadly. “I had that shipped in as a special request. Not that
I mind sharing in the slightest. I find the southern wines to be so dry and
unimaginative on the tongue, myself. It is good to indulge in the flavors of my
homeland from time to time. My compliments to your tastes.”
Fenris said nothing, staring at him icily, noting the staff
affixed to the man’s back. The stranger seemed only mildly put-off by the lack
of a warm reception, putting out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. My
name is Dorian Pavus, if I may be so bold as to introduce myself.”
“I did not say that you could.” Fenris muttered darkly,
refusing the handshake. Pavus. The
name sounded vaguely familiar. Not one of Danarius’s close associates,
certainly, but not a name that was unknown to him.
She who burned all of her heart, and stabbed her body with what she once loved.
Vixi, et, quem dederat cursum Fortuna, peregi; Et nunc magna mei sub terras ibit Imago.
My life is lived, and I have played the part that Fortune gave, And now I pass, a queenly shade, majestic to the grave.
Remains || Bastille vs. Rag’N’Bone Man vs. Skunk Anansie Fuck Me Up With Words And Wine || Southern Gothic Tales Children Who Start Fires || To Kill A King Things We Lost In The Fire (Abbey Road Sessions) || Bastille Dancing With The Devil || Wolf Gang Fire And Rain || Birdy
The changing habits of the French, and the unequal markets of the EU have led to serious wine terrorism in Languedoc-Roussillon:
In the past year, however, the attacks have become more frequent, with the group claiming responsibility for – among other acts of protest, arson and sabotage – ransacking and burning the offices of local bulk wine supplier Sudvin; emptying vats at another distributor, Biron, in the Languedoc fishing port of Sète; and dumping 25,000 litres of Spanish wine in a supermarket car park. According to French wine trade website Vitisphere, last month the group was planning an even larger attack, this time on several bulk wine distributors in Bordeaux, before being intercepted on the motorway between Toulouse and Bordeaux by police.
The wider wine trade, not least in Britain, has a tendency to dismiss these balaclava-clad rebels as posturing, dangerous dinosaurs, with a set of impossible-to-meet demands. But their actions are rooted in a form of desperation with which it’s hard not to feel some sympathy – and which is widely shared in a region where a protest march drew thousands of winemakers to the streets of Narbonne earlier this year.
Right now, the main target of the anger of peaceful protesters and self-styled vinous terrorists alike is the Spanish bulk wine industry, where lower production costs (including lower tax and social insurance contributions for employers) make it much easier to turn a profit from wine’s cheapest end. The result, the rebels say, is a flood of cheap Spanish imports on French supermarket shelves with little indication of their origin, and at considerably lower prices than producers in Languedoc-Roussillon can compete with.
If there’s a measure of anti-globalist rage to all this (and to the threats to block a stage of the Tour de France through the region last year over its links to Chilean wine brand Cono Sur), the roots of the current southern crise viticole go much deeper. Simply put, too many vignerons in the Midi have never come fully to terms with the dramatic changes in wine consumption of the past 50 years, changes which have seen fewer French people drink wine, and those that do drinking considerably less (a fall from 160 litres per head annually in the 1960s to more like 50 litres now) and of much better quality than the traditional Midi co-op could provide. At the same time, the rise of New World wine has made export markets such as the UK more competitive, while the flow of EU emergency subsidies for struggling vignerons has all but dried up since reforms around the turn of the decade.
The solution of the latest politician to alienate the Midi’s winemakers – the president-cum-CEO Emmanuel Macron– would be for winemakers to “think and act more like a start-up”, tailoring their product to modern tastes and needs. And in fact, Languedoc-Roussillon already has such producers.
Some, such as Jean-Claude Mas and ex-international rugby player Gérard Bertrand, take advantage of the looser winemaking laws of the region-wide IGP Pays d’Oc appellation to make excellent value wines from grapes sourced from growers throughout the region. Others, often the sons or daughters of growers who once sold their stock to co-operatives, have followed the example of trailblazers such as the Guibert family of Mas de Daumas Gassac in Aniane in the Languedoc or Gérard Gauby of Le Soula in Calce in the Roussillon, making genuinely fine, terroir-driven wines.
As good and exciting as these wines are, however, there are only so many drinkers in France and elsewhere prepared to buy them. And in a region where wine is still the main source of work, and unemployment in some departments touches 20%, the rage that drives CRAV and other protesters is unlikely to go away anytime soon.