Often, I feel that I disappoint too many people for not being able to accept my full potential. Of failing to see myself through their eyes. Of not acknowledging my worth because I’ve been told many times long ago, that I wasn’t worth the effort by the wrong people. For many years, I’ve held myself accountable for all the poor choices done towards me shoving aside my need for reassurance, and dealing with the guilt of not being enough. For years, I believed that I had to apologize to people for what they thought of me. And now I’m finally learning that I need to forgive myself for that. I need to learn to forgive myself for feeling bad that other people can’t appreciate me for what I am.
Keen Malasarte, Only when I learn to love myself, will they value me. And I’m not really sure how long that’s going to take.
She wasn’t someone
Who was easily described
She was a collection of leftover words
From some poem she heard
Many years ago
Maybe she wrote it
She couldn’t be sure
But she was always
By the wind
And romantic haziness
Clouding her judgement
Just a dash of harsh reality
Blurring her vision
Drifting on the breeze
And the moments of life
That she couldn’t write down
Or remember in all their glory
Like the impossibility
Of describing how good it feels
To have the windows open
On an early summer day
When the sun is shining
And the air is perfect
Some things couldn’t be described
She was just
One of those things.
All I wanted was someone who could hear me out. But where were you during my darkest hour? Where were you when the demons I locked away in my sleep kept knocking? It’s okay, though. I don’t blame you for not putting someone else first above yourself, because truth be told I would have done the same. It just sucks because if it had been my choice, if I had been the one standing on your shoes, in your place, I’d have done all I could to make sure you found comfort in someone else. That I was there for you when things didn’t seem so easy to deal with on your own.
I need FAHC Michael who toils at Quantico, who starts out with the crew as an undercover fed, whose whole life has been about bringing criminals to justice–but who more and more sees the appeal of crime life. Who more and more falls in love with Geoff–who takes care of Michael, who loves Michael like no one has ever loved him. Who less and less checks in with his superiors, ignoring voicemails, missing meet ups.
Who more and more realizes that these people are his family–Gavin, his best friend. Ray, his confidant. Jack, the parent he always needed but never had. Ryan, the big brother who has taught him everything, who has killed for him.
I need Michael who can’t live like this any more, who doesn’t want to meet with his superiors ever again, who wants to vomit when he thinks about the times we wore a wire, who spills it all out to Geoff, the unlikely love of his goddamn life. Michael who holds the barrel of Geoff’s gun to his forehead, crying fat tears as he confesses all of his sins–because he’d rather die now than see Geoff or any one of them put away for life, who knows he’s shit–lower than shit, worse than a cop–for what he’s done, for his double life.
Michael, who by all rights should have his blood and brains painting the walls of Geoff’s penthouse by now. Michael, whose pained sobbing turns to relief as Geoff takes the glock from him gently, cards through his hair and says he’s known about Michael’s life as a fed since day one. Michael, who can’t believe his boss as the man calmly explains that they’d taken a vote, that each member of the Fake AH Crew had seen Michael’s potential, had wanted him alive.
Give me the Michael who knows now beyond a doubt that he is loved, that he’s found his real family unlike any bound by heritage, who sees that here in Los Santos (with a trail of chaos and blood running behind him like a wake in water) is where he has belonged all along.
High wire act
Slip through the cracks
Chasing the gold ring
Never to win
Give in to sin.
Taste of the fire
Breathe it down deep
Voices and laughter
Where no one can see.
Dance to the earthquake
Groan in the wind
Come see her chaos
Fly it up higher
Spread it with ease
Up through the netting
Destroy her, the tease.
Drink of the poison
Found on her lips
Lick it off gladly
Then watch as she strips
Layer for layer
Her mask and her eyes
See how she’s frightened
By what lies inside.
Faster she’s careening
Out of control
The one woman circus,
A game she can’t win
It was rigged from the start
Waiting to blow
Watch how she struggles,
Enjoy the show.
It wasn’t until I found the sea wall with the pretty sunsets and starlit sky, or the concreat structures amid the tall grass, perfect for small picnics that I realized how lonely such discoveries were when you had no one to share them with.
I tell them: 1822 Westly Avenue. In the basement — although that
part they could figure out on their own. It’s dark. A single bulb dangling by a
wire spills a little light on damp floorboards. The stairs are well out of
reach, given the leg clamps, but the door at the top is double bolted all the
same. The walls are exposed brick, bare except for the thick metal rings binding
us to them.
I can’t know for sure, but I have a pretty good idea. I say: you
were kidnapped — that’s one thing I know with certainty — by one Mary Smith,
housewife of 52. She brought you down here while you were unconscious from the
ether. She caught you alone somewhere. And now you’re all clamped up, just like
Why? What’s going to happen to me?
This one I do know. I’ve had to break this news countless times over
the years — I find its best to just let them know, straight up. It makes them a
little frantic, sure, but I prefer not to lie. Weighs easier on my conscience
I say: you’re here for a couple of reasons. The first is that my
mother still thinks she can change me. She thinks that having me speak to you
like this — as I have for all the others that have come before you — might
change the way I am. After all these years, she still doesn’t understand that
it’s not a choice for me. Nobody would choose to live this way.
The second is that for all my
flaws, my mother loves me dearly. She knows what I crave. And she knows I need
to have it fresh.
Ian McLean (Canadian, b. Sarnia, ON, Canada, based Brights Grove) - 1: Chemical Spill, 2015 2: Guy Wire, 2013 3: Filtration Chamber, 2012 4: A Really Good Fire, 2009 5: Water Feature, 2014 6: Cavern, 2014 7: Incantation, 2015 8: Gust, 2015 Paintings: Oil on Canvas
I love the details you get to see with screencaps and gifs and noticed a few things throughout this scene.
1. They didn’t move anything off the table to start eating at it, just plopped the pizza box on top of some piece of technology. It looks like one of the portable devices that’s built into a suitcase-type container, so they didn’t even bother to close it before putting the box on it either. More Holtz/Abby lab practices to make everyone nervous. You know those girls had soup-spill-on-electrical-wiring-related fires at least once a month.
2. Throughout that first camera shot, Holtz is always leaned back a little bit, while the other three are leaned forward on the table. She’s engaged, certainly, if quiet, but keeping her personal space bubble. Just more evidence for introvert!holtzmann in my book. Reminds me of when I’m enjoying my evening out with friends but starting to reach the point of social overload.
3. How many slices of half-eaten pizza are in front of Holtzmann? I’m guessing she’s the type to grab more food than she can eat while she’s really hungry, then run out of steam. But the second plate in front of her has different toppings and Patty doesn’t have a plate, so now I’m convinced despite being full, when Patty was done, Holtz took her plate to get to try the other type of pizza. So now I absolutely headcanon Holtz just taking the others’ leftovers and finishing them herself.
4. I’ll call slight BS over them having ordered Papa John’s pizza but nobody is using the garlic sauce. That’s the best part! Did they have a hard time deciding how to split it, because you know Holtz doesn’t think twice about dipping into the communal sauce container after having already taken a bite out of something? Is it already used up and gone? Are they a group who actually all hate the extra garlic?
…I may be too far down this rabbit hole. I just love casual team dynamics and random set design details.
Barbed wire serves the purpose to protect, so I wrapped up my heart with it. Partly to stop you from breaking and entering and partly because I never wanted you to leave. Both ways, it was my heart that was pierced with the barbed wire.